Chapter 39
As they approached the first, rather large, outlying village on the road to Amberlin, the morning had a crisp autumnal bite to it, and a low-lying fog seemed to burn off in retreat from their arrival.
Traffic on the road swelled and began to evince an unexpectedly festive atmosphere.
Fern spied wagons of kegs, and farmers in feast-day finery.
Eager children tugged at parents, their faces scrubbed clean.
She caught the sounds of a fiddle and drums on the air. Crimson banners and unlit lanterns alternated across lines strung between roof peaks.
“Looks like a party!” observed Breadlee. “Shame about the noise.”
“The grape harvest is over,” said Astryx. “We’ve arrived in the middle of the Summerdusk festival.” She checked to make sure Zyll’s hood was drawn low enough to obscure her.
Although, maybe Astryx should have been the one to wear a cloak, since she was easily the most recognizable person for leagues in any direction.
She drew plenty of glances from passersby, more than a few of whom stopped dead to watch her with open mouths.
The Oathmaiden appeared practiced at ignoring the murmurs of onlookers and carried on, carefully weaving Bucket and Persimmon through the foot traffic.
Booths lined the main thoroughfare, selling jarred honey, cured meats, handicrafts, small kegs of wine and spirits, breads, spices, confections, crates of vegetables, handmade toys, and gods knew what else.
Bunting decorated exposed eaves, ribbons fluttered from booth-poles, minstrels played on a temporary stage, and excited chatter swelled to a low rumble.
“It’s foolish for us to go through,” said Astryx, scratching at her ear. “Too many people, too much attention so close to Amberlin when we’ve no need. We’ll circle around to the other side. It won’t cost us much time.”
“Wait. Would you mind if I met you there? At the other end?” Fern eyed the crates packed with ranks of green wine bottles and the neighboring tables piled with wheels of aged cheese.
Since Astryx’s earnest apology, the idea of some sort of peace offering had been brewing.
This was probably the last, best opportunity she’d have to find anything resembling a gift.
“I’ve got an errand I want to take care of. I promise, I won’t be long.”
Astryx followed her gaze and raised a brow. She seemed about to protest, but nodded instead. “We’ll find you there.”
Fern slithered off Persimmon and kept her feet under her as she landed, glancing up at Zyll, who blinked back.
“Zu-kenda,” said the goblin, solemnly.
Fern didn’t know what that meant, so it wasn’t profane, but she also thought Zyll had said it before. She couldn’t remember when, though.
“Thanks!” she called to Astryx as the elf handed down her satchel. Then she trotted into the village toward the stalls. When she looked back, they and the horses were nearly out of sight, heading southeast.
She had a sudden, wild premonition of emerging on the other side to find herself alone on the road, Astryx and Zyll long gone. She banished the thought almost as soon as it arrived.
Mostly.
Forging through the throng, Fern rediscovered what it was like for your eyes to be at navel height in a crowd. It was easy to get disoriented without a clear view of your destination except what you could snatch around moving bodies.
Grumbling to herself, she wove between legs, trying to keep her tail out from underfoot.
At last, she arrived at the spirit-seller’s stall, where a generously proportioned tapenti woman was dickering with a customer over a case of wax-sealed liquor in little blue bottles.
Fern moved to get in line, but drew up short when something snagged her gaze in the crowd.
Tartan. There, and gone.
Furrowing her brow, she forgot all about the spirits and struggled in the direction of the flash of color.
“Watch it!” she yelped as a dwarf backed into her and nearly knocked her sprawling.
She didn’t even hear his apology as her gaze fell on the slash of tartan fabric again, and she did her best to dash toward it.
Squeezing past a pair of hips, she came out gasping behind a smoke-furred rattkin in a sash that she’d recognize anywhere. He wasn’t wearing his belt dagger. With his back to her, he was glancing around as though looking for someone.
“Quillin?” she said.
He whirled, eyes wide. “Fern?”
The look of shock and delight on his face melted into something else almost immediately. Fear? Guilt?
He seized her forearm, bringing his face close. “Where are the others? The goblin?” he hissed.
“What? She’s—”
Fern had never mentioned Zyll to Quillin. Not once.
She tried to shrug off his grip, already backing away.
“Fern, you have to listen to me. Are they here? You have to—”
Her back struck something solid.
“Shit,” breathed Quillin, his shoulders slumping.
The dread that had been steadily building over-spilled its dam as Fern half turned and looked up into Tullah’s flinty gaze.
The orc’s many braids framed her face in dark curtains as she stared at Fern with a half smile.
“Yeah,” said Tullah. “This should work just fine.”
Tullah marched Fern through the streets with a hand on the back of her neck. She didn’t dare call out. She could feel the spine-snapping strength of those fingers as they rested in her fur. Marv stayed beside them, his narrow face alert for trouble.
Kell the orc joined them just as Fern was steered into an alley. She couldn’t move her head to see, but she could hear the patter of Quillin’s paws as he trotted in Tullah’s wake.
At a turn in the alley, Kell peeled off to lean casually against a plastered wall and keep an eye on the busy street while the rest of them moved out of public view.
The other member of their party, the archer, was nowhere to be seen.
Tullah spun Fern and pressed her against stone. In one hand she loosely held a plain, but extremely sharp-looking knife. Quillin was indeed behind her, head down and fidgeting with his belt beside Marv.
“You fucker,” said Fern, her face hot. The rattkin didn’t meet her eyes.
Tullah dropped to her haunches and seemed surprised at where Fern’s ire was directed. With a glance at Quillin, she chuckled. “Huh. Well, if this goes well, you two can work it out later. Here, check this over, Marv.” She tugged the satchel from Fern’s shoulder and tossed it to him.
After rifling through it, he shook his head. “Nothing but a bunch of paper and an old book. A few silvers.”
“That’s fine, then. Here.”
Fern was shocked when Tullah handed the satchel back to her, and it must have shown on her face.
“I’m not here to rob you. Hells, I want your help.” She tried for a smile, unsuccessfully.
“My help,” Fern muttered. She slung the satchel over her shoulder again, glaring at Quillin. “You were with them the whole time? You . . . you . . .” Fern was so furious, she couldn’t find a curse sufficient to the moment.
“I wasn’t!” he cried, glancing at her, and then away, which didn’t seem particularly forthright.
“Him? Of course not,” scoffed Tullah. “I had a feeling hauling him along was the right move, and he sure squeaked when we pinched him in the right places. Hells, it was easy. You can give him trouble about it later, if you’re both still breathing.”
Fern remembered that while she hadn’t mentioned Zyll, she had mentioned their destination. She also recalled seeing Tullah when they’d been out walking the muddy streets of Turnbuckle. The sequence of events after the wrecking of the bridge seemed suddenly obvious.
Tullah misjudged the expression on Fern’s face. “Young love’s a bastard, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” said Fern. “I’m older than you, anyway.”
Tullah threw back her head and laughed. “I respect that. Good for you.”
Then she sobered.
“Let’s keep this simple.” She gestured toward Fern’s belly with her knife. “You’re going to put that shit of a goblin into my hands. And then I’m going to let you go. They’re both here, somewhere, yeah? The Oathmaiden, too? You’re planning to meet them later?”
Fern said nothing. Her eyes burned, and her breakfast tried to find an expedient exit.
“Think this through. You’re bringing her in for a bounty, right? Hells, you’re about to be shut of her anyway. Worst case, you lose your share of the take, but under the circumstances, that sounds pretty damn cheap.”
Fern’s paws shook at her sides. She wished she had her cloak, and Breadlee’s comforting weight in the pocket.
A pause as Tullah studied Fern’s face. “You are getting a share, aren’t you?”
Fern blinked. The thought of collecting any of the bounty had never once occurred to her, and didn’t seem important now.
“Wow,” said Tullah. “Not even a piece of the action? What the hells are you even doing here? That should make this even easier, though. And, let’s be realistic.
If he talked”—she flipped the tip of her knife toward Quillin—“there’s no way you won’t.
It’s just down to how many inches shorter you want that tail of yours to be.
You’ve got nothing but that left to lose. ”
“But Zyll does,” whispered Fern, voice quivering.
“Yes,” said Tullah. “Yes, she does.”
“What did she ever do to you?”
“Look, Fern—pardon me for using your name, but after hearing about you from Quillin here, it feels like we practically know each other. Have you ever built anything? Poured your years and your blood and your coin into it, willed it to grow?”
Fern stared Tullah square in the eye. “Yes.”
“Mm. Yeah, I guess he told me about your little bookstore. I think he was doing his best to convince us you wouldn’t be a threat. Nice of him, really.
“Well, I built something, too, Fern. An army, or damn near one. But more important than that, I built a reputation. That’s what everything balanced on—a story that people believe. You, of all people, should be able to appreciate the power of a story. It was the foundation for everything.”
Then she reached out with her free hand and seized Fern’s tail.
“And Zyll fucking obliterated it.”
In the end, sadly, Fern wasn’t as brave as everyone imagines they can be, but privately knows they are not.