Thief's Magic

by Trudi Canavan

The woman looked at him and shook her head. “She gets so attached to them. It’s like asking her to replace one child with another.”

  “Should I talk to her?”

  She nodded. “That might help. But not today. Tomorrow. Or the day after.” She looked up at one of the houses. “I’d better go and see how she is.”

  The group fell silent after the woman left. Rielle bit her lip, mystified by the conversation but uncertain if it would be nosy to ask about it. As Errek began talking with Merem, Greya leaned towards Rielle.

  “Monya’s wife is a sculptor,” she said in a low voice. “She’d almost finished the largest commission she’s ever had. It took her many halfseasons. It was … smashed.”

  Rielle sucked in a breath at the thought of all that work ruined. “By whom? Robbers?”

  Greya shook her head. “The priests, during the last inspection.”

  “But … why? Was it offensive to them?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  Greya shrugged.

  “It could be she wasn’t gracious enough,” Dorr said. “Or didn’t offer them a large enough donation.”

  Rielle frowned, guessing that he meant the donations were nothing of the sort. But why would the priests want bribes? Did the sculptors need them to turn a blind eye to something? Like a tainted?

  “It’s not the money,” Jonare added, to nobody in particular. “It’s her setting up with Monya.”

  So when Greya had referred to Dinni as Monya’s wife, she hadn’t made a mistake, Rielle mused. That’s a bit odd, but surely nothing worth punishing them so severely for.

  “Which priests were these?” Rielle asked.

  None of the others replied, instead exchanging glances and shaking their heads. Izare smiled at her sadly and shook his head.

  “It will do you no good to report them,” he told her. “Nothing will change and you will only reveal that you’ve been talking to us.”

  “The priests will always harass artisans,” Dorr added, shrugging. “We’re used to it.”

  “Because people think we’re more likely to be tainted?” Rielle shook her head. “I’d never heard that until Jonare told me. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” Dorr asked. “Most of us will never be rich. Poverty can drive people to do desperate things. As the great poet Barhla said, ‘artists are but a shade away from whores and slaves’.”

  “In Keya I knew whores who used magic to prevent conceiving,” Greya said. She looked up and smiled at all the expressions of discomfort this revelation had produced. “It’s forbidden to use it there as well, of course.”

  “How do they avoid detection?” Jonare asked.

  Greya shrugged. “Stain sticks to a place, not a person. I gather they went somewhere to do it that the priests didn’t go.”

  “Did you tell the priests about them?” Dorr asked.

  “No. People there are more likely to ignore the occasional small transgression, especially if it was for a good purpose.”

  Rielle felt a chill spread through her body and a memory rose of an old woman. “From what I heard, it was a good thing, too. Saved someone’s life. Who’s to say that’s a bad thing, eh?” She shivered.

  “Well, no more talk of magic today,” Izare said. “The festival is supposed to be a time of good cheer.” He looked at Rielle and tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps I should take advantage of Rielle being here to work.”

  Rielle’s heart skipped a beat. As he raised a questioning eyebrow she nodded. “It would be a shame not to, and once the festival is over my aunt may expect me home sooner.”

  “Go on then,” Dorr said, then grinned, “and no need to worry. Your iquo won’t go to waste.”

  Izare stood up. “Leave me at least one bottle.”

  “A bottle!” Jonare said. “You’ll be lucky if we save you a cup.”

  Rising, Rielle smiled at them all. “If you’re gone before we’re done, a good year to you all.”

  To her surprise, they chuckled and exchanged knowing looks. Her face warmed as she realised how they had interpreted her words.

  “Done painting,” she told them firmly, then looked to the sky as their grins only widened. “Angels save my reputation.” She turned to follow Izare to his door.

  “Or at least ensure you have fun sullying it,” Errek called after her. She glared over her shoulder at him, earning another laugh.

  Izare did not seem at all bothered. He opened the door to his house and stepped aside to usher her through. She took a step towards the stairs, but a hand caught her and pulled her up short. Turning, she heard the door shut behind him and felt the warmth of his fingers curled around hers.

  But these things were suddenly unimportant compared to what her eyes told her.

  His gaze was intense, but not in the analytical way he stared when painting her. There was uncertainty and hesitation – which she had never seen. And then a strange, almost crazed light flared in his eyes and he pulled her towards him. Pulled harder than she expected, so that she lost her balance. But instead of falling against him she felt him catch her shoulders … and press his mouth to hers.

  All of her froze except her heart, which did a crazy, impossible flip. Before she had time to recover he pulled away, searching her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, then giggled as she realised her voice hadn’t suddenly deepened – he had spoken the same words at the same time. “You surprised me,” she added.

  “A nice surprise?” he asked.

  Blood and heat were rushing around her body and it was not an unpleasant sensation. “Yes,” she said slowly.

  Being ready for it made the next kiss no less exciting but certainly more … interesting. What he did she mirrored, since he had clearly done this before. It continued for some time, and the barest of pauses separated one movement from the next. Rielle wondered how such a simple action could have so much nuance, and remain so deeply thrilling even as the time in its occupation lengthened. Her awareness gradually spread outward, to the brush of his cheek against hers, to the feel of his back beneath her hands, to the way his fingers moved up to tangle in her hair (where had her scarf gone?), trace the back of her ear, slide gently along her neck, cup her shoulders in his palms, encircle her arms …

  … and then somehow move smoothly from there to her breasts.

  She stilled, not drawing away but no longer kissing him. What was it about this that lit a spark of indignation? Why did this touch set off a warning? She knew she ought to pull away, that this was leading to things she ought not do, yet at the same time she wanted to know what those things felt like.

  His thumbs ran over her nipples. The sensation was not unfamiliar – she could hardly have not noticed that this part of her body had become more sensitive in the last few years – but now it flowed inward and through her, amplified until her whole body was vibrating with it, awakening other feelings in other places that might also like attention.

  At the same time, she had somehow wound up so much in contact with him that she could not help noticing a corresponding, and rather more obvious, physical change in his body.

  Unbidden and unwelcome, words rose up from her memory. Words of her aunt. “People would assume he was doing a lot more than painting a portrait.”

  She gently took hold of his wrists and stepped away. He did not resist. She realised she was breathing quickly. He was, too. They regarded each other for a long moment, then he slowly smiled.

  “Shall we go upstairs?”

  She nodded. “To paint. You have a portrait to do.”

  “And I owe you some lessons.”

  “Yes. Lessons. In painting.”

  He did not move. “Do you think your family will notice, if you continue coming home a little late from temple?”

  “Perhaps. We’ll have to see. We’ll have to make the best use of the time we have.”

  His smile broadened. “Indeed, we will.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “So Mother is tryi
ng to marry you into one of Fyre’s families.”

  Rielle looked up at Inot to see him smiling sympathetically. She sighed, nodded and looked back at the road ahead.

  “Yes.”

  “No luck, then?”

  “Of course not.”

  She heard him chuckle. “Don’t be pessimistic,” he told her. “Love is a great persuader.”

  “For me or for the unlucky man?”

  He laughed. “Either.” Then he fell silent, and she stole a glance at him. He was frowning.

  “What is it?”

  His eyes met hers. “Narmah told me about the tainted.” He shook his head. “It would never have happened if you’d been with someone else.”

  Rielle felt a shiver of dismay. “It was bad luck, that’s all. There aren’t tainted roaming around the city all the time.”

  “Tainted aren’t the only danger, for a young woman.”

  “Is this why you decided to escort me?”

  “Yes. I have a friend to call on, too, but I will be sure to leave in time to meet you afterwards.”

  Her heart sank and she turned away to hide her disappointment. But he’s not staying in Fyre long. I’ll see Izare again in a few quarterdays. We knew I might have to cut my visits shorter anyway, once festival preparations were over. Still, she ached at the thought of not seeing him at all. Then she felt guilty for wishing her brother gone sooner.

  “Was the desert crossing hard this time?” she asked, to change the subject.

  He shrugged. “Just a dust storm. No bandits.”

  “Was the storm as bad as that one you told me about … it must have been three years ago?”

  She had drilled Inot about his life outside the city every time he had visited, as she knew there was little chance she would ever leave Fyre herself. It gave him something to talk to her about, since their different ages meant they did not have a lot in common. Thanks to him, I know how to cross the desert without getting lost, how to treat a tibba bite, find a well and tend the kapo. Which was about as useful to her as it would be for him to learn how to make paint and prepare boards, but he always let her prattle on anyway.

  She didn’t want to talk about painting this time, however. She’d learned nothing new in the last year apart from how to make Izare’s oily paint, and if Narmah heard of that she might guess who Rielle must have learned it from. Instead, Rielle kept Inot talking about travelling, the places he bought cloth and dyes from, and his family. When they arrived at the temple he repeated his promise to meet her, then strode away.

  Inside, most of the other girls had already arrived. Famire was absent, to Rielle’s relief. Tareme and Bayla were caught up in discussing something scandalous that had happened at the Festival Day party. They didn’t stop, either oblivious or not caring that Rielle hadn’t been invited.

  Sa-Baro soon arrived and directed the girls to their seats. When they had settled he began to address them.

  “The Festival of Angels is a time of thanks and marks the end of one year and the beginning of another. As we begin the new year we priests offer the people of the city an opportunity to discuss matters that concern them, and that includes the teachers asking students how they feel about their learning and their future.” The old priest smiled. “I hope that my fellow priests’ claims that I have the easier task will prove true.

  “I will speak to you all in turn. The rest of you will read the chapter on the Angel of Justice. Bayla, you will be first. Come with me.”

  Bayla rose and followed Sa-Baro into a side room for private worship. The other girls exchanged glances. All picked up the Book of Angels and opened it. Rielle followed suit, but from the whispering conversations that soon began she guessed few were actually reading.

  Rielle had read the stories in the book many times, and though she had her favourites she found she could not keep her mind on reading. Each time Sa-Baro returned with one of the girls and selected another she felt a growing tension. What was there to be worried about? Of lessons there was not much to say. They were not difficult and Sa-Baro had never seemed displeased with her progress.

  What she felt wasn’t anxiety, she realised. It was more like excitement. This felt like a rare opportunity to fix something, but she wasn’t sure what. Perhaps she could mention the rudeness of the other girls? Would it achieve anything? No priest could make them want to treat her as an equal.

  If not her fellow students, who else would she like to settle something with? Her home life was as good as she could expect, and any complaints ought to be directed at her local priest, anyway.

  Who else did she spend time with? The answer leapt into her mind.

  Izare and his friends.

  She couldn’t tell the priest about them, yet there was a related matter she could discuss with the priest. She would have to be careful, however.

  Time slowed, then. She used it to consider how she might approach the subject, and what she must avoid speaking of. When Sa-Baro finally called her name a thrill of apprehension went through her. She rose and followed him to the private worship room.

  A large spiritual hung from the wall, and it looked quite old. The figures were all out of proportion and so unrealistic they seemed almost comical. The colours were vibrant, however. It had been painted with good-quality pigments, at least. Sa-Baro directed her to sit on one of the seats and settled on another.

  “So Rielle. You’ve been attending my lessons for a year now. Are you satisfied with your education here?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Are you happy coming here? It is a much longer journey for you than before.”

  “It is, but I do find the lessons more interesting.”

  He smiled, then grew serious again. “I have noticed lately that you sometimes appear relieved when classes finish.”

  Rielle looked down at her hands and sighed. “My parents sent me here in the hope I’d find a husband among the families of the other girls,” she told him.

  “That is probably true.”

  She looked up and met his eyes. “It is true. My mother made it clear to me. She is hardly a subtle woman.” Rielle sighed and dropped her gaze again. “What is also true is it was a waste of time. I’ve overheard conversations, and the other girls have made it clear through hints and suggestions both polite and … less so … that none of the families would consider me a suitable match for their sons.”

  The priest nodded. “Ah. That is not entirely true. Everyone wants their children to better the family status, and marriage is the best way available for young women – all young women. The women see you as a competitor. The men do not.”

  Rielle shook her head. “If any of them consider a wife below their family status an option they are strangely adept at pretending otherwise. If any do, their families are preventing them from meeting or associating with me.”

  Sa-Baro’s shoulders lifted. “Perhaps they would prefer an older son who stands to inherit to marry a woman of equal status – or their priority is an alliance with another family.”

  Rielle paused, then lowered her voice. “The only available men that I’ve been introduced to have been either lecherous, gamblers or drunks, or had some physical or mental limitation. I might have considered some of the latter if they had not behaved as if they thought I was beneath them.”

  Sa-Baro regarded her, his eyes half closed in thought. That he did not argue gave her some confidence.

  “It’s my parents who are set on me marrying above their station, not me,” she told him. “I would accept someone of equal, or even lower, standing if he was honest and kind.”

  He smiled. “Your humility and practicality do you credit.”

  She sighed. “Do they? To tell the truth, if the rudeness of these girls is what I’d be subjected to all the time, I’d rather not marry into the families at all.”

  He frowned and looked towards the main hall. “I will mention their behaviour to their parents. Don’t worry – I will not name you as their target, only suggest that
a general lack of manners has been noted.” He turned back to her. Now, is there a man you have in mind as your possible future husband?”

  Her face warmed at the question and she looked away. I can’t tell him that! Lying to a priest was a terrible thing. But, then, her answer did not have to be specific.

  “Perhaps someone in a trade,” she told him. “Perhaps one similar to my parents’. If my husband’s interests benefited theirs, perhaps they wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t of higher status. A weaver or tailor, perhaps. Or someone with skills that could complement the dyeworks, such as those of an artist.”

  Sa-Baro nodded. “More likely the owner of a weaving house than the weaver himself. An artist? No need to aim that low.” He frowned. “Why an artist?”

  “They understand colour, as all good dyers must.”

  His frown had deepened. He regarded her silently, then lowered his voice. “Have you spoken to Izare Saffre since the day the tainted was captured?”

  She blinked at him in surprise. Had even saying the word “artist” prompted him to suspect she was seeing Izare? I can’t lie, she thought. But I won’t tell the truth unless I have to.

  “He escorted me home the quarterday after … that day, when Mother forgot to send a servant.”

  “And recently?”

  She shook her head, deciding she was justified in assuming “recent” meant in the last few days.

  He nodded and looked away. “That is a relief. I’m sure your parents would not approve of Izare.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Angels save me! That’s the problem, don’t you see?” His eyes briefly widened in alarm. “Not Izare. I mean the families my parents want me to marry into don’t approve of me, but my parents won’t approve of anyone who is not from those families. I’m beginning to think that this is all meant to keep me occupied until I’m too old to marry and the only future left for me is to be a doting aunt to future nieces and nephews and nurse to my mother, father and aunt when they get old.”

  He relaxed then. “I don’t think that is their true purpose. But I will talk to them about it. If you wish.”

  She drew in a deep, slow breath and nodded. Perhaps he would persuade them at least to consider the possibility of her marrying someone outside of the families. Perhaps, in time, their opinion would soften further. Perhaps even as far as considering Izare a suitable husband. Not that Izare has said anything to indicate he wants to marry me. It’s far too soon for that! Another opportunity to have Sa-Baro talk her parents into less ambitious plans for her might not come again, though, which would still be good if her – whatever it was – with Izare never grew to be anything serious.