He seized her forearm, bringing his face close. “Where are the others? The goblin?” he hissed.
“What? She’s—”
Fern had never mentioned Zyll to Quillin. Not once.
She tried to shrug off his grip, already backing away.
“Fern, you have to listen to me. Are they here? You have to—”
Her back struck something solid.
“Shit,” breathed Quillin, his shoulders slumping.
The dread that had been steadily building over-spilled its dam as Fern half turned and looked up into Tullah’s flinty gaze.
The orc’s many braids framed her face in dark curtains as she stared at Fern with a half smile.
“Yeah,” said Tullah. “This should work just fine.”
Tullah marched Fern through the streets with a hand on the back of her neck. She didn’t dare call out. She could feel the spine-snapping strength of those fingers as they rested in her fur. Marv stayed beside them, his narrow face alert for trouble.
Kell the orc joined them just as Fern was steered into an alley. She couldn’t move her head to see, but she could hear the patter of Quillin’s paws as he trotted in Tullah’s wake.
At a turn in the alley, Kell peeled off to lean casually against a plastered wall and keep an eye on the busy street while the rest of them moved out of public view.
The other member of their party, the archer, was nowhere to be seen.
Tullah spun Fern and pressed her against stone. In one hand she loosely held a plain, but extremely sharp-looking knife. Quillin was indeed behind her, head down and fidgeting with his belt beside Marv.
“You fucker,” said Fern, her face hot. The rattkin didn’t meet her eyes.
Tullah dropped to her haunches and seemed surprised at where Fern’s ire was directed. With a glance at Quillin, she chuckled. “Huh. Well, if this goes well, you two can work it out later. Here, check this over, Marv.” She tugged the satchel from Fern’s shoulder and tossed it to him.
After rifling through it, he shook his head. “Nothing but a bunch of paper and an old book. A few silvers.”
“That’s fine, then. Here.”
Fern was shocked when Tullah handed the satchel back to her, and it must have shown on her face.
“I’m not here to rob you. Hells, I want yourhelp.” She tried for a smile, unsuccessfully.
“My help,” Fern muttered. She slung the satchel over her shoulder again, glaring at Quillin. “You were with them the whole time? You . . . you . . .” Fern was so furious, she couldn’t find a curse sufficient to the moment.
“I wasn’t!” he cried, glancing at her, and then away, which didn’t seem particularly forthright.
“Him? Of course not,” scoffed Tullah. “I had a feeling hauling him along was the right move, and he sure squeaked when we pinched him in the right places. Hells, it was easy. You can give him trouble about it later, if you’re both still breathing.”
Fern remembered that while she hadn’t mentioned Zyll, shehadmentioned their destination. She also recalled seeing Tullah when they’d been out walking the muddy streets of Turnbuckle. The sequence of events after the wrecking of the bridge seemed suddenly obvious.
Tullah misjudged the expression on Fern’s face. “Young love’s a bastard, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” said Fern. “I’m older than you, anyway.”
Tullah threw back her head and laughed. “I respect that. Good for you.”
Then she sobered.
“Let’s keep this simple.” She gestured toward Fern’s belly with her knife. “You’re going to put that shit of a goblin into my hands. And then I’m going to let you go. They’re both here, somewhere, yeah? The Oathmaiden, too? You’re planning to meet them later?”
