Brexan cut him off. ‘I’ll take this one.’ Rubbing the thick fabric across her cheek, she fought to clear the image of Versen from her mind.
‘But that’s just a skirt. Wouldn’t you rather-?’
She cut him off again. ‘This one – and some leggings, something tough, woollen, I think.’
The shopkeeper gave up. ‘Fine, wool.’ The floral print hung over his arm and he waved her towards a shelf.
‘And I need some shoes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘No.’ She changed her mind. Her one day of freedom ended there. ‘Boots. I need boots.’
She paid for her purchases and changed into them before leaving the shop, making the merchant a gift of the sailor’s stolen garments. At the Redstone Tavern, Brexan slept until the aroma of grilling meat and simmering stew woke her for dinner beside the fire.
Now she tossed her head, shifting her too-long hair away from her face. The strange pain had returned, pressing against her sinuses; she felt like a tempine fruit squeezed too hard. She allowed her vision to blur as she looked into the fire, trying to relax.
The clatter of tankards roused her and she held a hand aloft to get the attention of the serving boy; he finally looked over, his eyebrows arching in a nonverbal enquiry, What would you like?
She picked up the empty bottle and he nodded in understanding. I’ll be right there.
Brexan half-smiled. I’ll be waiting.
She had lost enjoyment of her day to memories of Versen, the wrong memories, but she had to take the bad with the good; she couldn’t just have the disarming look of his green eyes, the feel of his legs against hers when they were imprisoned in the darkness of the schooner’s hold, or the way he had dropped his weapons to take her hand when the Seron were upon them: she had to remember his shattered image as vividly as she recalled the brightness of his smile.
In the vertiginous recesses of her mind, the cordoned-off section that remained sensible regardless of how much she managed to drink, Brexan promised not to drown her sorrows every time the anguish grew too grim to face head-on; in return, she silently agreed to get back to the business of hunting and killing at first light the following day.
With her decision, knowing she was not going to spiral into an alcoholic coma every time she felt sad, the weight seemed to ease. She would pick herself up at first light and get back on track – but this evening she would let herself fall apart. The second bottle of wine seemed as good a place as any to get started.
Morning arrived with all the delicacy of a battering ram assault on a stone keep. Brexan made an effort to get up, felt her vision tunnel and fell back into the expensive feather mattress, one of the Redstone’s more luxurious features. When she realised the incessant pounding was going on inside her head, not outside, she rolled to the edge of the bed, hung the offending appendage over the side and waited – when nothing happened, she drew herself into a foetal ball and tried to go back to sleep – but the throbbing pain was too much.
Brexan, realising she would need to extricate herself from the bed, make her way across the room and drink the contents of her water pitcher dry if she hoped to quiet the band hammering away inside her skull, threw back the coverlet – and discovered that she was naked. The events of the previous evening came back to her in a flood of embarrassment: awkward invitations and clumsy drunken sex with the young man from the kitchen. ‘Oh, you whoring rutter,’ she groaned and looked back at the bed, begging him to be gone. Thankfully, all that remained was a lingering aroma of beef and gansel stew. She wrestled her aching body into a sitting position and dropped her head down to her knees until she felt she could breathe without vomiting.
She dragged herself across the room to the armoire and grimaced as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass: skin the colour of city snow, and her mouth hanging open. Her breasts seemed to sag more than they had the last time she had seen them so thoroughly exposed. Brexan stood up straight, despite the cramp in her lower back, but it didn’t help as much as she’d hoped. Her eyes looked like she’d been punched.
‘You did this to yourself, young lady,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, regretting her decision to engage in improvisational alcohol therapy.
Stepping closer to the glass, Brexan examined herself. Although still sore and discoloured from the deep tissue bruising, her ribs appeared to be healing slowly. Her cheek worried her more; the Seron, Lahp, had cracked it with a vicious punch and then the scarred Seron, the horsecock with the ruined face, had re-broken it, knocking her unconscious and leaving Versen to battle him alone. Brexan hadn’t been anywhere near a mirror in the past Twinmoon, so this was the first time she had seen how crookedly it had knitted together.
‘Damaged goods. No matter.’ She shrugged at the worn figure in the mirror. ‘You were never much to look at, anyway.’ She rubbed her throbbing temples and considered her options. She had new clothes, a pocketful of money and a warm, safe place to sleep; that was a good start. Despite the hangover, she shot herself a grin. ‘Next time try to stay sober enough to have more than just a fuzzy recollection, my little slut. What’s the point of having an encounter if all you remember is falling over while trying to get out of your leggings?’
The morning was bright, filled with the telltale aromas of low tide: the tang of seagull guano, tidal rot and decomposing fish innards. Brexan left the Redstone for some fresh air and shortly afterwards found herself spilling the contents of her stomach into a muddy alley running from the street down to the river. It wasn’t the foetid smells of the wharf blowing in on the morning breeze, but the fierce early-aven sunlight that pushed her over the edge.
Once she’d finished heaving, she went to find water, stepping across the threshold of a nearby cheese shop. Almost immediately, she regretted her course of action. ‘Demonpiss,’ she muttered as the pungent smell hit her, and backed out as quickly as she could. Mould cheeses of varying shapes and sizes dominated the wooden shelves and as she started dry-heaving, she wondered who in all Eldarn would pay money to eat spoiled cream with plants growing out of it. She cursed, spat out a mouthful of discoloured saliva and grumbled, ‘Everything in this town makes me puke. I’ve got to do something about this. The other day it was Sallax and this morning, it’s the slobbering cheese.’
She stumbled back towards the waterfront, searching for a tavern, a produce stand, any place where she might get something to quiet her raging stomach. She felt the ground shifting beneath her feet as sweat dampened her forehead, armpits and back. Several streets later she came to a boarding house with a large tavern downstairs. She pushed her way through the door and squinted while her eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness.
As she bumped and shuffled towards the bar, a gruff voice asked, ‘You all right?’ With her eyes still not focused, Brexan wasn’t sure if the bald man had an open sore on his forehead or if he had been injured in a fight.
‘Fine. It’s just a bit bright out this morning.’ Brexan tried not to sound like a woman on the verge of collapse. ‘I’d like some water, please.’ No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she regretted making the request.
‘Water?’ the bartender squinted at her.
‘And a beer,’ Brexan added quickly, ‘in a tankard, please.’ She dropped several copper coins on the bar, unconvinced she would be able to smell the beer without retching right there onto the man’s boots. Pretty sure her stomach wouldn’t be able to handle even the smallest sip of the local brew, she leaned against the bar, her back to the tankard, while waiting for the barman to bring her water. Brexan rubbed her eyes, but when she tried to focus on the tavern’s sprawling front room, she saw stars, tiny sunbursts of yellow, red and white.