Page 34 of Maneater

“The best I can do is a silver for the whole lot,” the vendor in front of me said sternly. Her voice was rough, like gravel against stone.

“One silver?” I repeated, letting a coarse laugh slip out as the old Brier Len drawl drifted back into my voice. “This cloak’s worth ten times that. If you even knew what you were looking at.”

The vendor’s face soured. “Piss off. I don’t need your business.”

“I think you recognize it,” I said, brushing the fabric between my fingers. “You just hoped I didn’t.”

“Get lost.”

I didn’t. “You see this cloak? Belonged to some highborn lady, stitched by the kind of seamstress who probably only works by candlelight and takes clients with a pedigree.”

The vendor squinted at me but stayed quiet.

“The lady mentioned something, though. Said this cloak was threaded with goldspun.” I let that hang in the air for a second. “You felt the weight when you touched it, didn’t you? Heavy for its size.”

I leaned in slightly. “Now, I didn’t drag this into any back-alley stall. I came to you. It’s not worth much as it is. Foreign cut, noble patterning. Most wouldn’t touch it. But you? You could strip it for the thread, break it down, sell the goldspun piece by piece. That’s a seamster’s trade.”

“I see you’re not shy with your tongue,” the vendor said, her voice dropping as she scrutinized the cloak. “Now, where’d you come by this? I don’t fancy the watch turning up over some missing noblewoman’s wrap. That sort of trouble lands me in chains.”

“No one’s coming for you.”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

I rolled my eyes. “What, you think I got it by accident? I’ve got a pretty face, that’s how. Not all my customers are men.”

“So you’re some high-priced whore from a distant city, here to peddle off fancy goldspun,” she said, eyeing me. “How much do you owe on your contract?”

“If you pay me what it’s worth,” I replied, “it’ll be less.”

She gave me a once-over, then shook her head. “Fine. I’ll give you a gold, but coppers are all I trade in. Isn’t wise to walk these streets with anything else.”

I swallowed my relief and nodded. “It’s a pleasure doing business.”

I stepped out of the vendor’s shop, the pouch of coppers heavy in my hand, along with a new, modest set of clothes.

She’d paid me in full, but the words I had said back there kept turning in my mind.

Had I shared too much? There were certain things I mentioned that could attract unwanted attention if the wrong person started asking questions.

Still, the fact that she took my cloak reassured me somewhat.

Goldspun is a fabric for the wealthy, and to put it simply, it’s gold.

Some seamsters know how to strip the fabric and restore it.

Considering the size and complexity of my cloak, I was sure she would make a hefty profit. At least three times what she paid me.

Even now, I couldn’t believe it. Standing here, in the middle of Falhurst, it felt unreal.

Blending in with the crowd was easy, but I couldn’t shake the urge to look over my shoulder every few steps.

I didn’t want to draw attention, but the aftermath of my escape clung to me.

I had no plan anymore. My escape had been the end of it, and now…

I was lost. The only place I knew beyond Hyrall was Brier Len, but going back there was never an option.

My mind felt weighed down by the promise of what could be, a sensation far different from what I had expected. But something kept my nerves taut, refusing to settle until I saw it for myself. It was a reckless impulse, a foolish craving, but I retraced my steps toward the carriage station.

If I had to guess, only a chime had passed since my escape and the carriages’ arrival. I drew in a sharp breath as I turned the corner of the building I had recognized earlier. My hands clenched around my new cloak as I peeked around it, pulling my hood lower to shrink into the shadows.

There was only an empty space.

The carriages were gone.

I was free.

A laugh bubbled up before I could stop it, and my hand flew to cover my mouth, muffling the sound. A rush of pure joy surged through me.

I had actually done it.

I had escaped Hyrall’s walls.

I was free.

My smile returned, and the feeling was one I’d never forget. It was both a kind of healing and a breaking. Pieces of me had shattered, only to be remade into something new.

I wandered through the streets of Falhurst until the ache in my feet became unbearable. As I walked, I passed countless vendors and shops, nibbling on pastries or picking up whatever supplies I might need for the journey ahead, even though I had no clear destination yet.

I bought a leather satchel that fit snugly over my shoulder, resting at my waist without being too bulky.

It was slim enough to hide under my cloak without drawing notice.

Inside, I tucked away everything I had. Provisions from Hyrall, items I had collected along the way, and my coin.

My pocketknife was secured safely in my cloak pocket, just in case.

At one point, a street performer stood in the middle of the square, dramatically reciting lines from a play, acting out scenes, and singing the score completely by himself.

I joined the crowd in clapping, though his off-key singing was met with a few boos.

Still, there was something about his enthusiasm that drew me in.

I tossed a copper into his hat, and he gave a cheerful bow.

When the performance ended, I felt it was time to go. The day’s distractions had been welcome, but I needed to find somewhere to sleep before I set off again. I had a lot to figure out.

I’d overheard a few conversations that pointed me toward one corner of the city.

It was where most travelers and foreigners stayed when they came through Falhurst. They offered lodging, food, and, most importantly, information on how to leave the city.

This place was called Rook’s End, and I figured it was my best shot at finding out what came next.

When I finally arrived, Rook’s End wasn’t at all what I had pictured.

Though, to be honest, I hadn’t really pictured much.

The area was small, just a few streets crammed with shops, inns, taverns, brothels, and the like.

I didn’t know where to start, but the first thing that caught my eye was an alehouse called the Eldergrove.

It stood at the heart of the district, the busiest spot by far.

People were pouring in and out, some stumbling drunkenly, others either arguing or belting out songs. It was hard to tell.

I shrugged and headed for the door .

Pulling my cloak tighter around me, I squeezed through the mass of people and finally stepped into the Eldergrove.

The second I entered, I was hit with a wave of body odor, stale ale, and a dozen conversations happening all at once.

It took a moment to adjust. Back at the Greenwood Inn, everything had been calm and quiet, with only a few patrons at a time.

This? This was something else entirely. The place was packed, easily twenty or thirty cityfolk crammed into the small space.

I hugged my arms to my chest and moved carefully toward the bar, trying not to bump into anyone.

Behind the counter, the barkeep was busy, while a barmaid darted between the tables, handing out drinks as fast as she could.

As I stood there, a man so drunk he could barely stay upright stumbled into me. I stepped aside with a frown, and he dropped his tankard in the process. To my surprise, he had the gall to glare at me, jaw slack, eyes bleary. He wobbled on his feet, pointing a shaky finger in my direction.

“You best pay for that, lass, or I’ll deal with you myself,” he slurred, his words a tangled mess as he swayed. I was about to scoff when the barkeep cut in.

“Merlin, leave her alone. She’s not the one causing trouble. Della’ll get you another. Now off with you.”

The man let out a frustrated grunt but turned without another word, waving his empty tankard at the barmaid and mumbling incoherently.

“Thanks,” I said to the barkeep.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied with a shrug. “Happens just about every night.” He leaned forward slightly. “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever I can get for a half-penny.”

He gave a short nod and poured a tankard of pale ale, sliding it across the counter. I set the coin down in exchange, offering a grateful nod.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” he said, eyeing me. “We get travelers, sure, but not many young women passing through on their own.” He gave me a second glance, a little more scrutinizing this time. “If you’re looking for work, though, it won’t be here. We’ve already got our own girls.”

I looked him square in the eye. “Not working. Just passing through.”

“Where you off to?”

I ignored the question and took a sip from my tankard. “Any idea where I can find someone offering travel by morning? I’m looking to move at first light.”

“Depends where you’re bound,” he said. “The Cragstone’s where most folks go. Few streets over. Traders, riders, even the odd caravan. Someone’s always leaving.”

“Appreciate it,” I said, lifting my tankard in thanks. I left the rest on the counter as I stood. The ale was terrible, somehow even worse than what we served in Brier Len.

The Eldergrove had served its purpose. I left with what I came for, energy buzzing under my ribs. My fingers brushed the coins I’d picked from the drunk’s pocket. An unintended bonus, but welcome all the same.

Well, no use lingering.

Off to the Cragstone.