Free The Fork-Tongue Charmers by Paul Durham

mugs, their mud-caked boots tapping on the rungs of their stools. But Rye sensed a wariness in their constantly shifting eyes, like hungry predators watchful for their next mark.
    â€œBramble told me to give you this,” Rye said, remembering the battered box. She took it from her coat and handed it to Abby.
    â€œDid you look inside?” Abby asked as she pried apart the bent clasp. She opened it a crack.
    â€œNo,” Rye said, shaking her head, and was surprised to realize that, for once, her curiosity hadn’t gotten the better of her. “What’s in there?”
    â€œMemories,” Abby said. A warm thought seemed to cross her mind.
    Abby removed a small metal object from the box. It was a hair clip in the shape of a dragonfly, its silver so tarnished it was almost black.
    â€œSomeone gave this to me long ago, but it seems you could best use it now,” she said. She pushed Rye’s unruly hair from her eyes and clipped it back. “Much better.”
    Quinn arrived and placed two mugs of plum cider on the table along with his handmade helmet. His eyes widened and he stared slack-jawed at the realistic, life-size mermaid carved into the tabletop. Abby strategically slid the helmet across the table to afford the mermaid some degree of modesty.
    Bramble joined them with goblets for himself and Abby. “What do you have here?” he asked Rye, examining her hand staff on the table. “May I see it?”
    â€œMy walking stick? Sure.”
    Bramble felt its heft in his hands. He squinted and examined its polished features.
    â€œA walking stick, you say?” He sounded amused. “This, my dear niece, is a High Isle cudgel. Made from the hardest blackthorn ever felled. I haven’t seen one in years.”
    Abby raised an eyebrow.
    â€œLike a club?” Quinn asked.
    â€œYes, like a club,” Bramble said. “But nastier.”
    With two lightning-quick strikes, he brought the cudgel down against Quinn’s helmet on the table. Rye, Abby, and Quinn all jumped at the sound. Shortstrawfled under a chair. The rest of the inn hardly noticed.
    The steel crown of the helmet was crushed as if pummeled by a boulder. Rye was relieved nobody’s head was in it.
    Bramble chuckled and handed the cudgel back to Rye. “This is a rare find. Guard it closely until you learn how to use it.”
    Quinn stared at his bashed handiwork.
    â€œApologies, Quinn,” Bramble said. “I’ll buy you another.”
    Rye noticed Quinn’s fallen face and didn’t think that cost was the point.
    â€œYour uncle and I need to discuss a few matters,” Abby said to Rye while shooting Bramble a reproachful look. It always amazed Rye how a glare from her mother could give pause to even the most dangerous of men. “Why don’t you and Quinn go find your sister? She’s made herself quite at home here, so I can’t say where she is . . . in trouble, no doubt.”
    There was a heavy thud in Rye’s lap, and a warm furry mass stretched across her like a blanket.
    â€œShady!” Rye hugged him around his thick neck.
    â€œObviously someone else has missed you too,” Abby said. “He’s taken a liking to the inn himself. The twins guard the door well, so he’s stopped trying to escape.”
    Shady’s kind were known as Gloaming Beasts—mysterious catlike creatures who could go years hiding in plain sight. Rye had always taken him for a simple house pet. That is, until he revealed his true nature by helping Harmless thwart a clan of ruthless Bog Noblins. Gloaming Beasts were the bog monsters’ only natural predator. They were also renowned for their wanderlust, which was why Abby kept him under lock and key.
    Rye set him on the floor and she and Quinn headed off to find Lottie. Shady snaked in and out of Rye’s gait as she walked, rubbing his back against her legs.
    The freebooters were still hard at the grog and their