Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Not that I have the funds, of course. But you never know. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about what can be found here in Vastwarren if one knows the right people to talk to, and I’m here to acquire artifacts to protect my home above all else. I need to remember that.
It’s a sobering thought. I speed up, clutching my cloak tighter to my body, and follow behind Kipp as he winds through the crowds. Luckily the cloak—and the nasty, damp weather—keep anyone from bothering me. I get a few sideways looks from people who lose interest when I don’t pause and just continue on my way. Then I see it.
A wooden sign hangs out over the street from the balcony above, designed to move back and forth in the wind. It’s hand-painted with a busty woman holding out a bright yellow goblet that pours round white shapes that must be onions—of all things—like they’re liquid. THE KING’S ONION is written in bold lettering at the top of the sign, large enough that even I can read it.
Kipp pauses directly underneath it and looks over at me, then at the tavern. A raucous crowd is inside despite the fact that it’s the middle of the night, and someone screams with laughter, only to be drowned out by more shouting. His expression is displeased as he eyes me.
“It’s not my idea of a good place, either, but I don’t have a choice,” I tell him as I come to his side. “Thank you for the guidance. I wouldn’t have made it here without you.”
He gestures at the wall and mimes leaning against it and waiting, then looks at me.
“No, you don’t need to wait for me.”
Kipp taps his heart and then gestures at his sword. Then he gives me a firm, emphatic nod. I’m pretty sure this is a We’re a team sort of gesture and it makes me feel warm inside. Even a quiet slitherskin has my back.
“I know,” I say softly. “And I appreciate you, Kipp. But I promise I’ll be fine.”
He nods again and adjusts the straps on his shell house, then trots down the street, heading home. I’m left alone in front of the raucous inn, and my gut churns with unease. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to see Barnabus. I want to go home and sleep and not think about anything.
I can’t, though. My past is coming to fuck things up for me. I bite back a sigh of frustration. Nothing to do but move forward. Get Barnabus out of my hair and then move on with my life.
Taking a deep, steeling breath, I exhale and step inside the tavern, lowering my hood as I do. The stink of sweat and humid air from so many people crowding into the place hits me like a wall, and I flinch. It’s warm inside here, the fire merrily blazing in the large hearth at the far side of the inn, and every wooden table is crowded full of people. It smells like spilled ale as I move toward the crowded bar, looking for Barnabus. The wooden floors creak and groan as I wind my way through the busy cluster of people, and when I spot an empty section at the far end of the bar, I move toward it quickly.
As I approach, a barmaid comes toward me. She could be my age, her smile bright despite the tired circles under her eyes and the many stains on the front of her apron that speak of a long day. “Can I get you something, hon?”
I didn’t bring any coin with me and want to kick myself. “I’m waiting for someone.”
She fills a couple of mugs and slides them down the bar, eyeing me as she does. “Alone? In a place like this? Everything all right?” She leans in to wipe an imaginary spill and her voice lowers. “You need me to get the constable?”
I shake my head. “Much as I would love that, I’m afraid I need to hear what he has to say.”
“That’s always the worst, isn’t it? When you don’t want to hear their shit and you have to anyhow. Old flame?”
“Something like that.”
“Been there.” The barmaid shakes her head. “Here. Have a drink on me.” She rinses out a stoneware mug and then fills it from one of the barrels behind her.
“Oh, I really couldn’t—”
“You’re pale, hon. Take the drink. Think of it as free advertising.” She finishes pouring and then shoves a wedge of white onion on the edge, like a garnish.
“Oh, um, an onion. A great big one, too. Thank you.” I turn the mug, trying to figure out how to drink without touching the onion itself.
“Comes from the name of this place.” She gestures behind her, where a basket perches atop another aging barrel. It’s full to the brim of peeled white onions, and as I watch, one falls from above, joining its brethren in the basket. I look up and see a golden goblet—the selfsame goblet that was on the sign—turned upon its side. There’s a foggy circle in the middle, and as I watch, it coalesces into another peeled onion, then rolls out of the cup and drops into the basket below.