“Again?” He looked shocked.
“Yeah. Wouldn’t that get me off this crutch faster?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” he said with an exasperated tone.
Now that he wasn’t wearing a rain cowl, Viv could see the elf cut a fine figure in a crisp white shirt and finely tailored trousers. For some reason, she’d expected him to appear at his door in a bloody smock. She was glad to note that the bruises on his neck were nearly gone.
“I doubt very much that I can offer any other advice until you’ve healed further. And even if I could, it’s clear you wouldn’t pay it any mind. Come in, if you must.” He opened the door the rest of the way and ushered her in with a resigned air.
As Viv entered Highlark’s office, she was surprised to find that it looked more like a bookshop than the real thing. One wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling shelves, complete with rolling ladder. The spines looked to be in excellent condition, gleaming as though oiled.
“Wow,” she said.
A small desk sat before the shelves, piled with notes, folders, an appointment book, and an unlit lantern. She must have interrupted him in his work. It didn’t look much like surgery, as far as Viv was concerned.
Highlark strode past a staircase leading up, and through a white door into the back. Astringent smells assaulted Viv’s nose as she followed into a very different room. Modern flick-lanterns lit the area brightly, their low hiss filling the air. A pair of long, padded tables stood in the center, and the walls were covered in charts, notes, and illustrations. Vast counters with rows and rows of drawers below them ran along every wall. Bottles, boxes, neatly folded linen, and jars of blue fluids stood ready. She even spied several small—but exceptionally detailed—wooden skeletons of various races suspended from metal arms by thread.
“Up,” said Highlark, gesturing to the furthest table. “I suppose you’re saving me a trip. And if you can make your way here once, you can do it again, if the need arises.”
As Viv slid onto the table—she didn’t even have to push herself up—she grimaced and pulled Heart’s Blade out of her back pocket to lay it beside her. Highlark lifted her injured leg and rested her heel on the table opposite.
Without another word, he deftly unwrapped her bandages. When the flesh was exposed, he made an involuntary sound of consternation.
“What?” asked Viv.
Highlark didn’t answer, instead bringing his spectacles up to examine her wounds. He prodded the flesh, and while it was still very tender, her head didn’t go all swimmy at the pressure, as it had during his last visit.
“It’s getting on fine,” he said. He straightened, letting his spectacles dangle back against his chest.
It did look a lot better. Her leg was still very swollen, but it wasn’t actively oozing, and the hot blush of red had receded to a fainter and less far-reaching pink.
Highlark glanced at the book, and his expression registered a different shade of surprise. “A little light reading?”
“Yeah, I think Fern has made a project of me.”
“Fern?”
“You know, at the bookshop. You must have been there before?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of Highlark’s library.
“Ah! No, I’ve not made her acquaintance.”
“Huh. Where’d you get all the books, then?”
Highlark squinted at her. “They’re mostly specialty volumes. Reference texts. I’d be surprised if those were the sort of books she carried. A shabby little place, isn’t it?” He opened a drawer, removing a tub of salve and a length of gauze.
As he applied the ointment and rebound her thigh, she asked, “Does that matter? It’s all words in the end, right?” Quite apart from her wound, she felt a mild sting of indignation on Fern’s behalf.
The elf stared at her quizzically, as though she’d suddenly been replaced with someone else entirely. “Why so interested?”
“I dunno. I guess I’ve gotten more out of the place than I expected, and I figured that people who already have books would go to … book places.”
“She recommended this book to you?”
“Yeah. Although I think she’s maybe trying to get a rise out of me at the same time.”
“Russa Tensiger. An elven author. Quite accomplished.” Highlark picked up the volume and examined it thoughtfully. “And you’re reading it?”
“I’m half through. So you do read things that aren’t … what did you call them, reference texts?”
“From time to time.” He handed the book back.
Highlark had her make a circuit around the room, watching as she moved on the crutch and asking her to apply more weight to her heel. Then he had her stand without support, shifting her weight on and off her wounded leg.
It still hurt like hells, but maybe not all eight of them.
Finally, he observed her thoughtfully, tapping his spectacles against his chin for what seemed like a long time. Then he swapped the crutch for a walking staff he produced from a tall cupboard in the corner.
“Your associates have already paid for your care. I’d like to see you back in a week, yes?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And when you do, I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts on what you’ve read.”
His lips held just the hint of a smile as he closed the door and left her alone on the street.
* * *
Viv reveled in the freedom of movement the walking staff afforded. Unfortunately, her bare heel and toes, while callused and tough, were already getting battered on the cobblestones of the town proper now that she was walking more ably.
After collaring a few townsfolk for directions, she found a cobbler and convinced him to sell her a single large sandal, although he had to lengthen the thong to accommodate her swollen foot. The result was an enormous improvement, and Viv was immediately thankful.
The area within Murk’s fortress walls was considerably more crowded than the beachfront rows, both in terms of buildings and people. Even the seabirds seemed to bunch too close on the rooftops, and Viv found herself longing for the open air and clean dunes outside.
A market street ran straight through the heart of the city, packed on all sides with merchants, net-menders, another inn or two, a mishmash of trades, and a stable near the gate. There was even an open lot with jumbles of furnishings, clothing, and miscellanea on trestle tables packed into its boundaries. A pair of young gnomes that looked like brothers appeared to be trying to liquidate an estate.
She came across a familiar sight midway back to the beach—a bounty board checkered with requests. None of the scant postings were big jobs, but they were a stark reminder that she wasn’t fit to take on even one of them. Precious few beast hunts or brawls lay in her immediate future. Her mouth thinned, and she cursed her leg under her breath.
As she was closing the distance to the fortress gate and looking forward to the quiet of the beach, she suddenly stopped short. The skin at the back of her neck crawled, and the wood of the walking staff creaked as her grip tightened.
It took her only an instant to spy him between passersby. He almost completely blended into the shadows of a small courtyard beside the chandler’s shop.
His cloak was the gray of fog and travel-frayed, and the skin of his exposed hands was pale, nearly white. An overstuffed pack weighed down one shoulder, and his hood was up, so that only the blade of his nose was visible. It twitched her way, and she sensed a galvanic tension in his stance, a wariness.