Thief's Magic

by Trudi Canavan

  That means I can set the pace, she realised. Well, then. Let’s get this over with.

  Hoisting the chain, she started down the stairs. As she hoped, the crowd shrank back, allowing her through. Without hesitating, she strode forward. People tripped over themselves in their haste to get away. She saw malicious glee turn to fear.

  Something flew past her head. She flinched from it, too late to have avoided it if the thrower’s aim had been better. Catching an oncoming object in the corner of her eye, she threw up her hands to block it. But the chains pulled her arms up short and something soft and wet smacked into her forehead. The smell of rotten fruit turned her stomach as liquid spilled down her face. She shook the drops off before they could drip into her eyes.

  Cheers burst from the crowd, then more missiles. She paused, crouching, her arms raised in self-defence, and felt a patter against her back and shoulders, some strikes harder than others. When the attack slowed she straightened again and forced herself onward. A moving target was harder to hit. It would be impossible to avoid all of the missiles, but perhaps if she kept an eye out for anything coming straight at her she could protect her face in time.

  The crowd seemed to surround her completely and she realised she had become disorientated. Looking back, she noted the priests walking behind her, Sa-Elem holding the end of the chain and Sa-Gest pushing the cart. A quick, careful search of the buildings ahead told her where Temple Road began and she headed towards it.

  She realised then that she could not set the pace. If she walked too quickly more was thrown at her. At most she could manage a steady walk. The crowd grew bigger and nastier. Not long after she had started down Temple Road something solid hit her shoulder and she yelped with pain.

  A voice boomed out behind her.

  “NO STONES,” Sa-Elem ordered.

  She took a few steps before any more missiles flew towards her. Those that did exploded a handspan from her body as if hitting an invisible wall. Magic! She shivered and resisted the urge to look behind. Stain would be radiating outwards from a priest like an Angel’s halo. She didn’t need a reminder of either. After several steps the missiles began to strike her again, and the crowd cheered in response.

  The same had happened when the abductor had been driven out of the city. A conversation rose from her memory:

  “Why don’t they protect him the whole time?” she had asked Izare.

  “They must keep the crowd happy.”

  She looked at the buildings but if she was near the place they had watched from she couldn’t tell. The crowd lined the streets. People stood in doorways to get a better view. Others hung out of windows. Was Izare among them? She searched the faces, realising that she had been looking for him ever since she’d left the temple.

  Would he come out to watch? Or would he hide away, afraid that people would turn on him for harbouring her? Something trickled out of her hair into her eyes and she wiped it away. She had hoped at first that he would come to see her one last time, but now she hoped he wouldn’t. Something inside her shrank at the thought of him seeing her with her hair cut off and bound with chains.

  Would he visit her in prison? Would her parents? Was it allowed? She had no idea how far away the Mountain Temple was. She’d never heard of it before the examination. Nobody knew where the tainted were taken. Nobody except the priests, that is.

  Four more times she was stung by hard objects. She learned to take advantage of the brief respite that came after to lengthen her stride and cover more ground, though the rope straps of the sandals began to chafe her feet and the weight of the chains made her shoulders ache.

  It was during one of these rare moments of protection that she reached a section of Temple Road where the crowd had thinned out on the left. A few steps later there was nobody linking the street on that side and she saw why.

  The wall of the dyeworks stretched before her. Words had been painted across its surface. She froze in horror.

  TAINTED FILTH.

  Something hard hit her forehead and her sight went dark. She clasped a hand to her head and swayed but managed to keep her feet. She would have a lump there later. There was a lump in her throat, too, though she could not remember a stone striking it. The pain was making her eyes water.

  “It’s not their fault,” she said aloud, though nobody could hear. No, it’s mine. After all the years of hard work her family had put into establishing the dyeworks as the best in Fyre, she had ruined it with one stupid, foolish mistake.

  The missiles had stopped. She forced open her eyes and looked around. Nobody had emerged from the dyeworks. The front door, usually open to welcome customers, was firmly shut. She dragged in a breath and let it out, then forced herself to start walking again.

  They will rebuild, she told herself. They would wait until it was safe then paint over the words. If necessary, they would do it over and over again. After all, they made paint. They had plenty of it. They would also publicly disown her. They probably already had. They had to, if they were to survive this.

  Her parents would not be visiting her in prison.

  Her feet and her head ached, and everything between. At least it would be over soon. It wasn’t far from the dyeworks to the edge of the city. She quickened her pace, ignoring the missiles that added to the muck covering her. Temple Road took a sharp left turn and began to slope upwards. Ahead she could see North Bridge and beyond that the pink- and blue-tinged sand of the desert. The crowd was suddenly determined to use every last rotting vegetable and fruit and fistful of muck it had gathered, but as her feet finally met the wooden surface of the bridge the rain of missiles abruptly stopped. She paused then and turned to look behind her. The priests scowled at her, but she ignored them.

  Fyre, her home, lay before her. She had always wanted to leave, though only to accompany her brother or cousin on one of their business trips, and never permanently. Now she would not see it again. The crowd watched her, jeering and making rude signs. She turned away and started across the bridge.

  It was empty of traffic. Warned about her approach, people waited on the other side. She could hear the priests’ footsteps and the creak and trundle of the cart behind her. Nobody called out to her to stop as she stepped off the bridge, so she continued on down the desert road. It stretched straight towards the horizon, disappearing into the glare and dust long before reaching it. It, too, was empty. Most traffic across the bridge came from the houses that lined the other side of the river, or from towns up- and downstream.

  The road edges were marked by two rows of stones. The surface was paved, but further away the sands covered it in places. That would probably be easier on her feet, though it would make the sandals chafe even more.

  The sounds of the city faded and a quietness settled around Rielle. The sun’s heat radiated from the sand, drying the muck on her. She felt sticky and sore, and was already thirsty, but she did not stop. She found herself listening for the sound of the priests’ breathing and the squeak of the cart, just to know they were still behind her. Finally, after several long minutes, a voice spoke.

  “Stop, Rielle.”

  Obeying, she turned to see that the city was now a low shadow behind the priests. Sa-Mica had spoken her name. The priests closed the distance between them and her. Sa-Gest’s face was slick with sweat from the effort of pushing the cart, she noted. Priests did not abuse the right to use magic given them by the Angels. She felt a small satisfaction at that.

  Sa-Elem came forward and removed all the chains but the loop around her neck. He said nothing. Sa-Mica removed a metal basin from the cart and set it down on the ground, then lifted a large, round-bellied pot and, uncorking it, poured water into the basin. She caught the same faint scent used by the priests when cleaning the temple. Sa-Mica set a bundle down next to the basin.

  “Wash and change,” he ordered.

  Once again, he and Sa-Elem turned their backs. Sa-Gest followed suit. Glancing around, she confirmed that there was nobody else on the road, or
in the sands on either side. As quickly as she could, she tore off the rag shift, knelt and washed herself down. The bundle was a simple tunic, skirt and scarf made from undyed cloth. She dressed, threading the chain through the neck of the tunic, then, bending over, tipped the last of the water over her hair. There was not enough water to clean away all the muck, but it would have to do. Perhaps later she could use sand to scrub away any lingering filth. At least the scarf concealed her tangled, greasy hair.

  Sa-Mica seemed to know when she rose to her feet. He turned and handed her a pack. Behind him, Sa-Gest was shrugging into one as well. The weight that settled onto her shoulders didn’t seem too great, though they ached from carrying the chains. She could feel water sloshing in a container within the pack.

  Sa-Mica had returned the basin to the cart, but ignored the rag shift. He nodded to Sa-Elem.

  “It is done.”

  Sa-Elem nodded. “Safe journeying, Sa-Mica.” He turned to Sa-Gest. “I hope you find the Mountain suits you, Sa-Gest.” Then without even glancing at Rielle, he turned and strode back towards Fyre.

  The scarred priest moved to stand in front of Rielle.

  “We have a day’s ration of water each. If you run you might escape us, since it is very easy to lose someone in the dunes. Should you return to Fyre they will know you by the chain. If you head in any other direction you will soon die of thirst. With no water, no amount of magic will save you in the desert.”

  Then he gestured to the road. “Walk,” he ordered.

  She knew from the countless stories of desert survival from her brother that he spoke the truth. Turning around to face the desert, she set her gaze on the dust-obscured horizon and began to walk.

  PART SEVEN

  TYEN

  CHAPTER 20

  Tyen gripped the wheel of the aircart tightly. Neither Veroo nor Sezee had spoken for a long time, their chatter dying away the first time the capsule had come close to colliding with one of the snow-wrapped peaks. He had lost count of the moments they’d nearly encountered some feature of the high mountains over … what must be several hours now.

  It must look as if his driving skills were lacking to anyone who had never tried to steer an aircart. Steering was not a precise art, not even on a calm day. The propellers and rudder provided a limited amount of control, but their efficacy depended on the wind. Flying with the wind was easiest. Flying into it was a matter of power against the wind’s force. Flying side-on to the wind made arriving at a particular destination a matter of compensation and guesswork.

  When the wind was prone to change direction constantly it was like guiding a drunken man through a dense forest. Tyen might steer a little more to the right to allow for a wind in that direction then find he was now being buffeted from the left. Magic was often needed to nudge or push the cart away from obstacles. Unfortunately, Veroo had too little experience to predict where and when such assistance might be needed. Only Tyen could feel the effects of a wind shift and know if non-magical steering would be enough.

  The temptation to pump the capsule full of more air so that they could rise higher was strong, but he dared not try it. If they passed out in the thinner air the capsule would rapidly cool and the cart descend, and he might not wake in time to stop it plunging into the icy heights.

  A ridge now blocked their path, sharp and jagged like the side of a knife turned to face them. He steered towards the lowest point, then, as the nose of the cart was blown left, he turned the wheel to the right to compensate.

  “More heat,” he said.

  That, at least, was one task he had been able to give Veroo. His stomach swooped a little as the cart began to rise. He watched the ridge draw closer, trying to judge if he was approaching too quickly for them to ascend in time. He’d knocked snow off such obstacles before to gain more clearance, but the top of the vertical face ahead was too narrow and steep to hold any. Using magic to push left and right was easier than moving the entire cart upward.

  The top of the ridge bore down on them. It looked about the height of the cart’s nose, then at a hundred paces or so away it seemed about the level of the chassis’ base. The wind shifted to come from behind them, speeding their approach. There would be no steering away now. He created a shield under the chassis and moulded it close to allow them as much clearance as possible. It would protect the cart, but bouncing off the rocks could still do damage, to the cart and its occupants.

  A sudden gust of wind pushed them to the right and Tyen cursed. The cart wobbled as he span the wheel to the left. A vibration went through the cart as the rocks passed beneath it, dragging along his shield and slowing them down. He held his breath.

  And then they were over the ridge. Tyen let out a sigh of relief and behind him heard Sezee and Veroo do the same. He turned to grin at the two women, and they smiled back.

  Turning back, he realised that, for the first time since they’d left in the early hours of the morning, no high peaks stood in their way.

  “We’ve made it,” he said. “We’re on the other side of the range.”

  The arms of a valley widened before them. The further they reached, the gentler and smoother they were, eventually shrinking to a flat plain. Threads of reflected light converged to form a river meandering below. It was tempting to follow the valley, but, from what Vella had recorded of Gowel’s map of the south, Spirecastle was built into an outcrop of a cliff somewhere to the west of where the adventurer had crossed the mountains. If they had crossed near to where Gowel had, they need only follow the line of the range and they would reach it. It was there that Veroo would most likely find a source of magical training.

  “You’ve been driving for hours. Would you like me to take over?”

  He turned to see Veroo standing behind him and nodded. The driving from here should be easy, and it would be good to consult Vella again before they encountered any of the southerners. He’d had no chance to talk to her for days. Orn’s younger children had been relentlessly curious about everything he and the women possessed. He’d caught them trying to get into his satchel several times after he had, perhaps unwisely, taken Beetle out of it to show them. Though they had left it alone after the insectoid had stung one of them, Tyen decided it was better Vella stay safely out of sight.

  Once out of the seat, he helped Veroo take his place, freeing her skirt when it caught on a protruding bolt. She looked down, unperturbed by the view below her boots.

  “Where should I head towards?” she asked.

  “Follow the mountains.”

  “Keep this high?”

  “A little lower if you like, but well out of the range of arrows,” he said. “I don’t know if all the locals are friendly.”

  Which was another reason to head for Spirecastle. It was one place in the Far South Tyen knew of where people from the north would receive a friendly welcome, thanks to Gowel’s previous visit. He started for his favourite reading position, back against the rear struts. Sezee was sitting within the netted section; she smiled as he stepped over her but said nothing.

  Taking Vella out of his satchel, he straddled the chassis, leaned back on the rear struts and opened her cover.

  Hello, Tyen. I see much has happened since we last spoke.

  Yes. He thought back to the last time he’d communicated with her. We were chased and attacked by Academy sorcerers, but made it to shore.

  Where you landed the aircart in a tree. Sezee found me, remember?

  Ah, that’s right. He felt a twinge of curiosity. Did you read much from her mind?

  Yes.

  I shouldn’t pry, but … is there anything important I need to know about them? Some secret that could prevent me making the south my home? Such as … Veroo is an Academy spy or Sezee plans to rob me?

  Veroo is no spy, at least as far as Sezee knows. The women pose no danger to you. Sezee is, however, in love with you.

  He stared at the words, reading them again, then once more. Before he could stop himself, he looked up at Sezee. Sens
ing his gaze, she glanced up but he quickly looked down again before he was forced to meet her eyes.

  For how long?

  It is hard to pinpoint the beginning of affection. She realised it for herself when you brought down the aircart and stole it, but she liked the look of you since she first saw you.

  An odd mix of gratification and disbelief replaced his surprise. This self-assured, good-looking woman liked the look of him? And more. She was in love with him? Surely it couldn’t be so.

  But if Vella says so, he thought, it must be true.

  An urge to look up at Sezee rose again, but he resisted it. Schooling his expression in case she was watching, he closed Vella, slipped her in his pocket and looked towards the mountains, hoping he appeared lost in mundane thoughts.

  So Sezee loves me. It was a not unpleasant surprise. She was a bold, admirable woman. Attractive, too. Once he would only have considered another Leratian woman a suitable romantic partner, but now that seemed ridiculous – another stuffy Leratian attitude that he’d not questioned until recently. Compared to all the women he’d met in his short life, Sezee was warm and approachable, smart and interesting. But, then, he’d never had the chance to know Leratian women as well as he had come to know Sezee. Perhaps given the chance, he’d have found someone who was as good company. But that chance would not come now – and he didn’t care that it wouldn’t. He would be proud to have Sezee as his wife.

  And yet, even as he thought that, he knew something was missing.

  “Good company”, “approachable” and “interesting” got nowhere near the words he’d heard other men use to describe the women they were infatuated with. Words like “fascinating”, “adorable” and “enchanting”. While he liked and admired her a great deal, his feelings towards her were not strong enough to be described as true, passionate love.

  He considered the weight of Vella in his pocket. He’d put her there partly to be alone with his thoughts, partly to shield her from them – as if he feared she would be jealous, even though he knew she could not feel any such emotion.