Page 4 of Bull Moon Rising

“Very funny.”

But I suspect she’s correct, which is a little alarming. Vastwarren Cityisa dump.

Still, I knew that this place would be a little sketchy. No one comes to Vastwarren for the scenery. They’re here because this is where all the great risk-takers live, after all. Men daring enough to brave the deep tunnels of the ruins of the Everbelow, seeking out the artifacts of the ancients and fighting off thieves and monsters. Teams of artifact hunters delving the ruins of Old Prell and then celebrating their discoveries in the legendary guild hall. Fighters forcing back hordes of ratlings. Of course the city’s going to be a little frayed around the edges.

Quite,quitefrayed, actually.

“Hey!” Gwenna’s indignant screech interrupts my thoughts. “That’s not yours!”

Turning around, I see Gwenna in a wrestling match with a strange man over one of my bags. The man snarls at my maid with a mouth full of yellowed teeth, and to my surprise, she snarls right back. He rips the case from her grip and then races away down the busy street, Gwenna chasing after him.

It’s like when Cook feeds the fish in the moat the scraps after dinner, I realize. Several others turn to look at the cart, adrift in the middle of the street.

They’re about to swarm in a feeding frenzy.

Too late I realize that the rich brocade dress I’m wearing is a terrible idea when one is trying to lie low. As another man in worn clothes surges toward the cart, I do the only thing I can think of—I fling myself on it and promptly sit on the pile.

Squeaker howls with indignation as she’s jostled about, but the moment my rump hits the stack of suitcases, the onlookers seem to pause. The newcomer heading to steal another of my bags scowls and waves me off, heading in the opposite direction. My skirts (and let’s be frank, myarse) are big enough to cover the smaller bags and I recline slightly, doing my best to cover my luggage with as much of my person as possible and snarl fiercely at anyone who comes near.

Maybe it’s the sight of the enormous orange cat on my chest or the fact that a woman is sprawling atop a mountain of luggage, but no one else tries to steal one of my bags. Gwenna returns a short time later, panting and sweaty. She puts a hand to her bodice and gasps for air. “Bastard got away with it.”

“Which bag was it?” I ask, worried. If I’m here without my sensible boots…

“Your jewelry.” Her mouth is set in an angry line.

Oh. Well, that’s all right, I suppose. Anything valuable was sold off the moment Father started to have gambling issues, and the thieves made off with a bunch of paste jewels and fakes, nothing more. Still, a well-made fake can bring in coin, and I had been hoping to sell them when we arrived. It limits what we can use for funds, but there are worse things that could have been stolen, like my books, or the outfit I’ve prepared for when I meet the Royal Artifactual Guild. Or Squeaker’s favorite kibble, because she’s a rather particular cat. “I managed to save the rest,” I offer when she continues panting. “Thank you for trying.”

She waves a hand in the air. “Didn’t realize there were that many thieves here.”

I didn’t, either. Indeed, the entire city seems as if it’s full of crooks and brigands now. Every man who passes looks like a potential thief, and whenever someone sidles too near to the cart, I stiffen in alarm. Gwenna grabs the handle of the cart and groans as she gives it a tug, with me still atop the baggage. “Milus’s bones, Aspeth, what have you got under that dress? Rocks?”

“Think frocks, not rocks,” I joke, keeping a bright smile on my face so Gwenna doesn’t panic. I know she hates this trip already. I know she’s afraid of how vulnerable we are now that we’ve left Father’s hold. I could be kidnapped by another holder family for ransom. I could be set upon by thieves. I could be compromised in any number of ways a noblewoman is compromised. I could find myself dumped in the woods to the east and lost there forever. All of these things she’s brought up multiple times during our journey here to Vastwarren City.

I’ve considered them all. I’m not stupid. I’m just completely out of options.

Gwenna’s right that this place is unsavory and dangerous, but coming here is worth the risk. If anyone finds out that Honori Hold has nothing but a few dead artifacts and that my father’s gambled the rest away? We’ll be tossed out by rivals before a fortnight passes…and that’s the best-case scenario. This is something I have to do.

As another passerby eyes the cart, I scowl at him and clutch Squeaker harder. The cat is squirming dreadfully, but I keep her tightly in hand. I know I’m heavier than Gwenna. My upbringing as a holder’s daughter has been full of sweets and books and very little physical work, and it shows in the size of my derriere. “If you want to sit while I pull, we can switch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwenna says, jerking on the handle of the cart. “You’re the lady and I’m the maid.”

That makes me frown, because I’ve left the hold. I’m no longer a lady. I’m supposed to be Sparrow and she’s supposed to be my equal and friend, Wren. We’vediscussedthis. But the middle of a crowded street is not the time to argue, so I just hold my squirming cat harder. “Let’s find an inn and get settled, shall we?”

We fight our way down two more streets (or rather, Gwenna does) before we come to an inn. There’s a wooden sign hanging over the entrance with a mug of beer and a bed on the shingle. The smell of hot food wafts out the open door, along with laughter. Gwenna points at it, raising her eyebrows, and I nod. The moment we’re over the threshold and out of the street, I leap off the cart, hand Squeaker to Gwenna, and then approach the bar.

“One room, please.” I beam my most winning smile at the woman barkeep, who wipes the wood down with a rag that could quite possibly be filthier than the bar itself.

She pauses, eyeing Gwenna with my luggage. “For a lady and her maid?”

“For two friends,” I say brightly. “We are bosom companions.”

She blinks at me, then at Gwenna, and shrugs. “Whatever. Price is the same. Costs extra for the animal, though.”

The innkeeper assures me that food will be sent up later, along witha basin of water for washing. She doesn’t ask our names, but I offer that mine is Sparrow, which earns another bark of laughter. I’m starting to grow offended at how many people think that it’s funny. Is Sparrow a common name for guild artificers? I should think “Raven” or “Peregrine” or even “Hawk” would be far more usual. But then we’re settled (on the first floor, thank the five gods), and we’ve eaten. There’s even some cooked chicken in a bowl for Squeaker, who makes greedy noises as she eats as if we’ve been starving her in a cruel and unjust manner.

We sit on the edge of the bed and, bowls in hand, eat our meal. I nibble on a small bite of stew, too exhausted to eat much. This is the first time I’ve traveled so far from home, and after days of anxiety and worry, we’re finally here. I feel like collapsing into a heap, but I know the real work has only just begun. Tomorrow I must introduce myself to the Royal Artifactual Guild as a student of the arts and see where they assign me for schooling. Imagine. Schooling, and me at the ripe old spinster age of thirty.

Briefly, I think of Barnabus and his perfect red hair and gorgeous smile and my heart hurts. But only briefly. It’s an improvement. He doesn’t deserve any of my thoughts.

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