“It pulls when I move,” Elariel said, twisting awkwardly to try to look at herself. “And it’s always pressing on my skin. How do you humans stand this?”
“We get used to it, I guess.”
“It comes of not being properly equipped for your environment.” Elariel sniffed.
“Probably. But we’re all in the same boat now.” Her face fell so abruptly Gyre winced. “Sorry. I know it’s hard.”
Gyre’s hand came up to scratch at his old scar, and he stopped himself with an effort. He’d gotten a black silk eye patch, secured with a jaunty red band, to cover up the ghoul-made eye. It still left him more recognizable than he would have liked, so he’d added a new hooded cloak, pulled up to keep his face mostly shadowed. Now I just look like someone trying to hide. Wonderful.
There was nothing to be done, though, without the closetful of disguises he’d left behind at Lynnia’s. Fortunately, while there were Auxie patrols on every corner in West Central, there was plenty of traffic to keep them occupied. It’s still Deepfire, after all. I’m hardly the only one-eyed man, or the only person who wants to keep out of sight.
He walked around the block, watching the crowds carefully for tails, before heading off in another direction. After crossing another two streets, he paused to put his back to the brick wall of a shop selling meat pies. Elariel pressed in beside him, her shoulder against his. He glanced at her, surprised, and found her breathing hard. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
“Is something wrong?” he said. “Is it your feet?” She had new boots now, specially fitted, but they still might need breaking in—
“I’m fine,” Elariel muttered.
“You’re not.”
“It’s just…” She looked at him, eyes a little panicked. “There are so many of you.”
Ah. That made sense. There were no crowds in Refuge, unless you counted constructs, which the ghouls did not. And her visits to Deepfire had avoided people, for obvious reasons.
“It’s all right,” Elariel said. “I need to get used to it.”
“We can take it slowly,” Gyre said. “Stay here a moment. I’ll get us something to eat.”
The meat pies were delicious, soft and flaky, the filling hot enough to burn. Gyre broke his open and demonstrated how to blow across it. Elariel sniffed, then took a cautious bite. In a few moments, she’d finished the whole thing, unselfconsciously licking her fingers.
“You never tried the food when you were up here?” Gyre said.
“I couldn’t exactly go out to the corner stall,” Elariel said. “Besides, who knew humans could make something so… good.” She stared down at her hands and shook her head.
“The secret,” Gyre said, “is that not everything is made out of fungus.”
Their next destination was a stablemaster’s office, serving the same sort of deep-pocketed clientele as the previous shop. The actual stables, with their unruly, stinking animals, were on the edge of town—this was more like a quiet parlor, with leather chairs and a well-stocked bar, where gentlemen could make an agreement to outfit an expedition. Now that he and Elariel looked the part, a smiling young woman in a riding outfit with dark blue hair piled in a tall bun came right over.
“Welcome,” she said. “You look like someone who knows what he’s after.”
“I do indeed,” Gyre said. “Hardshells. How many have you got?”
“Hardshells?” She sounded taken aback. “Three. But—”
“I’ll take them. With full tack and wagons. Are they trained for caravanning?”
“Of course,” the woman said, then shook her head. “Are you certain, sir? If you’re planning to go far into the mountains, hardshells are not a good choice. They’re slow in the cold, and they take slopes poorly—”
“Let me worry about that,” Gyre said.
“Very well,” she said, going stiff. “And how long will you be requiring them?”
“Oh, I won’t be bringing them back.”
That set off a whole new round of questions and objections, which Gyre finally silenced by counting stacks of thalers out of the bag until the stablemaster’s jaw was hanging open. She finally agreed to deliver the beasts, with wagons and tack, and stood blinking as Gyre grinned at her and left the shop.
“Is it not usual to purchase beasts?” Elariel said, following close behind. “I thought that was the purpose of this establishment.”
“I imagine they do more hires than sales,” Gyre said. “And hardshells aren’t useful for scavengers. But we are not going farther into the mountains.”
“I will trust your judgment,” Elariel said. “So we have… clothes and beasts of burden for transportation. What remains? Provisions?”
“We can handle that tomorrow morning, as we’re heading out,” Gyre said. “Next up is securing the rest of our cargo.” He sighed. “Which is, unfortunately, going to be the hard part.”
Lynnia’s was a two-story stone building, narrow and deep, with a slate roof and neatly painted facade that screamed respectability. To the authorities, she was an elderly spinster who took in occasional boarders for pin money. Only those well-connected to the world of scavengers and smugglers knew there was a well-equipped alchemist’s lab buried under the house, and that the concoctions Lynnia brewed there were the best in the business.
Unfortunately, Lynnia hadn’t forgiven him for his role in Yora’s death, and Gyre wasn’t sure she should. I’m a long way from forgiving myself. Yora had been almost a daughter to her.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of something to say. Elariel, behind him, shifted uneasily.
“Is something wrong?” she said.
“This may be… tricky,” Gyre said. “Just follow my lead. I know how to handle Lynnia Sharptongue.”
He knocked, and there was a rustling inside, then the step-drag sound of Lynnia walking on her bad leg. The door opened and she looked up at him. She was a tiny thing, really, wrinkled and spotted, her black hair hacked short. The signs of her craft were there for anyone who knew how to look, fingertips stained with acid, eyebrows patchy from explosive mishaps.
“Hello, sir,” she said. “Are you looking for lodging?”
“Lynnia, it’s me.” Gyre pulled back his hood.
“Gyre.” Her eyes narrowed. “You promised me I’d never see you again.”
“I know,” Gyre said. “I’m sorry. But I need your help.”
“Course you do,” the old woman grumbled, digging in her pocket.
Gyre hesitated a moment, which turned out to be a moment too long. Lynnia pulled out a small clay ball, already smoking. She held it in front of his eyes, where it burst in a great, silent flare of light, singeing Gyre’s face and leaving him blinded by flickering afterimages.
“Think Lynnia’s a pushover, do you?” As Gyre clutched at his real eye with both hands, one of the alchemist’s heavy boots connected with his knee, and a spike of agony sent him toppling forward. “A soft touch? Just turn up with a sob story and she’ll let bygones be bygones? I told you last time that it was the last time, boy, and I meant it.”