The boy waited for Keanan to give him the nod before he set about wolfing down the plates of food. They were partially eaten, but he devoured them just the same. There was no telling when he’d have a chance at such a fine meal again. As he ate, shoving bits of pork and scooping eggs into his mouth with his fingers, Keanan sat next to him.
“You did good,” Keanan said. “I think you’ve earned yourself a nickname … Lucky.”
“Lucky Leppomanto!” the boy cheered with food spilling from his mouth and his arm thrown in the air.
“Let’s stick with Lucky, for now. Leppomanto’s not an easy name to remember.”
The boy nodded again. He felt as if he were going to burst. Sutler was dead and he had earned himself a guild nickname before any of the other boys. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, Keanan pushed a couple of copper pieces his way.
“You earned it,” Keanan said before claiming two strips of bacon for himself.
The boy grabbed the pair of coins and shoved them into his pocket. His fingers touched the toy soldier that was already there, and he suddenly remembered his good luck charm. He wrapped his greasy fingers around it and smiled.
Lucky, he thought before shoveling more food in his mouth.
CHAPTER 12
The Hush Between Heartbeats
It had been a strange and eerie ride through the empty streets of Palanthas, especially when they couldn’t see each other. There were only the echoes of hoofbeats that broke against the city walls and the odd looks from occasional travelers they encountered who were baffled by the sound of phantom horses. Tythonnia had added the invisibility spell to her repertoire following Ladonna’s little object lesson. She’d focused mostly on illusions, choosing misdirection as her weapon of choice. After the fight, she was glad she had.
Finally, after what felt like hours of travel, Ladonna whispered for them to stop at a gap between two buildings. The wood and stone structures were mere feet from each other, enough that children in either building could play catch with one another from their windows. It was more than two buildings, however. It seemed that the gap separated rows of structures, all built two or three stories tall.
It’s a street, Tythonnia realized, narrow enough that two horses could choke the throat of it. The buildings were constructed in the shadow of the wall, and their chimneys rose so close to it that the battlement was black with soot.
“Smiths’ Alley,” Ladonna said.
Tythonnia wished she could see her and Par-Salian. Ladonna sounded weak, and Tythonnia had to admit, her own shoulder wound still hurt. They needed to rest. They moved into the street, instead, the awnings of rooftops touching and forming a permanent canopy. It also walled-in the stench of humans and animals, a nauseating aroma. The horses echoed even more loudly and Tythonnia wished she had the trick to silence their hoof falls before they roused the neighborhood. She decided she would find a spell later that allowed her to travel more quietly … if they survived the night.
Smiths’ Alley lived up to its name, with building upon building advertising smithy services on wood placards. Tythonnia felt them drawing near to the end of the spell’s effect when Ladonna whispered for them to stop in front of a small building.
“Drop the spell,” Ladonna instructed.
The three of them reappeared to one another, and Ladonna definitely looked the worse for their ride. She was pale, the back of her dress glistening with blood. Par-Salian, his leg bandaged, supported her and helped her dismount. They ushered the horses into a side alley where the horses barely fit. Ladonna hammered on a large side door, a rickety piece of wood that shuddered even under her weakened fist. A curled rose, faded with age, was painted above the door.
It took a few moments of knocking before Tythonnia saw candlelight flicker between the slats of wood.
“Who is it?” a rough voice asked. It belonged to a woman.
“Ladonna … Adwin’s daughter.”
There was a pause before someone hastily undid the latch and slid the door open. It was large enough to fit the horses, but blocking the doorway was one of the largest women Tythonnia had ever seen. Her hair was white and braided around her neck like a loop. Despite the generous fat on her body, she was well muscled with a round face, gray eyes, and a strong jaw. She looked fit enough to snap them all in two. She wore a night slip that barely contained her bosom. She saw Ladonna, and at once seemed shocked.
“Look at you, child,” she said. She pulled Ladonna into the doorway and waved the rest of them in. “What happened to you?”
“Hello, Rosie,” Ladonna said, grimacing. They were inside a small barn, hay scattered about the ground, with three empty stalls. Ladonna leaned against a column of wood and breathed hard.
Rosie scowled and crossed her massive arms. “That’s the work of the Thieves’ Guild, isn’t it? Is that what you left for?” she asked. “Just so you could fall back in with that bad lot?”
“They were settling an old grudge,” Ladonna said.
“And you had nothing to do with encouraging it?” Rosie asked. It sounded like an accusation. “How long have you been in town?” she asked in the same accusatory tone.
“A week,” Ladonna admitted.
“She’s hurt,” Par-Salian said. “We all are.”
The woman laughed and pointed at his thigh. “That nick? My husband cut himself worse shaving.”
“Our injuries don’t matter,” Tythonnia said. “But Ladonna almost died.”
Rosie softened a bit at that but remained scowling. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she began helping Ladonna toward the rickety stairs at the back of the barn that led to a loft bedroom.
“Get the horses inside,” Rosie said. “I’ll see to this little troublemaker myself.”
“You’ve gotten big,” Ladonna mumbled as they headed up the stairs.
“And you still have the body of a twig.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. Twigs are meant to be broken.”
They watched Rosie and Ladonna vanish upstairs before taking stock of their situation. The barn was simple and tucked behind a smithy’s shop, the door of which was closed.
“You, sit,” Tythonnia instructed Par-Salian. She pointed to a sawhorse leaning against the wall.
“I can help,” he said as he struggled to hobble forward. “You’re hurt, too, you know.”
“Not where it counts,” Tythonnia said. “Besides, if I can push you over with one hand-” which she did, shoving him gently but enough for him fall backward.
“Hey!”
“-then maybe you should lay down.”
Par-Salian grumbled, but eased himself down. Tythonnia took that as argument won and went back outside, where she proceeded to wrangle the horses around the tight corner and into the barn. By the time she brought the second horse in, Par-Salian looked exhausted enough to fall asleep. He kept her company, however, chatting as she removed the saddles and brushed down the horses.
“How do you do it?” he asked. “Your illusions are … exemplary. Even for a Red Robe.”
Tythonnia nodded. “When I passed the test, Amma Batros gave me a tattoo.” She pulled the sleeve of her shirt up and rolled it to the shoulder. Lines of black and red, barely visible, marked the outline of a medallion.
“How does one give you a tattoo?” Par-Salian said then laughed. “I thought that sort of thing is what renegades did? Cupboard magicians?”
“Where do you think some of us first encountered magic?” Tythonnia retorted. “The first bit of arcane magic I saw was through a Wyldling sorcerer.”
“Wyldling?”
“And the occasional charlatan posing as a wandering hermit or fortune teller.”
“Really?” Par-Salian said. “My father employed a house magician sanctioned by the Wizards of High Sorcery. That’s where I learned my first spells.”
“Born and bred in the order, eh?” Tythonnia asked. “You should pay more attention to your peers, especially th
ose of the red and black cloth. By trying to teach proper magic, the orders have always overlooked certain interesting … things.”
“What sorts of things?” Par-Salian asked.
“The kind of book-learned magics you’d expect from wizards, but the foci and reagents are different. Homespun, I guess you could say. Like using spit and blood and breath to fuel a spell.”
“And tattoos?”
“Amma Batros’s people use tattoos as a show of devotion. Henna tattoos, kohl runes, and even ink,” she said, looking at her own faded mark. “I got this tattoo for passing my test. It waxes and wanes according to how often I use it.”
“It’s almost gone,” Par-Salian said, squinting at her. “Does it have practical uses?”
“It improves my glamours. I can make them last longer or stronger or extend them over a larger area. It also lets me cast one illusion, one normally outside my training.” Her voice trailed away.
Par-Salian nodded. “Is that how you … dealt with Sutler?” he asked.
“Fear kills us in small doses,” she said as she continued to absently groom the horse. “But sometimes it’s terrible enough to send you to the grave screaming.” She paused at the recollection of absolute terror on Sutler’s face. “My turn,” she said. “That medallion around your neck … the one you pulled out when Ladonna was hurt. What is it?”
Par-Salian suddenly realized it was still hanging free and shoved it back inside his tunic. He appeared sheepish. “A gift from the highmage,” he admitted. “For when our mission is complete. It’ll take us back home.”
Tythonnia stopped what she was doing and looked at Par-Salian. The slow realization burned through her. “You were going to use that to save Ladonna,” Tythonnia said, “but you didn’t. Why?”
“I almost used it,” he whispered. He looked away, unable to meet her stare. “Almost …”
They awoke to the sound of metal upon metal, a deep clanging that resounded in their ears. Tythonnia checked the bindings of her wound, which Rosie had quietly helped her with the previous night before she checked on Par-Salian’s leg. He stared at her through one eye as he lay upon his bedroll in the stall and promptly fell asleep again.
Tythonnia cleaned herself from the iron wash basin Rosie left out for them and changed clothes. She finished and found a shirtless Par-Salian washing himself as well. His eyes were practically swollen with fatigue.
The clanging persisted.
The two companions entered the smithy through the barn and were surprised to find Rosie working hard. She wore a leather smock and maneuvered the tongs expertly while she hammered away at an iron rod that glowed red at its tip. Near her anvil was a stone hearth set against the brick wall. The heat from it was blistering, but Rosie paid it no mind. On the other side of her was a stone slack tub filled with water, while all manner of metal implements hung from chains in the ceiling’s rafters.
She glanced at them, and as she spoke the hammering punctuated her words, almost obliterating them.
“How’d you sleep?” she asked.
“Fine,” Tythonnia said, practically yelling. “Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” Par-Salian said. “Ladonna? How is she?”
“Still asleep, not that she’ll wake up any time soon.”
They were quiet a moment, the awkward silence of strangers.
“Well,” Rosie said, “there’s food in the larder, through the door beneath the loft. Go on, help yourselves.”
Tythonnia and Par-Salian nodded their thanks and had started back into the barn when Rosie stopped hammering.
“How much trouble is she in?” Rosie asked as she shoved the rod back in the hearth.
“I-uh, we’re not comfortable-discussing Ladonna’s affairs,” Par-Salian said.
Rosie stepped away from the forge and wiped the grime and sweat from her forehead. “Listen carefully,” she said. “Ladonna is the closest thing my husband and I had to a daughter. We gave her food and a bed when her fool of a father lost his forge to gambling debts. And we gave her sanctuary whenever she angered the Thieves Guild. This isn’t the first time she’s come to me, beaten and bleeding. This isn’t the first time I’ve bandaged her. Now … is this an affair of thieves or one of wizards?”
Par-Salian clearly wasn’t sure what to say, so Tythonnia intervened. “Wizards,” she said, despite Par-Salian’s sharp intake of breath. Tythonnia, however, ignored him. “I can’t say why we’re here, but Ladonna is respected among her peers. If you were her adopted mother, then you’ve got a lot to be proud of.”
Rosie guffawed. “You’re laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?” she said.
“Maybe,” Tythonnia said, “but I respect her.”
“What happened last night was an old vendetta, it seems,” Par-Salian added. “But it was necessary to put ourselves in harm’s way. For a greater good.”
Rosie grunted something that could have been approval or disbelief. In either case, she pulled the iron rod from the fire and dropped it into the tub. A tremendous rush of steam erupted, but she ignored it. She removed her smock and hung it from a hook on a wood post. “Come on,” she said, brushing past them. “Let’s see if there’s something to eat. And stop thanking me,” she said, interrupting Par-Salian. “It’s done.”
“Welcome to Palanthas.” Kinsley bowed in jest and kept the door open.
Berthal entered and pulled the hood of his cloak back. He nodded appreciatively at the abode, which was far from humble or poor. It was a square, courtyard-style building, with staircase towers to the left and right. The exterior was timber framed and lined with windows. On the interior, the entrance porch opened into a carpeted hallway, and, from there, into a side parlor with a cold fireplace and walls covered in timber paneling and tapestries.
The house was beyond the means of most citizens of Palanthas and ostentatious enough to sit proudly on the clifflike hills of Purple Ridge on the city’s edge. Berthal handed Kinsley his cloak but kept the simple walking staff. Kinsley knew an illusion masked the staff’s real appearance, but the double-headed dragon was a certain give-away to Berthal’s real identity, more so than his face.
Berthal sat in the wingback chair upholstered in red leather. He groaned happily. “Chairs. I miss chairs,” he said. He eyed Kinsley. “Whose place is this? It isn’t yours.”
“For the week it is,” Kinsley said. “It belongs to the mistress of a Nobles Hill senator. They’re on a trip to Solanthus, and she very much admires rebels,” he said with a broad smile.
“What did you tell her?” Berthal said as he studied Kinsley from under his bushy eyebrows.
“Nothing that endangers us,” Kinsley said with shrug. He dropped into a white armchair across from Berthal. “But we have much to discuss.”
“Indeed. There’s a girl-Mariyah. A Black Robe. She stole something for us from her masters. Said it was something we should see. She’ll be arriving within a few days by boat. See to her, will you?”
Kinsley nodded. “I’ll bring her to you. But there’s something else. The robbery of two shops protected by spells.”
“Were the spells triggered?”
“No,” Kinsley said with a shake of his head and a rather broad smile. “They were dispelled. The owners made quite a scene with the local wizards, complaining to whoever would listen. But that’s not the interesting part. Both stores were protected by the Thieves Guild, and on the night of the second robbery, they sent enforcers after the culprits. According to witnesses who saw the fight happen at the courtyard of an inn, there were three magicians involved. They killed their attackers, who outnumbered them five to one.”
“Robes?”
“No.”
“Fifteen thieves killed at the hands of three sorcerers?” Berthal asked. He laughed. “Unlikely.”
“The numbers? Perhaps. But several witnesses said the night was lit by plumes of flame and daggers of light. Then everyone vanished and reappeared. That made me curious, so I investigated. The inn shows burn marks a
long the flagstone floor and in a couple of places along the wood walls. The innkeepers were terrified. Refused to speak. I paid a soldier to let me examine the body of one of the thieves. The expression on the corpse’s face was … horrifying. Like he died of fear. The soldiers are charging people to see the corpse, you know? As an oddity.”
“When did this happen?”
“Three nights ago. But that’s not all. Dumas is in Palanthas with her men. She’s asking questions about three renegades who arrived in town recently.”
Berthal bit the tip of his thumb and decided he didn’t like the taste of it. “It’s a trick,” he said.
“Perhaps. The hunters seem very interested in Smiths’ Alley, but it’s twenty blocks long and filled with people who greatly distrust outsiders.”
Berthal remained quiet while he considered the matter. Finally, he said, “Find them; find out about them. Who are they and where are they from? We can’t afford to accept things at face value.”
Kinsley nodded and slapped his knees as he rose. “There’s a tub of hot water upstairs to bathe; my nose sincerely hopes you’ll take advantage of it. Meanwhile, I’ll see what else I can find on these three renegades. I know a couple of people in Smiths’ Alley. Maybe I can loosen their tongues a bit.”
“Wait,” Berthal said as he rose, using his staff for support. “Where was the inn where these attacks took place?”
“Merchandising District.”
“And Smiths’ Alley is to the northwest of that by many blocks, yes?”
“At least an hour’s travel, yes.”
“Then perhaps we’re looking for someone who used to live there? A prodigal son returned in desperate times? If Smiths’ Alley is so tightly knit and the hunters are searching there, it could mean the sorcerers once knew that neighborhood. That might suggest your avenue of questioning.”
“Find out who has returned after a long absence? Sounds reasonable. I guess that’s why you’re the leader.”
“That and my rugged good looks and virility,” Berthal said, scratching his beard. He straightened with a groan.
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