The hangover that battered Fern’s skull confused the whole business to such a degree thatupwas exactly where she went, though, lurching to a sitting position, flailing with the satchel her arms were tangled in, and screaming her throat raw.
The sharp grin and red glare were suddenly three feet away, at the very back of the wagon. Through the sick thumping of blood behind her eyes, Fern saw that both belonged to a goblin with a mop of orange hair and bottlebrush pigtails, clad in some sort of enormous coat made entirely of pockets in a riot of mismatched colors.
Improbably, the goblin’s hands were bound before her, and as if that weren’t sufficient, several loops of cord were wrapped around her body, from her wrists all the way to her shoulders and secured to a ringbolt on the back of the buckboard.
“What . . . what in the faithless fuck?” wailed Fern. With an ungainly leap, she tumbled sideways over the boxboards of the cart and landed hard on a rutted track, with her cloak flipped over her head and her tail pinned underneath her.
She heard birdsong.
And smelled sweaty horse.
And heard a dimly familiar voice.
“How long haveyoubeen in there?”
Fern shoved her cloak out of her face and squinted upward, wishing not entirely hyperbolically that she were dead, for a variety of defensible reasons.
Astryx One-Ear stared down at her from a great height, one hand on her hip, the other combing through her silver hair.
Astryx narrowed her eyes in recognition. “Hang on, where do I know you from?”
With a mighty effort to keep the contents of her stomach inside her, Fern scrambled to her feet. She was aware that her fur was caked with the dust of the road and probably something horse-related.
She shot a glance at the goblin in the back of the wagon, who hadn’t moved an inch and still grinned benignly at the both of them.
“I’m, uh . . . so, a few weeks ago I was in a carriage in some marshlands, and, er—”
“Oh. The pescadines. Mute couple in the wagon. That’s it.” She sniffed the air and caught a whiff of Fern’s regret, judging by the face she made. “So is this on purpose, or did you just pass out in the wrong wagon?”
Still hung up on the idea of herself and the coachman as a couple and her head aching too much to formulate a lie, Fern replied, “Bit of both?” and winced.
Astryx nodded, thought about that for a moment, and then seemed to dismiss her entirely, shifting her attention to the goblin in the wagon. She pointed. “You. Back up front.”
The goblin obliged, leaping nimbly across the cargo in the cartbed and up onto the buckboard, where she dropped onto her butt.
“Is she . . . some kind of prisoner?” Despite the sharpness of her smile, she didn’t seem particularly threatening.
Fern crept gingerly off the road and found a grassy swell. She sank to the ground, hissing as every muscle along her spine shrieked in protest. She had no idea how she’d slept through the night, given that she felt like one enormous bruise.
“Bounty,” replied Astryx as she tied the tarpaulin back down.
“Isn’t that a lot of rope?”
“Trust me when I say it was not my first choice. You must’ve come aboard in Thune. Yes?”
Fern nodded mutely. Astryx couldn’t see her, facing away as she was, but it didn’t seem to matter.
“We’re a day and a half out, and three days to the next town.”
“A day and ahalf?” Fern exclaimed.
“By cart.” Astryx was unperturbed. “There’s a village back that way that we passed in the night. You should be all right. Safe country. Warm spots to sleep.” Astryx finished what she was doing and turned to look Fern over. “Any food?”
It dawned on Fern what was happening. “No,” she replied in a very small voice.
Not that food sounded like something she wanted again anytime soon. Her eyes squeezed with every heartbeat, and her guts didn’t like the rhythm.
The elf rummaged under the buckboard and withdrew a hunk of thick-rinded cheese and a piece of bread that looked like it would clunk if dropped. Astryx held them out toward Fern without another word.
