“Oh, fuck!” cried a small, high voice. “Potroast, no!”
Viv glanced up, surprised at the profanity. The really sincere profanity. But she was even more surprised by the owner of the voice.
A tiny rattkin wearing a short red cloak hurried into the light, shaking a severe finger at the animal.
“It’s okay,” said Viv, wrestling her laugh into a lopsided grin. The absurdity of the situation had scrubbed away the last traces of her raw fury over her encounter with the Gatewarden.
“I’m so sorry!” exclaimed the rattkin as she bent to wrap her arms around her vibrating savior. Then she caught sight of the tumbled volumes and slumped. “Oh, gods-dammit.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that one. My fault.” Viv gestured to her leg and crutch, even though they hadn’t been the culprits. She was almost embarrassed to be carrying the sword now, which was weird.
“Potroast! Get in the back! Go on, get!” the rattkin hissed. To Viv’s surprise, the creature obeyed, its stubby tail drooping as it slunk behind the counter. It popped its head out the side and regarded Viv with distrustful eyes the size of grapefruits, but it stayed put.
Viv began the laborious process of squatting to help gather the confusion of books.
The rattkin stopped her. “Forget it.” She heaved an enormous sigh. “Let’s not tempt fate, hm?”
It didn’t take her long to create new, more precarious piles, but at least they weren’t scattered across the floor. While she did, Viv surreptitiously straightened the carpet by dragging one end with her crutch, which triggered a ridiculous, bubbling growl from Potroast.
“All right. Shit. I’m flustered,” said the rattkin, fanning herself with one paw. She shook out her whiskers and inquired, “Can I help you with something?”
The words were delivered in a polite tone so at odds with her very foul mouth, Viv couldn’t help it anymore, and a laugh finally escaped.
“Oh, gods, I’m sorry,” she said, trying to choke it off. “It’s just … every rattkin I’ve ever met was such a soft, shy little thing, and I thought—”
The rattkin’s eyes narrowed. “And I thought all orcs only ate books, but here we are.”
And then Viv lost her grip on her laughter entirely.
After a second, the rattkin managed a chuckle or two as well, wiping her forehead and staring around as though wondering how on earth she’d gotten there.
“Fern, by the way.” She held out a paw to shake.
Viv obliged, swallowing it in her own massive grip. She tried to be gentle about it, though. “Viv. Again, real sorry for the mess.”
Fern waved it off. Sort of. “You buy a book, all’s forgiven.”
“Uh, so … I left my wallet back at The Perch …” She gestured at her empty belt. A convenient excuse, since she hadn’t really intended to buy anything anyway.
Another big sigh from Fern. “From the look of that leg, I don’t imagine you’ll be galloping over the hills with an ill-gotten novel, so take it on credit and come back tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
Cornered.
“I guess. But”—she glanced around—“gonna be honest, I don’t read a whole lot, and I don’t have any idea what I’d be looking for anyway.”
Fern looked her up and down, as though measuring out her weight in words. She tapped her lower lip with a claw as she considered Viv’s sword and the overall … Viv-ness of her.
“Ten Links in the Chain,” she said, running a finger along the spines of some of the books. “It’s a classic.”
Viv made a dubious face. “Sounds … stuffy.”
“It’s about a jailbreak,” Fern called over her shoulder. “Swordfights. A nighttime ship battle. Curses. There’s a dwarf with one eye and a murderous streak.” She looked back, and her black eyes gleamed with certainty. “Trust me, hm? Ah, here it is!”
She withdrew a slim volume bound in red leather and brought it over. Viv reluctantly took it. The title was embossed into the cover and painted in flaking gold, and the author was R. Geneviss. Flipping it open, Viv stared doubtfully at the small words.
“Any pictures?” Then she thought guiltily of the mess she’d made and the rotten wood out front. “Not that that’s important, I guess?”
Fern laughed, a soft, musical sound. “A few woodcuts. But none of the gory bits.”
Viv mustered a smile that she hoped looked appreciative. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Anyway, thanks for this. How much do I owe you? For tomorrow?”
“It’s not off one of the newer printers, but with that leather binding—thirty bits.” She saw Viv’s expression and sighed. “Shit. Okay, for you, twenty.”
“So, I hate to bring this up, but …” Viv told her about the destroyed plank out front.
The rattkin covered both eyes with her paws and uttered several surprisingly creative profanities, as well as some words that Viv was pretty sure were profane, before visibly gathering herself. “I’m just glad you weren’t further injured,” she said carefully, like she was walking a tightrope after a tumbler of brandy. “Tomorrow.”
As Viv stepped out the door, Potroast delivered a triumphant hoot at her retreat.
* * *
A fog rolled in off the sea and the beach grass seethed in long gusts as Viv staggered back toward The Perch. The weather was changing fast. The prospect of soaking through her bandages and orc-handling her crutch through wet sand was unappealing in the extreme, so she quickened her pace. The chafing in her armpit was getting pretty fiery, though.
The first few drops scattered dark coins across the sand as she mounted the three stairs to The Perch and reached the safety of its awning. Only seconds later, thunder growled like potatoes down a washboard and licks of lightning flashed through the mist. Sinuous curtains of rain slid in from over the dunes, and the odor of hot sand gone wet overrode every other scent.
When Viv ducked inside, the inn was a lot more populated than earlier.
Sea-fey and humans with ropy arms and salt-scaled clothes clustered around the tables or lingered at the bar, and a muddle of convivial conversation filled the room. Brand glided effortlessly back and forth behind the counter, attending to this and that. A narrow-shouldered half-elf kid wove between the tables, dropping off copper mugs or bowls of stew. Somebody was lighting a fire in the hearth, and raindrops hissed in the kindling.
Viv was starving again. One lonely table in the back was unoccupied, and she figured she’d be able to park herself comfortably. She thumped over to a chair under the mounted skull of some toothy sea predator. Sighing in relief as she transferred her weight from her uninjured leg to her backside, Viv fumbled with the sword-belt and dropped it underneath her chair, keeping her crutch in reach against the wall.
Laying the red book on the table, she stared at it while she waited for the kid to make his way over. She wondered where Rackam and the rest of them were—Lannis, Tuck, Sinna, and Malefico. Pitching camp by now, no doubt, drawing lots for the watch. Or had they already caught up to Varine? Was everyone still in one piece? Viv had barely been with the Ravens two months, and already she was falling by the wayside. She worried at her bandages and chewed her lip, staring off into a growing distance.