It took a moment for Fern to understand, but then she nodded, shifting to the head of the beds. It took both paws to drag Nigel’s sheath down an inch, like a stubborn pair of wet trousers.
“Oh, m’lady, they’vebutcheredyou,” he wailed immediately. Both of the monks squeaked in varying degrees of alarm.
Astryx’s eyes drifted closed as the Elder Blade crooned his concern and demanded explanations from the monks in turn.
A creak made Fern turn to see Abbess Bluebriar peeking in the door. The silver rattkin gestured to her with one paw.
“I’ll check in again later,” said Fern to Astryx, although she didn’t know if the elf heard a word of it. Her eyes remained closed as Nigel’s babble washed over her.
Then Fern trailed the abbess into the hall and let the door shut behind her.
Fern followed Bluebriar through a heavy, iron-banded door and onto a covered, elevated walkway lined with thin pillars. Dry, biting cold and blinding brightness assailed her, and she stood blinking for a moment as snow skittered around her feet. Then she hurried to catch up as the elderly rattkin reached the door at the other end. Fern gazed out at the icy crags and snow-frosted buildings of the abbey as she went. Everything seemed curiously flat, with all subtleties of definition hammered out by the watery light of day.
Then they were indoors again, descending a cramped staircase, which opened onto yet another long hallway. A blue carpet writhing with embroidered golden tentacles stretched its length.
Wordlessly, the abbess passed through another door. When Fern entered the room beyond in her wake, she gasped and clutched at her cloak-pin in amazement.
It was a library, two stories tall, with narrow windows that traveled nearly from floor to ceiling. Balconies lined either side of the room, accessible by tight iron stairways. Rolling ladders clung to the shelves.
Two long, severe study tables ran down the center of the library, but more comfortable chairs and couches were scattered about the perimeter upon scuffed carpets.
“Whew,” puffed Bluebriar, rustling the hem of her habit. “Frosty.” The room was unoccupied and, indeed, bitterly cold, with no fire burning in the corner hearth. The abbess bustled over to it and began arranging stovewood on the andirons.
While she busied herself with kindling and striking steel, Fern drifted to the shelves and traced her fingers along the books there. Expecting religious tomes or abbey records, her brow wrinkled as she read the embossing on the spines.
“What the fuck?” she muttered with honest surprise.
She turned at the pop of flame behind her to find the abbess rising laboriously from a crouch and regarding her with amusement.
“These arerealbooks,” said Fern, accusingly.
Dusting off her hands, Bluebriar approached and examined the volumes Fern had been inspecting. “If you mean books that have better things to do than enumerate the tentacles of Tarim, then, yes, they’re real books. Although we have the other sort, too.” She flapped a paw toward a far corner of the library.
At Fern’s frankly confused expression, the abbess laughed. “As a bookseller—or ex-bookseller, I suppose?—I thought you’d be more at home here. We can’t very well spend every moment in supplication. What do you imagine there is to do around this place in the dark of winter?”
“I . . . well . . .”
The abbess patted her shoulder genially. “We have a special wing for the sacrifices and torture.”
Fern was fairly certain she was joking.
“Come and sit with me while the place warms. Over here, closer to the fire. I have a pinch of time before anyone notices I’ve been misplaced.”
The abbess indicated a pair of wooden chairs with lumpy blue cushions. The wood was ornately carved with Tarim’s tentacles. Presumably, woodworking was the wintertime hobby of at least one entertainment-starved worshipper.
When they were both settled, the abbess arranged her habit around her tail and surprised Fern again. “You know, the Tarimites aren’t widely recognized for their charitable works. Apart from the more cosmic one, that is. I doubt that’s a great shock, but, still, you and your friends are part of a very select group.”
“Thecosmicone?”
Bluebriar continued as though Fern hadn’t spoken. “Although we don’t have many opportunities for philanthropy here in the hinterlands. Hardly any exposure to the mundane ills of the world, really.”
“I can’t decide if that’s a polite way to show unwelcome guests the door,” said Fern.
The abbess chuckled. “We won’t turn you out into the snow just yet. Unless that other one absconds with the rest of our cutlery, and then I think our cook, Brother Yarrow, may take things into his own paws.”
She studied Fern keenly. “I suppose I am circling my point, though, which isn’t really like me. Lance the wound and clean up after, I say. Saves so much time and agony. I’ll speak plainly. I don’t think you like us much, and you’re not very subtle about it. I don’tneedyou to like us, although others might observe that courtesy demands you keep it to yourself. But since you’re under our roof and eating our food and occupying our physician, I rather think you owe me an explanation. So. Out with it. Let’s hear your grievances.”
Fern flushed hot from nose to tail-tip with a freshet of guilt and a gush of irritation at having her social missteps baldly pointed out.
