The Natural Order of Things

Ferre hated staying around. He had spent far too long in Aurandren; it had made him weak again, reliant on consistency and schedule. Now that he was out of that, he could hardly stand to spend two nights in the same city, and the constant pull of the Arre was stronger than it had ever been. It was almost painful.

He stood stiffly by the armchair, tapping his forefinger on the grip of his cane. Finch sat on the end of the bed by the door, tying a knot in a length of rope they had procured from a pocket. Talle was nowhere to be seen; Ferre assumed that he had gone to find a book merchant or some other form of entertainment well before the sun rose.

Ferre reached into the bottom pocket of his coat and retracted his gloves, slipping them on with stiff fingers. He had planned to visit a tanner for new harnesses before leaving Rallar. That would not be a pleasant experience for him, but it would have to be done soon; the leather was old and cracking, and in some places the straps around his hand were beginning to wear thin. He hated putting himself in any situation where his defences would be down, especially when Talle would not be near.

"I'm going out," he said suddenly, beginning to button his coat. "I don't trust you enough to let you stay here on your own, so you're coming with me. Get —"

"Excuse you," Finch interrupted. "I ain't your slave." They eyed him with a testy sort of distrust.

"I —"

"You're not even scary," they continued, laying back on the bed with a flop. "You're just tall and you talk a lot. You ain't as cool as you act, Lightbringer."

Ferre was completely taken aback. "Well, I'm going out," he said through gritted teeth, "and you can come with me or stay here, but if you aren't here when I get back, we're going to have a problem. Ace?"

"Yeah, I'm going with you, you moron." Finch got up, stretched, and reached for their shoes. "I just don't think you got the right to be telling me about, that's all."

Certain he looked as bitter as a bowl of vinegar, Ferre turned to the door. "Let's go, then."

At midday, Rallar was bustling, the air thick with smells. Ferre was still unused to the dirt ground after eight months above the water; he'd already gone through three bottles of Finch's Stabilising mixture in an attempt to return his equilibrium, and it had been only two days. His coat was uncomfortably warm, and he was tempted to take it back to the hotel room. Uncertain, he shrugged it off and folded it over his arm, looking around for a tanner's sign.

"Ferre," Finch said loudly. "Did you know that you're easily a foot taller than anyone else in this crowd?"

"I'd be a little confused if that wasn't the case," Ferre said mildly, still eyeing the shop fronts. "I'm Pendrin." Most of the shops were just kiosks, like the Mercantile District in Aurandren, but there were a few rows of buildings that would likely house occupations that required more space — such as a tanner.

"Do you see a tanner — leather-worker — anywhere, merchant?" Ferre asked. "I'd like to find one before I get too terrible of a sun burn."

He found it eventually, at the end of the row.

The place was rather messy, but in an orderly sort of way, as though the shopkeeper didn't mind where things were as long as they were clean. Heaps of skins sat in perilous stacks on chairs; the walls were hung with finished pieces, from horse saddles and reins to embellished jackets and gloves. There was a strong smell of worn leather — not unpleasant, Ferre thought, inhaling deeply. It seemed a comfortable place.

"Hi," said the tanner, getting up from his bench. "What can I do for you two today?" He was a tall man with a dark ponytail and a kind look to his face; he stood with most of his weight on his left foot, which gave Ferre the instant suspicion that he didn't have the other.

Ferre, still wearing his thin gloves, laid his jacket down on a nearby table and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Just me, actually," he said, suddenly nervous. The tanner looked trustworthy, but any man could be dangerous with reason. "Do you swear confidentiality, tanner?"

"Of course I do," the tanner said. "I'd be an idiot not to. So, what are you here for that's so confidential?"

Sucking in a breath, Ferre retracted his hands and peeled the gloves off. "Harnesses," he said, voice tight in his throat. "Prosthetic harnesses. My, er, my left leg too." He felt terribly vulnerable without the gloves.

The tanner raised his eyebrows, then padded to the door and snapped the deadbolt shut. "No wonder you made me swear," he said, turning back. "How long have you been running around like this, Lightbringer?"

Ferre winced. "Don't call me that," he said. "My name is Ferre. It's been about three years, er, five-ish for the hand and three for the leg."

"Ferre. Good name." The tanner extended a hand — his right, thankfully — and Ferre shook. "Starling's mine, like the bird. Now come sit so I can take measurements."

Still nervous, Ferre sat on the bench and set his cane down. Finch eyed him, thoughtful, then wandered over to examine the wall displays. He was internally quite glad they had figured out that he was less of a threat than tripping over a doormat, because such an act was exhausting and Ferre didn't have the energy to spare.

The tanner — Starling — had pulled open a drawer and was digging around in it furiously, a focused look on his face. He tugged out a measuring tape triumphantly, shut the drawer, and sat down beside Ferre. "Hand?"

"Sorry?"

"Your hand, storyteller," the tanner repeated. "Give it to me, I can't measure it otherwise."

"Right," said Ferre, lifting his left hand.

Starling took it and deftly undid the buckle on the wrist strap. "Rot, man," he said in surprise, eyeing the marks the leather had left on Ferre's wrist. "Do you never take these things off?"

"I can't," Ferre said. "I have to be ready to move at any given time."

"You can't do things like that," said the tanner, "you'll end up rubbing holes in your wrist from the friction. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you have these chafe marks here for several more years, and that's even assuming you never wear the harness again."

"I don't have several years, tanner," Ferre said. He felt the urge to pull his hand back, but the tanner's grip around his wrist was like steel.

Starling frowned, working the rest of the straps free. "Why not?"

"I…" Ferre paused. A dim realisation was beginning to blossom in the back of his mind. "Does… no one actually understand what I'm on a quest to do?"

"Not in the least," Starling said, sliding the harness off. He let out a hard exhalation. "What did you do to yourself here, storyteller?"

Ferre didn't look at either Starling or his hand. Instead, he stared intensely at the floor. "I was in a scrap with someone much stronger," he said. "I don't remember much about it." That was a lie. He remembered it vividly, but it wasn't very pleasant to discuss.

"Hm," said the tanner, looking troubled. He strung the measuring tape around Ferre's wrist, made a notation on the writing pad on his table, then moved on to the upper forearm, then the diagonals across the back of the hand, scribbling on the pad as he went. Eventually, despite himself, Ferre looked up and watched the tanner work; most of his work was quick maths, which was lost to Ferre, as the handwriting was nearly illegible. Not that his was any better, of course.

Finally the tanner stopped, setting his pencil down. "You mentioned your leg as well?" he asked.
"Yes," said Ferre uneasily. "The left one. Knee down." He leaned down and unlaced the boot, then pulled it off, the layers of socks quickly following.

The tanner grunted. "That prosthetic looks like you tried to knock out a tree with it," he said. "Not quite sure how it's holding together, but I'm no woodworker, so I can't get you a new one." He eyed the bottom of the harness, just below the folded leg of Ferre's trousers. "How does that thing even attach?"

"At the waist," said Ferre. He was unused to the odd lightness of his left hand, the sensation of air on the skin covered for five years with leather; awkwardly, he unclipped the top of the harness from his belt and pulled the entire thing off in one motion. The immense feeling of freedom was almost unbearable. He hadn't removed it since he had first put it on, with the exception of bathing.

"That's one hell of a sc —" The tanner's comment was interrupted by a sharp triple tap on the door. Ferre sucked in a breath, then Sought, hoping it was who he thought it was.

He relaxed. It was. "Let him in," he told Starling. "That's my brother, he's safe."

"How do you — ah," said Starling. "I keep forgetting you can do things like that with the bones." He unbolted the door and opened it very slightly, then all the way.

Talle brushed past him, glancing around. His eyes locked on Ferre, then on his leg. The look on his face turned thunderous. "What the hell are you doing?" he snapped in Pendrin, slamming the cup he was holding down onto a table.

"Something I needed to," Ferre said, hoping his nervousness wasn't visible.

"You can't take risks," said Talle, voice hard. "You're so close to the World's End now. If you die without finishing your mission, everything will fail. You have to stop putting yourself in danger."
"Excuse me," the tanner interrupted, speaking Cinnish, "get rid of that coffee and stop yelling at my customers. I don't care who you are, if you're going to fight, take it someplace else."

Talle turned on him, eyes dark. "Stay out of it, tanner."

"This is my workshop," Starling said. "Get rid of the rotted coffee and stop yelling at my customers." He was easily a foot shorter than Ferre's brother, and a great deal less muscular, and Ferre was slightly worried he'd have to intervene.

Eventually Talle picked up the cup and lobbed it into a rubbish bin. "We're leaving," he said to Ferre, tone icy. "Get yourself fixed up and get out of here. I'll deal with this man." The last part was said with a glance towards the tanner.

"You're doing nothing of the sort," Ferre said, switching back to Pendrin out of habit. Speaking to Talle in any other language was worse than speaking to a stone wall. He looked briefly at Finch, who peered fearfully from behind a column, then back at Starling, whose expression was unreadable. "I'm terribly sorry," he apologised. "I… didn't expect this."

"No worries, storyteller," said the tanner mildly. "I've dealt with worse. You should return tomorrow so I can get the rest of your measurements. Here." He helped Ferre fasten the harness back onto his wrist, then pointed at a door across the room. "That's a washroom if you'd rather step in there to put your other one back on."

Ferre and Talle stared at one another for a long time, neither wanting to be the first to spark a second confrontation. "That sounds good," Ferre said at last, turning to face the tanner. "Could you, er, help me up? I don't think bunny-hopping will do the trick."

"Not with that attitude," said Starling, but he offered his hand anyway.

It would not be the last time Ferre saw the strange, kindly man, but it would be the most important.