It was shattered when Fern cried, “You speak fuckingTerritories?”
Fern wasn’t sure what possessed her, but before she knew it, she’d darted between black-clad figures to join Astryx and Zyll at the spot in Bycross with the most sharp things pointed at it.
“I know you, Astryx One-Ear,” called the Gatewarden. Gasps of delayed recognition issued from the crowd. “Your reputation is the only reason I’m asking questionsbeforeletting the both of you cool your heels in a cell.” She shifted her attention to Fern and her satchel. “But who’s this, now? Did you decide you needed a scribe?”
“I’m her, um, traveling companion,” gasped Fern, still winded.
Nigel snorted—impressive for a sword—and Fern spared him a glare.
Astryx, for her part, was scratching her damaged ear with an assessing expression on her face.
Fern rounded on Zyll. “I can’tbelieveyou could’ve spoken up the entire time,” she hissed.
The goblin shrugged. The purses had disappeared, gods knew where. “Nobodies was ever ask-ling.”
“I think the ask was fuckingimplied,” sputtered the rattkin.
Zyll blinked back at her, very slowly.
“Quibble later,” snapped the Gatewarden. “Astryx, what is this goblin talking about?”
“She’s talking shit!” bellowed the black-haired merc, who seemed to have become the Four Fingers’ de facto spokeswoman. She was clearly having a hard time mastering her need to say more.
Astryx stared at Zyll, and then at Fern, with that same assessing look. Fern wasn’t sure she liked it.
“I’ll let my scribe answer that,” said the elf.
Now Fern was breathless for a reason that had nothing to do with the climb. Astryx might as well have seized her in both hands and dangled her over the precipice to tread wind with her paws. But there wasn’t any malice about the Blademistress that she could detect. Just that feeling of intense speculation.Amusedspeculation.
All eyes fixed on Fern.
“I, um, well . . .” Then to Zyll in an urgent whisper,“What the hells did youmean,foxes in the henhouse?”
Zyll pointed mutely at one of the Four Fingers mercenaries. Then at another. And another.
No, not at the mercenaries. At theirboots.
“Red,” the goblin whispered back with an extravagantly rolledR. “South-ly.”
“I’m pretty fucking sureblackis the color you—” Fern broke off midsentence.
The red mud caked into the seams of their black boots.
South.
“There’s no red soil here . . .” murmured Fern.
“Do you have something to say, or not?” demanded the Gatewarden. “My patience ebbs.”
Everything snapped together in Fern’s brain at once. “The, um, the warlord! Tetanus?”
“Taltus?” The Gatewarden frowned.
“Yes, that guy! Taltus! The one to the south? In the swamp-lands? The one you’re payingthemto keep away? I bet the earth down there is pretty red, isn’t it? Not like around here.”
“What in the name of the Eight are you talking about?”
A slow ripple passed through the Four Fingers, and Fern’s conviction grew. “In fact, I haven’t seen mud that color anywhere nearby. Not fordays. And nobody else’s boots in this square seem to have picked any up, either. Nobody but the Four Fingers.”
