Page 38 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“What’s that smell?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“A sharp thing.” Neirin’s face is stone.
“Don’t dawdle, boy,” a voice croaks from an inner room. “You know I hate dawdlers.”
He grimaces and, with a sharp jerk of his head, beckons me to follow.
We enter a windowless room. The only light comes from a large fire beneath a bubbling pot. The walls and floor are an oily black stone that shimmers unpleasantly in the flames, like a snake shifting its coils.
Peg Ironteeth perches on a stool. She’s leaning heavily on a gnarled cane, her fingers so knotted they could be part of the wood, and cobwebs and dust gather in the gray snarls of her hair. Her cloak covers her like the night. I squint at the weave: a mottled mess of feathers, animal fur, moss and moldy fabrics, layered high until herbody is completely obscured. There are stones and gems caught in the mess just begging to be plucked loose.
“It’s been a while, boy,” Peg says. “Why do you and your mayfly friend call on me?”
Her thin-lipped grin explains her name. Her teeth have been ripped out and replaced by iron shards, each one a different size. Some are blunt, and others have been filed to piercing points. But it’s her gums that disgust me the most. They are blackened with infection, inflamed and bleeding. Years’ worth of blood crusts between the gaps in her teeth and dyes her tongue.
I rack the shelves of old stories in my head, but no matter how many pages I tear through, I can recall no mention of Peg.
I twitch, and Peg’s milky eyes track to me. Her smile only broadens, revealing even more metal tearing into the flesh of her mouth.
“This is my champion,” Neirin says. “She needs a weapon.”
“Then purchase her one. You should know the rules by now.”
Whatever their history is, her words make Neirin stiffen. I shoot him a curious glance that he doesn’t return. He stares hard at Peg, his jaw tight.
“A special weapon, Peg.” Neirin steps forward.
Peg eyes him, a mantis before her prey. “She alreadybears iron. I could smell it through the forest. A sharp thing I made for another.”
“Her sister,” Neirin admits.
I can’t conceive of my sister confronting Peg Ironteeth and walking away with a ring, but when my hand brushes the band in my pocket, I know that must be true. The iron comes from Peg. Somehow, in my marrow, I can feel it. Perhaps my imagination has been rather limited when it comes to Ceridwen.
“I know,” says Peg. “How did you come by it, mayfly?”
I lift my chin and meet her gaze. “I stole it.”
Peg rubs her hands together eagerly, and Neirin gives me a wide-eyed look.
“A liar and a thief, Habren?” he says. “Oh, I have got lucky with you.”
“Habren.” Peg tastes my name on her teeth, then grimaces. “Oh no. That’s not her name. Far too sweet for a bitter girl.”
Neirin holds my gaze but replies to Peg. “She’s clever.”
“And what will she pay?”
“I won’t give my name,” I say quickly.
“I didn’t ask what you won’t give, girl; I asked what you will.”
Her house bursts with trinkets and treasures; even her cloak is burdened with them, tied into the hair that shrouds her. Despite her strangeness, she reminds me of an old grandmother, guarding the past in a decaying house, the point of the hoard impenetrable to anyone who isn’t her.
“Neirin tells me you’re a collector.” I take a step forward.
I feel Neirin’s attention shift to me as he realizes what I’m doing—lying. It makes my own observation sound more certain to pretend it came from him. This is novel for Neirin. I hope he is as entertained as I am nervous.
“Much like the little lordling himself.” Peg’s eyes flit to him. “And, like our mutual friend, I have many tastes to be satisfied.”
