Behind her and ringing the statue, folk of every race made up the crowd she’d just forged through.
Butwithinthat ring, another had formed of black-clad figures with the symbol of the Four Fingers on their breasts, oxtongue spears facing inward, kettle helms gleaming in the sun.
And attheircenter, at the foot of the statue, waited Astryx One-Ear, brandishing Nigel in guard position before her.
In the shadow of the elf—orange-haired, red-eyed, and grinning for all she was worth—Zyll the goblin held aloft two fistfuls of leather bags.
Fern looked closer.
No. Leathercoinpurses.
“I’ll thank the lot of you to pack away thosesadexcuses for weaponry,” declared Astryx’s sword, in the tones of a schoolmaster trying to be heard over a rowdy classroom. “You face the Oathmaiden! And in her hands,Nigellus Primus. No steel here can stand against her! Orme,for that matter, although I daresay that should be implicit in—”
“Thank you, Nigel,” said Astryx dryly.
“Wouldn’t give a tin shit if you were one of the Eight. Give her over!” hollered a thickly muscled mercenary, her black hair clubbed back, teeth white in an angry snarl. “Nobody steals from the Four Fingers.Nobody. Does the Oathmaiden protectthievesnow?”
Fern blinked, then tried to count the number of bags in Zyll’s hands. There were alotof them.
The goblin jingled the purses gleefully.
“What the hells is shedoing?” murmured Fern.
Astryx widened her stance and coolly evaluated the mercenaries, keeping the statue at her back. The prospect of fighting her way through a dozen Four Fingers goons didn’t seem to upset her in the least.
Her gaze snagged on Fern for just a moment. A single brow rose ever so slightly.
“This one is mine,” the Blademistress said, shifting her attention back to the warriors encircling her. “And I don’t plan to relinquish her. Iftheseareyourshowever”—she gestured with an elbow at the purses—“I’m sure that’s something that can be sorted out. If not between us, then I warrant there are still Gatewardens in Bycross.”
“Screw the Wardens,” barked the black-haired mercenary, taking a decisive step forward. “We don’t—”
“Screw the Wardens, eh?” came another woman’s voice. A rising murmur in the crowd preceded its parting, revealing a stone-fey in a blue tunic with a silver lantern badge pinned above her heart, and an actual lantern on her belt.
The Gatewarden strode forth, flanked by two other Wardens with their hands on the hilts of their sheathed blades. Her flinty gaze passed over the mercenaries before finding Astryx. She hooked her thumbs in her belt. “Would anyone like to fill me in on what’s going on here? I thought we were paying the Four Fingers to keep troubleoutsideof Bycross, not to start more in the heart of it.”
The black-haired merc ground her teeth, and if her spear had been able to breathe, it would have already been throttled unconscious. “This . . .thief”—she jabbed her weapon toward Zyll—“is the only one starting trouble. Nicked the purses of a bunch of the Fingers. But, by the Eight, it’s trouble we can damned well finish.”
The Gatewarden studied the extravagantly pocketed Zyll. “You’re saying that an unarmed goblin with a hideous coat you can spot a league away managed to steal from the lot of you, repeatedly, in broad daylight?”
“Well—”
“And we’re payingyoufor protection?”
“I mean—”
The Warden held up a hand, forestalling any further explanation.
She spoke instead to Zyll. “Anything to say in your defense?”
The goblin closed her lips over her alligator smile and jingled the purses again thoughtfully.
Astryx opened her mouth to explain—
—but Zyll beat her to it.
“The Finger Folk, they are notfriendlings.” She waved one handful of purses dismissively, and her smile reappeared. “You are, ehh, how do you say . . . having the foxies in the chicken house?”
A long moment of silence reigned, during which Astryx let Nigel sag in her grip and stared, flabbergasted, at the goblin.
