“Ah…do you know where I can find someone to wash my clothes?” she asked.
“Three streets west, seventh door on the right,” Leofus said. “You’ll see the sign.”
“Thanks.”
The storm was blowing hard, carrying leaves and loose papers with it. It blew Sienne westward, ruffling her shirt like a banner and whipping her hair, pulled back in a short, damp tail, around her cheeks. The sky was the color of sand, the gray clouds tinged with yellow where the sun tried to shine through. It gave the brown bricks of the buildings an odd glowing bronze tint, making them look as if they’d been polished to a high gloss.
She found the launderer by his sign, a washboard hanging over the door by a single chain. The other rattled loose in the wind. “You’re going to lose your sign,” she told the round, rosy-cheeked man inside. The laundry smelled of hot water and soap, a comforting, homey smell, but the man’s nose was pinched as if he smelled something else. Something nasty.
“You want something?” he said, his words biting.
“Um…laundry?” Under his scowling eye, Sienne felt her request was something unsavory.
The man rolled his eyes as if she’d asked him to do something impossible. “Pick up tomorrow,” he said. “Payment in advance.”
“Half in advance, so you’ll do a good job.”
“That’s insulting!”
“It’s good business.”
He scowled so hard she was afraid he’d rupture something. “Fine. Six centi now, six tomorrow.”
Sienne paid him and smiled pleasantly, not that she thought it would make a difference. She opened the door and the wind nearly took it out of her hands, blowing dust and rain into the laundry. “Shut the damn door!” the launderer shrieked. Sienne hastily pulled it shut.
Fat, hot raindrops pelted her, making her cover her head with her hands, which were inadequate to the task. She ran down the street and took shelter in the arched doorway of a little shop at the end of the lane. It wasn’t much protection against the rain that was falling practically horizontally, but it was better than nothing. She’d seen these storms twice before in her short time in Fioretti and knew they never lasted long. She’d wait out the worst of it, then hurry back to Master Tersus’s.
The lane ended at one of the main streets, paved in golden stone that shone with a bright slickness as the rain poured down. Rainwater filled the gutters, carrying with it trash and dog turds. Sienne felt a moment’s gratitude for her waterproof boots, though not enough to want to stand in the rushing stream. A couple of men in broad-brimmed hats ran past, splashing through the street. Sienne watched them go and wondered how waterproof their shoes were. Probably not very.
She looked the other direction and saw another man approaching. This one was shorter even than she and walked like someone who thought carefully about every step he took. He had no hat, and his long black hair was slicked to his head with rain that beaded on it oddly, as if it were greasy as well as wet. Looking at him made Sienne uncomfortable, as if her own hair were greasy and her clothes soaked. She averted her gaze as he drew nearer. Staring at strangers never got you anything but trouble, in her experience.
His splashing steps grew louder. She risked a glance in his direction. His path was an undeviating line, not bothering to avoid the worst of the trash in the street. And he was headed directly for her.
Sienne’s heart beat rapidly, urging her to flee. She told herself it was stupid, that this man, this total stranger, was unlikely to attack her in the middle of a busy street in the afternoon. But a quick glance told her the street was virtually empty, the heavy clouds made the skies as dim as twilight, and the man was getting closer and showed no signs of changing his path. Sienne backed away from the protection of the doorway, turned, and ran.
For the first few moments, she thought she’d overreacted. Then, over the sound of her own panicked footsteps, she heard the man’s heavier ones, accelerating toward her. She clutched her spellbook to her stomach to stop it shifting and took the first left, praying she could outrun the man. She needed to find shelter, fast. She turned right, toward Master Tersus’s house—she thought. The houses on this street were made of fat gray stones that gleamed with rain, not small brown bricks. She was lost.
She slowed and cast a glance over her shoulder and shrieked involuntarily when she saw her pursuer only a dozen yards behind. Pushing herself, she took another left, hoping to work her way back to safety. The new street was no more familiar than the last. She ran harder, scrambling to keep from slipping on the wet cobbles, and made several more turns. It was hopeless. She was just making herself more lost.
She gripped her spellbook again. Its hard edges gave her an idea—but she would need to outdistance the man, if only for a few moments.
She started looking for a tavern, or an inn, or any business that might still be open during this storm. There. A wooden loaf of bread hanging above a door. She flung herself toward the bakery and turned one last time, terrified of what she might see but helpless not to look. The man was only yards behind her. She threw herself through the door and slammed it behind her. “Someone’s chasing me,” she gasped. “I need your back door.”
A slim older woman blinked at her. No doubt Sienne’s disheveled appearance made her look disreputable. A spotty-faced boy said, “Back door’s that way.”
“Martus!” the woman exclaimed. “She might be a thief!”
“Thank you,” Sienne told Martus, and bolted for the back room just as the door began to open.
The back door was unlocked, for which Sienne thanked any avatar who might be listening. Beyond it was an alley piled high with refuse. Sienne grabbed a barrel that was still mostly intact and hauled it to block the door. Then she whipped out her spellbook, threw it open, and gabbled out the syllables of imitate.
She was too well trained to let her panic affect her voice, but when it came to shaping the spell to give herself a new appearance, she found herself having to force the spell into performing properly. Three inches extra height, black hair instead of chestnut, and—yes—a male body, just to be sure. Now she looked like the rosy-cheeked launderer.
The barrel thumped as the door hit it. Sienne stuffed the spellbook into her shirt and ran for it again. She might not look like herself anymore, but unless her pursuer was truly stupid, he’d put it together that the stranger just outside the bakery had something to do with Sienne vanishing.
Once back on the main street, she hurried along without running, just one more person looking for shelter against the rain, which was dwindling. She recognized this street as one she’d run down moments before, though that still made it unfamiliar as far as returning to Master Tersus’s house went.
She trotted across the intersection and saw, with a jolt of horror, the greasy man headed her way. He doesn’t know it’s you. Stay calm. She kept striding along, pretending she didn’t notice him. Running might give away her game. So long as she stayed calm, the confusion spell would last, and—
Footsteps grew louder. The man was running toward her. Sienne half-turned to watch him approach, gripped by indecision. Run, and be safe for certain? Stay put, and brazen it out? Maybe this was a madman, intent on accosting anyone roaming the streets during the storm. She kept walking, her heart hammering a terrible rhythm.
The running footsteps were almost on top of her. She closed her eyes and prayed an unfocused prayer, her mind skipping over all six avatars and ending up on Averran: O Averran, you cranky old avatar, protect me in my hour of need.
The footsteps passed. Out of the corner of her eye Sienne saw the greasy man running away down the street. Her chest was sore from running, her legs ached, but she felt so relieved she didn’t care. Now she just needed not to be lost.
She decided to maintain the confusion spell, just in case. She hoped she’d spun a good one, because she still looked normal to herself. At the end of the street, she turned right. She’d been here before, too.
Rapid footsteps came up behind
her. She turned to see the greasy man barreling down on her, his hands outstretched to grab her. Terror made her confusion spell unravel. She shrieked, turned, and ran.
The rain was letting up, and the storm clouds had lost the battle with the sun, sending wan yellow light down on the streets. Sienne took more turns at random. She was only outpacing her pursuer because she was taller and lighter, but he seemed to have unlimited stamina, his pace never faltering. Her whole body hurt from keeping up the punishing pace, and she faltered, then dug deep for reserves she’d never tapped before. “Help me!” she shouted, but the few people venturing into the street ignored her. That was the drawback to the big city; people rarely got involved in other people’s problems.
She turned a corner, and after a few steps, recognized the end of Master Tersus’s street. Sobbing with relief, she flung herself up the shallow incline and through the side door. She slammed it shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
The bath house door opened. Dianthe poked her head out. “Sienne? What in—you’re soaked! Why were you out in the rain?”
“Someone chased me,” Sienne panted. “Didn’t fool him. He—”
Someone pounded on the door once, making it rattle like a sledgehammer struck it. Sienne shrieked and pressed against it harder, willing it to stay shut.
Thunderous feet on the stair heralded Alaric’s appearance. “What in Sisyletus’s name is going on?”
“Someone’s after me,” Sienne said. “He followed me, I don’t know why, but he’s out there.”
Alaric swore and moved Sienne aside. “What do you think you—” he shouted as he opened the door.
No one was there.
Alaric stood with his hand on the knob and looked up and down the street. “I don’t see anyone.”
“There was someone!” Sienne shouted. “I’m not crazy!”
“I didn’t say you were. I meant he seems to have run away.” Alaric shut the door and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re terrified. What happened?”
Sienne tried to calm her breathing. “I went to the launderer,” she began, and recounted the story, leaving out how frightened she’d been when she was lost. “He wasn’t fooled by my confusion spell,” she finally said. “He knew who I was regardless of my appearance.”
“Are you sure it was enough of a deception?” Dianthe asked.
“I’m sure. I’ve done that spell more times than I can count.” She laughed and hoped it didn’t sound hysterical. “It’s gotten me into trouble about as often as it’s gotten me out of it. But I’m sure I looked nothing like myself.”
Dianthe and Alaric exchanged glances. “That’s not good,” Dianthe said. “Why would anyone be after you? More to the point, what about you were they following? Are you carrying anything special? An artifact?”
“The only artifacts I have are the ones we retrieved from the keep, and I don’t have any of them on me. I’m not even carrying the coin.” Dianthe had given her one of the six coins for a keepsake, and she intended to have it drilled so she could wear it around her neck.
Alaric frowned. “Go get cleaned up,” he said, “and let’s go see Master Fontanna. If someone is after you, I hope he tries to reach you while we’re around. It sounds like he has some questions to answer.”
Sienne climbed to her room, feeling as weary as if she’d run—but then, she had run miles, hadn’t she? She changed her soaked shirt, brushed off her damp trousers, and returned downstairs. Alaric and Dianthe were talking quietly when she appeared, a conversation that cut off when she arrived. That disappointed Sienne, because she had a feeling, based on how they looked at her, that they’d been talking about her.
“Stay close,” Alaric said, and pulled the door open.
15
Master Fontanna’s house was one of the palatial buildings of gray-streaked white marble on the hill above the palace. It backed on the Vochus River, which, at that point in its course, flowed too fast for bathing or boating, two things Sienne associated with riverfront property. With the many manors between the road and the river, they couldn’t see the water, but they could hear it, a constant rustling, roaring sound like a storm wind over a forest. The noise must be unbearable for those living near it. Or was that something one became accustomed to? Sienne was glad she wasn’t in a position to find out.
She thought they might go around the side, to the servants’ entrance, but Alaric, box in hand, went straight to the front door, up the pathway of white quartz pebbles bordered with obsidian that had probably cost more than the expensive leaded glass windows. There was a pull chain with a smooth ebony handle next to the door. Alaric pulled it, producing only silence. Whatever bell it was attached to would ring deeper in the house, summoning a servant.
After half a minute, during which time Sienne tried not to watch in every direction at once for the greasy man, the door opened. A man wearing violet knee breeches and a violet waistcoat over a gray shirt with bloused sleeves examined them. “Please come in,” he said, exactly as if they’d been nobles instead of scrappers.
The cold marble of the manor’s façade extended to the entry hall, where an iron chandelier hung low enough for Alaric to touch, shedding its light over the floor and walls. A staircase of more marble ascended out of sight to the floor above, and closed doors to the left and right made the room look even more forbidding. No carpet or tapestries softened the effect.
“Master Fontanna is quite busy,” the servant said. “You will wait in the library.” He crossed the entry hall to the right-hand door and opened it, bowing them in. Sienne smiled at him as she passed and got only an impassive stare that made her want to laugh. Why was it servants were sometimes so much more stiff and correct than their masters?
The library smelled of dust and disuse, a smell that annoyed Sienne. She wasn’t fond of books for their own sakes, not like her younger brother Alcander, but so many of them contained spells, or instructions for casting spells, that she felt they all deserved to be treated with respect. The room was tall and narrow, with shelves on all four walls that reached a good twenty feet high. Two ladders on rails gave access to the upper shelves, their wheels well-greased, as Sienne discovered when she gave one a little push. Alaric frowned at her when she did so, and she put her hands ostentatiously behind her back. There were a couple of leather armchairs with high backs in one corner, but no table or desk. This wasn’t a working library. It was a library for show.
Sienne prowled the shelves, looking for familiar titles. “Oh, I’ve read this,” she said, touching its spine.
“Sienne,” Alaric began.
“I’m not touching it! Well, yes, I’m touching it, but I’m not going to take it off the shelf.” Her fingers came away grimy. “I have to say I don’t think much of his household staff, if they’ve let the books come to this condition.”
“This is the only room he ever lets us enter,” Dianthe said. “I don’t think he cares much about it.”
“Have you worked for him often?”
“A few times. He’s very thorough in his research about the ruins, and usually has a specific item he’s after. And he pays us whether or not we find it—pays us more if we do, obviously, but he respects our efforts.”
“I guess not every client is as generous.”
“Not even close,” Alaric said. “Some of them hire scrappers solely for the salvage, for exclusive rights to whatever they find, and expect the scrappers to fund the expedition expenses. Others will pay a pittance up front and then stiff you if you don’t come back with anything they like.”
“So how do you know which jobs are likely to have…what you want? Rituals?” She felt nervous about broaching the topic in what could technically be considered a public place, but Alaric didn’t shush her, so she guessed it was all right.
“We do our own research,” Dianthe said. “Talk to other scrappers, when they’re willing to talk. We’re a close-mouthed lot, really, because of the need to protect our finds. But often what we want is in places th
at have been cleaned out, supposedly. And then sometimes we get lucky on an unrelated job.”
Sienne opened her mouth to ask, And have you found anything, ever? but was interrupted by the door opening. A tall, handsome man of middle years, his black hair swept back from a widow’s peak to brush his collar, entered with his hand outstretched. “Alaric,” he said, his voice rich as coffee and cream. “Dianthe. And…who’s this?”
“This is Sienne. She accompanied us on our excursion,” Dianthe said.
Sienne took the man’s offered hand. It was surprisingly cold and clammy, not at all as attractive as the rest of him. “Vincentius Fontanna,” he said with a smile. “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Sienne managed not to wipe her hand on her trousers when he released it.
Master Fontanna’s attention fell on the box. A broad smile spread across his face. “You found it.”
“We did,” Alaric said. He pressed two fingers against the center of the box’s lid, and the iris opened, revealing the gold sheet and the styli. Master Fontanna drew in a sharp breath.
“It’s amazing,” he said. “And…Kitane’s right eye, it still works!”
“Not perfectly,” Sienne said. “The magic is erratic.”
Master Fontanna glanced at her. “You’re a wizard?”
“Yes.”
He turned his sharp gaze on Alaric, but said nothing. He removed one of the styli from the clasps that held it and turned it over in his fingers, like spinning a baton. “Do you know what this does?”
The question seemed directed at her, so Sienne said, “No. Sir.” Belatedly, she remembered she wasn’t living as a noble and ought to address this man with greater respect. But he didn’t seem to notice her gaffe.
“It’s intended to direct the distance-viewer’s gaze, as it were.” Master Fontanna tapped the sharp tip of the stylus against the gold plate. A chime rang out, and the plate went briefly invisible. From where she stood, Sienne could see moving blobs of color, nothing discrete, but Alaric’s eyes widened.
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