Brigands & Breadknives by Travis Baldree - 48

Viv lay on the floor of the tiny room. Well, almost on the floor. The place hadn’t been built with orcs in mind, and the bed was too short by at least two feet. Someone had wrestled the straw-tick mattress onto the floor, and though her legs still went off the end, they’d positioned her pack so her foot was propped, keeping the wounded leg elevated.

It hurt like all eight hells.

She’d caught a fever while bouncing along in the litter behind a pack mule, coughing through all the dust it could raise. Which was a lot .

Viv might’ve been bedbound for two days, in and out of consciousness, a muddle of circular dreams and throbbing agony. The surgeon had come and gone multiple times. Or maybe he hadn’t, and she’d just been hallucinating it over and over. She half remembered the man’s face, tangled up in a shame she couldn’t identify.

Now, her head was clear. Which mostly meant she could also feel everything with complete clarity. It was a debatable improvement.

What’s more, she was absolutely ravenous.

Staring around the room, the place was mostly barren. A crude bedframe and a tiny table with a lantern and a basin on it. Gray, raw wood for walls. A small, slatted window. She smelled the sea, and dry beach grass, and fish. An old sea chest sat opposite. Her saber leaned against it, alongside a crude wooden crutch. Her maul was missing. There wasn’t much else worth considering.

The building was absolutely quiet. The only sounds came from outside—the hissing of grass, the remote grumble of waves, and the occasional call of a seabird.

Viv had been lucid for less than a single hour, and she thought the view might drive her insane if she had to endure another.

Her leg was cleanly wrapped at least, splinted so the knee wouldn’t bend. Her trouser leg had been cut away. The bandages showed some discoloration where she’d oozed through, but it was a big step up from moss and a dirty wool shirt.

“Well,” she said. “Shit.”

She made it up by degrees, hauling her butt onto the bed-frame and sucking air through her teeth as she swung her damaged leg around. Her left boot fit, but the right foot was so swollen, it would have to stay bare. Tottering to her feet, she made it to the basin of tepid water, where she scrubbed herself as best she could with the rag she found there. Feeling less foul, she limped toward the door, but each thud of her heel against the floor pulsed black at the edges of her vision. Gritting her teeth, she changed direction and grudgingly seized the crutch.

It galled her to admit how much better that was.

While she was there, she belted on her saber out of habit.

Unfortunately, she discovered that the room was at the top of a flight of narrow stairs. She fumbled down them, catching herself every other step with the crutch. The saber did nothing to make things easier. With every impact, she found a new, more colorful epithet for Rackam. Not that it was his fault, of course. Still, it was a lot more satisfying to curse someone by name, even if that name should’ve been her own.

She could smell the ghost of bacon as she descended, which was plenty of incentive to carry on.

The stairs opened into a long, rough-timbered dining area in an inn or tavern or whatever they called it around here. A big, stone hearth crouched cold along one wall, yawning like a disappointed mouth. An iron chandelier hung askew, entombed in candlewax. Glass floats and storm lanterns were strung or nailed up in the rafters, alongside netting and weathered oars with names carved into them. The handful of scarred tables were unoccupied.

A long bar ran along the back wall, and the tavernkeep leaned against it, idly cleaning a copper mug. He looked as bored as the place warranted. The tall sea-fey’s chin was grizzled gray. His nose was a hatchet, his hair hung kelp-thick past sharp ears, and his forearms writhed with tattoos.

“Mornin’, miss,” he rumbled. “Breakfast?”

Viv couldn’t remember anyone ever calling her miss .

His gaze sketched over her, brows rising as he spied the saber, then returned to the mug he was polishing.

“Bacon?” asked Viv.

He nodded. “Eggs, too? Potatoes?”

Her stomach grumbled aggressively. “Yeah.”

“Five bits ought to do it.”

She patted at her belt for her wallet, looked toward the stairs, and swore.

“I’ll get it next time. Worst case I climb those stairs myself.” The man smiled wryly. “Don’t think you could outrun me, could you? You’d better fall onto one of these stools while you still can.”

Viv was so used to her very existence being an obvious threat that it was honestly startling to hear a casual joke at her expense, even such a mild one. She supposed clunking around on one leg tended to dull one’s fearsomeness.

As she accomplished the suggested maneuver, he disappeared into the back. Viv dragged another stool close enough to prop her bare foot on one of its low supports.

Drumming her fingers on the counter, she tried to distract herself by studying the interior further, but there really wasn’t much else worth marking. The sounds and smells from the back were all her mind could dwell on.

When the tavernkeep brought out a skillet and set it on the counter along with a fork and a napkin, she almost seized the hot handle with her bare hand in her hurry to drag it closer. The hash of potatoes, crispy, fatty pork, and two runny eggs was still sizzling and popping. She almost burst into joyful tears.

Viv caught him watching her devour the food from the other end of the bar and tried to slow down, but the potatoes were salty and rich with the egg, and it was hard not to shovel it in without pausing. The noises she made as she ate were not polite, but they were definitely sincere.

“Feel better?” the sea-fey asked as he slid the empty pan off the bar-top.

“Gods, yes. And thanks. Uh, I’m Viv.”

That wry grin again. “Heard when you came in. We’ve met, actually, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Not with all the commotion.”

She didn’t remember the commotion, but his amused tone made her wonder. “So, did the Ravens pay up my stay?”

“Hoped I’d see Rackam himself,” said the barkeep. “Still, the fellow he sent to put you up was practically a gentleman. Paid four days. Said you’d be able to foot it past that. I’m Brand.”

He held out a hand, and she shook it. They both had hard grips.

“Back to your ease then?” he asked.

“Hells, no. I’d go crazy. Um. Where exactly am I?”

His wry grin went all the way to amused. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Murk, jewel of the western coast! A very small part of the western coast. And this here is The Perch, my place.”

“Seems awfully quiet around here.” She’d almost said depressingly quiet.

“We have our loud moments when the boats are in. But if you’re looking to rest and recover, most days you’re not going to be bothered by the noise.”

She nodded and hopped onto her good foot, easing the crutch back under her. “Well, thanks again. Guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you.”

With hot food in her belly, Viv felt more herself. The thought of hobbling her way around a little of the town was a lot more attractive than it had been a few minutes ago. She rapped a knuckle on the counter. “Think I’ll take in the sights.”

“See you in ten minutes then,” said Brand.

Viv laughed, but she had to force it.