Fern had no idea how, but she knew he was squinting.
The elf ignored him, unhitching Bucket to stake him near one of the water-watchers, where he promptly began cropping the grass. “You know where the food is. I’ll return soon. If it gets dark, you can start a small fire. Asmallone. The flint is in the cart.”
There was a heavy silence during which Fern conspicuously said nothing.
“Unless you don’t know how to do that,” said Astryx, frowning.
“I . . . will figure it out . . . ?”
The Oathmaiden and the goblin shared a look, which Fern didn’t think was very fair.
“The longer we talk about this, the more likely dark will fall before I return. I’m going now. You?” Astryx pointed at Zyll and tapped her bracelet. “Don’t cause trouble.”
Without another word, she turned and strode swiftly up the slope and out of sight over the rise.
Zyll patted Fern on the shoulder and solemnly offered her the knife.
She took it and stared at it. Breadlee was surprisingly heavy, his steel gleaming with a faint opalescence. Some sort of sigils or runes had been inscribed into his handle.
The goblin promptly hopped out of the cart and trotted over to one of the water-watchers. She crouched until her feet disappeared beneath her coat and pretended to examine the spire with great interest, while sneaking hungry glances at the hawk atop it. The bird, no fool, launched itself skyward in search of less fraught hunting grounds.
Fern sighed.
“Hey,” said Breadlee. “Look, just so I can calibrate my expectations, about how many people have you stabbed, would you say? Feel free to round to the nearest dozen.”
17
“So, you just absconded in the night, huh?”
“I wasdrunk. It was anaccident,Breadlee.” Fern’s paw clenched tight around the knife’s handle, which she supposed was sort of his neck. It was weird talking to sentient cutlery.
“Bradlee,” he corrected absently. “Seems like this is a pretty long-running accident though, if you don’t mind me saying.”
After explaining that no, she’d never stabbed anyone—not even once—Fern had felt compelled to justify her existence with a brief recounting of her life thus far. In the retelling, somehow it seemed to peak early with Viv, Varine the Necromancer, and a townful of skeletons, and she’d been on a steady downward slope ever since.
“But you were ‘accidentally’ amurderweapon?” She held him up and stared at a point halfway up his blade, which Fern had decided was where his eyes ought to be. Then again, maybe she was staring him in the ass. “I think it’s time for you to tellyourfucking life story.”
“You got a real tart mouth, huh? Might interest you to know that the murderess was a rattkin like you. Name of Azula. Good kid. Bad judgment. Oh hey, that sounds familiar!”
Fern regarded him shrewdly. “I guess it’s just that I assumed you were too important to be sidelined from the action, being an Elder Blade and all. I would have figured you had to be instrumental.”
A shocked silence followed, during which the knife apparently had to reorganize his thoughts.
“I mean . . . I suppose it’s fair to say that I was verykeyin the . . . let’s say, ‘events’ both prior and after. Which may or may not have had a bearing on the result. Obviously, because of the weight of my—”
“—significance, yes, I know,” finished Fern. “Significance to the murdering.”
Another silence.
“Let’s talk about something else. Like the fact that the goblin kid is gone.”
“What?” Fern almost dropped him as she scrambled to her feet from the grassy spot she’d been occupying in the shade of the cart.
There wasn’t a lot to investigate—only the three water-watchers, grass and stone in all directions, and Bucket staring over his shoulder at her in horsey reproach.
She even checked underneath the tarpaulin at the crowded wagon bed.
Breadlee was right. Zyll was nowhere to be seen.
