“Well, that’s fine,” said Astryx, with profound disinterest. “At any rate, we’ll be heading inside now.”
“Afraid you’ll have to pay the toll first. It ain’t cheap to field an ongoing defense, and the Four Fingers have to make ends meet, too. Entry’s thirty bits a head. That’s . . .” He looked them over again in a performative way. “Ninety. And no questions about the hooded one in the wagon puts it at an even silver,” he added with a magnanimous smile.
There was a long, quiet moment during which Fern could almostfeelNigel protesting from within his sheath. She held her breath, clutching the buckboard, and waiting for steel to be skinned and for the two guards to be decisively outmatched.
But Astryx slipped a hand into the wallet at her belt and withdrew a silver piece. She bounced it on her palm once, and then flipped it at the orc’s face. He only narrowly caught it before it struck him in the nose.
Without another word she began moving forward. The orc fell back and gestured for the other guard to let them pass.
They rumbled through the gate and up the white road hacked into the cliffside. Fern watched over her shoulder as the two guards exchanged a glance behind them.
Fern slid the copy ofTen Links in the Chainacross the countertop with both paws. Her fingers lingered on the cover before they withdrew, thinking of Viv and the hands sheshouldhave been placing this in.
She swallowed against a lump in her throat.
“I’m hoping to get at least sixty bits for it. It’s an original printing, the spine is in perfect condition, and with the gilt edging and foiled embossing, you’d have a hard time finding a more pristine copy anywhere.”
The bookshop in which she bargained was dimly lit by a variety of glass-hooded lanterns. Fern had been surprised to discover that much of Bycross was invisible from outside. Long hallways tunneled deep into the stone of the cliff, layers sandwiched one atop the other, accessible from the exterior road.
Tareben Booksellers was situated far from sunlight, where no errant breezes or blowing rain might spoil its stock.
When she crossed the threshold, Fern experienced a surge of nostalgia at the familiar weight of the books surrounding her, and the spice of ancient paper. That sensation was joined by a suffocating panic that she tried to wrestle down.
Bookshelves chiseled into white stone were stuffed with volumes and scroll-cases. Well-trod carpets in ornate designs covered the cold floor at odd angles, mirrored above by more carpets affixed to the ceiling. It conjured images of some exotic desert tent on a dune-scalloped island, the air rich with incense.
However, the only thing this air was rich with was the smell of cats. Of which there were at least five. A tortoiseshell tabby purred on the countertop, eyes half lidded.
The stone-fey proprietor—Tareben, presumably—gently opened the red cover and perused the interior, his other hand stroking the cat. He couldn’t stop darting glances over Fern’s shoulder at the imposing elf with her arms crossed, or at theveryshort be-cloaked figure by her side.
The hem did drag on the ground rather a lot.
“Yes?” prompted Fern, recalling his attention.
The stone-fey stopped stroking the cat to attend to his beard instead. “It’s certainly a nice copy. But, sixty bits? There’s hardly much demand for the works of Geneviss these days. I don’t think I could go higher than forty.” He smiled apologetically and pushed it back toward her.
Fern hadn’t missed the man’s obvious interest in the Blademistress, though. Honestly, how many one-eared elven warriors could there be? And with a bookseller’s keen ability to seize any advantage in the face of insolvency, she looked back and said, “That seems a bit low, doesn’t it, Astryx?”
The elf shrugged. “Could be.”
The man paled. “Ah. The, er, Oathmaiden, is it? It’s an honor, madam.”
When they departed the shop five minutes later, Fern slipped sixty bits into her satchel with great satisfaction.
She did her best to ignore the pure relief she felt at putting this bookstore behind her, too.
“That won’t be enough to get you back to Thune,” advised Astryx, as they stepped back into the light and wind of the cliffside road. Red banners snapped in a fresh breeze, and a river of traffic swept by them on both sides. The sounds of footfalls and voices echoed off the weight of white stone above their heads.
Fern noted that the Oathmaiden reserved extra attention for anyone armed and kept Zyll close. Various ragged-looking individuals with the Four Fingers symbol on their tunics received even narrower glances.
The mercenaries didn’t seem to be causing any trouble, though.
They were only three turns up from the base of the cliff when they paused by the rough-hewn railings, but still, looking directly downward brought on a wave of vertigo in Fern.
Paired with that dizziness was the queasy realization that reaching civilization made her feel even farther from home. And that she wasn’t even sure what home meant anymore.
She stared out over the valley back the way they’d come, to the brambly hills and the lands lost in the haze beyond. “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she replied, although she felt as far from sure as it was possible to be. “But, thanks for staying with me long enough to wring a few extra bits out of a haggle.” Frankly, she was amazed that Astryx hadn’t already cut her loose.
“You might make up the difference by selling the satchel,” suggested the elf, as she moved to untether Bucket from one of the hitching posts along the broad avenue. They’d parked the wagon in a guarded enclosure farther down the way, apparently designed for the purpose.
