Brigands & Breadknives by Travis Baldree - 2

Fern stared up at a wooden sign in the shape of a kite shield. A hammered hunk of metal representing a sword ran diagonally across the front. Two words bracketed the blade, chiseled above and below—

LEGENDS

&

LATTES

She’d never been more terrified in her life.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. A harrowing night a lifetime ago at the mercy of a certain necromancer still held pride of place as far as raw fear went.

But eight hells, this was a close second.

The two-story building’s plaster was freshly whitewashed, with heavy corner posts and the half timbering stained dark. Light and color shifted behind leaded-glass windows. A pleasant murmur issued from within, like the whisper of a distant river, while rich scents of cinnamon and butter laced the air. The shop’s front door was closed against the chill breath of a late spring evening.

And beyond that door?

“Just a friend you last saw when your fur was still brown, and neither of us knew our ass from an abacus,” she muttered. “Hardly the stuff of nightmares.”

A friend I knew for a single summer, and me with nothing to scamper back to if the friendship doesn’t hold, she thought, but did not say.

The journey on foot through Thune’s streets was already a misty memory. Navigating with the directions Viv had provided, Fern hadn’t noted much more than the smell of the river, the twisty lanes, and the hodgepodge of buildings. If the city hadn’t contrasted so starkly with Murk’s salty air, sand, and regimented streets, even those details might not have registered.

Potroast wheezed at the level of her knees as he settled onto the cobbles beside her valise, letting his great golden eyes drift half closed.

She frowned at him. “Can’t have you napping in the street, can we?”

In the end, that was what got her moving again. As folk had done since time immemorial, she got on with things, because otherwise . . . who would feed the dog?

“Come on then, old man.” Fern gently nudged the gryphet with her toes.

As her red cloak fluttered in another gust, she hoisted the valise, hitched up the ancient satchel, and reached for the iron pull.

The door swung wide before her paw could touch it, and at the appearance of a familiar orcish face on the other side, Fern’s own traveled through wild geographies of expression.

It arrived somewhere hopeful, but with cheeks wetter than when the journey began.

“So, what do you think?” asked Viv, nodding to the mug in Fern’s paws and crossing her forearms on the table between them. Still impressive forearms. Still the same face, too, but fuller, less hungry somehow. And definitely expectant. A face Fern really knew . . . ? She thought so. Hoped so. She’d bet everything on that assumption.

Behind Viv, steam hissed from the gleaming machine on the counter, flanked by an enormous slab of slate on the wall. A menu was printed across it with colored chalk in a tidy hand, ornate flourishes decorating the corners. Neat rows of polished mugs hung on pegs, and baked goods sparkled with glaze under fine glass domes. Customers bustled to and fro with drinks and nibbles.

Fern carefully set down her mug. She contemplated the unfamiliar bitterness on the sides of her tongue, the earthy heat in her belly.

She became aware that her answer was increasingly tardy.

“It’s . . . nice, ” she ventured.

Except it wasn’t.

Her claws tapped the side of the mug nervously.

Viv’s still-the-same-but-less-hungry face fell, and it was so much like her disappointment when Fern first offered her a book those many years gone, that the rattkin almost laughed aloud in delighted recognition.

The laugh got lost somewhere under the guilt though.

Fucking hells, I’ve rejected her happily-ever-after.

“Well, it’s maybe an acquired taste,” said Viv. “You don’t have to like it, of course!” She leaned back on the bench so her crossed forearms rested against her chest.

“Oh, yes, I mean, I’m sure with time I’ll . . .” Fern trailed off as the rest of her thoughts decamped for other territory.

All the fear she’d left on the doorstep came back in a tidal swell, and she thought she might heave her guts—including a single mouthful of coffee—all over the table at the following wave of nausea.

Then, somewhere inside she found a pawhold and dragged herself out of the sea.

She pushed the mug away decisively. “Gods, it’s just a drink . You got married ?”

Viv slapped the table and leveled a finger at her. “There’s Fern. It’s so damn good to see you again.”

And then it was okay.

“You should have led with the cinnamon rolls,” Fern mumbled around a mouthful of one. She closed her eyes, and an involuntary shiver found its way from her shoulders to the ends of her whiskers. “Gods, it seems like you’re really burying the lede with the name of this place.”

She glanced at Tandri, who stood with one hand braced on the end of the table, eyeing Fern with a small but amused smile. A pair of horns the dusty magenta of the succubus’s skin parted the hair at her brow, and her whiplike tail swayed languorously. Potroast lay curled around one of Tandri’s feet, and she’d made no move to disturb him, even though she probably had something better to do. Fern thought from the start that she liked Viv’s wife, but this clinched it.

She licked a sticky claw. “Put another one in front of me, and I might marry you, too.”

The succubus laughed, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear.

“Paws off,” called Viv, opening the front door just long enough to hang a closed sign on its nail. She grabbed a cloth off the counter as she returned to the long table that Fern occupied very little of.

Fern affected a speculative look. “Tandri, did Viv ever tell you about the summer fling she had when she was still swinging metal around? That girl was a baker, too. Probably a whole ovenload of jilted bakers in your wife’s wake, I bet. So, when the inevitable happens, just know I’m here for you.” She fluttered her fingers magnanimously.

“Oh, I’m no baker. That’s Thimble’s handiwork.” Tandri’s smile became secretive. “You’ll meet him soon enough, I’m sure.” She switched her attention to Viv. “How did you never mention him in your letters?”

Viv settled across from Fern and scrubbed at an imaginary scuff on the table with the cloth. “Spent most of them conning an old friend into moving her bookshop next door, that’s how. There must not have been room on the page.”

“Have you seen the shop yet?” The succubus used the toe of her other shoe to scratch between Potroast’s shoulder blades, to his audible, but dozy, approval.

“Honestly? I must have passed it on the way in, but I was so, um . . . flustered at the thought of this, ” Fern waved a guilty paw at the both of them, “that I couldn’t pay much attention.”

“Dread’ll do that,” said Tandri.

“Dread?” Viv’s brows went up.

“Yes, I wonder what it’s like to leave your entire life behind and move to a new city where you don’t know anybody, and then start a new business?” observed Tandri wryly.

Fern shot her a surprised and grateful look.

“ I’m here. She knows me, ” protested the orc.

Tandri gently extricated herself from Potroast and moved to wrap her arms around Viv’s broad shoulders, delivering a peck to her temple. “I think she’s just getting to know this version,” she replied, in a whisper meant to carry.

Fern definitely liked her. Double-clinched.

A sharp rap at the entry elicited a hooting bark from the sleeping gryphet, and they all glanced that way as the door swung wide.

A hob entered first, clad in coveralls and a cotton shirt that had both seen a lot of hard wear. Tugging the brim of his flat cap in greeting, he held the door for a sleek gray rattkin laden with bags, boxes, and tins.

“Kid wouldn’t let me carry a thing,” complained the hob.

The rattkin squeaked something indecipherable, paused to stare at Fern with wide eyes, and then disappeared around the counter.

Fern thought Tandri’s expression turned positively smug.

Viv cleared her throat. “So, that was Thimble. I’m sure he’ll be back. And Fern, this is Cal, who I know I’ve mentioned.” She leaned close and held a hand beside her mouth. “He’s the real reason you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Hm,” said Cal, whose long ears heard just fine.

Fern thought he looked both put-out and pleased at the same time. “Glad as hells to know you,” said Fern, rising and approaching to extend her paw. They were both about the same height.

The hob took it in a firm, dry grip and pumped it once, offering the grizzled ghost of a smile. “Plain speaker. Ain’t that a relief.”

“Some of the words Fern uses are a long way from plain,” called Viv. “But if you ever need to strip some paint, I bet she can make it a lot easier.”

“Oh, fuck off,” replied Fern mildly over her shoulder.

Cal barked a startled laugh, and that clinched her opinion of him, too.

“Windows’ll come, o’course,” said Cal, tipping his cap back as they stared together at the vacant frames.

To Fern, the building bore an expression of horrified surprise, not unlike that of a rattkin who’d sold her bookstore and most of her worldly possessions to travel halfway across the Territory and set up shop in a moldering derelict.

Fern had been honest about paying no attention on her way to the Redstone district and the coffee shop. Now, she wondered if she would have made it in the door if she had noticed the place.

She swallowed hard.

“Don’t worry!” Viv clapped a hand on Fern’s shoulder. “My shop used to be a crumbling livery with a hole in the ceiling. Then it burned down. You’re already leagues ahead. It’s going to be perfect . You’ll see.”

Cal studied Fern from under his cap. He nodded once. “Hm. S’going to be fine.”

Somehow that was a lot more reassuring.

It was only one story tall. Separated from Legends & Lattes by a narrow alley, the bright whitewash and neat stonework of its neighbor only made the peeling paint and sagging eaves look more desolate. Still, it wasn’t as though her old shop in Murk wasn’t in need of a lick of paint. Maybe if Fern’s nerves hadn’t already been thoroughly frayed, her first impression might’ve been gilded with a bit more optimism.

“The bones are good,” she muttered to herself, but when she said it a second time even quieter, it felt more like a prayer.

“I’ve got something to show you,” said Tandri gently. She gestured for Fern to follow, then opened the door to lead her inside.

Cal and Viv came after.

The interior wasn’t much more encouraging. Evening light slanted through the gaping window frames, revealing raw beams and heaps of sawdust marking Cal’s efforts thus far. Pale stains on the floor described the ghostly shapes of furniture long since removed.

“It does seem bigger once you’re inside.” Fern tried to sound optimistic. “Should hold plenty of books, at least.”

“The bones’re good,” said Cal, gruffly repeating her earlier words. “She’ll clean up smart.”

Fern became even more aware that the worry sloshing around inside her was over-spilling enough for all of them to notice. Hells, the tension in her tail alone probably gave it away.

“This isn’t what I wanted to show you though,” said Tandri, opening a door at the back of the echoing storefront and passing through. At the rasp of a striking match, soft lantern-glow buttered the walls inside.

Fern stepped into a cozy bedroom, Viv and Cal crowding into the doorway behind her. They’d tucked a narrow bed in the far corner, complete with a quilt and a big, squashy pillow. A side table holding the lit lantern squatted beside it. A writing desk crouched against the near wall, and a wardrobe sat to the right of the door. Just above the desk hung a watercolor painting of a long swell of shoreline tufted with beach grass, and low clouds pinking at evening.

At the foot of the bed waited a large wicker basket with a blanket tucked around a cushion nested inside.

“Oh,” managed Fern, remembering Potroast asleep back in the coffee shop.

Then she burst into tears.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Viv had one enormous hand curled around Fern’s outstretched paw on the tabletop back in the coffee shop.

Fern sniffed, then used her other hand to bring a mug of tea to her lips. “Oh, hells, I’m fine . The shop, the room, it’s all lovely. Thank you.” She nodded meaningfully at Tandri. “I just feel all . . . rattled around. Like I crossed a bridge that collapsed the second I reached the other side. You’re relieved you made it, but weak in the knees at the same time.”

Viv looked thoughtful. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Huh. You would, wouldn’t you? I bet you had a lot of near misses in your time.” She grimaced. “ In your time . Bleagh. That makes you sound like an octogenarian.”

Then she remembered her own near-death experience on the road not a week past. “Eight hells,” she breathed. “That’s it . No wonder I’m not myself!”

“What?”

And then she told them about Astryx and the pescadines and the coach door torn off its hinges.

“Astryx One-Ear,” sighed Viv in obvious admiration. “Gods, I’d love to meet her.”

“Who?” asked Tandri.

Viv looked affronted. “The Blademistress? The Oathmaiden? The most famous elven adventurer for the last thousand years?”

“I’ve read three different histories about her,” added Fern. “Which is pretty impressive, considering she’s still alive. Scarred by Purpose ? Steel Maiden ? Flight of the Silver Hawk ? Amazing they got written, since she never seems to stick around after any heroics, which I personally can attest to.”

“Not ringing any bells.” Tandri shrugged. “A thousand years seems like an awfully long time to do the same thing, though.”

While they argued good-naturedly, Thimble appeared out of nowhere and slipped a plate piled with some sort of long, brittle cookies in front of Fern.

“Hello,” he whispered.

Then he wrung his paws in front of his apron and vanished as quickly as he had come in a dusting of flour.

Fern didn’t have the energy to puzzle him out.

She was simply relieved to have found a plausible reason for the sick feeling in her stomach that required no further investigation. A near-death experience would make anyone feel that way, obviously.

Also, the cookies were mighty fine.