Company of Strangers, #1

by Melissa McShane

  “Knife, right?” Dianthe gestured. “It’s a bit of a walk. You want to stop at your rooms and drop some of this off?”

  “I, uh, I’m not staying anywhere at the moment,” Sienne said, desperately clinging to what was left of her dignity.

  “Really?” Dianthe gave her a sharp look. “That’s probably just as well. There are rooms at the hostel where we’re staying—makes it easier to gather in the morning. This way.”

  They crossed Fioretti by the broad streets paved in pale yellow stone that gleamed like gold in the sunlight, reminding Sienne why they called it the City of Golden Ways. Nobody looked twice at them, though Sienne was laden like a common worker and most of the people surrounding them rode horses or shining lacquered carriages. Their clothes were fine silks and linens, lightweight and perfect for true summer, and their voices and trilling laughter trailed them as they passed. Sienne watched them and felt not a trace of envy.

  The road they were on terminated at one of the vast bridges spanning the Vochus River. Its white stone looked as if it had been scrubbed clean by an efficient housewife, though Sienne was sure it was magic that had done the cleaning. She looked upriver toward the royal palace, spread out on the isle that split the river in two. Arches and spires like a stonemason’s dream gave the palace a classical appearance, though it had been built only a hundred years ago. By day, it looked unreal, faded and misty as if it were only half there; by night, lit by ten thousand white and ruby lamps, it seemed the only real thing in the world. Sienne had never been inside and had never wanted to, but it was hard not to be awed by its beauty.

  She realized Dianthe had gotten ahead of her and hurried to catch up. Dianthe seemed oblivious to the architectural beauties of the city. “Are you from Fioretti?” Sienne asked when she was once again beside her guide.

  Dianthe didn’t look at her. “No,” she said with such finality Sienne swallowed her next question. Don’t pry if you don’t want prying in return, she reminded herself.

  The broad streets gave way to narrower ones until Sienne once again felt herself to be at the bottom of a tall canyon, though unlike the street outside the Lucky Coin, these walls were plastered white and felt much brighter. Signs hung above the doors displaying pictures that indicated what might be bought or sold inside, suggesting to Sienne that the typical clientele might not be literate. The street was also quiet, with few people passing by. It was so quiet Sienne was afraid to talk, afraid of disturbing the unnatural calm that might well be due to someone’s funeral.

  Dianthe pushed open a door above which dangled a wooden dagger. “Not a smithy?” Sienne asked in a low voice.

  “Smithy is for repairs, in Fioretti,” Dianthe said. “Not sure what it’s like where you’re from, but unless you want something made particular, this is where you come for weapons.”

  “How do you know I’m not from Fioretti?” Sienne said.

  Dianthe gave her a knowing look and a smile, but said nothing. “Zen?” she said as she opened the door. “It’s not too early, is it?”

  Sienne followed her into the shop, which was, counter to her expectations, brightly lit—lamps, not magic, she noted. Light glinted off the metal which hung on every wall, more swords and knives than she’d ever seen in one place except her father’s armory. Polearms leaned together like a deadly sheaf of wheat stalks in one corner; weapons she didn’t recognize lay displayed under glass. It was awe-inspiring even to her, whose martial career had begun and ended when she’d nearly taken her instructor’s ear off with a wild swing.

  “Zenobia?” Dianthe said. She let the door close behind them. “Go ahead and look around. I’ll see where Zen is. Might still be abed.”

  “But the door wasn’t locked. Isn’t that inviting thieves?”

  “Zenobia pays a priest of Kitane a pretty sum to keep this place better protected than the palace.” Dianthe smiled, a reflective expression that made Sienne wonder whether she had firsthand knowledge of this fact. It occurred to her to wonder what Dianthe’s skills were. She carried a sword, but she moved like someone used to passing unnoticed in a crowd.

  Dianthe disappeared through a door, beyond which Sienne could see stairs going up. She turned away and went to the nearest display cabinet. Rows of knives lay spread out on purple velvet, light gleaming along their sharpened edges. One in particular caught her eye. It was plain, with a three-inch blade sharpened on both edges to a nice point. The hilt was wrapped in leather the same color as her new boots, and it had just enough of a guard to make the grip look solid.

  Sienne examined the cabinet’s glass lid. There didn’t seem to be a way to open it, but she really wanted to try its heft. Well, she could test its weight another way.

  She reached out with her invisible fingers and let the magic wrap itself around the knife, lifted—and an ear-shattering blast of sound so loud it was almost tangible cracked the air.

  3

  Sienne dropped the knife and covered her ears. The sound blasted out again, shrill like a horn, and she stumbled backwards, squeezing her eyes closed as if that would block the sound.

  “Thief!” came a cry that cut over the sound of the horn. “Drop it, now!”

  “I didn’t take anything!” Sienne cried out. “I’m sorry!”

  The sound cut off mid-blare. “You’re damned stupid to try magic in this place,” someone said. Sienne opened her eyes. Dianthe had returned behind a fat woman with red hair and a complexion to match it. She wore a dressing gown of figured Chysegaran silk, and the nails of her bare feet were lacquered gold. “What did you do?”

  Sienne lowered her hands. “I—wanted a closer look at a knife. I didn’t think…I’m sorry, I should have realized. You’re right, that was stupid.”

  The woman pursed her lips in thought. “New in town?”

  She clearly thought Sienne was a back country hick, too. Sienne didn’t care. “Yes.”

  “I hired her for a job,” Dianthe said.

  The woman’s eyebrows went nearly to her hairline. “Alaric agreed to that?”

  “He didn’t have much choice.”`

  The woman turned her attention back to Sienne. “You poor thing,” she said. “I’m Zenobia. Which knife did you want to see?”

  Sienne pointed, though it was obvious which knife she’d picked up because it had fallen across two of the others. Zenobia reached beneath the case for a hidden latch, and the lid popped open. She removed the knife and handed it to Sienne, hilt first. “Good choice,” she said. “Nice utilitarian blade, full tang, though it’s really not meant to be a weapon. Still, it will do some damage if you need it to.”

  Sienne gripped the hilt loosely. It was beautiful, and though she was no fighter, it spoke to her. “How much?”

  Zenobia peered at her, and Sienne realized the woman was very near-sighted. “For you, ten lari,” Zenobia said.

  “I’m sure you can do better than that,” Dianthe protested.

  “That’s my best price. I’m knocking five lari off because she’s a friend of yours.”

  “It’s fine,” Sienne said, “but…what about trade?”

  Zenobia frowned. “I doubt you have anything I want.”

  “I don’t know. How much is your eyesight worth?”

  “My…eyesight?”

  Sienne untucked her shirt and pulled out her spellbook. At about nine inches high and a little more than half that in width, it was an average-sized book, if odd-looking for being bound in wood that, being indestructible, flexed like fine leather. The binding was stained a rich russet color, unadorned save for a linked pair of initials burned into the cover: S V.

  “I have a spell that improves sight or hearing,” she said, holding the book in both hands as if poised to open it. “It’s not very common here in Fioretti—I’ve found most people go to a priest for healing if their eyesight is poor. But it’s more effective, though it doesn’t last forever, I’m afraid.”

  Zenobia stared at the book the way someone might a burning brand too near the bed. “Ho
w long?” she said.

  “A year, maybe? It fades rather than simply reverting, so you’ll have plenty of warning. What is that worth to you?”

  Zenobia pursed her lips. “Do it,” she said, “and I’ll tell you how much it’s worth.”

  “That’s not very fair,” Dianthe said.

  “You know I’m honest,” Zenobia said. “I wouldn’t cheat anyone. But I won’t know what it’s worth until I see—if you’ll allow me a little humor.”

  “All right,” Sienne said. She focused her will on the book and let her knowledge of the spell press inward with her fingertips on the edge of the pages. The book sprang open where she wanted it. That little piece of magic was something she was better at, faster at, than anyone else—something she hoped might be an edge as a scrapper, fighting wild animals or worse.

  She’d been trained to name spells in Ginatic, the language spoken before the wars and the plagues that followed, but among the scrappers, that had earned her a reputation for being uppity. So she’d learned to say, for example, sharpen instead of na’astreta. Sharpen was a spell she wasn’t supposed to have learned; a woman of her social position should have focused on confusion spells, not transforms. But she loved the honey-sweet taste of a transformation, loved the challenge of speaking the words at just the right speed and the feel of the many vowels rolling perfectly off her tongue.

  She held the book in both hands, just below the level of her chin, and read off the spell. The syllables tugged at her mind, the first slipping away from memory before she got halfway through. The human mind wasn’t made to encompass magic, which was why Sienne’s spellbook was her most precious possession; no one could memorize a spell any more than they could lift themselves by their bootlaces.

  As she reached the end, she focused her attention on Zenobia, shaping the words to encompass the woman. A glassy blue sheen passed over Zenobia’s eyes, and she gasped, then blinked several times. She looked wildly around the room, looked back at Sienne, and said, “By Kitane’s right arm. You were right.”

  “Are you satisfied?” Sienne said.

  “I didn’t know how blind I was,” Zenobia said. She blinked again as if clearing water from her eyes. “The knife’s yours. No, wait.” She reached below the cabinet and brought out a slim silver boot knife, no more than four inches long from tip to hilt, and extended it to Sienne. “Now we’re even.”

  “Are you sure?” Sienne hesitated.

  “I know the worth of my wares. And I know the value of yours. Take it. You never know when you might need that edge.”

  Sienne took it and tucked it into her boot. “Thanks.”

  Back on the street, Sienne said, “What?”

  “Nothing,” Dianthe said.

  “You weren’t looking at me like it was nothing.”

  “All right. I just haven’t been that close to wizardry in…well, ever.”

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?” Sienne felt uncomfortable, like a fly caught in honey watching the swatter descend.

  “No. It’s astonishing.” Dianthe fell silent for a few steps. “I should warn you,” she said finally, “Alaric can be…he really doesn’t like wizards.”

  “Yes. You said.”

  Dianthe shook her head. “Just…it’s nothing personal, understand? He has his reasons. But you shouldn’t look to wizardry as a way to win him over. And never cast a spell on him unless he asks for it.”

  “I wouldn’t. It’s impolite.”

  “Good.” Dianthe strode a little faster. “Let’s get you a room, and then it should be time for a meal. Haggling always makes me hungry.”

  The inn where Dianthe and her partner were staying was halfway across the city from Zenobia’s shop, in a shabby-genteel part of town that was mostly homes rather than shops. In fact, Sienne realized, it wasn’t an inn, it was a large house whose owner rented out rooms, something she discovered when Dianthe led her around to a side door rather than entering by the front. It was built of the small brown bricks typical of Fiorettan construction and was at the end of a row of similar houses, all three stories tall with steeply slanting roofs of pale gray slate. Blue curtains waved at its many small, square windows like handkerchiefs fluttering in greeting.

  The hall beyond the side door was short, leading to steep narrow stairs on one side and a kitchen on the other. It smelled deliciously of roast pork and honey. A man, tall and gangly, poked his head out of the kitchen. He held a wooden spoon that dripped brown juice slowly onto the flagstone floor. “Master Tersus isn’t in,” he said, in a voice accented with the broad vowels of a Wrathen.

  “She needs a room now,” Dianthe said, jerking a thumb in Sienne’s direction. “Will he mind?”

  The man shrugged. “Not if she can pay.” He ducked back into the kitchen.

  “I guess you’re in,” Dianthe said. “Mind the stairs, some of the treads are loose.”

  They went up two flights to the third floor, where the narrow stairs let out on an equally narrow hall lined with white-painted wooden doors. “Used to be servants’ quarters,” Dianthe said. She pushed open the second door on the right. “There are six rooms up here and just Alaric and me, so you can take your pick if you don’t like this one.”

  “It’s fine,” Sienne said hastily. The room was small but clean, with whitewashed walls and a varnished pine floor. An iron frame bed, bare of sheet or blanket, stood beneath the open window where the blue curtains fluttered in the brisk sea breeze. There was a chest of drawers opposite the bed, of the same pine as the floorboards, and that was all the furniture there was.

  “Sorry it’s so bare,” Dianthe said. “We never stay long, so we don’t care.”

  “It’s nicer than the last place I stayed,” Sienne said. The last place had had rats. She dumped her pile of gear on the bed, grateful now for the extra blanket, since it was clear she was expected to provide her own bedding.

  “Dianthe?” A man’s voice, deep and commanding, came from somewhere down the hall.

  “In here,” Dianthe said. “Let me introduce—”

  Quick steps sounded outside the room, and then the biggest man Sienne had ever seen in her life came through the doorway. He was at least six and a half feet tall, certainly tall enough that he had to duck his head as he entered. His arms were corded with muscle, his broad shoulders filled the doorway, and he had thighs like small tree trunks. His blond hair, bleached by the sun to near whiteness, was cut shorter than was fashionable. A blue-eyed gaze swept the room and came uncomfortably to rest on Sienne. She swallowed and hoped her stunned amazement didn’t look like fear. He gave her the beginnings of an idea of why they might need the fit spell.

  “Who’s this?” the man said. He had a slight Sorjic accent, though the hair and eyes were enough of a hint that he was Ansorjan. His voice had a pleasant rumble to it, but his expression was, if not unfriendly, certainly not cordial.

  “Our wizard,” Dianthe said. “This is Sienne.”

  “Our wizard?” the man, who had to be Alaric, said. “Sorry to waste your time. We don’t need you, after all.”

  Sienne’s heart lurched. The new boots, the knife hanging at her hip, even the pile of gear on the bed seemed to turn a blazing, pulsing red. She couldn’t return the fifty lari and she’d never be able to pay all that gear back. She might as well fling herself off one of the bridges and let the river take her. It was a cleaner death than the slow torture of indentured servitude, and far, far better than what she’d left behind.

  Dianthe’s lips compressed tightly. “Oh? You’ve come up with a better solution?”

  Alaric didn’t look at her. “We’ll hire out the labor. Plenty of children—”

  “Child labor? Are you out of your damn mind?”

  “Teens, then. It won’t cost—”

  “Sienne, would you excuse us?” Dianthe said, her voice dangerously placid. She took Alaric’s elbow and steered him into the hall, shutting the door behind her. Sienne whipped her spellbook out and opened it. She knew eavesdropping was wr
ong, but that had never stopped her before. And she had a feeling this was a conversation she needed to hear.

  As quickly as she dared, she spoke the rolling syllables of sharpen, giving it the flick at the end that limited the duration to five minutes. The noise of the breeze grew rapidly until the flapping of the curtains sounded like the crack of a whip. She pressed her ear against the door and covered the other with her hand.

  “—been through this,” Dianthe said, as clearly as if she were in the room with Sienne. “The shrinking spell, or whatever she calls it, is the only way we’re getting into that keep.”

  “We don’t need a damn wizard,” Alaric said. He was clearly trying to keep his voice down, but to her heightened hearing, it rumbled like an oncoming storm. “And that one—you’re one to talk about child labor! Has she ever been outside Fioretti in her life?”

  “She’s no younger than we are, you fool. Don’t let the big eyes fool you. And I’ve seen her do wizardry. She’s competent. And she’s the only one I could find who has the right spell and is willing to make the trip.”

  “This is a mistake.”

  “You want to go back to Master Fontanna and tell him we failed? We can’t afford to return the money.”

  “We shouldn’t have taken the job in the first place.”

  “We can’t afford to be picky. You know that. I trust your instincts, yes, but unless you’ve learned something I’m not privy to, this is still the best opportunity we’ve had in weeks. And that means hiring a wizard.”

  Alaric let out a sigh that to Sienne sounded like a gale. “Fine. But I’m not interested in making friends. Make sure she understands that.”

  “It’s not the same, Alaric. You can’t possibly think—”

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “I have a good idea. She’s a nice person, and she doesn’t deserve to be damned for the sins of another.”

  “As if it were that simple.”