Chapter 2
Reva
The pub is located right in the centre of Ambleby village, sitting right between two buildings that look like a strong gust of wind would send their roofs caving in. The pub itself has a grim, grey exterior as though it hasn’t been washed in a century, with a wooden door that’s sticky to the touch.
Heading inside, I’m instantly hit with a wave of heat and noise combined with the scent of ale and sweat.
I have no idea how the pub is always so packed at this time of night, especially when the rest of the village is quiet as the grave the rest of the time.
I’ve never seen half the people in here before in my life, despite having lived just down the road for close to six months now.
There are a handful of people huddled around the long bar, manned by the single harried barkeep who shoots me a glare as soon as he spots me.
I return the gesture with a jaunty wave, and my heart starts to pound as I spot my buyer in the corner of the inn.
He’s a shifty-looking bearded guy who’s wearing a hood inside, despite it being a million degrees in here.
But so long as he doesn’t draw too much attention my way, I don’t care how he’s dressed.
Sliding onto the bench opposite him, I pull the bag of statues from my pocket under the table.
“Two hundred for six, right?” he mutters in Yarrovian.
“Two hundred for five,” I reply in the same language.
“Well, all I’ve got’s two hundred. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.”
Leaning into the booth across from him, I slip the bag under the table and grab the waiting payment in a single, practiced gesture.
I shove his bag of coins into my coat pocket and pilfer a couple of empty glasses, acting like that was my purpose in coming over here.
Swiveling on my heel, I head straight back to the bar so I can count my cash.
Now I just need to get out of here and hide my takings and then I can topple into bed.
The orcish barman hands me a shot of something brown from across the bar top with a pointed look. When I reach for the drink, he grabs my wrist and his massive fingers dwarf mine, his greyish skin a stark contrast to my own tanned wrist.
“Reva,” he growls, and I shoot him what I’m hoping is a pleasant smile.
“Mag,” I reply. “Having a good night?”
“Busy,” he grunts. “Too busy for your shit. I’ve told you before, I’m not your damn secretary.”
“Uh huh, message received loud and clear.” I pause, reaching for a coin from my coat pocket with my free hand and sliding it over the sticky wooden counter toward him. When he continues to glower at me, I slip a second coin over and his hard look softens just slightly.
“There’s a fishy guy who's been asking about you all night.”
“Fishy?” I frown at him. “Fishy how, like suspicious, or like he smelled of fish?” It could go either way around here.
“Yeah, fishy.” He frowns at me like I’m an idiot. “Has a really strong fish smell about him. A damn loud voice too.”
“Oh, right.” Not exactly what I was expecting, and I fight the fatigue threatening to drag me down. I’d love nothing more than to drop into bed, but I also can’t afford to turn down work when it drops into my lap.
I slide onto the barstool, ignoring how gummy the material feels against my legs.
“Frannie all right?” Mag grunts.
I smother my answering smile as best I can, but don’t do a great job. Mag’s a grouch, but he’s been sweet on Frannie ever since I moved here, although he’s never made a move.
“She’s good. Busy in her workshop. You know how it is.”
He grunts. “Well, your fishy guy’s just come out of the toilet. I’d appreciate it if you saw him close to the door. You’ll see why.”
I take a long look around the inn before spotting a short man who seems to have an invisible wall around him.
Despite the crowded room, everyone seems to be giving him a wide berth.
I stride over and my eyes water as soon as I’m close enough to taste the thick scent that’s emanating from his skin and clothes.
“Nasty feral brute. You know they can’t help it. None of them knows how to wash themselves,” someone says at a level that’s barely lower than a shout.
“I’m not a damn feral,” the fishy guy growls at me. I keep my eyes downcast, noticing the thick layer of salt covering his exposed arms as I work to keep my expression blank.
He might not be a ‘feral’. But I am, sort of.
It’s of the hundred different words that get bandied around about the beast-borne. Savage brutes. Animals. Brainless brawn. I’ve heard them all before.
We aren’t actually born from a beast, either. We’re mostly born from our mother’s vaginas, thank you very much.
None of the nasty shit the punters are spouting is anything new.
The negative comments and jibes are nothing we’ve not already dealt with for decades.
Plenty of people don’t see us as sufficiently civilised to do much good.
I guess that’s how the sorcerers have always seen past the fact that we’re people when they’re plucking out our eyeballs or hunting us down for our skins for their spells and potions.
Their lack of respect doesn’t mean they won’t use us as tools in their wars, though.
And there have been enough of those over the years.
The North against the South, the North and South against the witches to the East, with King Wildrake spearheading dozens of smaller skirmishes just to show he’s not a puny, powerless human.
The funny thing is, most shifters could tear the bad mouthers to pieces as soon as their nasty tongues start wagging. But we all know that no good would come of it. Not when they already think we’re mindless animals.
Which is why we’re taught never to reveal ourselves. To never show them what you really are.
Words my mother lived by. That and not letting anyone get too close, just in case.
She was the one who taught me not to stay in one place for more than a few months at a time.
We did it when I was young, and then when I grew into my fins enough to manage longer distances, she decided it was time for me to make my way on my own.
I’ve been that way ever since.
But it turns out I’m not made for solitary life. She’d be so disappointed. But I managed nearly thirty years of moving from place to place, never forming genuine bonds.
And then I met Frannie and Kit, and all of that went out of the window.
“I hear you’ve been asking for me,” I say to the fishy guy.
“Here. I was told you could make me a good deal on these,” he growls at me as he thrusts a grubby sack into my hands.
I peer inside, inspecting the golden cylinder inside.
The top is slightly recessed, like it needs to be twisted or pulled off to reveal whatever is kept inside.
It’s a cursed handheld safe. On their own, they can make a pretty penny, but often they still have whatever people put inside for safekeeping and then couldn’t find a cursebreaker good enough to open it again.
One itsy-bitsy tricky thing is that the outside is covered in sigils I can neither read nor recognise. So there’s a strong likelihood of it carrying some kind of curse against whoever dares to open it.
“Where did you get this?” I ask him, keeping my interest light and my volume low.
“You heard about the attacks not too far from here?”
I glance up at him, shoving the safe back into the sack. “Attacks?”
“Pirates,” he spits the word. “Attacked another ship, sunk the entire thing. Seems there was a lot of treasure onboard.”
Not surprising. We’re in the back of beyond out here, and that comes with a big dose of lawlessness, especially in the waters.
Someone jostles me from behind, and I jerk forward, getting a big whiff of Mr Fishy’s scent. I aim a sweeping glance around, checking that no one’s watching. But one benefit of the guy’s overwhelming stench is that no one in the vicinity has their face turned this way.
Some people who do this job have the ability to detect magic. I usually have a little gadget I bought from a travelling merchant which I can use to check. But since I wasn’t expecting to have any more work tonight, I left it in my other trousers. The ones lying in a heap in my bedroom.
I don’t have time to fetch it now, so I guess I’ll have to trust that this thing’s not about to burn my hand off. Plucking the cylinder from his hand with my sleeve, I peer down at it.
The issue is that there are hundreds of replicas of these things all over the place. Sometimes, they’re cursed too, just for the fun of it, so whoever winds up opening it gets a face covered in boils and then discovers that the insides are filled with sand.
“Is that what whoever sold them to you told you?” I ask. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”
I should shut up, maybe humour him or ask him to come back another time.
But instead—
“There’s a chance it’s a fake,” I tell him.
Maybe if I’d been less tired after a long swim, I’d have been more tactful. Softer in my approach.
As it is, he doesn’t react well.
“What are you talking about?” His eyes bulge out of his head as he grits his teeth and spits the words at me.
“It might not be the real deal,” I tell him. And I’m not taking my chances inspecting it further without having it scanned for curses.
Thankfully, I know exactly who I can take it to.
He takes a step closer, his stench wafting over me.
It’s a distinct intimidation tactic, and he instantly has my back up.
“It’s the genuine article. Solid gold. Cursed by gorgons.”
I bet this guy has no idea whether it’s real. And while I might not have many special abilities without my sealskin, I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard of a gorgon-cursed safe before.
“How much will you give me for it?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I reply softly. “I’ll need to get a contact to check it out first.”
“It’s real,” he growls, taking another step closer.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes as my gaze drops to his shirt, where I can see a smear of fish guts all across his chest and stomach.