A Meddle of Wizards

by Alexandra Rushe

  “The lady needs a wardrobe,” Brefreton said. “A complete wardrobe, if you take my meaning, and we need it at once. You’ll be handsomely recompensed for the rush, of course.”

  Brefreton was referring to foundation garments, Raine realized with a quiver of amusement. “I’m sure Abbah and I will get along splendidly, Bree,” she said. “Why don’t you go for a stroll about the market, and come back? I’ll be fine.”

  Brefreton looked relieved, and turned to make his escape. He paused at the tent door. “In the name of all the gods, keep your hands off that stone until you’ve had instruction.”

  Raine flushed. “Trust me, I will.”

  “Good. And don’t leave the tent. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Two hours, narooch,” Abbah said. “Even Abbah has his limits.”

  Brefreton nodded and left, and Raine pushed back the hood of her shawl. “Good. Now we can talk.”

  The tailor’s jaw went slack. “Forgive my rudeness, but such beauty is unexpected.”

  “It is, isn’t it? I wish you’d explain that to Bree.” Raine drew him aside. “Now, Abbah, there are a few things you and I need to discuss, before the narooch returns. . .”

  * * * *

  Several hours later, the sound of raised voices alerted Raine that Brefreton was back.

  “I have fashioned her a dozen new gowns, assorted delicates, a new cloak, and three nightgowns,” she heard Abbah say from the front of the shop. “The boots are not my work. I am not a cobbler—I sent a servant to the shoemaker down the street with a tracing.” There was a loud sniff. “Pallan, his name is. The merest dabbler. Not an artist like Abbah, but there was no help for it. Abbah will not have the girl seen wearing his creations and those . . . those muckers. They are of a thing most vile. As for the other . . .” His voice became shrill. “I tell you to your head, I tried to stop her, but there is no dealing with that one, narooch, not when her mind is made up.”

  “What other matter? Where is she? Sweet merciful gods, you didn’t let her leave?”

  “Oh, no, Honored One, she is still here.” Abbah’s voice quavered. “But I-I cannot think you will approve. It is most shocking.”

  Raine stood before a full-length mirror, listening to them talk, her gaze on her frowning reflection. This was not what she’d had in mind. The garments she’d envisioned had been loose and flowing, gathered pants and a long tunic, but these had turned out to be form-fitting, the velvet molding itself to her curves.

  The curves were a shock. For the first time in her life, she had breasts and a curvy bottom. It was weird and disconcerting, and it made her feel self-conscious in a way that being sick and skinny never had. Maybe she was a changeling.

  She heard footsteps, the slither of the silken curtains behind her, and the sharp intake of someone’s breath.

  “Reba’s girdle,” Brefreton bellowed.

  Raine turned to find him staring at her, aghast. Mauric was with him. The warrior sported a new vest and a dagger with a bone handle at his waist. Abbah slipped into the room and stood beside Brefreton, twisting his hands, his gaze downcast. His assistants pushed in behind him and clustered around the tailor, their gazes wide and shocked.

  “You can’t wear that,” Brefreton sputtered, red-faced. “I can see your legs.”

  “So?” Raine resisted the urge to tug at the hem of the too-short tunic. “I can see your legs and Mauric isn’t wearing a shirt.”

  “That’s different. It’s disgraceful. I won’t have it.”

  Raine’s temper flared. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it, turn me into a newt?”

  “A newt?” Brefreton turned to Mauric. “Did I say anything about turning her into a newt?”

  Mauric lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “Be reasonable,” Brefreton said, turning back to Raine. “Women don’t wear breeches. We’ll get arrested.”

  “That’s silly. I’ve been wearing breeches for weeks.”

  Mauric folded his arms on his chest. “Those were slops, lass, and they didn’t show your assets. These ones do.”

  Raine blushed and glanced at Brefreton, but the wizard was no longer looking at her outfit. He was staring at her head.

  “You cut your hair.” He crossed the room to her side in a blur of motion. “When did you cut your hair?”

  “Last night,” Raine said, unnerved by the wizard’s sudden appearance at her elbow. “And stop yelling at me. I don’t like it.”

  Brefreton let out a stream of curses. “You deliberately hid this from me.”

  “You’ve been with me all day and never said a word. Last night, either. Anyway, I don’t see why you’re so upset. It’s hair.”

  Mauric cleared his throat. “She’s right, Bree. Not about it being hair—well, of course, it is hair, she’s right about that too—but, that’s not what I mean.” He added at Brefreton’s fulminating glare, “What I’m trying to say is, you saw her hair last night, and didn’t say anything. I noticed it right off.”

  “How was I supposed to notice the damn woman’s hair when she was wailing like a troll with its feet in the fire?”

  “Been with her all morning, too.”

  Brefreton ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been distracted, what with the crowds and the business at Turnipseed’s. She practically destroyed his shop.”

  Abbah gasped and placed a trembling hand over his heart. “Is this so, narooch? You are a valued customer, but I am a poor man with many wives and children to support.”

  “Not now, Abbah.” Brefreton’s furious gaze was on Raine. “You are not to cut so much as a toenail without asking me first. If a wizard—if Glonoff were to get your hair, he could use it against you.”

  “How was I supposed to know that?” Raine said. “Where I come from, people cut their hair all the time, and they don’t have to worry about some dark wizard hoodooing them.”

  “I am sorry, narooch,” Abbah said, shaking his head, “but I think it would be best if you and this vipata leave.”

  “What did you call me?” Raine said. “Now, see here, you—”

  She faltered. Abbah had turned blue and he glowed. The assistants took one look at their master, and stampeded out the door. There was a loud whoosh, and hundreds of needles flew into the air, surrounding Raine and Mauric like a swarm of angry, metallic bees. Bolts of cloth sprang from neat stacks along the wall and unwound to slither across the floor.

  Raine yelped as one of the gowns the tailor had made for her rose, specter-like, and wrapped her in a crushing embrace.

  “Tro,” Mauric yelled, swinging his new dagger at a cloth python.

  A few swipes of his blade reduced the fabric to shreds, but the tatters became a dozen writhing vipers that curled around his arms and legs. Mauric wrenched the strips of cloth off his body, threw them to the floor, and stamped them beneath his boots. A writhing ribbon sprang, unseen, onto his back and wrapped itself around his throat. With an oath, he seized the band of cloth and ripped it in two.

  “Enough,” Brefreton said in a voice like thunder.

  There was a loud noise, followed by a brilliant flash of light, and the tent went dark. With a single word, Brefreton brought the lanterns back to life. He motioned, and the dress holding Raine captive fell to the floor with a shush of fabric. She kicked it away with a shudder of revulsion. There was one dress she’d never wear. Shaken, she looked around. Abbah was sprawled on the floor, weeping. The blue haze around him had disappeared.

  Lowering his hands, he gazed at Brefreton in horror. “What have I done? I have raised my hand against you— you who gave my great-great-grandfather the money to start this business.” With an anguished cry, he threw himself at the wizard’s feet. “Forgive me. I did not mean it. Aiyee, I have brought shame upon my family. I should be flayed. I should be boiled in oil. I should be fed to the dogs. Pecked to death by p
igeons.”

  Brefreton pulled the tailor to his feet. “Gods save me from temperamental artists. I absolutely forbid you to hurt yourself in any way. Is that understood?”

  Abbah hiccupped. “Yes, narooch.”

  “Add the silk Mauric has mangled to my bill. As for your little temper tantrum, forget it. Having spent a large part of the day in Raine’s company, I can understand your reaction. Completely.”

  “You are most generous.” Sniffling, the tailor scooped the pile of dresses off the floor. “Allow me to wrap these for you.”

  Mimsie appeared on a blast of cold air. “Leave the new cloak, whiny pants. Raine’s going to need it.”

  Abbah screamed and ran from the room.

  Mimsie seated herself on a pile of precious silks, and crossed her shapely legs. The ghost wore a tight sweater and a kicky little skirt today. Strappy sandals hugged her slender feet. “Boy, am ever I glad he’s gone. Whadda pain.”

  “Who—” Brefreton stared at the ghost. “What—”

  Mimsie blasted him with the full wattage of her smile. “You and I have bumped into one another before, but we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Raine’s aunt, Mims Carlisle. I raised the gal, and I can tell you from experience that she’s a whole lot of trouble, but she’s worth it.”

  Brefreton drew himself up. “Why are you here, shade? Bring you dire portents from beyond?”

  “Dire portents.” Mimsie winked at Raine. “Doncha love when they talk like that? All Masterpiece Theatre.”

  “Bree’s right, Mimsie,” Raine said. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to tell you there’s trouble back at the inn.” Mimsie faded and reappeared. “And be careful. They’re waiting for you.”

  “Who’s waiting for us?” Raine demanded, but Mimsie was gone.

  Chapter 32

  The Rescue

  On a clear, cold morning more than four weeks after Glory’s arrival at the Eska’s palace, the Storm sailed into the Bay of Gar. The wind picked up and Raven’s nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable odor of Dog City, an unsavory mixture of tar, human refuse, fish, and rot. As he guided the ship through the thicket of vessels in the harbor, he spotted a red and black dragon flag. His mood darkened. There were Shads in port, a lot of them, judging by the size of the cumbersome square-rigged galleon. His men were eager to sample the delights of the Spree, but Finlars and Shads did not mix. When they did, bloodshed was inevitable. Only one way to avoid trouble, and it would not be welcome.

  “Shore leave is canceled,” he announced. “Everyone stays on board.” Loud groans and curses met this order. Raven held up his hand for silence. “You will be amply compensated for your disappointment when we reach the Citadel.”

  The promise of silver mollified the men, somewhat. Nonetheless, a wave of hostility followed him and Glory as they disembarked.

  Boxes of chum sat on the quay, refuse from the fishmongers, but if Glory noticed the stench, she gave no sign. The aura of serene calm surrounding her remained unabated. Annoying, that, Raven decided. Her dark hair gleamed in the sunlight and her cool, elegant profile earned more than one appreciative glance from the burly laborers along the dock. His aunt was exasperating, but undeniably comely.

  “Your crew seems a trifle peevish this morning,” she said, stopping to pull on a pair of leather gloves. “Has something upset them?”

  Raven pulled her aside, allowing a wagon laden with barrels of Valdarian wine to rattle past. “The men were looking forward to a night of drinking and whoring. Instead, they’ve been confined to the ship. Blue balls tend to make men irritable.”

  She pressed her lips together at his crudity. “You were right to cancel shore leave. Carousing isn’t good for them. I shall bring them something to cheer them up.”

  “Unless you have a brace of wenches and several barrels of ale hidden in your cloak, you won’t cheer them up,” Raven said. “They’re men, aunt. Randy sailors, not children to be mollified with sweets.” He guided her away from the quay and down a street choked with litter and the dregs of the previous evening’s revelry. “Where to?”

  “Directly to the inn.”

  “The inn, of course,” he murmured. “You know there are more than a hundred hostels in Gambollia?”

  “Our destination is the Neatfoot, a quaint little establishment on the Dog’s Body.”

  “I know it.” Raven stepped around a fallen drunk. The man was naked as the day he was born and covered in shit. Someone had robbed the poor fellow and dumped him in the latrine. “Trudy keeps a clean establishment, and she’s a good cook. Any reason why you chose that particular inn?”

  Glory waved a slender hand. “Details are not important. Rest assured, heading for the inn will put us on the right path.”

  “The right path for what?”

  “Patience, nephew,” Glory said. “All in good time.”

  More occult flummery. Raven swallowed a growl of frustration.

  They negotiated the harbor stews without incident. Not surprising, given Raven’s size and lethal mood. One look at his forbidding expression, and the various cutthroats, drunks, harlots, and pickpockets they encountered scuttled out of their way. A shame. Raven wistfully fingered his sword. After weeks of being cooped up with Glory, he’d enjoy a good brawl.

  They passed unmolested through the Spree and over the canal bridge, entering the Great Market on the harbor side. Gambollia was a bustling, cosmopolitan city. Still, Raven received several surprised stares. He clamped down on his already frayed temper. Finlars were a fair race, big, blond, and blue-eyed, which made him, with his warrior’s body, dark hair, and golden eyes, an anomaly. He was used to being noticed. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed being gawked at like a goggin in a side show.

  The cobblestone streets gave way to dirt and sawdust, and the gamy smell of enclosed animals told him they were nearing the livestock pens. Glory paused in front of a cage outside a dirty tent. The sign over the entry proclaimed the owner to be a procurer of strange and exotic animals—a nice way of saying the man was a trapper.

  A young female troll with garish red fur paced inside a metal cage. Glory regarded the troll with a troubled expression. “Why must they always dye them red?”

  “Greed,” Raven said. “They want the reward Glonoff’s offered for Gertie. She’s had a price on her head since before Finn was Rowan, and the pot grows with every passing year. If they can’t find a red troll, they make one.”

  “Folly to think Glonoff can be so easily duped.”

  “The world has never been short on fools.” Stepping closer to the cage, Raven spoke rapidly in Trolk. “What happened, little sister, did he soak you in henna for a week? No matter. The color will soon fade.”

  The troll stopped pacing to stare at Raven. With an excited bark, she threw her furry body against the bars of the cage.

  “I am Ilgtha,” she panted in Trolk. “A trapper stole me from my tribe. Help me, brother, as you value your oath.”

  “He is the Rowan’s eldest son,” Glory answered in the same tongue. “Rest assured he will not be foresworn.”

  The young troll gaped at the elf, speechless. Glory looked at Raven. “Was it something I said?”

  “I think she’s surprised to meet an elf fluent in Trolk.”

  “Well, of course I speak Trolk.” Stepping closer to the cage, Glory murmured a few words of encouragement to the stunned creature before turning back to Raven. “Well, have you a plan? How do you mean to do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t be dense, Raven. Free Ilgtha, of course. We can’t leave her here.”

  “You’re the seer. You tell me.”

  The tent flap parted, and the trapper stepped out. “You ain’t taking her nowhere, unless you can match Glonoff’s reward. Which I doubt, so I’ll thank you to get away from my troll. You’re making ’er nervous.”<
br />
  “The last trapper who tried this trick with Glonoff still hangs from the gates of Zorbash,” Raven said. “In pieces.”

  The trapper adjusted his soiled trousers and gave Raven a belligerent glare. “The money’s worth the risk. What’s it to you anyway?”

  “I am a Finlar, sworn to protect the creatures of Udom.”

  “Is that so?” The trapper yawned, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Well, in case you ain’t noticed, this ain’t Finlara or Udom. What’s more, you don’t look like no Finlar I ever seen, though I’ll grant you, you’re big enough to be one of the bastards. All the same, I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”

  The troll threw herself against the cage with a howl.

  “Quit yer yowling, you hairy bitch. I’m sick of it.” Seizing a long metal pole, the trapper jabbed the helpless animal through the bars, chuckling at her whimpers of pain.

  Raven’s sword flashed in the sunlight and the trapper’s severed forearm hit the street with a meaty thud. The man screamed and clutched the bloody stump between his fingers. Blood spurted into the sawdust.

  “As it happens, I am a bastard, though, fortunately, I’m not overly sensitive about the circumstances of my birth.” Raven waved the business end of his sword in the trapper’s face, and the man’s terrified gaze widened when he saw the Mark of Finn on Raven’s forearm. “I see you’ve noticed the mark,” Raven said. “This bastard is a direct descendent of Finn himself, which means I take my oath seriously. Very seriously, indeed, and trapping the creatures of Udom does offend me. Greatly.”

  “My arm,” the man wailed. “You cut off my arm.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t do more than that,” Raven said. “In my country, the penalty for illegal trapping is death. But, as you so astutely pointed out, we are not in Finlara. That’s why you’re still alive. But heed me well. If I catch you at it again, I won’t be so tolerant. Now, release the troll, or so help me, I’ll let you stand here and watch you bleed to death.”

  “The key is on my belt,” the trapper sobbed. “Take it.”