Chapter 19
“This is gods-damned embarrassing,” moaned Breadlee as Fern used him to sharpen one of her pencils. The growl of the storm seemed distant amidst the plink of rainwater in the tin pots and the pop of the hearthfire.
“It’s a perfectly ordinary use for a knife. Stop complaining.”
“A knife? Kid, there’s no call to be disrespectful.”
“That’s what you are,” replied Fern, serene.
“I’m a greatsword that has experienced a diminishment.”
She snorted, shaving away another curl of wood.
“I don’t see you selling any books these days, but you still call yourself a bookseller.
That’s rank hypocrisy, is what that is. Oh shit, here he comes—” The knife broke off as the innkeeper ducked his head into the great room.
Fern was the only occupant, her fur slowly steaming dry before the fire, pencils and parchment on the table before her.
“Thought I heard somebody else,” the man muttered.
She shrugged.
“Huh.” The innkeeper disappeared behind the curtain again.
“Why’d you shut up?” Fern kept her voice low. “I figured you’d want an audience.”
“Not that one. Guy has a weird thing for silverware. I don’t need that kind of interest.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. After all, you’re a greatsword that has experienced diminishment. Can’t imagine he has a lot of use for one of those.” She blew the shavings off the table.
“Hey, not everybody is as perceptive as they oughta be.”
Fern ignored him and began to write, while he grumbled quietly on the table.
Dear Viv,
I’m soaking wet. I’ve just finished arguing with a knife. This will require some explanation, and I can already tell this is going to run long.
I realize that as I write and rewrite this letter, I can’t help but consider all the ones that came before as part of the same long message.
I think I’ve resolved to give them to you in a bundle when I get back, then close my eyes and hold my peace until you read them all.
One endless string of apologies with memories sandwiched between them. And at the end, forgiveness?
Maybe that’s asking a lot. Maybe you’ll put them down in the middle of reading. Maybe you’ll never get through the first page.
I imagine you receiving the only one I actually sent. Were you furious? Disappointed? Relieved? All three? Hells, it probably hasn’t reached you yet even now.
I realize I keep imagining your response and trying to write with that in mind. That feels like cheating, somehow, but given the circumstances, that’s a weird thing for me to be hung up on.
Which reminds me . . . I am sorry. Sorry for tearing my life apart when I gave you every reason to believe you could rely on it staying whole.
I’ve caught the tail of something. I don’t know what animal is on the other end.
I will see you again though, I know that—if it doesn’t swallow me whole—
“Mind if I have a seat?” said a voice, startling Fern so much that she scrawled the trailing e across the page.
She glanced up to find another rattkin standing across the table from her.
His fur was sleek and smoky, ears slim and back-swept, eyes interested and inclined to amusement.
He had a dagger belted at his waist and a tartan sash worn crosswise over one shoulder.
His tail quirked a curious curve behind him.
“Um,” said Fern, glancing around at the extremely empty great room and its abundance of open seating.
“It’s Quillin, by the way,” he continued, ducking his head in the ghost of a bow. “Sorry to intrude, but I rarely see any of our kind on the road but penitent monks, and hells, they’re boring conversationalists. If I can risk being rude, you don’t strike me as a religious pilgrim.”
“A Tarimite?” A laugh escaped Fern, along with a surprised, “Oh, fuck, no!”
Quillin’s brows shot up, and a smile bloomed. “Very nonreligious. Thank the Eight. I’m starved for some honest gods-damned profanity.”
“I . . . sure, have a seat,” stammered Fern, flustered. “I’m Fern. Pleased to meet you.” She self-consciously flipped the letter over in front of her, covering Breadlee with it. She thought she heard an indignant mumble from him, but Quillin didn’t seem to notice, although he did eye the parchment.
“Just a letter to an old friend,” explained Fern, as he slid into the chair across from her.
He raised both paws. “None of my business. And this is none of my business, either, but I’ll ask anyway—what brings you to this absolute pigs-wallow of a town in the ass-end of no-place?”
Fern prepared to explain that she was a bookseller from Thune, which would inevitably lead to an astonished exclamation, a “How in the Territories did you get here?” and then the admissions and the justifications and the embarrassments.
Instead, with a curious shiver of delight, she replied, “I’m traveling to Amberlin with Astryx One-Ear. A sort of assistant, I guess you’d say.”
The look on his face was very satisfying.
He leaned over the table and laced his claws together. “Eight damnations. Squire to the Oathmaiden? Well now, you are a singular lady indeed. Can I buy you something to drink? I insist you regale me.”
It had been so long since Fern had felt the flush and tingle his attention produced in her that she almost didn’t recognize it.
He was handsome, even if he had to be ten years her junior.
“Brandy makes me a talker,” she said, self-consciously smoothing out her whiskers. “So don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Consider me warned.” He grinned and rose to summon the innkeeper.
Brandy did make her a talker, but she retained enough presence of mind after their encounter with Chak not to mention Zyll or the bounty.
The tale of Taltus and the Four Fingers in Bycross was more than enough to sustain a good story, anyway, although it took some delicate omissions to subtract the thieving goblin from it.
Quillin was an attentive listener and an engaging conversationalist. Still, over the course of the evening, she didn’t discover a great deal about him other than allusions to the breadth of his travel and knowledge of the Territory.
That didn’t seem to matter much, though.
When she parted from his company, it was with cheeks, whiskers, and tail buzzing pleasantly with brandy-glow, and an invitation to meet the next day that she’d dithered over.
She closed the door gently behind her and locked it, then turned to find Zyll sitting up on the bed with her head cocked and Nigel across her knees, staring curiously at her.
Astryx lay unmoving in exactly the same position, her chest rising and falling with sleep.
The fire had burned low, illuminating them both in a rusty, pulsing glow.
“What?” whispered Fern, unnerved by the keenness of the goblin’s gaze.
“You are, mmm, how do you say, kindled in the cheeks?” Zyll didn’t bother to whisper, but Astryx didn’t stir.
Fern frowned. “You can’t see my cheeks. I’m covered in fur.” Her cheeks, of course, instantly flushed.
“She and her sweetheart were practically canoodling,” piped a voice from her satchel.
“Oh, shut up,” hissed Fern, fishing him out. “Tomorrow, I’m finding a sheath to muzzle you with.” She approached Zyll and offered the knife. “Stick him in a pocket or something.”
The goblin ignored Breadlee, patted Nigel, and said, “I am liking this shankling.”
Fern sighed, stuffing Breadlee back into her bag with a protesting squawk from him. “Whatever. Put Nigel on the floor and budge over. There’s no way I’m missing out on a soft bed, and there’s not enough room for the two of us and an old man.”