15
Viv did lay the saber on the floor beside her that night, the hilt only inches from her fingers. Her imagination was unfortunately pretty good, and she even fancied she caught the man in gray’s scent once or twice. It was all too easy to picture him right outside her door, casting some cantrip on the lock, a silver blade in his fish-belly hands.
The day was hot, too, a real scorcher, and the wind had breathed itself out. She lay on the strawtick mattress, sweating and bone weary, leg afire, and running a thumb along the wrapped leather of her blade’s grip.
She was fed up with being injured, and furious with herself for setting back her recovery by doing something as stupid as brawling in the street. Viv resolved to try to follow Highlark’s instructions. Mostly.
While she was wrestling with herself over that, sleep crept up and seized her unexpectedly. When she slept, she slept hard.
Viv didn’t wake until late the following day.
* * *
“It looks good,” called Viv as she made her way carefully down the slope. A fresh breeze from the sea teased heat away from her skin, and her saber was back on her hip.
Fern held a broad bristle-brush in one paw, and crimson flecked her fur. Fresh paint covered half the door—the lower half—and a rope-handled pail sat beside it on an old scrap of sailcloth.
“Oh,” she replied, wiping her brow and leaving a faint smear of red behind. “Good. You can save me balancing on something to get the rest. Gods, I hate being short.” She blinked when she saw Viv’s scabbarded blade, but she didn’t say anything.
“Can’t promise I won’t muck it up,” said Viv, wincing as she climbed onto the boardwalk.
The rattkin made a hissing noise as though the wound were her own. “I’m surprised Iridia’s already let you out. How’s the leg?”
“It’ll mend if I ever let it.” She leaned against the newel, blew out a big sigh, and let the pain subside like the tide going out. When she looked up, she saw Potroast staring at her goggle-eyed through one of the windows.
Fern glanced around sharply. “And … if you’re out, then what about him?”
Viv frowned. “Well, that’s a longer story. Why don’t I tell you while I paint, yeah?”
She unbuckled her sword-belt and leaned the saber in easy reach against the wall. Taking possession of the brush, she did her best to be neat about the work, with long, sure strokes. Her undamaged leg was sturdy enough that she could keep most of her weight off the other one as she worked, and Fern held up the bucket so Viv didn’t have to lean down to reload the brush.
Viv relayed all that had happened during her night behind bars and the following morning. When she got to the part about the man in gray’s disappearance, Fern squeaked and almost dropped the pail.
During Viv’s explanation about the necromancer and her suspicions about their connection, Fern couldn’t hold her peace any longer.
“So, he disappeared from a locked cell, and he’s just out there with his knives and his … his fucking magic?” she spluttered.
Viv didn’t like it either but was surprised at how incensed the rattkin was. “That’s about the size of it, yeah.”
“Then he could come back at any time?”
Viv gestured at her sword with the brush. “I don’t think Iridia is going to give me any trouble about carrying that around right now, and if she does, I’m not sure I care.”
Fern eyed her doubtfully.
“This is what I do.” Viv shrugged. “I’m menacing for a living. Hey, it just makes me twice as useful taking up space in your shop during the day, right?
“It was … odd to see you in action. I don’t like your company because you’re menacing.”
Viv frowned. “Well, only when I need to be.”
Fern glanced back at her. “That’s not what I mean. I saw his eyes when he … when he hit Potroast.” She swallowed. “They were so dead. It made me cold all over.”
“He’s wrong, for sure. All the way through.”
“I just mean to say I don’t doubt you. Don’t doubt what you did. At first, I was upset, because I’ll be honest, I haven’t seen a lot of street fights. Not very common in Murk!” She laughed weakly. “I suppose Iridia makes sure of that. Now, I guess I’m a different sort of upset. And not at you.”
They were quiet for a moment while Viv painted around the top edge as best she could. She wasn’t sure her brush technique could even be called workmanlike, but the door was definitely red.
“Last night, Potroast woke me. Hooting and barking, just like before. Do you think … ?”
Viv finished the last stroke with the brush and carefully placed it in the pail. She looked at Fern seriously. “I don’t want you to worry about it. If he’s coming for anyone, he’s coming for me, and he won’t do that here. What could he possibly need from the bookstore? Or have to fear from you?”
“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.”
“Like I said, this is what I do,” replied Viv. She grinned a little. “Now, you’d better take care of that paint in your fur. You look like you’ve been murdering chickens.”
* * *
“Aw, shit,” said Gallina, shaking her open hand. “Was that wet?”
Viv was so astounded to see the gnome in the bookshop, she almost forgot to be annoyed. “Didn’t you see the sign about the paint?”
The gnome braced the door open with her back—on the unpainted side—and glanced over at the window, and then up, where she finally spied it. “Outta my eyeline.”
Viv pushed away from the counter, where she’d been leaning in conference with Fern. “If that’s got fingerprints in it now …”
“Don’t get all touchy. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“If it’s on your hands, it’s not on the door,” groused Viv.
“What do you care? It’s not your—Oh, hey.” Gallina wiggled her fingers at Fern. “Nice to meetcha.”
The rattkin put her chin in her paw and sighed. “It’s fine. I guess I should be thanking you for helping Viv. Some prints in the paint are a small price to pay.”
Gallina beamed, and Viv thought she might’ve puffed out her chest, too, though it was hard to tell under all the knives. “See, yeah, that’s what I’m—Wait, helping?”
“Saving my ass. Is that better?” asked Viv. “I’m still checking the door.” She stumped the rest of the way over and gave it a careful inspection while the gnome ventured into the shop, looking around with a critical eye.
“Fern,” said the rattkin. “And you must be Gallina?”
The gnome cocked a brow at Viv.
“Yes, I told her about you,” she said patiently. “You’re very appreciated.”
Gallina settled into one of the chairs.
Her chair, Viv noted. Gallina appeared to be developing a habit.
“Hey, you’re right, this is pretty comfortable.”
Potroast trotted into view, promptly leapt onto the chair, and curled against the gnome’s leg.
“Aw, who’s this?” Gallina stroked the feathers between the gryphet’s eyes, and Potroast snuggled even closer.