Blade of Glass: Chapter 24

Meriwether managed to talk Geneve down from the precipitous heights of instant justice by the simple method of explaining the jail wasn’t open. The innkeeper confirmed it wasn’t open, but also not much of a jail, which wasn’t helpful, so he sent the greasy fellow away.

Tomorrow, he’d suggested. We’ll get in early. Bound to be all manner of people wanting to poke the bear.

The three got the inn’s single private room, which bordered on negligent advertising, because it was right next door to the room the innkeeper shared with his probably-wife, but possibly-sister, and the two of them made a lot of noise. Tomorrow dawned same as it did every day. Perhaps a little drizzlier on the weather front, and a little less bright, but cold like the south was. Meriwether’s breath misted before his face from his lofty height of a straw mattress on the floor.

The cat was curled near the door, tail held in one hand. Geneve was asleep on the room’s single bed, and he spent a long moment watching her. Her face was peaceful, like it never seemed to be when she was awake. Red hair framed her face, aside from a single, curled strand that lay across her cheek. Three days ago, he might have been tempted to run. Today, he wanted to tease the stray lock from her face far more.

Touch her hair, and you’ll get a beating you won’t forget. This is bad decision-making, and you know it. Plenty of pretty faces in the world, and most of those don’t work for a small army of sociopaths.

Meriwether sniffed, scratched his chest around the bandage, and wondered why it didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as it should. The Feybrind must have bandaged his wound up well for it to be this good a single day on. Sight of Day opened an eye at his movement and yawned a maw of razor-sharp teeth. The cat offered a half-smile and some handspeak. Meriwether thought he said food and now, and a bunch of other stuff besides, and then he slipped from the room without a sound.

Standing, Meriwether stretched like a hero of old. He reckoned they’d be able to hear his back pop from the common room. Finishing a good stretch was its own reward. He scrabbled fingers through his hair and began the search for his scarecrow shirt and torn pants. Underclothes weren’t warm enough for the day ahead, and besides, he found wearing something helped his illusion skills no end.

A quick twist of thought, and bam, there he was: Lord Meriwether du Reeves once more. He turned at a slow clap, finding Geneve propped upright in the bed. He noted the stray lock of hair had made its way to join its fellows and felt a passing regret he hadn’t been able to help it complete the journey sooner. “Seeing you do that is…” She turned away. “Well, if I hadn’t seen you do it, I’d have thought it impossible.”

Meriwether wondered what she’d meant to say. Seeing you do that is wonderful would be a bit much to hope for, especially considering her sword was never far from her hand. It winked in the post-dawn light from the bedhead. “Sinning’s easier than you think.”

“I didn’t mean that.” She cast the covers aside, and while she wore her underclothes, he felt acutely uncomfortable regardless. “We have Vhemin to kill.”

“About that.” He held a hand up to forestall the inevitable but the fate of the world protestations that we’re sure to follow. “We have breakfast to kill.”

“Ugh. It might kill us.” Geneve put her feet on the floor, bracing herself with hands on knees. “In all my Trials, they never said I’d have to face a bad breakfast.”

“And once we’ve murdered breakfast, we’re going to talk to the Vhemin. Talk, Geneve, not cut. They’re different things.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. “We’re not in the business of saving monsters.”

“We are in the business of working out where we are, and how we’re going to get from here to somewhere more hospitable. Ten copper barons says the Vhemin can help.”

“A silver regal says he won’t want to.”

“Real or fake?” Meriwether rubbed his chin. “Not that it matters much. They both spend the same. Also, a silver regal is the same as ten barons.”

“I’d rather spend silver than copper.” Geneve stood, obviously creaky from yesterday’s exertions. She eyed her armor, and Meriwether swore he saw something close to loathing in her eyes. “Ugh.”

“Let me help,” he said. “Carry your shield, or something.”

Geneve looked at him for a couple heartbeats. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was being not just watched but weighed. “Thanks, but I can’t.”

“Afraid I’ll sell it?”

“Afraid I’ll get used to you carrying it for me.” She turned to face her armor. “But I could use a hand putting it on.”

“Done.” Meriwether put a little northern cheer in his tone. “Armor, breakfast, and then conversation with bloodthirsty ravaging monsters. What a way to start the day.”

* * *

The common room was mostly empty of customers excepting a drunk snoring by the hearth. The man hadn’t thrown up, but managed to sleep through Sight of Day, Geneve, and Meriwether bustling about under the innkeeper’s care.

The innkeeper seemed pleased they chose to dine here again, as if the village was rich with choice. They had a better breakfast than last night’s dinner. Sight of Day had returned from a walk with three pigeons, which he offered to the innkeeper with a half-smile and an encouraging nod. Aside from freshly-roasted bird, tasty with fat and steaming hot, the innkeeper prepared a platter of eggs, sausages, and bread that wasn’t too hard to chew.

Meriwether ate enough for three people. “I could really get used to being a prisoner.”

Geneve slowed her chewing enough to point her knife at him. “You’re not a prisoner.”

“Oh, joy.”

“For the moment,” she corrected, before turning to Sight of Day. “Do you want to stay here?” Meriwether thought she meant, so you don’t go into a rage and kill our source of information. 

The Feybrind raised an eyebrow, then went back to his meal. Meriwether slapped him on the back. “I think if a Feybrind wanted a caged Vhemin dead, the Vhemin would be dead. In related news, if we find the monster dead with arrows in his eye sockets, we should have a good cover story.”

The innkeeper provided them directions to the ‘jail.’ It was a wooden shack, well enough constructed, but in dire need of re-thatching. As du Reeves, Meriwether took the lead, looking like he knew the way. It was how lords worked: they took charge and bulled on regardless of whether they were going south when they should be going north. A good illusion was just clothes if he couldn’t act the part.

Swinging the door to the jail open, Meriwether entered and stepped to the side, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The room had a narrow run where visitors could stand. There were two cells, the bars constructed of crosshatched wooden poles. To Meriwether’s eye, they looked sturdy enough to hold a human, but possibly not a Vhemin, which was no doubt why the Vhemin in question was tied to metal rings on the rear wall with thick rope.

The Vhemin was awake, alert, and looked relaxed, like hanging on a wall was the perfect way to start the day. As alert as someone with a face that looked like it’d been used in kick-ball practice could, anyway. It smiled, lips over their signature wide jaw revealing the also-signature shark-tooth smile. When it spoke, its voice was like an anvil dropping on stone. “And now, I’m to be paraded before tourists.”

Meriwether considered that for a moment while Geneve clanked closer to the bars. Sight of Day slipped between her and Meriwether, and he saw the Feybrind’s hackles were raised. The fur on the back of his friend’s neck stood stiff and rigid, and the cat’s tail lashed.

Wait. Did I just think about the cat as a friend? That can’t be right. I barely know him. Still, he has’t tried to kill me. Meriwether rubbed his bandage through his scarecrow shirt. He’s actively tried to un-kill me, point of fact, so that’s a plus. Geneve engaged in a staring contest with the monster, chin jutting, but her hands were by her side, unclenched. She made no move for her scattergun or blade.

What’s the best play? Meriwether joined her at the bars. I need to regain control of this conversation. The monster took it from me when I entered, and that’s no way to begin an interrogation. I should know; I’ve been on the other end of enough of them. “How’s a creature like you get captured by a bunch of inbred yokels?”

The Vhemin’s eyes moved from Geneve to him, fixing those vertically slitted snake’s pupils on Meriwether. It felt like being watched by a lizard, if lizards were very large. This Vhemin was a massive brute, with muscles on muscles. With his arms stretched wide by his bonds, shoulders up, it almost looked like he had no neck. “Accident or design.” His voice was thick, a landslide with plenty of rocks in it.

“That’s not very specific.”

The Vhemin turned back to Geneve. “A Knight of the Tresward, in the company of a Feybrind and a lordling.” The monster’s gaze roamed her golden sun tabard. “An Adept, by the sash. Have you ever wondered why your emblem is a golden sun rather than three moons?” He nodded toward the roof, as if the three moons still stood above them. “It seems confused.”

Geneve bristled. “It’s because of the Light—”

“What’s more confusing,” the Vhemin rumbled on like he’d only paused to draw breath, and wasn’t done yet, thanks, “is why there’s only one of you. There are always three.”

“There are three of us,” Meriwether interjected. “If you can count that high.”

“Tiny, feeble manling.” The Vhemin smiled again, and Meriwether revised from lizard to shark. He flexed, the rope holding him creaking. “If things were different, you would be dead.”

“If things were different, you’d be clever enough to not be caught by yokels.” Meriwether spread his hands. “Sorry, but the evidence speaks for itself. What did you mean, accident or design? It feels like you should know.”

“Doesn’t it just.” The Vhemin probed his lips with a flat slab of a tongue. “My secrets die with me.”

“I’m fine with that.” Meriwether tapped his chin. “I guess we’re here for information, which puts us at a disadvantage.”

“It does not.” Geneve shook her head, red hair angry. “We need nothing from him. Come.”

As she turned to leave, the Vhemin rumbled, “Have you wondered why the Feybrind were struck dumb?”

Geneve froze, hand half-way to the door. Meriwether saw Sight of Day’s eyes widen, the cat’s tail lashing the air so fast he thought it might crack like a whip. This is getting out of control. Get in there. I’m a sinner; go sin a little. “I’ve wondered many things, monster. I’ve wondered why my breakfast was better than it should be. I’ve thought long and hard on why horses don’t like me. Sometimes, I gaze at the stars and wonder if the three moons really are Cophine, Ikmae, and Khiton, or if the gods left us as some claim.” He felt Geneve behind him, her feet rustling on the rude straw covering the floor. But Meriwether didn’t think she was angry at him, or meant to stop him. He felt like she, for a tiny, impossible moment, had his back. Or was backing him, if there was a difference. “What’s bothering me this morning isn’t the Feybrind or your special relationship with them. It’s one thing, and one thing only. How did you get captured?” He spat the last words, clipping each syllable as if he sheared them from the air.

The Vhemin watched him, then made a curious noise. After a moment Meriwether realized it was laughter. “Oh, very good, manling. I came this way following traitors. They betrayed me, as is the way of their kind. I found myself overpowered, tied up, and left for the fools in his village of feeble creatures.”

“Accident or design.” Meriwether nodded. “I get it. You fell by accident, but feel they designed it that way.”

The Vhemin squinted at Meriwether as if to take his measure better. “You are not a lordling. You dress like a dandy but speak like you’ve experienced a different flavor of lie. Truth for truth, insect. Why are you here?”

Geneve put a hand on his arm. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“It’s getting us a little to the left of nowhere.” Meriwether touched the metal of her gauntlet. She wouldn’t feel it but might see it. The metal was warmer than it had a right to be in the cold air. He stepped close to the bars and put his hands on them, making a special effort to not look at Sight of Day. “You mentioned Feybrind.”

“I have a deal to offer,” the Vhemin growled. “Get me free from this ridiculous jail. I will take you north to a temple of the ancients. In this temple you will find the secret of the Feybrind’s,” the snake eyes found Sight of Day for a moment, “weakness.”

“I thought you were after betrayers.”

“I still am.” The Vhemin shrugged, ropes creaking again. “They stole the key to the temple.” His eyes moved to Geneve. “There is more than one kind of key.”

“Hold up.” Meriwether let the bars go and held his palms out. “You want to take us north at significant risk of, and I’ll borrow your word, betrayal. In return, we free you, as if it were that easy. The prize for us is a make-believe goal of anti-Feybrind fuckery.”

“Yes.” The Vhemin gave a short nod.

“Well, if that’s all.” Meriwether rolled his eyes. “What kind of door do you need a Knight to open?”

“I didn’t say—”

“No, but you looked. I saw. I was right here.” Meriwether crossed his arms.

The Vhemin gave a grudging nod. “The temple is a Tresward place.”

Geneve crossed her arms like Meriwether. He had to admit, she did it better, what with the glinting Smithsteel. “We know all Tresward keeps.”

“Not in the desert you don’t.” The Vhemin smiled, like he was hungry. “You never come to our home.”

Meriwether laughed at the ridiculousness of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the Vhemin. He felt like he was being played. Meriwether was about to leave when Sight of Day caught his attention. His hands moved, not with the smooth beautiful flow Meriwether was used to, but with agitated slashes at the air. Meriwether glanced to Geneve. “What’s he saying?”

Geneve looked from Sight of Day to the Vhemin. “He said to take the deal.”

Meriwether frowned, absent-mindedly finding the still-healing injury on his chest. He thought of the burning of a Feybrind village, and what it might mean to his friend to get answers. He looked to the Vhemin and its predatory smile, and to Geneve, her eyes harder than her armor. “Then we take the deal.”

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