"Oh, that was glorious," her great-uncle said. He rocked back on the ledge. "I wouldn't have appreciated the story nearly enough if I hadn't seen it!"
Icelin smiled. But she wasn't done with Eliza's tormentor.
"Sintus Farlhor," she said. Her voice echoed off the surrounding buildings, carrying to the tavern keeper's ears. "Heed me."
Farlhor tried to look up at her, but there was dung in his eyes. Icelin wondered what he could see of her. Her voice was strong, almost masculine-her great-uncle claimed that was because she used it so frequently-but her body was small. She had a thin, pale face curtained by long strands of unruly black hair.
"There are no fouler men than you in this city. But darker still are the eyes that watch this alley," Icelin said. "If you want to tryst here, let it be with yourself and not the girls under your care. If you forget, I will rain more than animal filth on you."
"Who are you?" Farlhor yelled, trying to sound fearsome. He squinted at her. "I know you! You're Brant's little she-witch! Come down here, then. I'll crack your bones." He reached for his broom.
"Will you, now?" Icelin said. Her voice was very soft. She could feel Brant's eyes on her as she started the spell. No words came to her lips, not at first. Instead she hummed, finding the tune of an old song. She could recall it without breaking her concentration on the magic. The rhythm of the song steadied her until she was ready to cast.
The words and gestures felt foreign to her at first. She used them so seldom that recalling each aspect of the spell was a chore. Patiently, she worked her way through the complex patterns.
When she was done, the air crackled. Farlhor's broom snapped in half.
The tavern keeper shrieked and dropped the broken pieces. Cursing, he grabbed for a pouch that hung around his neck. The trinkets inside were meant to ward off harmful magic, but Icelin knew for a fact that they were owl pellets and painted stones, sold at the markets as arcane charms.
Rubbing his precious forgeries, Farlhor opened the door and darted through it into the safety of the tavern.
Icelin leaned back against the chimney, breathing hard.
"Icelin-lass!" Brant grabbed Icelin's shoulder as she swooned, but the faintness passed quickly enough. Then came the nausea, but she mastered it as well, swallowing and gulping air like a drowning swimmer.
It had been too long since she'd used such magic. She hadn't been properly prepared. The spell was not difficult, but she had worked herself up into a fury before the casting.
"I'm all right," she said. She squeezed his hand. "I'm just weak."
"You shouldn't have spent yourself like that," Brant scolded her, his good humor forgotten. "It's not like you to be so careless."
"You're right." Icelin grinned and pulled back her sweat-soaked hair. "But revenge is such a demanding creature. You have to be patient, day after day, until your chance comes in a wondrous spark of inspiration. The stableman down the south end of the Way; his son has a devious heart the equal of my own."
"I find that hard to imagine," her great-uncle said dryly.
"He selected the dung personally: aged one day inside a fat, cud-fed cow. I'm told she has loathsome intestines."
"Oh, I hope that's so," Brant said. "But you didn't need to use magic, Icelin. The dung was enough."
"I know." Her gaze flicked briefly to his. "Eliza and I used to play together as children."
"I remember," Brant said. "I don't fault your feelings. But you could have given Farlhor over to the Watch if you feared for her safety."
"Yes, and you know precisely why I didn't." Icelin leaned her head back against the chimney and closed her eyes. "Hush, now, while I bask in the sweet glory of my victory."
"Perhaps you should take to sleeping on the roof always," Brant observed. "Up here, you seem to have command of the whole world."
"If by world you mean Blacklock Alley, then I'll warrant you're right." Icelin didn't open her eyes. "I will reign over it as queen-or witch-and never have to sleep again. The Watchful Lady, I shall be, with her raven-black tresses and bloodshot eyes."
"We all need to sleep sometime, lass," her great-uncle said seriously. "Tell me truly: are the nightmares getting worse?"
"No. They are what they are."
"It's been five years, Icelin. Maybe, if we found you another teacher, he could help. You clearly still have the ability. It's only the control you lack."
"No," Icelin said. "I don't want to get into all that again. Today was a lapse. I lost my temper. It won't happen again."
She stared down at the alley, refusing to meet Brant's eyes. After a breath, she felt her great-uncle take her hand. She leaned sideways and allowed him to gather her up. They sat together, silently, against the backdrop of the awakening city.
"You never knew my Gisetta. But when you were humming that song, you sounded just like her," Brant said quietly.
"The music calms me," Icelin said. "The rhythm it makes in my chest… Spells are just like music, only more. And more frightening," she added. "But the song braces me." She looked up at him. "You used to sing it to me. 'Give me eyes for the darkness, take me home, take me home.' " She knew Brant liked her singing voice. It was the only untainted gift she could give him, so she sang in his company as often as she could.
Brant patted her shoulder. "We should go below," he said. "The day has started without us, and you've an appointment with Kredaron after highsunfest."
"I haven't forgotten." Icelin said, wrinkling her nose.
"He's a respectable merchant, Great-Niece," Brant said. He always called her "great-niece" when duty and responsibility were involved. "You made a contract, and you have to honor it."
"It's not the honor part that I'm dreading," Icelin said. "But you're right. The price is more than fair, for one afternoon's work."
"What's he having you guard?"
"He wants to sell jewelry-family heirlooms, mostly-to boost his coin while he establishes his spice business. He's offered me first selection of the pieces before he sells them. All I have to do is ensure their security before and during the transaction."
Btant whistled. "That is generous. You remember what I taught you about appraising?"
Icelin shot him a wry look.
"Right, of course you do." Brant offered a hand to help her up. "You'll do well by him. This will be a good day."
"Assuming everything goes smoothly." Icelin plucked up the discarded cup, got to her feet, and drained the rest of her tea in one swallow. Brant sighed at the gulping noise.
Icelin wiped her mouth. "Yes, Great-Uncle, I slurp my tea and will therefore never be a proper lady." She widened her eyes. "Didn't I horrify you with that revelation a long time ago?"
"Can't an old man hope for a miracle?" Brant smiled. "In with you. The least you can do is meet Kredaron in something more than a dressing gown."
"Anything to make you happy, Great-Uncle."
The sun was warm and high in the sky by the time Icelin got out of the house. She and Brant shared a small, neat set of rooms above the sundries store. Her great-uncle had few possessions, and Icelin had no great desire for baubles. The space was more than adequate for them both.
As promised, she'd shed her dressing gown, and even washed her face. But then Brant had cornered her in the kitchen and forced her to eat some bread and a bowl of the simmer stew he'd prepared the night before. He claimed she never ate enough. Her usual chores were after that-washing the windows and sorting coin from the previous day's business-before she had to prepare for her afternoon meeting with Kredaron.
She'd braided her hair and put on an ankle-length dress of light linen-brown, of course, so it wouldn't show the dust. One had to measure beauty against practicality in South Ward. Clouds of dust were everywhere on the dry days, and the mud slowed traffic when the rains came. But she had tall boots for those wetter occasions.