Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1)

by D J Salisbury

  He tried to control his laughter. Truly he did. But the expression on the old man’s face, half serious and half playful, made him clutch at his ribs and giggle.

  “Not stew?” Trevor stalked close to the fire and peered into the kettle. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been practicing the stir-the-soup chant on my shirts.”

  “That’s laundry?” Trevor threw up his hands and tangled his fingers in his hair. “In my good pot?”

  Viper nodded through gasps of laughter.

  Trevor scowled at the bubbling pot. He glared at his giggling apprentice. “It is time you acquired better discipline. That being the case, I’ll test you on the first set of chants tonight. We shall start on a new set tomorrow.”

  Blast. He sat upright, and his laughter vanished

  The old sorcerer cast one last glare at the boiling pot and stomped out of the kitchen.

  Sandblast and wind blast his foolish mouth. Sure, he could stir a pot, but the dust hadn’t moved. At least, he hadn’t moved it. He could open a door, chase off a fly, or turn a page in a small book, but he couldn’t make any of the other chants work.

  As Lorel would say, his thread was snipped.

  Chapter 32.

  The next afternoon, Faye and Lorel dropped in to visit. Unfortunately, it was his day to cook, but even distracted by Faye’s perfume he couldn’t do much damage to baked chicken. Much more damage than usual, anyway. “I’ll be finished here in a minute.”

  Faye pried the slimy knife out of his hand and handed him a soft towel. “Chicken can’t cook evenly if you hack it up like that.”

  Oh. That was the problem. He wiped his hands clean and wished he’d paid more attention to his mother’s cooking. But that had been his sisters’ job. They got so mean when he showed too much interest in anything they considered important.

  “Lorel, wipe those feathers off your fingers and hand me the salt.” Faye deftly dismembered the second chicken. “No, not that one, it’s the blue jar two rows over.” She tucked the chunks of chicken into a glass cook pan as nimbly as a magician packing his trick case after a particularly successful show.

  She didn’t complain about feathers in the meat, so he must have plucked them all out this time. Of course, he’d skinned it to be sure. Trevor got really snarky when he got a mouthful of pin feathers. What was wrong with a little extra fiber?

  Lorel thumped the salt jar next to the pan, stalked away from the counter, and stopped to draw finger pictures in the flour on Trevor’s kitchen table. Why hadn’t Faye turned the chicken bits over in flour? He’d done that dutifully ever since she’d suggested it, ages ago.

  Maybe he’d better stick with bread and cheese on his nights to make dinner. The rules of cooking were beyond human comprehension. Or at least, beyond male expertise. Even Lorel cooked better than he did, when she remembered to lower the heat.

  He wandered over to the hearth and picked up the book he’d been reading. He was so behind in his history lessons, he might never catch up. Praise the Thunderer, Trevor had forgotten his threat of a test and started a new experiment instead.

  “It ain’t fair.” Lorel drew a sword on the table. “I come to visit and you put me to work cooking.”

  Flour trickled onto the floor. That was going to be a mess to clean up. Well, he could try the sweep-the-floor chant again. Maybe this time it would work the way it was supposed to.

  “I have information that might make helping me worth your trouble.” Faye stirred together a sauce of olive oil and Trevor’s dried herbs and poured it over the chicken. “That is, if you’ll stop whining and if Viper can get his nose out of that book.”

  “I’m listening.” He wasn’t reading, he’d only picked it up to move it. And so he wouldn’t stare at Faye’s every move. He suspected that watching her made her nervous. Actually, Lorel said it made Faye nervous. “How do you manage to make cooking look so easy?”

  Faye frowned at him. What now? Wasn’t he allowed to say anything nice to her?

  “Jorjan is leaving for Na tomorrow.” She tucked the pan inside the brick oven.

  Viper dropped the book on the floor.

  Lorel’s butt thumped into a chair.

  Faye picked up a small knife, waved it dramatically at her audience, and started peeling a little red potato.

  Tomorrow?

  He grabbed the book up and laid it on the table, but snatched it up and wiped the flour off with the hem of his shirt.

  Faye handed him a damp towel.

  “Tomorrow. Shuttle crack the Loom,” Lorel swore softly. Faye shot her a dirty look but didn’t correct her this time.

  Lorel leaned back. The wooden chair creaked. “That don’t give us much time.” She frowned and chewed on the end of her braid.

  “I found out this morning at work.” Faye tossed the potato into a pot. “Apparently his father decided to send him away just yesterday. It’s time to make a real soldier out of him, by sending him to the emperor’s court.”

  Viper swabbed the table clean, and wished he could wipe Jorjan out of the world as easily as he wiped up flour. Jorjan would never be a real soldier, or a real man. He was too thoroughly a monster.

  Faye snatched up another potato and peeled it even faster than the last one. “That’s the gossip at the firm, but I received reliable information from a friend who works for Jorjan’s mother.” Strips of peel remained on the third potato when she tossed it into the pot. “Poor Ganwi is so upset that her darling boy is leaving home. She’ll never see what a dreadful person he can be. She still hasn’t forgiven me for turning him away.”

  Faye snagged the dirty cloth from his hand, somehow not spilling a grain of flour, and hurled it into the laundry bucket. “Do either of you have any suggestions for teaching Ganwi’s handsome son a little humility?”

  Viper stared at his dusty toes and ragged leggings. Did he really want to admit that he’d disobeyed Trevor’s orders? That he’d failed at things he should know because he’d been enamored with magician’s tricks? That he’d studied something so useless that Trevor couldn’t stand the mention of it?

  But it wasn’t worthless. And he’d noticed an interesting pattern while he’d waited on that old Kerovi trader. He’d bet that one of those wealthy Nashidrans knew Jorjan’s father. Maybe one was Jorjan’s father.

  He straightened his back. “Don’t ever mention this to anyone, especially not to Trevor, because he doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t believe it any way. Swear it?”

  Both girls nodded solemnly.

  “I can hold a fair illusion.” Viper fought to hold nervous elation out of his voice. “Two at a time if I feel safe.” He caught a shaky breath and attempted a wicked smile. “I have a plan that should send Jorjan running with his tail to the deathwind, and set his whole gang on the Coward’s trail right along with him. If you trust me.”

  Faye closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and nodded.

  “Magic stuff?” Lorel rolled her eyes, but she grinned, too. “It’s about time we taught Jorjan a lesson. Start talking, kid.”

  Viper coughed. It wasn’t much of a plan. They’d have to improvise. “First you need to go scouting for us.”

  ˜™

  Lorel turned off Imperial Boulevard into Merrypenny Avenue just before the clock tower struck six. Right on time. She’d be able to report back before full dark.

  Like most of the kid’s plans, this one was short on details, and even shorter on time, though that weren’t his fault. Still, she only had an hour to scout out the field of engagement.

  She’d talked Faye out of coming down with them. Weaver knew, Jorjan was likely to be suspicious of them anyway, but the boss would be safe and in public tonight. All her fancy friends would talk about seeing her at the party.

  With any luck, the boss wouldn’t get carried away with being memorable.

  She pulled her hood over her face when the drizzle turned into real rain. It was warm enough, and she didn’t mind getting wet, but rain in her eyes would mess up her re
connaissance. Besides, she didn’t want nobody to see her in this district. If she got ratted out, Dad would kill her. Then he’d ground her forever.

  Not many people were on the street this late in the afternoon. Not enough to mess with her, but just enough she blended into the foot traffic. She didn’t want to be down here when the night crowds showed up. Rich folk were a lot harder to reason with than poor ones, and hitting them got her in so much trouble.

  She strolled down the avenue with her head held high. A couple of merchants and a guard glared at her. With her new cloak and boots, she didn’t look poor, but she still didn’t fit in this district. Maybe she should curve her shoulders some, like her brothers did when they wanted some rich guy to buy something.

  The jewelry shop guard stopped staring at her. The merchants started arguing like she didn’t exist. Weird, how such a little thing changed how folk thought about her.

  The kid’s building was only a block or two away. How did he even know about this part of town? He surely didn’t belong down here. It was a wonder some slaver hadn’t grabbed him up and carried him off.

  Maybe the daytime merchants kept an eye on him. People getting hauled off into slavery would mess up the Pleasure District’s reputation.

  Behind her, boots marched in rhythm. Weaver’s chamberpot. Of all times for a patrol to show up. She’d love to tweak their tails again, but getting noticed down here would snip her thread. Might as well make a detour.

  She eased clear of foot traffic to duck into Pennydown Alley, sprinted past three doorways and a woodpile to Downdilly Alley, and whisked around the corner. A quick peek back showed no one was following her. Good. Now she could get on with her mission.

  A callused hand clamped over her mouth. A second hand slid around her waist.

  Weaver’s blood. Stupid drunks. She thrust her elbow hard into his gut.

  He grunted.

  Pain shot up her arm. Her elbow tingled, went numb.

  Was the frayed thread wearing armor under his jacket? In the middle of town? That was cheating.

  Leather-covered arms squeezed her back tight against his chest. The scents of wet wool, new leather, and Kerovi brandy tickled her nose. No wonder she hadn’t noticed him. He didn’t smell like a stinky drunk. Piss and puke usually gave them away.

  The frayed thread pushed back her hood and stuck his tongue inside her ear.

  Yuck. “Stop that, Loom Lint.”

  He laughed. One pale, greasy hand slid up her chest while the other clamped back over her mouth. What, did he think she planned to yell for help? With a patrol not two blocks away?

  She bit the meat below his thumb until she tasted blood.

  “Altrada bless!” He yanked her closer, crushing the breath out of her. “A wild cat. This will be an amusing evening after all.” His accent was even thicker than Jorjan’s.

  Blood in the Weave. A Nashidran. A fraying rich Nashidran. Her thread was so snipped.

  Had he gotten a good look at her? Maybe not. It was pretty dark in the alley, and her hood was mostly over her face.

  She let her knees go limp. When he tried to catch her, she surged up and slammed the top of her head into his chin. Fire exploded inside her skull, but the Nashidran let go and stepped back, wobbling like a ship’s mast under a rough sea.

  She spun around and slugged him on the edge of his jaw. Pain burst through her hand, surged up her arm, and jolted her shoulder.

  His back crashed against the building, his eyes rolled up, and he slid down the wall until he rolled on the wet cobblestones. A velvet cloak puddled around his shoulders.

  Her fist throbbed like she’d hit the stone wall instead of bony flesh. She shook out her hand, wiggled her fingers. Weaver’s blood, that hurt. Next time she saw Ahm-Layel she’d have to ask what she’d done wrong. She was pretty sure it shouldn’t hurt that much.

  What kind of drunk had she fought off? Besides a rich one. Should she steal his purse to make it look like he’d been robbed? Lots of folk in Knacker’s Quarter could live for months on what she suspected he’d planned to spend just tonight.

  The bright red velvet of his cloak shimmered like Duremen-Lor silk even in the dim light. Gold braid trimmed his cloak, his jacket, his trousers.

  Blood in the Warp and the Weave. A Nashidran military lord. That could be Jorjan’s father. It would ruin everything if she’d killed him.

  Not to mention the blood-woven Nashidrans would burn down the whole city if he died. Maybe she oughta get him to a healer.

  She took a step closer.

  The Nashidran moaned. Sing to the Weaver, he was still alive.

  But she wouldn’t live long if he got a good look at her. Time to beat a strategic retreat.

  She yanked his cloak over his face and sprinted up Downdilly Alley. She could hear him grumbling behind her until she turned into Daffydown Alley. No shouts for the guard, though. Now that was interesting. Maybe he didn’t want the patrol to know what he was doing in the Pleasure District.

  Maybe he didn’t want nobody to know a girl had flattened him.

  Either way was good enough for her. She’d just need to steer clear of the frayed thread. Way clear. That shouldn’t be a problem since she ain’t never ever seen him before.

  Now, where was the kid’s building from here?

  She skulked up the alley and peeked into Merrypenny Avenue. The target site was to her left. She’d passed it already. How far back did she need to go? She eased farther into the street to count the doorways.

  The patrol marched toward her.

  Blood in the Weave. She jerked her head back and scuttled down the alley. Those snipped threads sure were walking slow. Or the fight had gone awful fast. Wasn’t much of a fight, she had to admit. That Nashidran lord didn’t even defend himself as good as Jorjan did.

  She couldn’t go out on the street, and she couldn’t go back. That left up.

  The tiled roof was no taller than the training ground wall, and there weren’t no glass on it. She could jump to catch the edge if she got a running start. How she’d get the kid up there, she didn’t know. One problem at a time. It might not be the kind of observation post the kid asked for.

  Footsteps marched past the mouth of Daffydown Alley. Weaver’s cold toes, she’d forgotten the patrol. She dashed back to Downdilly Alley.

  The fraying Nashidran lord staggered to his feet.

  Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. If he thought she was hanging around, mocking him, he would call the guard. And they’d lock her up forever.

  She sprinted another block down Daffydown Alley and ducked into a courtyard filled with flowers.

  Three startled Nashidran girls stared back at her. One of them squeaked.

  Lorel squeaked back at her. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  The squeaky girl was wearing flowers in her hair, a silk veil around her breasts and hips, and muddy boots. And that was all.

  At least the other girls wore real clothes. Sort of. One wore a skirt like Faye’s, but cut all into ribbons, and flowers all over her bodice. If there was a bodice under there. Come to think of it, she could see a lot of goose-pimply skin.

  The third girl wore a calf-length nightgown ruffled with yards and yards of lace. Her bare legs showed clearly through the thin silk, but her shoulders were covered by masses of curly dark hair.

  Mom would kill her if she even asked to buy an outfit like those. Could they be the newest fashions? Nashidrans wore the weirdest stuff.

  The girl in the nightgown put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing in here?”

  Rats. She couldn’t hardly tell the truth. “He said you was looking for another girl to work for you.”

  All three girls giggled.

  Ribbon Girl waved a pair of green-stained scissors. Oh, they were cutting flowers for their outfits. That almost made sense. The sweet smells and bright colors made her head hurt. She need to get out of here.

  Nightgown Girl crossed her arms under her bre
asts, pushing them up. Like they weren’t big enough already. “What kind of work are you looking for?”

  “I think you’re in the wrong place,” Ribbon Girl said.

  Squeaky Girl doubled over with laughter.

  What was so fraying funny? She could look for work anywhere she wanted to. Wasn’t nothing she couldn’t do if –

  Blood in the Weave. These girls were fancy whores. Nope. She didn’t want their kind of work, whatever it was. Mom would kill her.

  She backed to the courtyard gate and peeked outside. No patrol. No frayed Nashidran lord. She’d risk it.

  “Sorry. I bet he was teasing me.” She backed out of the courtyard and bowed.

  The girls giggled and curtseyed. The frayed threads. Kind of nice, maybe, but still pretty silly.

  Time to get back to work. She skulked up to the corner and peeked down the alley. Still no uniforms of any kind. Good. Now to have a look at that roof. She walked along the alley and studied the roofline where it met the wall.

  Curved clay tiles covered the entire roof, in between chimneys and turrets and all sorts of lumps and bumps where it raised up another story or two. Whoever designed this building musta been crazy. Or a Nashidran. Or maybe a Duremen-Lor. She’d heard them foreigners really loved weird looking buildings. Not that it helped her at the moment. How was she gonna get up there?

  The best place, low enough she should be able to jump up to it, was where two slants met. Might be a little tricky, but nothing she couldn’t handle.

  She trotted back to the intersection, checked both alleys for witnesses, and dashed toward the lowest point of the roof. Her feet flew off the ground like they wore eagles’ wings.

  Her fingertips crashed into the cold stone wall, several inches below the roofline.

  Agony shot up her abused hands. Her mind froze, and she tumbled backwards. Wet wool slimed her face as her cloak billowed around her shoulders. For one instant she was flying.

  Cobblestones thumped against her back, air rushed out of her lungs, bonfire sparks exploded inside her head.