And then Viv lost her grip on her laughter entirely.
After a second, the rattkin managed a chuckle or two as well, wiping her forehead and staring around as though wondering how on earth she’d gotten there.
“Fern, by the way.” She held out a paw to shake.
Viv obliged, swallowing it in her own massive grip. She tried to be gentle about it, though. “Viv. Again, real sorry for the mess.”
Fern waved it off. Sort of. “You buy a book, all’s forgiven.”
“Uh, so … I left my wallet back at The Perch …” She gestured at her empty belt. A convenient excuse, since she hadn’t really intended to buy anything anyway.
Another big sigh from Fern. “From the look of that leg, I don’t imagine you’ll be galloping over the hills with an ill-gotten novel, so take it on credit and come back tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
Cornered.
“I guess. But”—she glanced around—“gonna be honest, I don’t read a whole lot, and I don’t have any idea what I’d be looking for anyway.”
Fern looked her up and down, as though measuring out her weight in words. She tapped her lower lip with a claw as she considered Viv’s sword and the overall … Viv-ness of her.
“Ten Links in the Chain,” she said, running a finger along the spines of some of the books. “It’s a classic.”
Viv made a dubious face. “Sounds … stuffy.”
“It’s about a jailbreak,” Fern called over her shoulder. “Swordfights. A nighttime ship battle. Curses. There’s a dwarf with one eye and a murderous streak.” She looked back, and her black eyes gleamed with certainty. “Trust me, hm? Ah, here it is!”
She withdrew a slim volume bound in red leather and brought it over. Viv reluctantly took it. The title was embossed into the cover and painted in flaking gold, and the author was R. Geneviss. Flipping it open, Viv stared doubtfully at the small words.
“Any pictures?” Then she thought guiltily of the mess she’d made and the rotten wood out front. “Not that that’s important, I guess?”
Fern laughed, a soft, musical sound. “A few woodcuts. But none of the gory bits.”
Viv mustered a smile that she hoped looked appreciative. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Anyway, thanks for this. How much do I owe you? For tomorrow?”
“It’s not off one of the newer printers, but with that leather binding—thirty bits.” She saw Viv’s expression and sighed. “Shit. Okay, for you, twenty.”
“So, I hate to bring this up, but …” Viv told her about the destroyed plank out front.
The rattkin covered both eyes with her paws and uttered several surprisingly creative profanities, as well as some words that Viv was pretty sure were profane, before visibly gathering herself. “I’m just glad you weren’t further injured,” she said carefully, like she was walking a tightrope after a tumbler of brandy. “Tomorrow.”
As Viv stepped out the door, Potroast delivered a triumphant hoot at her retreat.
* * *
A fog rolled in off the sea and the beach grass seethed in long gusts as Viv staggered back toward The Perch. The weather was changing fast. The prospect of soaking through her bandages and orc-handling her crutch through wet sand was unappealing in the extreme, so she quickened her pace. The chafing in her armpit was getting pretty fiery, though.
The first few drops scattered dark coins across the sand as she mounted the three stairs to The Perch and reached the safety of its awning. Only seconds later, thunder growled like potatoes down a washboard and licks of lightning flashed through the mist. Sinuous curtains of rain slid in from over the dunes, and the odor of hot sand gone wet overrode every other scent.
When Viv ducked inside, the inn was a lot more populated than earlier.
Sea-fey and humans with ropy arms and salt-scaled clothes clustered around the tables or lingered at the bar, and a muddle of convivial conversation filled the room. Brand glided effortlessly back and forth behind the counter, attending to this and that. A narrow-shouldered half-elf kid wove between the tables, dropping off copper mugs or bowls of stew. Somebody was lighting a fire in the hearth, and raindrops hissed in the kindling.
Viv was starving again. One lonely table in the back was unoccupied, and she figured she’d be able to park herself comfortably. She thumped over to a chair under the mounted skull of some toothy sea predator. Sighing in relief as she transferred her weight from her uninjured leg to her backside, Viv fumbled with the sword-belt and dropped it underneath her chair, keeping her crutch in reach against the wall.
Laying the red book on the table, she stared at it while she waited for the kid to make his way over. She wondered where Rackam and the rest of them were—Lannis, Tuck, Sinna, and Malefico. Pitching camp by now, no doubt, drawing lots for the watch. Or had they already caught up to Varine? Was everyone still in one piece? Viv had barely been with the Ravens two months, and already she was falling by the wayside. She worried at her bandages and chewed her lip, staring off into a growing distance.
“Get you something?” A nervous voice brought her back to herself. The tavern kid, a bunch of empty mugs dangling from his fingers.
“A couple of those,” she said, pointing to the mugs. “And whatever everybody else is eating? Three of that.” She caught Brand’s attention, raising her brows at him. He gestured back. “Let Brand know, and I’ll pay up tomorrow.” She patted her bum leg.
“Uh, sure.”
While he was gone, she centered Ten Links in the Chain before her and sighed deeply. It felt like giving in to even consider reading it. A tacit admission that she was now a different sort of person. Weak. Soft. Sleepy.
Someone who idled and studied, rather than fought and won.
She flipped to the first page. The chapter was titled “IN WHICH I DISMEMBER A MAN.” Viv thought of Fern’s knowing gaze and huffed a laugh. With reluctant interest, she began to read.
When I first tell you that I was wrongfully imprisoned, you may have some sympathy. But when I also relay even a few of the dire things I’ve done, your sympathy will, perhaps, become strained beyond its limit. I can only ask that you hear me out, dear reader. Indeed, because I cut the man’s head off and then his legs and his arms and stuffed them into three barrels of brine to survive the voyage, I may seem a monster. But by the end of my tale, I think you may again consider me worthy of your regard.
Besides.
He was a bastard.
Viv continued reading after her drinks and food arrived. She chewed and sipped absently, turning page after page, and was surprised when she noticed all three bowls were empty, her mugs drained. She didn’t even look up when the kid took them away.
The glow in The Perch dimmed, her corner untouched by the blast of light and heat from the hearth across the room, so she asked for a lantern to read by. The kid obliged, and despite the uncomfortable chair and the ache in her leg and the backwater in which she’d been abandoned, she was absorbed.
She was transported.
She was elsewhere.
4
That night, Viv dropped the wooden shutter in her room against the rising wind and sheeting rain. Striking a sulfur match, she lit the lamp, then shuffled the mattress around so she could sit on it while leaning against the bedframe. Not terribly comfortable, but the low boom of blood in her leg made that small by comparison.
Viv read until the wee hours, until she couldn’t keep her eyes open and her jaw creaked in an enormous yawn. Then she lay with the book facedown and open across her chest as the sounds of the storm crossed over the boundaries of sleep and colonized her dreams. Swords flashed on the foredeck of a frigate lashed with rain under a bruised sky. The keening of the wind twinned in her slumber, and Viv voyaged through seas unknown.
* * *