Page 13 of Tusk Love

The hook-handed man’s mouth had dropped open, but now it was working again. He spoke, quivering with indignation. “We call him that because he’s a lowlife murd—”

Jimmybutcher elbowed him in his wound. “The lady wants to know where the shops are, Warwick,” he said loudly, over the other man’s yelps of pain.

Guinevere watched, aghast, as more blood trickled down Warwick’s tunic. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have done that!”

“Shouldn’t I have?” Jimmybutcher countered mildly. “Let’s escort the lady to the shops, Warwick. She’s new to the Dustbellows.”

“And she’salone?” Warwick’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head even as he pressed his remaining hand over his side to staunch the bleeding.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Jimmybutcher. “Come along, miss.”

“Shouldn’t Mr. Warwick consult a healer first—”

“What for?” Warwick demanded. “Think I’m soft, do you?”

Guinevere wordlessly shook her head.

The two men positioned themselves on either side of her, with Jimmybutcher walking slightly ahead. Guinevere was happy to follow along; despite their hardened appearances, they were very nice people, indeed, to take the time out of their drunken carousing to help her. She kept a watchful eye on Warwick at first, anxious that hewould keel over from his injury at any moment, but he seemed none the worse for wear, and after a while she turned her attention to their surroundings.

“It must be a busy day,” she remarked to her companions. “Everyone seems to be in quite the rush.”

“That they are,” Jimmybutcher agreed as the residents of the Dustbellows scurried past them, giving the trio a wide berth.

“Some are running back the way they came,” Guinevere mused. “I wonder why.”

“They probably forgot something at home,” said Warwick. He looked askance at a man pulling a cart, and the latter burst into tears and fled, leaving the cart behind.

How very strange,Guinevere thought.

The shops they took her to were a vast cluster of stalls in the middle of a bustling public square bordered by huge warehouses on all sides. “Much cheaper goods here than any you’ll find on Silverstreet,” Jimmybutcher boasted. “Comparable quality, too.”

Guinevere approached a stall selling boots with something like trepidation. The peddler eyed her skeptically, but she squared her shoulders and…

And it was as though an age-old instinct kicked in. She’d never gone to market before, but her early years on the traveling caravans, the years thereafter listening to her parents’ discussions when they were home—it was to her great surprise that she found she’d stored some of that away.

Guinevere fished a plain gold ring out of her satchel and held it up for the peddler’s perusal. “I believe this more than entitles me to a pair of your finest boots,” she said. “Genuine leather, of course. And I’ll take five sets of extra laces, too.”

Guinevere haggled seamlessly from onestall to the next. She assigned Jimmybutcher to carry her bags while the satchel grew lighter and lighter, although not alarmingly so. It helped that herparents dealt in luxury merchandise that might never pass through the likes of the Dustbellows again. Unlike the innkeeper, the peddlers weren’t ignorant of their value, and she managed to wrangle concession after concession from them.

Soon she had a whole new wardrobe, the much-fabled length of rope, a bedroll, a waterskin, a map of Wildemount, some grooming supplies, and a medicine bag. This last one was bartered off a peddler who threw in bandages and salve for the bleeding Warwick, who accepted Guinevere’s gifts and patched himself up, then insisted on helping with her bags as well.

At the southwestern edge of the square was a stall selling potions. Guinevere lingered here, inspecting the cunningly shaped glass vials filled with liquids in all manner of colors and consistencies. Nestled in their midst was an elderly infernal with curling gray horns and spectacles, her muscular arms folded over the wooden countertop while she waited for Guinevere to make her selections. Behind her was a cauldron filled with a simmering yellow liquid, which she absentmindedly stirred with her maroon tail. The motions released fume after fume of an overwhelming icy fragrance into the air, underpinned with the sugared melon scent of buttercups.

The infernal, sensing a potential sale on the horizon, spoke in silvery tones. “A draft to disguise the self, dearie. Fool your friends, walk wherever you please.”

“It smells very refreshing,” Guinevere said politely.

“I add a touch more peppermint than most alchemists,” the infernal confided. “Helps mask the taste of adder tongue. Shall I prepare a vial for you?”

Guinevere couldn’t think of a single situation where she or Oskar would need to drink chopped-up adder tongues. Also, it didn’t seem very sanitary to mix a potion with one’s tail. Right as she was about to move on, however, the infernal suddenly leaned forward.

Bespectacled eyes locked on to Guinevere’s, slightly misty with the beginnings of cataracts but still piercing, still all-knowing. Flames danced in their depths, like candles in the fog. Infernals were children of the hellfire, and a slow wash of dread crept over Guinevere asTeinidh began to stir inside her in response. Like called to like, after all. She had the uneasy sensation that the infernal could make out her totem, hidden though it was by the cloak.

Then the old peddler looked away. “Stay safe out there, my duck” was all she said.

Chapter Nine

Guinevere

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