Page 3 of Orc Chained
Her gaze sharpens. “Henry’s daughter?”
I nod slowly. She knows me, but I don’t remember her. “I’m a traveling midwife.” Griefclogs my throat for a moment. “I was coming back from the Outlands when word reached me.”
The copied note had been posted on a way station bulletin board, and I’d been told the commission was twelve weeks old. The bulletin boards are the best way to send messages when magic isn’t involved, and you don’t know where the receiver is.
“Rough out there.”
“It is. A quarter of the babes don’t make it.” Grief again, though for another reason. “I came as soon as I heard, and there was a replacement for my mothers.”
If the clerk had been male, I wouldn't have bothered with an explanation. But if I want to spend any time in this town the female’s circle must accept me, and they need to know it wasn't filial impiety that caused my delay. A midwife acting responsibly towards her mothers is something they'll understand, even under the circumstances.
She nods and begins to pack up a box. “This is a sample of our populars. On the house as a welcome for a clan daughter.”
That’s the most acknowledgment I’ve ever gotten. “Thank you. You’re welcome to send your males to fish the pond on my property. I reblooded the enchantment this morning.”
An enchantment paid for with blood to a Fae sixty years ago, and I’m wary enough to not want to be in her debt for the “welcome”. The clan leader kept trying to wrest fishing rights from my stubborn Da’s hands, and he’d always held out.
“I’ll send my boy around next time hecomplains he’s bored,” she says. “You take me up on that other offer, too, here. It’ll cause less fuss that way.”
No one wants an unmated, unblooded, ovulating halfling walking around getting the single males confused and riled up.
“I just might.” I lift the box and turn to go.
“Will you be home for female visitors?” she asks. It’s a warning she’s going to pass along word of my arrival.
“Yes. I’ll get the house fit for guests.” If the Matriarch comes to visit, I’ll have to let her in.
Even though she hates my guts.
She’s one of two reasons her son made my life hell growing up. I’d like to put down roots, but if this experiment doesn’t work, I can leave. No one can hurt me unless I let them.
I’ve been telling myself that for two decades. I’m still not sure if I believe it.
Fresh whitewash on the seamstress’ store front. Acoffeehouse. . .Uthilsen outside the Cities hate coffee, it’s too bitter. There have to be enough Humans to support the business now. I decide I've earned an hour sitting outdoors, sipping an overpriced beverage.
This is almost pre-Dreadnought, like the time centuries ago before the Immortals crash-landed on planet Gaithea and their wars decimated it. What happened here? The clan leader has always been allergic to progress.
I order inside then wander back outdoors tosettle on one of the square wooden tables. After an hour of people watching I head to the local tavern, my secondary destination. Maezii and I need a hot meal and neither of us cook. It makes traveling rough, another reason we’re both ready to grasp at straws.
The doors creak when I step inside. A few desultory glances my way, but otherwise I'm just another face.
I scan the room. Been in one tavern, been in them all. On the road, especially in the Outlands, you learn quick to identify potential trouble before committing to an hour in a dubious crowd. Slavers, gang members, Immortals in the mood to pick a fight. Maezii and I are handy enough with a knife, and I always have a few charms on me, dearly bought, so we’ve been lucky so far. Plus I'm constantly on the move. Still. A young, female Orc-born midwife with no clan protection, and her Human apprentice?
We’re worth money on the market.
I pass by a table, heading to the bar with my gaze already on the chalkboard sign, when someone grabs my wrist, yanking me to a halt.
“Kyona?” The deep voice is astonished.
The deep voice belongs to one of my nemeses.
Whirling, I yank on my wrist and bare my square, too Human teeth in a snarl. I was barelythirtywhen I last saw them, not out of girlhood despite being half Human, and all my old fears and vulnerabilities activate at that voice.
“Itisyou,” Fiuthen says, voice deeper than I remember. He’d just crossed the threshold ofadulthood last time I’d seen him, him and the others.
He stands, looking down at me, his blue eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”
There’s a moment of confusion—why is poor, orphaned, barrel scraperFiuthendressed like a wealthy City merchant—before I take in the square jaw, slick shoulder length brown hair and the scar on the side of his face he wishes was from a battle but was because the boys were rough playing. The same deep blue-green skin and. . .tusks now capped with dainty bits of gold.
