Unlikely

by Frances Pauli

At least she knew which way to go. The morning held a promise of heat that had already dried the road ruts into hard ridges. Her cloak would be a burden long before noon, but now, as the sun whispered through a soft sheen of cloud cover, she kept it on, only folding the wool back to hang behind her shoulders.

  The boy had come from this direction, had darted away toward home in this direction. He had her secret, and she didn’t doubt he meant to spread it, had probably spread it already. If she’d a brain in her head, she’d be walking the other way, even if the tag had been a Starlight mark.

  Satina squinted at the horizon. The road bent yet again, but the trees already parted to display the fields that would ring the town with crops. Like the Skinner, she had no use for either gang. She preferred no affiliation. She had her own reasons to avoid the Shades, and she was clever enough to know that hiding among Starlights threw her in the path of danger. Where else would the rival gang search for her?

  Still, she followed the boy’s path toward a village where the Skinner kept his shop. How that worked, she couldn’t guess. A town full of victims and no one had lynched the man? How had he done it, settled in one place? A Skinner of all people. He had that charm about him, she supposed, the grace of a dancer, though she doubted that would get him far with your ordinary townsperson.

  Maybe it wasn’t an ordinary town.

  She lifted her chin, shooed away an early midge and tramped through the ruts toward the rustle of wheat. The crops fanned out to either side of the road. Satina marched between them. Wheat, corn, potatoes—beyond these a few lumpy pastures with sheep or goats, even one fat cow. You could read a town by the things it grew. There would be families here, close-knit groups and neighbor’s well-versed in one another’s business.

  There’d be a chapel, an inn that was friendly enough to welcome travelers, but not enough to encourage them to stay. There’d be a blacksmith, possibly a weaver. She’d seen her share of farming towns, of goats and even of fat cows to know this one. Any way she looked at it, her Skinner didn’t fit the picture.

  The stables backed the last pasture. Beyond them, the village proper clustered. The steeple of a crisp, white chapel peered over the lower roofs, confirming her suspicion at the same time it passed silent judgment on all her kind.

  How did a Skinner fit in here? How did he stick a boy’s hands fast to a box and not incite an angry mob? Had he watched her from the shadows last night?

  “Beg pardon, please.” A soft voice spoke from the stables’ side of the road. “A moment, Granter.”

  Satina stilled her feet and peered between the railings. A swish of skirts appeared from inside the shed. A stout woman crossed the paddock, carrying a bundle wrapped in thin cloth. She tried to smile. Her eyes crinkled at the corners for a moment before the fear wiped her face back to neutral. Her hands shook when she held the parcel out, but her voice was clearer, bolstered by a moment of bravado.

  “My son told me what you done.” She thrust the fabric over the fence. “Breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” Perhaps she should argue. The woman’s gratitude warred with her distaste for magic kind, making her face a battleground of conflicting emotions. The food inside the cloth smelled fresh, however, and Satina’s stomach insisted it was fair payment for helping the boy.

  The woman shuffled away as soon as she took the parcel. She wore coarse homespun skirts over a pale chemise. Her dark hair bunched in a knot at the back of her head, held by a long pin. Satina squinted at it, shifted visions, and saw the sigils painted on the wood. Interesting. She examined the stable more closely. A horseshoe over each paddock bore protective marks, painted in magical ink. She could guess whose hand had drawn them.

  And yet, he’d tricked the boy.

  She passed the stable and the street smoothed. Satina turned her shifted vision on the town. Like all the other towns, she saw the faces peeking, the curtains shifting and the heads ducking back behind a door or corner. Unlike other towns, she saw the traces of her Skinner’s work here. The fountain in the town square misted through a metal grate, twisting with ornate patterns that screamed Old Magic. In addition to whatever properties the relic held, the Skinner’s paint had added health and prosperity for the entire town.

  He’d gone and made himself indispensable.

  She found the inn, exactly as expected, the blacksmith’s opposite the stables, but no weaver she could see. The town was small and its tidy buildings had survived the years amazingly well. Whether due to the charms or the townsfolk’s diligent attention, she couldn’t guess. Either way the boards had held, the stones still rested tightly together, and the thatch—well, the thatch looked fresh. She’d give the villagers credit there.

  The Skinner’s shop waited beyond the fountain. His sign glowed with wards and delicate sigils. One huge window displayed a collection of pots and bags, tools, axes and blades. They all bore his marks, scribbled on every surface in dust-infused paint. Unlike the ones on his boots, these sigils actually held color, had been mixed into a paint that even mortal eyes could see. Satina guessed it made for better business. If his clientele couldn’t see the marks he made, he’d have a harder time convincing them to hand over their money.

  Clever? Perhaps. Dangerous? Oh so very much so. One faulty charm could bring the wrath of an entire village. How much more so when the culprit is a Skinner who practices his shady trade right alongside the benevolent one? He was mad as hell to try this.

  She circled the water and approached his door. Why put it off? She fancied staying here awhile, and his reaction would make or break that plan. She didn’t need another enemy of any kind. Bells jingled at her entrance. The shop’s interior glowed so brightly with magic marks that any mundane illumination faded from her notice. Shelves lined the walls, ran a straight line down the center and made an aisle directly from the doorway to the long counter at the rear.

  The rafters hung with leather pouches, water skins and bits of harness. The shelves overflowed with trinkets, jewelry, even clothing all magicked for some lucky future owner. Did anything in the town not rely upon the man and his painted sigils?

  “Good morning, my dear.” The Skinner leaned against the counter, half hidden and smiling as if she were expected. “Or should I say, Goodmother?”

  Satina stiffened. His grin stretched at the reaction. He’d hit his mark, and it amused him.

  “You’ve come to show me your little trinket?”

  “No.”

  “What a shame.” His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes flashed. He waved one arm to indicate his products. “Perhaps you’d like to look around?”

  “I have something to discuss.” She took the main aisle forward, straight to the back counter and the man who waited with one slender eyebrow lifted. Her hand snagged the edge of her cloak and she pulled the fabric forward and reached into the inside pocket, pulling out the thin box. “Perhaps you recognize it.”

  “Oh yes.” He watched her place the booby trap on the counter and nodded. “I’ve seen those. The children in town love them.”

  “Do they?” She tried to sound accusing, but he didn’t even flinch. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “I’ll show you.” He plucked it up without hesitation and ran a finger over the top in a caress that mimicked the sigil she’d erased. She heard him chuckle softly, and then he flipped the box around and it sprang open. “It’s a game, you see.”

  With the lip popped, the device lay exposed. A single divot in the wood bore a small dial, an arrow hovered on a wire at its center. The Skinner gave the box a gentle shake, and the arrow spun, faster and faster as he moved the case forward and back. Each time the dial circled, it advanced a number inset just to the left of the spinner. Fancy. She’d seen similar mechanisms in the port towns to the south, but never so tiny nor used for entertainment.

  “They like to see who can keep it going longest,” he said. “Quite the desirable item. How much?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll give yo
u two crowns for it. Not a hair more.”

  “You want to buy this?”

  “Of course. They’re not easy to come by, quite rare in fact. I made this particular one myself.”

  “You gave this to a boy in the road last night.”

  “Yes, though I must say you’ve removed the best part.” He flicked his wrist and the box closed again. “Were I less generous, I’d deduct the cost of wasted dust from my offer.”

  “Wasted…you…” Satina choked back her accusation.

  “Yes?” One of his brows lifted.

  “Three crowns.”

  His eyes locked onto hers. Sea green, like the bay to the south where the ships unload relics from the further reaches. Satina held her breath without meaning to. She kept her eyes on his, but her hands trembled. Those she stuffed into the folds of her cloak.

  His head tilted. His lips stretched. They tilted up at the corner. She twisted her fingers into the wool and smiled back.

  The bells jangled again. Boots clunked onto his floorboards, and the Skinner dropped his gaze to the counter. His posture shifted, folding in and curling so that he looked, almost intentionally, submissive.

  A gruff voice rumbled behind her. “Keep your hands in your pockets.”

  She spun to face the intruder. Her hands slipped immediately from the cloak into the open, but the man had not been chastising her. His scowl was fixed on the girl at his side, and each word settled on her narrow shoulders like a weight. She curled deeper than the Skinner had, no doubt, had been the object of the brute’s anger far more often.

  “And stay by the door,” he finished and then forgot her, turning toward the counter with a blank expression. Only the space between his heavy eyebrows tightened when he spotted Satina. His eyes lingered on her a second before his full attention settled on the shop owner. “Is it ready?” He barked the question, spared no effort on a greeting.

  “Yes.” The Skinner shuffled from the counter. He vanished through a door in the back wall. The customer grunted and looked at her again.

  “You’re the Granter, then?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged and leaned one elbow against the counter. It creaked in complaint.

  She stepped away, wandered between the shelving and put a little space between them. The girl obeyed his orders. She pressed tightly against the shop’s door. Her long braids trailed over her shoulders and her face had the same broad cheeks as the man, her father no doubt. The girl darted looks in his direction. Her hands remained glued in her pockets as instructed. Satina caught their movement, though, as if the girl fiddled with something.

  The dark eyes turned in her direction then slipped away. Satina waited. She admired a tray of metal cuffs and watched the girl from the corner of her eye. When the sullen gaze shifted in her direction again, she smiled and earned the poor thing’s grin in return.

  “Maera!” The man’s voice boomed from the aisle. His wide shoulders passed Satina’s shelf. “We’re leaving.”

  She waited for them to go before sidestepping back toward the counter. The Skinner didn’t look up. He had a glass bottle out and dipped a delicate brush into sparkling, blue paint. A pair of leather gloves lay beside it, sigils half-painted.

  “Three crowns, is it?” He spoke without looking at her.

  “I think two is fair.”

  “You’re not very good at this.” His voice warmed a little, but still held a flat edge.

  “Two and a half?”

  “Fair enough.” He painted the rest of his squiggle and let one side of his mouth bend into a smile. “Two and a half.”

  He dropped his brush back into the paint and looked at her directly for the first time since his surly customer had interrupted them. Something lingered in his expression that she couldn’t quite place. He smiled, but the flare was gone. He reached under the counter and came up with a small stack of coins.

  “I’d like to trade as well,” Satina lowered her voice. She held her hand out for the money, but with her ring finger folded tightly to her palm. His eyes widened for a second. He shook his head.

  “You have something else to sell?”

  “No.” She held the gesture and waited.

  The Skinner placed her money into her hand. His eyes darted to the doorway and back. “One moment.”

  “Of course.” She waited while he moved to the door and tugged at a thin string. It flipped a panel above the door, labeling the shop closed for business. He locked the door. Satina waited for him to return. Her eyes drifted to the one symbol in the shop that wasn’t painted in magical ink. This one had no need for dust, and any eyes could see it. The black symbol marked the wall directly above the counter. It looked like charcoal, faded and unimportant, resembling a dog’s head—or a wolf’s. It meant he sold more than what the shelves held, but she doubted anyone else in town would know that.

  “Now, my dear.” The Skinner’s eyes were bright again. His smile relaxed. He returned fully to his exaggerated sense of self. “What is it that you have to trade?”

  “You have raw dust?”

  “I might.” He played coy, winked at her and let his eyes dance. “I have some lovely ink.” He barely moved and a second bottle sat beside the first. “Very handy.”

  “I’ve noticed. They know about your items’ special attributes?”

  “But of course.”

  “And about your evening activities?”

  “I believe you said trade.”

  “Do you have dust or not?”

  “I do.” He reached below his counter again, but hesitated before showing his hand. “And what do you have?”

  “Your boots need repainting.” She pulled her largest pouch free from her belt and set it on the counter. The Skinner raised a brow and waited. “The symbols have rubbed off a bit.”

  “And here I just thought I was slipping.”

  “You should stitch them.” She fumbled inside the bag, found her smallest spool, the one she’d already pulled from. When she set it on the counter, he squinted at the thread and sniffed.

  “I can dust my own thread. It takes more time and wears off just as quickly as the ink.”

  “It’s not dusted.”

  He laughed, but sobered when she didn’t join him. Her turn to be surprising. The Skinner cleared his throat. His eyes flashed. “What is it?”

  “Thistledown.”

  He bent close and inspected the thread, pulling the loose end through his fingers and then checking them for dust. He sniffed it, and his eyes stretched. “Well, my dear.” He tried to hide it, but she’d impressed him. “Tell me, where did you possibly find this?”

  “I spun it.”

  “Where does it grow?”

  “Oh I don’t think so.” She placed one hand atop the spool and pinned it to the counter. “If I told a soul where the pocket was, how long would there be thistledown growing?”

  “A trade, perhaps?”

  “I think not.”

  “Maybe not today.” He laughed again. This time he brought the tray of packets up from behind the counter. “But you’re not the only one with secrets. I’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

  “Just the dust today.” She could already smell its magic.

  “I can imagine.” He changed tactics, winking at her and shifting back to playful. “You put on quite the show last night.”

  She looked down, reached for the tray of packets and did her best not to rise to his taunt. “How much for the spool?”

  “A full packet.”

  “Three.” Thistledown didn’t grow in many pockets. Where it did, you’d be lucky to harvest enough for a fraction of what she offered him.

  “Perhaps, two?”

  “Perhaps three.”

  He handed over the packets less than gently, but his eyes kept darting to the spool. He’d paid a fair price, and they both knew it. “And you’re in town for how long?”

  “I’ve little clue myself.”

  �
�Hmm.” He tinkered with the packets in his tray, lining them in tidy rows before stuffing the array back into hiding. “A word of advice if you do remain.”

  “Yes?”

  “When the blacksmith was here…” He didn’t look up, had rolled into the humble shopkeeper routine again. For her benefit? Or as an example? “You’ve a defiant streak, my dear. It will get you into trouble eventually.” He looked up suddenly and locked his gaze on hers again. The flare shimmered between them, and his smile returned. “Or perhaps it already has.”

  Satina cursed her transparency. Her hands shook again, and she stuffed them under her wool cover, lifted her chin and gave him a cooler smile. She didn’t need his warnings. Who was he to give them? “You walk a very fine line yourself, Skinner.”

  “My name is Marten.”

  “Thank you for the advice, Marten.” She turned and faced the doorway, took a step away when he continued.

  “You didn’t give me yours.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She made the door, unlocked it and pulled it open.

  “The boy was a thief.”

  Satina froze. “I didn’t ask about him.” Did it matter? Her stomach fluttered, said yes it did.

  “No.” Marten whispered, but his words reached the exit easily enough. “No, you didn’t.”

  Chapter Five