Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

  But analyzing and strategy weren’t her strengths. Every time she tried to organize the pieces of her day, they swung apart and were that much harder to reassemble. The only thought she could keep pinned down was Uncle Eron is here. In Veñaza City. She hadn’t seen him in two years; she’d hoped she would never have to again. Simply thinking of Eron reminded her that, for all that she’d built a life in Veñaza City, there was a different one waiting for her back in Hasstrel.

  Safi needed Iseult right now. She relied on Iseult to keep her mind focused and clear. Acting and running and fighting—those were the only things Safi did well.

  Her fingers itched for the door. Her toes curled in anticipation as she reached with aching slowness for the latch.

  “Don’t touch that,” Habim intoned. “What would you do anyway, Safi? Run away?”

  “Find Iseult,” she said quietly, her fingers still hovering. “And then run away.”

  “Which would allow the Bloodwitch to find you,” he retorted. “As long as you stay with your uncle, you’ll be safe.”

  “Because he did such a good job protecting my parents.” The words snarled out before Safi could stop them. Yet where she’d expected a swift retaliation from Habim, she got only silence.

  Then a stony, “Hell-Bards protect their family, yes, but the empire must come first. In that instance, eighteen years ago, the empire came first.”

  “Which is why Emperor Henrick dishonorably discharged him, is it? He gave Uncle Eron the shameful task of being my regent and nursemaid out of gratitude?”

  Habim didn’t engage. In fact, his expression didn’t waver at all. This was hardly the first time Safi had pressed Habim on her uncle’s past, and it wasn’t the first time she’d gotten cold silence either.

  “You’re going home, to Guildmaster Alix’s,” Habim said eventually, tipping back the edge of the curtain and squinting outside. “You should have gone to him in the first place—he can keep you safe from the Bloodwitch.”

  “How was I supposed to know that?” Safi finally withdrew her fingers from the latch and sat up to her full height. “I thought I was doing the right thing by not bringing trouble to Alix’s door.”

  “How very considerate of you. Next time, though, try trusting the men charged with your safety.”

  “Iseult keeps me safe too,” Safi said. “Yet notice that you’ve sent her away.”

  Again, Habim ignored Safi’s bait. Instead, he dipped his chin to watch her from the tops of his eyes. “Speaking of Iseult, she requests that you please not slit my throat. She also apologizes for leaving and asks that you not lose her book.”

  “Iseult … apologized?” That wasn’t like Iseult—at least not when this was so clearly Safi’s fault.

  Which meant there was a hidden message here.

  It was a game the girls had played over the years. One Mathew had taught them—Say one thing, but mean another—and it had been wildly fun during the more dull hours of Mathew’s history lessons.

  It wasn’t fun now.

  Don’t slit Habim’s throat—that meant to wait. To do as Habim ordered. Fine. Safi would obey for now. But the book … She couldn’t riddle out that part of the message.

  “Iseult’s and my things,” Safi said slowly, “are in a sack at the harbor.”

  “I already grabbed it. The driver’s holding it.” Another furtive glance behind the curtain before Habim pounded the roof.

  The carriage clattered to a stop, and Habim offered Safi an inflectionless, “Stay out of trouble, please.” Then he swept through the door and melted into the cacophony of afternoon traffic.

  With her fists never feeling as if they were squeezed tightly enough, Safi stepped into the city. Horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, and fancy boot heels drowned out her frustrated teeth grinding. Alix’s home was a many-columned mansion surrounded by a jungle of roses and jasmine. Like all the Dalmotti Guildmasters, he lived in the wealthiest corner of the city: the Eastern Canal District.

  Safi had a bedroom inside, and the young, fair-haired Alix had always been kind to her. But this luxe, labyrinthine estate had never felt like home—not in the way that Iseult’s attic room always had.

  Not in the way the girl’s new rooms were going to.

  For several long moments, Safi stood at the iron gate and considered making a run for it. Her throat burned with a hunger for speed. But she knew she couldn’t find Iseult—not without risking the Bloodwitch.

  Gods below, everything was falling apart, and it was all Safi’s fault. Safi had fallen for Chiseled Cheater’s charms. Then Safi had suggested the holdup.

  It was always this way: Safi would initiate something over her head, and someone else would clean up the mess. That someone had been Iseult for six years now … but how many messes would Safi have to make before Iseult had had enough? One of these days, Iseult would give up on her like everyone else had. Safi just prayed—desperately, violently prayed—that it wasn’t today.

  It isn’t though, her logic pointed out. Or Iseult wouldn’t have left a message with Habim or told you to find the book. Well, Safi would only be able to puzzle through Iseult’s coded message if she went inside Alix’s mansion as ordered.

  So with her knuckles cracking against her thighs, she marched up to the gate and rang the bell.

  * * *

  Despite the flowers and incense jars in the Silk Guildmaster’s home, the smell wafting off the nearby canal always dominated Safi’s nose. There was no escaping it, and as Safi gazed from the window of her second-story bedroom, she tapped her toes on the sky blue rug. A frantic counterbeat to her heart.

  Fine silk gowns were draped on the large four-poster bed that she rarely slept in. This wasn’t the first time Guildmaster Alix had crafted dresses for Safi—although these were far finer than anything she’d ever received before.

  Footsteps clacked behind her. Mathew. Safi knew that loping stride, and when she turned to her tutor, she found his thin, freckled face was a mask of hard lines, his red hair aglow in the afternoon light.

  Mathew and Habim could not have been more different—in looks or in personality—and of the two, Safi had always preferred Mathew. Perhaps because she knew Mathew regarded her more highly than Habim ever had. They were kindred spirits, she and Mathew. More inclined to act than to think, to laugh than to frown.

  Even without his Wordwitchery, Mathew was a master criminal—a con man of the highest caliber. Habim had taught Safi to use her body as a weapon, yet it was Mathew who’d taught her to use her mind. Her words. And though Safi had never understood why Mathew insisted she learn his confidence skills, she’d always been too afraid to ask—just in case he then decided to stop.

  Like Habim, Mathew currently wore the gray and blue livery of the Hasstrels, but unlike Habim, Mathew wasn’t a servant for Safi’s uncle.

  “Your things.” Mathew flung a familiar bag onto the bed, and Safi made no move to retrieve it—though she did glance at it, checking for the shape of Iseult’s books …

  There they were; a blue corner poked from the top.

  “My shop is destroyed.” Mathew’s lanky form closed in on Safi, blocking her view of the book—or of anything but his green, flashing eyes. “A broken door, broken windows. What the hell-flames possessed you to hold up a Guildmaster?”

  Safi wet her lips. “It … was an accident. The wrong mark hit our trap.”

  “Ah.” Mathew’s shoulders relaxed. Then he suddenly stepped in close and gripped Safi’s chin, like he’d done a thousand times over the past six years. He twisted her head left, right, looking for cuts or bruises or any sign that she might start to cry. But she was unharmed and tears were far, far away.

  Mathew’s hand fell. He rocked back a single step. “I’m glad you’re unhurt.”

  With that single phrase, Safi’s breath whooshed out and she flung her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry,” she murmured into his lapel—a lapel with the wretched Hasstrel mountain bat embroidered on it. “I’m so sorry about your shop.
”

  “At least you’re alive and safe.”

  Safi pulled free, wishing Habim would see it that way too.

  “Your uncle needs you tonight,” Mathew went on, striding to the bed. He yanked one of the gowns off the coverlet, its pistachio silk shimmering in the afternoon sun.

  Safi glared at the dress. It was, to her annoyance, quite beautiful and exactly the sort of thing she’d choose for herself. “Does he need me or my witchery?”

  “He needs you,” Mathew said. “There is a ball tonight, to kick off the Truce Summit. Henrick has specifically requested your attendance.”

  Safi’s gut flipped. “But why? I’m not ready to be a full domna or lead the Hasstrel lands—”

  “It’s not that,” Mathew interrupted, turning his attention back to the dress in his hand … then shaking his head dismissively and draping it on the bed once more. “You’re not needed in that capacity.”

  True.

  “The fact is that we don’t know why Henrick wants you here, but Eron could hardly refuse.”

  Magic shivered over Safi’s skin. False. “Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly. Lethally.

  Mathew didn’t answer but hoisted up a second dress instead—this one thicker and in pale pink. Safi bared her teeth. “You can’t send my Threadsister away and not explain why, Mathew.”

  Mathew held Safi’s gaze for several long breaths, for once seeming as unyielding as his Heart-Thread. Then his posture loosened—and an apology slid into the line of his shoulders. He dropped the gown in a heap. “There are big wheels in motion, Safi. Wheels your uncle and many others have spent twenty years rolling into position. The Truce ends in eight months, and the Great War will resume. We … cannot let that happen.”

  Safi’s head coiled back—this was not what she’d expected. “How could you or my uncle possibly affect the Great War?”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” Mathew replied. “Now get cleaned up, and wear this gown tonight.” The faintest dusting of power coated Mathew’s words, and as he held out a silvery white dress, the Witchmark on the back of his hand—a hollow circle for Aether and a scripted W for Wordwitchery—almost seemed to glow.

  Safi’s nostrils flared. She snatched away the filmy gown, the fabric slipping through her fingers like sea foam. “Don’t waste your magic on me.” Something about her Truthwitchery cancelled out Mathew’s persuasiveness.

  But all Mathew said in return was “Hmmm,” as if he knew more than she could ever imagine. Then he twirled elegantly toward the door. “A maid will arrive shortly to help you with your bath. Don’t forget behind the ears and under the fingernails.”

  Safi bit her thumb at Mathew’s back … but the act of defiance felt empty. Ashy. Her wrath from the carriage was already seeping out and oozing into the floorboards like the blackened oil of the cleaved man’s blood.

  Safi tossed the gown on the bed, and her eyes settled on the corner of the Carawen book. She would fix this mess she’d made. Once she understood Iseult’s message, Safi would pick through her opponents—her uncle, the Bloodwitch, the city guards—and she would estimate her terrain—Veñaza City, the Truce Summit ball.

  Then Safi would fix this.

  SEVEN

  Iseult ducked in to the street behind the wharf as ordered by Habim. Hunching deep beneath the scratchy hood, she wefted her way through horses and carts, merchants and Guild lackeys, and Threads of every imaginable shade and strength. At last, she caught sight of a stamped wooden sign that declared The Hawthorn Canal.

  Iseult recognized it now—Safi had played taro here a few months before. Yet unlike last night, she’d actually won.

  A splash of white beneath the sign caught Iseult’s eyes, glaring and conspicuous against the smear of colors that was a Veñaza City thoroughfare.

  It was a Carawen monk with no Threads. None.

  Iseult’s insides iced over. She froze midstep, watching the monk stride down the street—away from her. He was clearly on the hunt. Every few steps, he would pause and the back of his hood would tilt as if he sniffed the air.

  It was his lack of Threads, though, that kept Iseult immobile. She’d thought she’d simply missed the Bloodwitch’s Threads in the wildness of the fight yesterday, but no—he still bore no Threads.

  Which was impossible.

  Everyone had Threads. End of story.

  “You want a rug?” asked a carpet salesman, pushing in close to Iseult, all sweat-stained robes and heavy breathing. “Mine are straight from Azmir, but I’ll give you a good deal.”

  Iseult flicked up a flat palm. “Back away or I will cut off your ears and feed them to the rats.”

  Normally, this threat served Iseult well. Normally, though, she was in the Northern Wharf District, where her Nomatsi skin went mostly ignored. And normally, she had Safi at her side to show teeth and look suitably terrifying.

  Today, Iseult had none of those things, and unlike Safi—who would have reacted instantly, who would have run at the first sight of the monk—Iseult only wasted more time evaluating her terrain.

  It was in that two-breath pause that the carpet vendor shoved in closer and squinted beneath her hood.

  His Threads blazed into gray fear, black hate. “’Matsi shit,” he hissed, swiping fingers across his eyes. Then he lunged, voice lifting as he tore back Iseult’s hood. “Get away, ’Matsi shit! Get away!”

  Iseult hardly needed that second command—she was finally doing what Safi would’ve done from the start: she got away.

  Or she tried to, but traffic was stopping to ogle her. To close in. Everywhere she turned or jerked, she met eyes locked on her face, her skin, her hair. She jolted back from Threads of gray fear and steely violence.

  The commotion attracted the Carawen’s attention. He stopped his forward trek. Swiveled toward the rising shouts of the crowd …

  And looked directly at Iseult.

  Time stretched out and the crowd shrank back, blurring into a quilt of Threads and sound. For a fraction of a heartbeat that felt like eternity, all Iseult saw were the young monk’s eyes. Red eddied across the palest blue she’d ever seen. Like blood melting through ice. Like a Heart-Thread twining through blue Threads of understanding. Vaguely, Iseult wondered how she’d missed that flawless blue color at the holdup.

  As all of these thoughts careened through her brain at a thousand leagues a second, she wondered if this monk would really hurt her like everyone feared …

  Then the monk’s lips rippled back. He bared his teeth, and the pause in the world fractured. Time flooded forward, resumed its normal speed.

  And Iseult finally ran, bolting behind a gray horse. She chucked her elbow—hard—into its lower rump. It reared. The young woman on its back screamed, and with that burst of high-pitched vocals and the sudden violent, whinnying from the horse, the entire street surged out of the way.

  Orange, frantic Threads flared around Iseult—but she barely registered them. She was already shoving and sprinting for an intersection one block back. There was a bridge over the nearest canal there. Maybe if she could cross the canal, she could lose the Bloodwitch.

  Her feet thrashed through mud, hopped over beggars, skidded around carts, but then halfway to the bridge, she glanced back—and wished she hadn’t. The Bloodwitch was definitely pursuing and he was definitely fast. The same people who’d been intent on slowing Iseult now cleared out of his path.

  “Move!” Iseult shrieked at a Purist with his Repent! sign. He didn’t move, so she clipped him on the shoulder.

  He and his sign went spinning like a windmill. But it worked in Iseult’s favor, for even though she lost speed—even though she was forced to dive beneath a passing litter carried by four men—it looked as if she aimed left, for the bridge. And she heard the Purist bellowing to go after her across the canal.

  So she didn’t go left as planned. Instead, she slung right on her heel and aimed straight back into traffic, praying the monk listened to the Purist and went left. Praying—desperately prayin
g—that he couldn’t smell her blood-scent through these salamander fibers.

  She foisted her hood in place and hurtled onward. There was another intersection coming up—a thick flow of traffic east to west toward a second bridge. She’d have to barrel through, continue straight.

  Or not. Just as she pelted behind a woodcutter’s cart and popped around a cheesemonger’s stall, she hit empty air.

  Iseult tossed her arms wide, teetering toward an unexpected canal of green, sludgy waters almost as packed with people as the streets.

  Then a long flat-hulled pram slid beneath Iseult, and in half a breath, she absorbed the scene below: Shallow deck covered in nets. Fisherman gaping up at me.

  Iseult stopped fighting her fall. Instead, she leaned into it.

  Air rushed against her. White lacey nets closed in fast. Then she was on the deck, knees bending, hands catching herself.

  Something sliced through her palm. A rusted hook, she realized before she scrabbled upright. The pram listed wildly. The fisherman roared, but Iseult was already pumping toward the next passing boat—a low ferry with a frilly red awning.

  “Look out!” Iseult shouted, lunging high and grabbing hold of the balustrade. She hauled herself up as wide-eyed passengers reared back. Blood smeared on the railing’s pickets. Faintly, she hoped this burning slash didn’t make her that much easier to follow for the Bloodwitch.

  She scooted across the ferry in four bounds—it would seem everyone wanted Iseult off the boat as badly as she did. She topped the railing, sucked in a breath while another pram coasted by—this one covered in the day’s mackerel.

  She jumped. Her feet squished and suddenly she was sprawling on silver scales with a face full of gooey eyes. The fisherman shrieked at her—more displeased than surprised—and Iseult hefted herself up to find his black beard bearing down.

  She pushed past—elbowing him in the gut, right as they cruised by a low staircase clumped with pole fishermen.