Bookshops & Bonedust (Legends & Lattes, #0)(52)

Fern’s eyes sparkled with more energy than Viv recalled ever seeing. “A boardwalk sale. Right outside. There’s another passenger vessel due in two days. We’ll lay out tables, spread these across them, and see how many we can get into willing hands. And what we don’t?” She shrugged. “I guess we’ll pile them out of the way, like you said.”

Viv thought Fern might be overestimating how many she’d be able to offload, but the rattkin’s mood was so high, her expression so hopeful, that she didn’t have the heart to dampen her spirits.

“So,” she said at last, feeling like a giant towering over tiny buildings of words, fearful of where to tread. “What can I do to help?”

Fern held up an inkwell and pen. “How’s your handwriting?”



* * *



They worked together companionably for most of the day. Fern fretted over what to package up and began the process of reshelving volumes that were to remain in the shop. Satchel tirelessly wrapped the books she passed his way, and at Fern’s direction, Viv inked the paper with two or three words evoking the stories bound within.

“So, Satchel,” said Viv, squinting as she blocked in another letter, fingertips black with ink. “How long, exactly, have you been, uh …” She deliberated over the right word. “Alive?”

The homunculus gently detached Potroast, who was attempting to remove one of his fibulae. “I couldn’t say, m’lady. I have—”

“ ‘Viv’ is fine, Satchel.”

After a brief hesitation, the homunculus said, “Yes, m’lady Viv. I have seen much, but I cannot track the time when I am away. There is no way for me to know.”

“But Varine created you, didn’t she?”

Fern paused what she was doing to listen as well.

Satchel appeared to think about that, as though trying to decide whether an answer constituted breaking the covenant he was bound by. “She did.”

“So you’re not older than her.”

“And how old is that?” asked Fern.

It was Viv’s turn to pause. “Hells, I have no idea. I guess being a necromancer makes that harder to answer. And that probably counts as one of your Lady’s secrets. I bet you can’t tell us either.”

Satchel shook his head apologetically.

“You said you’ve seen much, though?” prompted Fern.

“Oh my, yes.” His hollow voice took on a wistful tone as he tied off another bow. “Many wonders. Perfect beauties. Great seas set aflame by sunsets. Endless underground lakes in soundless caverns. The winter light on mountain snow that has never thawed.” He sobered. “And much that I would forget, were I able.”

“Satchel, you have the soul of a poet,” murmured Fern.

“So, what did you actually do for her?” asked Viv. “Is that something you can say?”

“I served,” replied Satchel. “In whatever way the Lady required.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t sweep and dust, though, am I right? Probably weren’t wrapping packages?”

When the homunculus replied, his echoing voice sounded even farther away, a mournful wind in a sea cave. “I did not.”

Fern wasn’t sorting books anymore. She dusted her paws on her smock and regarded Satchel with a pained expression. “I asked once before, but if you could do what you wanted—anything—and you didn’t have to worry about Varine—your Lady—what would that be?”

He wound a fresh length of twine around a package, tying it off more deliberately. He stared down at his phalanges splayed across the paper.

“I cannot speak against the Lady,” he said. And then would say no more.



* * *



“What in the hells?” said Fern.

Viv glanced up from blowing on fresh ink. Her hands were cramping, and she’d blocked in about as many words as she could stand. Behind her towered neat stacks of paper-wrapped parcels. “What is it?”

“This book,” said Fern. “It was wedged in the back. This isn’t mine. I wonder—”

“Don’t open it, m’lady!” cried Satchel, whirling toward the rattkin, his bony hands outstretched. The spool of thread flew from his pelvis and unrolled across the floor. “I beg of you!”

His tone was so plaintive that Fern stopped in the act of doing just that. The book was exceptionally large, half again the size of most of those in the shop. A real tome. “What—?”

“It is not one of your books,” said Satchel. “It is … it is—” His voice became strangled, choked by a growing distance, as though he were being dragged into a tunnel.

An image of Balthus, his hands falling away from the shelves, sprang to Viv’s mind.

“It’s one of hers,” she said, rising to her feet, thigh thrumming as blood rushed to it after so long spent in the same position.

“Varine’s?” whispered Fern.

When Satchel didn’t correct her, Viv said, “Balthus. He hid it here. I wondered why in the hells he’d been in your shop.” She held out a hand for the book. “If there’s someone in this room who should be dealing with unholy necromancer nonsense, it’s me. May I?”

Fern narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t you get stabbed and dumped in this town because of unholy necromancer nonsense?”