Chapter 5.
Lorel trailed after the Nashidran soldiers, careful to stay out of sword reach. She was pretty sure they wouldn’t bother to stab her, but yesterday she’d annoyed their lieutenant enough he’d actually cussed at her. At least, it sounded like cussing. The words didn’t make no fraying sense. What did crap like ‘ice giant’s breath’ and ‘dog eater’ mean? She knew lots of poor people who ate dogs. Maybe the thread snipper thought she was that poor. Dad would slip a stitch if anybody accused him of hunting stray dogs for dinner.
All she wanted was somebody to teach her. Was that too much to ask?
The soldiers marched through the postern gate into the training ground.
Lorel speeded up and marched behind them.
The lieutenant grabbed the bronze gate and slammed it shut behind his last man.
Bronze thumped against her nose. The bolt clanged home.
“Hey, open up!” Lorel grabbed the bars and rattled the gate until the whole courtyard echoed. “Let me in!”
Soldiers looked back, grinned, and walked away.
The lieutenant, a middle-aged man no taller than she was, crossed his arms. “Temper tantrums didn’t work yesterday, vulture’s child. Or the day before. Why should they get you in today? Go. Away.” The lieutenant spun on his heel and marched toward the weapons master.
Lorel released the bars and threw up her hands. It had been worth a try. They couldn’t claim she gave up easily.
Everybody knew the Nashidrans wanted to hire local guards. She’d wear them down eventually.
Right now she needed to think up a new way in.
She strolled alongside the stone wall, pretending to hold a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Two old ladies walking toward Market Square smiled at her, glanced at her hands, and rolled their eyes. Noses pointed at the clouds, they crossed the street.
Lorel snorted. Like she wanted those old busybodies’ company to start with. They’d probably rat her out to her mother.
Wood thudded together on the far side of the stone wall, not ten feet away. The soldiers were practicing! She’d finally get to see exactly what they got taught. If only she could see them, she’d learn how to use a sword.
She dashed to the far corner of the courtyard, checked the street for snitches, and made a running jump to the top of the wall.
Below her, soldiers battered at each other with wooden swords. Up and down and around the swords spun, thwacking and thumping, the soldiers grunting and cursing as each blow landed.
She could almost work out a pattern in their movements. Lorel leaned forward, hoping to see more clearly.
The weapons master strolled among the pairs of fighters. He used the flat of his sword to push a soldier’s foot into position, then to knock another fighter’s arm higher.
Lorel drooled. So that was how it should look. She could do that, exactly like that. She swung her arm to copy the soldier’s movement.
And fell off the wall. She thudded to the ground, tried to roll to her feet, but barely managed to sit upright.
Silence. Dead silence. Every soldier in the practice yard stared at her. The lieutenant’s jaw hung open like a street boy trying to catch a fly on his tongue.
The weapons master shook his head and walked away. His shoulders shook like he was laughing. At her.
Fire burned in her cheeks. She stood, brushed dust off her trousers, and pushed her pesky curly hair out of her face. She raised her chin and glared at the lieutenant.
He slammed his mouth shut. “Altrada’s bones , I can’t believe you. Get out, you howling dog eater. Get out before I charge you with treason.”
“I ain’t doing treason, you frayed thread.” Lorel yanked her chin higher. “I just wanna apprentice with you. I’m gonna be a warrior when I grow up.”
The lieutenant stalked toward her.
She edged away from him, toward the postern gate.
“With that performance, you expect me to recommend you for a post?” The lieutenant shook his head as he herded her toward the gate. “We don’t hire children, and the guard won’t ever employ females. You should know that by now.”
“But –”
“Out! Get out of here!” The lieutenant bulled directly at her.
Lorel glanced over her shoulder. All the soldiers backed away, clearing a path for her.
Our blessed Weaver drowned in tears. They thought the lieutenant had slipped clear off the Shuttle. She’d better get away from the frayed thread until he got control of his temper. She could always come back later.
Lorel dashed aside, leaped at the wall, and scrambled over it to the street.
The lieutenant bellowed like an overworked ox on night duty at the seawall.
She heard the weapons master’s laughter. “I wondered how she got in. I suggest you requisition glass for the top of the ramparts.”
Glass would put a crimp in her travels. She shouldn’t have shown off.
Wooden thuds began again as she slumped across the street. Now what could she try? The miswoven lieutenant wouldn’t never give her a chance.
Maybe she’d find a fighter willing to teach her up at Trader’s Inn. All sorts of weird caravans stopped there. She hated she couldn’t understand a word anybody said, but lots of caravan guards hung around the Inn. Maybe she could be a guard apprentice. She was thirteen, old enough to choose an apprenticeship. Though her parents would have to sign for her. Maybe even pay a dower for her.
Weaver’s chamberpot. They’d never pay to let her learn sword work.
But it wouldn’t hurt to ask. She was as tall as a full-grown Zedisti. Taller than most Nashidrans. Maybe she could lie and tell them she’d turned sixteen? Maybe not. She always got ratted out when she lied. But it didn’t hurt to look into an apprenticeship.
Lorel turned the corner onto South River Road and strolled north.
And who did she see but that snarky Nashidran bully. What was his name? Jorjan. Yeah, Jorjan was always good for a fight. And he was a full three years older than her, so she wouldn’t get into trouble if somebody ratted her out again. Not too much trouble, anyway.
She checked the area for Nashidran guards or Jorjan’s gang.
Nobody. Better yet. She didn’t mind two on one, as long as Kraken wasn’t involved, but three guys bashing on her left more bruises than she could hide.
Landing a few bruises on the bully would even the score for getting kicked out of the training yard.
Jorjan walked up Dragora Street at a good clip, much faster than his usual waddle. Was he late? At this time in the morning, where would he be going? If he was late, he wouldn’t want to fight.
Of course, given the last time they’d fought, he might be trying to avoid her.
Lorel snickered and walked faster. He wasn’t going to get away that easy. And he was so easy to tease into a brawl.
Jorjan marched up to a pretty Zedisti girl and bowed.
Now that weren’t no fun. She couldn’t start a fight in front of some girl. Especially one dressed up cute. What a fraying gorgeous outfit!
Lorel looked down at her wool trousers and sighed. That crimson dress would look really stupid on a girl as tall as she was. There must be sixty feet of hemline in the girl’s silk skirt.
Jorjan handed something to the girl. A flower? No, a shiny bracelet. The girl slipped it on her wrist and looked up at Jorjan like he’d given her the Nashidran throne.
Over a cheap bracelet? Now that was thread-snipping weird. There must be more to it than that. What did she see in the turd?
Jorjan bowed again and strolled away, headed down the hill, to the fancy houses in the Nashidran quarter, most likely.
Lorel turned to follow him, but paused. Getting into a fight in the Nashidran quarter was sure to get her in big trouble. And she really wanted to know why the girl got all moony eyed over the Nashidran toad.
So why not ask? She marched up to the girl, opened her mouth, and froze.
Fine cheek bones. Clear olive skin, s
ilky brown hair. Silk velvet jacket, jacquard silk skirt. Silver chains around her wrists, her neck, her waist.
This wasn’t some merchant girl; this lady belonged to the Zedisti gentry. Maybe even the old nobility. No wonder Jorjan got all polite.
Lorel gingerly backed away.
The girl – lady – planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t pretend to be shy. The act doesn’t suit you. What did you want?”
Lorel swallowed hard. “To know why you looked at the toad like that.”
The young lady’s mouth opened, and her eyes fluttered closed. “You mean Jorjan?”
Lorel nodded.
“I’ve heard him called a lot of names, but never a toad.” She cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and looked up at Lorel. “My name is Faye Lesteri.”
Yup, high gentry or nobility. Dad was gonna kill her.
“And you are?”
“Lorel Lyremaker, your grace.” Her voice trembled. She hated that. Hated herself.
The girl snorted, sounding just like a regular person. “Don’t ‘your grace’ me. I don’t rank above any other Zedisti. You are Zedisti, aren’t you? As tall and reddish as you are, you look rather Kerovi.”
Lorel yanked her chin up. “I’m Zedisti!” She looked down at her dark, red-tinged hands, and her shoulders sagged. “My grandparents came from Kerov.”
“No law against that. Kerovi are good workers.”
Lorel stood a little straighter.
“From your name I’d hazard your family makes musical instruments.”
Lorel’s shoulders sagged again. She nodded.
“An honorable profession.”
“Just barely.” Lorel looked, really looked, at the girl’s face for the first time. This Faye could only be a couple of years older than her, fifteen tops. Not really a lady. Not yet.
“I see. What would you rather be?”
“A warrior.” Lorel threw up her hands. The girl didn’t flinch. “I want to be a real warrior, not some soldier. Somebody famous!”
“I see.” Faye studied her, frowning a little. “You do have the build for it. How old are you?”
“Thirteen, old enough to apprentice.” Lorel sighed. “But nobody takes me serious.”
“I see.” Faye tilted her head. “I believe you need a bit of experience before anyone will offer you an apprenticeship.”
Lorel groaned.
“Would you consider becoming a bodyguard?”
“Ain’t nobody gonna hire a thirteen-year-old bodyguard.”
Faye smiled. “Not for real pay, no. But at apprentice wages, say for a farthing and one meal a day, I’ll hire you.”
“You’re sh– Shuttling me.” Shuttle and Loom, this girl couldn’t be serious. Could she?
“No, I’m not teasing you.” Faye shrugged. “Admittedly, I don’t need a bodyguard, but if I achieve my goals I might someday.”
“I don’t take no charity.”
Faye rolled her eyes. “I’m not offering charity. I’m offering practice, for both of us.”
Lorel frowned.
“And I’m offering an excuse for you to get away from the apprenticeship I’ll wager your family wants you to accept.”
Oh. Yeah. There was that. Dad hollered every night because she wouldn’t agree to be his apprentice. “They’ll still complain.”
“Of course.” Faye grinned like she’d won the Weaver’s part in the New Year’s parade. “But they won’t want to give up a connection to the Lesteri family.”
No way they’d cut a link to gentry. Lorel stuck out her hand. “You’re the boss.”
Faye’s pale little hand gripped hers as firmly as a weapons master’s.
Chapter 6.
The wagon shuddered to a halt in front of a huge, square, stone tent. The driver hopped down and trotted toward the front of the caravan.
As soon as he was alone, the nameless boy whispered a chant of gratitude to the Thunderer. After twenty nine days of bouncing around in the wagon bed, jammed between stinky leather sacks and splintery wooden chests, his bones felt like mush.
Right now he didn’t care where he’d ended up. The long journey was finally over. As long as he didn’t look ahead, everything was fine.
The stone tent beside him loomed like a sheer canyon wall. Not a tent, a building. Why did he have so much trouble remembering that word?
Old Gandar rode his mule back along the line of grimy wagons before the dust had time to settle. His shouts directed the teamsters to various buildings.
“You too, boyo,” the caravan master bellowed cheerfully. The old man always sounded disgustingly happy. “Get off that wagon and start moving. Put everything at the left wall of this warehouse. These two loads are yours. If they’re not empty by dark, you’ll spend all night guarding them, you hear me? No more questions. And don’t crush the sacks.”
No more questions. Everybody said that.
The Outcast unlatched the tailgate, slunk down from the wagon bed, and glared at his filthy trousers. How could leather collect so much dirt? He brushed the worst of the road dust from his pant legs, his sleeves, his shirt front. Anything to avoid looking up. He tried to ignore the sprawling city down the hill, but the sandblasted thing tugged at his eyes.
“Who’d have guessed there were enough rocks in the world to build so many stone buildings? Why didn’t they set up tents?” He glanced around to see if anyone had heard him. No more questions. He’d heard those words too many times lately.
But what kind of people were crazy enough to want to build with shameful rock?
He stomped on the road to knock dried mud from his boots. He kicked at the wheel, knocking more filth away. The oxen stared back at him, their ears pricked. He swore they were laughing, so he ignored them while he beat the dirt from his clothing.
When he ran out of excuses, he began to unload the sacks of herbs. It was later than he thought. He’d be working past dark if he didn’t hurry.
But what was the weird green and white plain beyond the city? That couldn’t be grass. It was the wrong kind of green. It rippled like grass. Sort of like grass. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
He forced his attention back to the wagon and tried to keep his back to the city.
If just one person lived in each of those buildings, there must be more people down there than in all the Setoyan plains. Maybe more than a thousand generations of Setoyans. How could so many people live in one place?
The stories the teamsters told about cities gave him vulture dreams. Even now, his gut was twisting into knots.
Lies. They’ve been telling me lies. I refuse to fear night tales. I will walk boldly in this city.
He heard the laughter of the teamsters and held his head higher. I will give them no reason to call me coward. They have no reason to laugh at me. I won’t let them.
I carry enough shame.
He concentrated on unloading the wagon and tried to move as fast as the teamsters.
The Outcast did not look toward the city.
The sun was setting over the weird shimmering plain when he finished unloading the second wagon. He whispered a prayer to the Thunderer asking to be freed from such degrading labor, even though as a nameless Outcast he deserved no better. There were no thunderdrums in the sky, so the Thunderer couldn’t hear him, but he felt better for the words.
A hand gripped his shoulder.
His whole body twisted until he yanked free of claws. He spun away, lunged into shelter, and curled into a tight knot.
A broad, dark form blocked the last sunlight.
He looked up into the ancient, kind eyes peering below the undercarriage. Eyes set in the face of a dragon.
There’s no such thing as dragons.
He shook his head so hard he felt his brains rattle. When his sight cleared, he found himself cowering under the wagon. He didn’t remember even moving.
What was wrong with him? He must have spent too much time in the canyon, springing clear of the bahtdor. And the blasted abu
elo snake. He’d dreamed of the stupid snake, last night.
“You jump like a leafhopper, boyo.” Gandar peered under the wagon and tilted his head. “I never thought I’d see you move that fast.”
He cringed and hid his face in his hands. No, he would not hide. He still had more self-respect than that.
The Outcast lifted his chin, straightened his back, and thumped his head against the mud-splattered undercarriage.
The caravan master chuckled. “That’s all you’ll gain from pride, boyo. Just a sore head.” The old man cleared his throat and rubbed his face.
He tried to glare up at Gandar, but felt his shoulders slump. He sighed, crawled out from under the wagon, wobbled to his feet, and stood as tall as he could. His face burned like he’d stood too close to a bonfire.
The old man shook his head and held out his hand. “Come on, boyo. Grab your pack. I’ll do my best to find you a decent place to live. And remember, keep your knife hidden. Put you in gaol, these Zedisti will, if they catch you with a knife. They’ve got strange laws.”
Sandblast it. When had the old man seen his knife? He’d never taken it out of the sack.
Gandar turned and led him away from the warehouses, through the gloomy streets.
The Outcast grabbed his sack and followed, staying several paces back. He kept his eyes on his feet and tried to avoid tripping over the uneven cobblestones. Did these people turn everything into stone? Didn’t they know that rocks were for slaves?
The caravan master glanced back and raised bushy eyebrows. “Scared, eh? Don’t you dare blubber, boyo.”
What a lightning-blasted insult! “I. Never. Cry.” He crammed swear words back down his throat. The old sand lizard kept saying he wanted to help. No point in yelling. He sucked in a calming breath. “Where are we going?”
“There.” The old man pointed at the largest building. Constructed of rocks, like everything else in the sandblasted city. What was wrong with bone and leather tents? “That’s the Trader’s Inn, where we’ll look for the man I told you about. Have you decided what you’ll tell him? He’ll want your name, at the very least.”
Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1) Page 3