Thief's Magic

by Trudi Canavan

  “What have you done?!” she demanded.

  The woman’s expression was hard and amused. “What you asked for.”

  “I thought you would teach me…”

  “What? A trick to use each time you couple with a man? The worst places you can use magic are those you and others frequent, as they are more likely to detect the Stain. It is safer and more efficient to use magic once. You now need only use it when you are ready to undo the change I have made.”

  Rielle stared at the woman in horror. She has made me infertile! And the only way to reverse it was to use magic. The pain in her belly was an ache now, more like the pain she occasionally felt at the bleeding part of her cycle. I should leave. Escape before she does any more damage. But the thought of the childless women she’d known and their deep sadness, and of Jonare saying how much Izare loved children, kept her motionless.

  I’d only need to use magic once. She wrapped her arms around her abdomen, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Just once.

  Then she raised her eyes to meet the corrupter’s.

  “Tell me what I have to do.”

  CHAPTER 10

  At first Rielle walked in a daze.

  What have I done? When I die the Angels will know I have used magic. They will rip my soul apart.

  But she had only used the tiniest bit of magic. Enough to demonstrate she had learned what the corrupter had taught her. Enough to make a tiny, fist-sized ball of Stain. Would the Angels forgive such a small act? Would they understand that she had sought the corrupter out with the intent of turning the woman over to the priests?

  Or had the tiniest use of magic, no matter to what purpose, shut the door on any chance of her existence after death? Have I made the ultimate sacrifice for the benefit of others? For people who would fear and reject me if they knew?

  It was incredible that it was still early afternoon, the sunshine warming her face. It ought to be night, the city shrouded in a darkness appropriate to forbidden, secretive deeds. People were everywhere. Those who looked at her frowned, as if seeing through her skin to the tainted soul beneath. Or perhaps her guilt was too easily read in her face.

  They can’t know, she told herself. Only the Angels know. They are the only ones who ever will. Apart from the corrupter. She couldn’t even imagine telling the priests what she had done. They needed to know nothing more than that she had found the corrupter.

  Who would tell them that Rielle had used magic, if she was caught.

  They won’t believe her, she told herself. But they would ask Rielle if it was true. If she denied it she would be lying. If I tell the truth they’ll send me away. Away from Izare and my family. And then what was the point of her learning to undo what the woman had done to her?

  A flash of anger briefly held back the fear. She had no right to do that! But she could see now how smart the corrupter had been. Her victims risked the discovery of their own crime if they betrayed her. Only someone truly willing to sacrifice everything could not be caught in such a trap.

  Perhaps the Angels will forgive me, she thought. Priests used magic all the time, though they purified themselves afterwards. She wished she knew what those rituals entailed. Her skin itched for a bath. But it was unlikely to be a mere physical cleansing. More likely it involved offerings and prayers. Perhaps a robust version of what the priests suggested for those who sought forgiveness for other misdemeanours or mistakes. She could do both – more of both – though not so much that the priests might suspect her reasons.

  At last she reached Temple Road. The short distance she had to walk to the dyeworks seemed to have grown. Finally, she pushed through the door. One of the servants was serving a customer. He gave her an odd, wary look. She ignored him, once again having to push aside the certainty that her stained soul was visible to all, and headed for the door to the family’s private rooms. A bell rang, indicating that another server was required.

  The door to the receiving room opened and her mother leaned out, but instead of looking around for the customer her gaze snapped straight to Rielle.

  “You’re here at last. Come in here now.”

  Rielle froze, staring at her mother, her stomach sinking as she read anger in her voice and face. How does she know?

  “Now,” Mother repeated.

  She can’t know, Rielle told herself. Forcing herself to move, she walked into the room. Her father stood there, arms crossed and face set in a scowl. Narmah sat behind him, head bowed and brow furrowed as always when Rielle had done something wrong or foolish.

  “Why are you so late?” Mother demanded.

  Rielle turned to her. “I heard of a shop that sold beautiful scarves,” she said. “I thought I might buy one.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You are lying.”

  “I am not!” Rielle protested. “I … I’ll take you there. The shopkeeper will remember me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Father said. “Sa-Baro said that he saw her leave. Where she went afterwards isn’t the issue.”

  Rielle frowned and looked from one face to another. “Sa-Baro was here?”

  “Yes,” Mother answered. “He told us who you have been visiting, on your way home. That artist.”

  A shock of dismay went through Rielle, followed by a traitorous relief. They didn’t know about the corrupter. How could they? But they knew about Izare. She frowned. How did they know about Izare?

  “Rielle, dear.” Narmah rose to her feet, walked over and took Rielle’s hands. “I don’t doubt that this young man is charming. You may not care that he is so much beneath this family in status, but the life of an artist is hard, even for those who succeed at it. Income is unreliable and big commissions rare. You would be poor most of the time. Would you really want to raise children in those conditions?”

  Rielle opened her mouth but did not speak. She needed time to think, and behaving as if dumbstruck might buy her some time. What had they truly told her? That Sa-Baro had told them she was seeing Izare? Or had he? Nobody had said Izare’s name yet. Perhaps Sa-Baro was jumping to conclusions after their meeting.

  “You’ve got this all wrong.” She turned to Mother. “I told Sa-Baro how you wanted me to marry into the families, but they were making sure I never met any but the worst of their eligible young men. He agreed that it was better I marry someone of equal status than someone higher who was a drunk, or a gambler, or who was cruel or lech—”

  “Oh, don’t exaggerate,” Mother said. “They can’t be that bad or their families wouldn’t be rich. We all have to put up with a few faults in our husbands. It will hardly matter that he has a few indulgences if he can afford them.”

  Rielle felt her heart shrink inside. So this was all that her mother wanted for her? To put up with a horrible husband in order to be rich and increase their family’s prestige, with no care at all for her happiness? Was there any use arguing? She turned to her father. “I suggested another trader might be more suitable. Perhaps even someone who could work here. And, I admit, I suggested someone like an artist but only as an examp—”

  “You would have us take in this artist?” Father asked.

  “I said it only as an example. It’s become very clear I need to consider all options, considering where I come from.”

  That he didn’t object to her reference to the family’s status told her he wasn’t listening. “So are you saying that this artist the priests followed you to – this Izare – is not someone you seek to marry?” he asked. “Why were you with him today?”

  She hesitated. So they didn’t know for certain her reason for visiting Izare. But Sa-Baro … Sa-Baro had followed her. The hurt of betrayal was followed quickly by anger. She gritted her teeth and held it back. She had known all along it was far too soon for them to embrace the idea of her marrying Izare.

  “Izare is teaching me to paint,” she said firmly. “I asked him to give me a few lessons, that is all.”

  “Without our permission.”

  Rielle pulled o
ut of Narmah’s grip. “Yes. Izare offered to escort me home when you wouldn’t even spare a servant mere days after I was attacked. Yet you place me among people who look down on us, and put me in the company of men who have used their influence to try to ruin me for marriage.”

  He frowned. “Have they—?”

  Mother sniffed. “She’s lying. They wouldn’t dare.”

  The look he gave her was doubtful, but not doubtful enough. He straightened and turned to Rielle. “You are right that we should have sent a servant to escort you home. All I can say to that is you seemed recovered. I took you to be possessed of enough good sense and fortitude, and the town safe enough, for you to continue making your way home alone. But I see now that the incident with the fugitive has confused your judgement. You now see threats and prospects where there are none.”

  “I don’t—” Rielle began.

  “Yes, Rielle,” Narmah agreed. She smiled sympathetically. “If the girls have been mean to you and Izare so kind it is no wonder you have come to doubt our plans for you. You must not judge everyone in Fyre’s great families by their actions. Not everyone can be as bad as you say. There will be a nice man there for you. You will find him – and that won’t happen if you ruin your reputation with this artist.”

  A tightness was growing around Rielle’s throat. She threw up her hands. “I only wanted painting lessons!”

  “Even if that were true, it’s not how others will see it,” Mother pointed out. “Sa-Baro promised not to speak of your association with Izare to anyone and he has not heard any rumours about you. You have a second chance.”

  Have I? More likely he’ll spread the news about, considering how trustworthy he’s proven to be so far. Rielle swallowed against the constriction. And then what? The families will refuse to associate with us, or use the scandal as an opportunity to marry off a son nobody would willingly accept.

  “You will not leave here except with an escort. We will have you taken to and from temple classes from now on, to ensure that no further harm can be done by this Izare,” Father added. “Even if we have to hire someone extra to manage it.”

  Rielle’s heart began to race. I’m never going to see Izare again. I won’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

  Narmah patted Rielle on the arm. “I’m sorry, Rielle. You will forget him eventually.”

  Irritated, Rielle moved out of Narmah’s reach. No, she thought, he will forget me. He must have known this could happen. He will have hardened his heart to it. She thought of his words on the day of the festival. It seemed like many halfseasons ago. “I want you, but I would never want you hurt or diminished because of me, Rielle. I can’t do both, if you have to choose between me and your family.”

  If he hadn’t cared about her he could have lured her into bed and had his pleasure, then cast her off, knowing that nobody would force him to marry her. But though he’d known something would eventually separate them, he’d held back, not wanting the inevitable end to cause her harm.

  But it has. Or it will. Not only the selfish pain of the heart, but the doom of being passed off to the first man who consents to be burdened with me. Mother will never believe that any ill-character trait, no matter how ghastly, isn’t worth enduring for money and status. And Father will clearly never believe anything is as bad as I say it is.

  She could barely breathe now. She knew the sensation of choking was panic. It was the fear of a creature thrust into a cage, facing captivity for the rest of its life. Struggling in the hope its captor’s grip would slip and it would be free.

  Free. She imagined herself running out of the door and into the city. To Izare. If not for ever, then at least to say goodbye.

  Why not? Nobody was between her and the door. It might be the last chance she had.

  They did not move as she dashed away. She caught a glimpse of them standing, wide-eyed with surprise, before she was dodging the two customers in the shop and pushing out of the main door.

  The noise of Temple Road pressed in on her. It was busier than when she had arrived. She wound between carts and pedestrians. The gleefulness of her successful escape quickly dissolved into uncertainty. What am I doing? I can’t run away from my family! she thought. But she did not stop. I need time to think, she told herself. To know, if I go back, that it was my choice.

  As she reached the other side of the road she headed towards the nearest side street. From behind she heard a shout. Looking back, she caught a glimpse of three men standing outside the dyeworks door: her father and two servants. One of the servants saw her and pointed.

  She dashed into the side street and kept running. The streets opposite the dyeworks were more open and regular. While she would not get lost here, neither would her pursuers. It would be easier to lose them once she got to the poorer areas.

  At every step she expected someone to step out in front of her, or come up from behind, but all the people she saw were strangers, all regarding her with, at most, mild curiosity. Streets narrowed and became a tangle, but when they became unfamiliar it was not for long. Soon she would reach Izare’s house, but at the thought she realised it was obvious she would run to him. Her father and the servants would look for her there.

  She stopped. Would she reach Izare before they did? Father probably didn’t know where Izare’s house was. Sa-Baro might have told him, but for anyone unfamiliar with that part of Fyre it would still take time to locate it. She ought to get there first.

  What then? She couldn’t stay there. Father would arrive and have the servants drag her home. Where else could she go?

  Would Izare’s friends help her? They had no reason not to, as far as she knew. Rielle started towards the old house where Greya and Merem shared rooms. Izare had pointed it out to her once, when he’d escorted her through the city. She walked slowly, pulling her scarf forward to shade her face and checking the street ahead before turning each corner.

  When she reached it, she paused to overcome doubt. Deep cracks indicated it had been years since the mud rendering had been applied. Dirty children wearing rags gathered in doorways, and older residents eyed her speculatively. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to step through the entrance. Climbing the stairs, she stopped before the door she thought was the right one, listening to the muffled sound of voices within. Then she took a deep breath, and knocked.

  Silence followed, then a murmur and the sound of scraping wood. Footsteps grew louder, then a voice spoke as the door swung inward.

  “He’s not here—” Merem stopped, his eyes widening as he saw her. “Rielle!” he exclaimed.

  “Rielle?” a female voice repeated. Greya stepped into view, then grinned and beckoned. “Come in.”

  As Rielle stepped inside Merem closed the door, then both he and Greya looked up at the ceiling. It was covered in cracked and flaking plaster, and as she watched, a piece of it lowered, swivelling down to reveal a familiar face.

  “Rielle.” Izare said. He did not smile. His head vanished into the darkness above and a pair of shoe soles appeared. He dropped down, grabbing Merem for balance as he landed.

  Rielle could not help smiling. His hair and clothing were covered in dust. But as he looked at her she felt all humour vanish and in its place came an unsettling feeling of mingled terror and happiness and doubt. He seemed … uncertain. Wary.

  “The priests know you’ve been visiting,” he guessed.

  She nodded. “Sa-Baro had me followed. He told my parents. They said I couldn’t see you any more.”

  He stared at her, then the corner of his lips quirked upwards. “Yet here you are.”

  “Yes.”

  His frown disappeared. He ran a hand through his hair, then, noticing the dust in it and on his clothes, began to brush it off.

  Rielle looked up. “What were you hiding from?”

  “Your family. The priests.”

  “So you already know.”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t an inspection. It was Sa-Gest come to tell me not to go near you again.�
��

  She realised she hadn’t considered what might happen to Izare. “Did he break anything?”

  He shook his head. “In too much of a hurry. Or he wanted to leave it to your family’s servants.”

  “I don’t think Father would do that.” Or would he? She had barely begun to accept what the priests did to the artisans during their “inspections”. It was suddenly not so hard to imagine her family taking revenge on Izare. Thinking of the paintings in his house, she winced and hoped he’d had time to hide some of them before he’d left. Especially his portrait of her.

  She felt guilty then. She had brought him so much trouble, even if he had invited it. How could she ask him to suffer more, or worse? How could she ask his friends to?

  “Will they come here?” she asked.

  He looked at Greya, who nodded. “Probably.”

  “I should go.” But where? She looked at each of them in turn. “Where can I go?”

  “That depends on what you intend to do,” Merem said.

  “I don’t know.” Rielle shook her head. “I don’t want to cause any more trouble. But … I don’t want to go home. I think … I just need time to think.”

  The room fell silent, then Izare smiled.

  “I know a place that might suit.” He stepped forward and took her hand. “Even if all you want is a chance to say goodbye,” he murmured.

  She looked at him and felt her heart soften. “And if I want more?”

  He smiled in that way he always did before kissing her. “Let’s take things one step at a time.”

  Her face burned. “I didn’t mean … At least not…”

  “I know.” He put a finger to her lips, then turned back to the others. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he took her hand and pulled her out of the door, down the stairs and out into the sunshine. “We must hurry, but not attract attention,” he told her. “The secret to that is to look more like people who need to get to somewhere than get away from somewhere.”

  He took a route that wove back and forth, sometimes going in a full loop. Time and parts of the city passed in a blur. At first she was terrified of running into priests or her father and the servants, but as hours passed and nobody apprehended them she began to hope that they might evade capture. By then she was far from familiar streets, but none as shabby or threatening as the worst of the poor quarter.