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
“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.
Par-Salian nodded. “Is that how you … dealt with Sutler?” he asked.
“Fear kills us in small doses,” she said as she continued to absently groom the horse. “But sometimes it’s terrible enough to send you to the grave screaming.” She paused at the recollection of absolute terror on Sutler’s face. “My turn,” she said. “That medallion around your neck … the one you pulled out when Ladonna was hurt. What is it?”
Par-Salian suddenly realized it was still hanging free and shoved it back inside his tunic. He appeared sheepish. “A gift from the highmage,” he admitted. “For when our mission is complete. It’ll take us back home.”
Tythonnia stopped what she was doing and looked at Par-Salian. The slow realization burned through her. “You were going to use that to save Ladonna,” Tythonnia said, “but you didn’t. Why?”
“I almost used it,” he whispered. He looked away, unable to meet her stare. “Almost …”
They awoke to the sound of metal upon metal, a deep clanging that resounded in their ears. Tythonnia checked the bindings of her wound, which Rosie had quietly helped her with the previous night before she checked on Par-Salian’s leg. He stared at her through one eye as he lay upon his bedroll in the stall and promptly fell asleep again.
Tythonnia cleaned herself from the iron wash basin Rosie left out for them and changed clothes. She finished and found a shirtless Par-Salian washing himself as well. His eyes were practically swollen with fatigue.
The clanging persisted.
The two companions entered the smithy through the barn and were surprised to find Rosie working hard. She wore a leather smock and maneuvered the tongs expertly while she hammered away at an iron rod that glowed red at its tip. Near her anvil was a stone hearth set against the brick wall. The heat from it was blistering, but Rosie paid it no mind. On the other side of her was a stone slack tub filled with water, while all manner of metal implements hung from chains in the ceiling’s rafters.
