I liked her style. Liked to flatter myself that she’d learnt from the worst.
Voices emerged from a side room where a handful of men and women sat in rows at benches, quills scratching while a tutor inspected and corrected their letters and numbers. Charra had always helped people lift themselves out of the gutters to find other work if they wished, and before I fled the city she had started providing funds for several to start up their own businesses in exchange for a small cut of future profit. Judging from this new place that generosity had paid off handsomely.
The room beyond the archway was deep in shadow. I was led through to a plush ebony chair and small ornate table on which an oil lantern had been shuttered to cast its light in my eyes so that I couldn’t see much of anything. I felt the attendant’s hand on my shoulder, helpfully steering me down into the seat with a grip that told me standing wasn’t an option. A surprising strength too; I couldn’t help but wonder if she was mageborn.
While waiting I peered into the dark, just making out a lacquered wicker screen and alcoves lining either side of the room. My less orthodox senses filled in the gaps: the soft scuff of leather; the creak of floorboards; eddies and whirls of hot breath in cool air brushing my hair – guards in the alcoves. I drummed an uneven beat on the arm of the chair. Waited some more. Pondered asking for snacks.
Finally, a servant emerged from behind the screen and began folding it back. She wore a head-to-foot Ahramish dress, layers of fine black lace and thread of gold that left only ink-stained hands and kohl-lined eyes uncovered – the traditional dress worn by librarians of the Great Archive at Sumart if I wasn’t mistaken. If genuine, it was an impressive feat for Charra to have acquired the services of one of their ilk; they were said to be unwaveringly honest, intelligent, and better read than most magi who had lived twice as long.
My heart thudded like a drum, throat closing up as a woman with the dark skin tones of the Thousand Kingdoms came into view – Charra. She lounged on a plush chair with a silver goblet in her hand, swilling a fragrant, spiced red wine. She had put on a bit of weight over the years, acquired a shock of grey in her short spiked hair, and crow’s feet now clustered at the corners of her eyes, but she was still a fine-looking woman. Her smoky hazel eyes were dull and disinterested, bloodshot from wine and weariness. Her black tunic and trousers were a match to her attendant’s, but rumpled and unwashed. A cloud of grief surrounded her, causing my own heart to twinge in response. Oh Lynas…
The attendant cleared her throat behind me, hot breath caressing the back of my neck. “This is Master Reklaw.” I imagined her hand resting on the hilt of a dagger, ready to plunge it deep into my back.
Her mistress only glanced at me briefly, nodded and took a sip of wine, staining her lips purple. “You claim to be from the Arcanum, Master Reklaw. What do you want?”
I stroked my jaw. Sure, I’d acquired a mass of scars and got rid of that ridiculous pointy goatee that had been all the fashion back then, but still… I pulled a bent roll-up from my pocket, lit it from the lantern and clamped it between my lips. I took a deep draw and exhaled, smoke writhing in the lamplight as it drifted towards the hidden guards. “That bunch of whiny, self-important pricks? I suppose I can claim some past involvement, Cheriam.”
She jerked upright, shocked somebody had used her birth name, the one only a handful of people from the old days would know. It took her a moment. Then the goblet clanged to the floor and wine gurgled out in a spreading purple pool as she stared at me in shocked pleasure, then anger, that familiar expression seeming more like the old Charra I knew.
“Reklaw? You stinking bastard.” She rose and clapped her hands, “All of you, out!” She didn’t take her eyes off me as lantern shutters were opened and armed guards shuffled out. Her attendant and her knives remained in place behind me.
Charra stalked over and grabbed me by the collar, hauling me to my feet and into her arms, crushing herself to my chest. “I knew you couldn’t be dead, you slippery scoundrel.”
I couldn’t hide the joy welling up inside me. It was the happiest I’d been in years, even tainted as it was by recent events. We held each other for a long moment until she finally pulled away. Her gaze stroked my scars. “What happened to your face?”
I cleared my throat. “Cut it shaving.”
“Shaving?” She raised an eyebrow. “What with? A bear?” Suddenly fury flashed in her eyes. “Ten years! You could’ve at least sent a letter.” Her slap rattled teeth, snapped my head to one side, eye to eye with the attendant. The girl arched an eyebrow, a canny expression that seemed strangely familiar.
I looked from her to Charra, then back again. Then it dawned on me. She had Lynas’ eyes. It clicked in my mind and the mix of Lynas and Charra in their daughter’s face became heart wrenchingly obvious.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “No! This is little Layla?” Suddenly I felt horrendously awkward for letting my eyes linger on her earlier.
Layla looked hopelessly confused, that icy control cracked and leaking.
“My darling,” Charra said. “Do you remember Uncle Walker?”
She frowned, absently reached over and tugged at my chin, then realized what she was doing and snatched her hand back, cheeks reddening. Seemed she remembered tugging on my beard when she was little.
Charra gave her a hug, “Give us some time alone please, my darling.”
“If you are sure…” Layla said, looking none too pleased. Charra squeezed her arm and shooed her away, but not before Layla gave me a meaningful look, promising knives in my eyeballs if I laid a hand on her mother.
Once we were alone Charra kicked me in the ankle, just hard enough to be annoying. “You grumpy old git. I haven’t laid eyes on your sorry hide ever since you came running up my door carrying that old box. I just thought you were in yet another spot of trouble and hadn’t expected you to flee the godsdamned city without even a goodbye. Why did you leave? A god died that night – I was worried sick something had got you too.”
I swallowed and decided the truth was better than lies. “I, uh, suspect that I might have had something to do with that. I made some very bad enemies that night. Sorry, I’d tell you more if I knew it myself. There is a hole in my memory.”
She stared at me, flat and sceptical.
“I made a deal with somebody incredibly dangerous, and most of what happened that night is locked away inside my head.”
She scrutinized every change in my face, the scars, lines and greying hair, and then frowned, my appearance not quite matching the age it should have shown in mundanes: one of the benefits of magic. “Very well, I have more than enough to worry about at the moment. You did a good job faking your death to get the Arcanum off your back. Everybody believed your charred corpse was found near Port Hellisen. Well, almost everybody; Lynas didn’t seem terribly upset about it, and knowing the special bond you two have… He is–” She grimaced “–was, a terrible liar. I assume you made him promise to keep me in the dark?”
“Sorry about that,” I said, raking a hand through my unruly hair. “They would never have stopped if they had any suspicion I still lived. That body belonged to an old farmer called Rob Tillane, dead of the bloody flux judging from the smell. I just covered his corpse in my blood and magic to fool the sniffers. The fire and, ah, a few convenient witnesses to my death disguised the rest.” I tapped my temple and grinned.
She shook her head, the ghost of a smile on her lips, “Always the conniving snake, and I am very glad you are. Where have you been holed all these years?”