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
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 those 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.