“No doubt not out of practice in getting black eyes, though,” she said, smiling. “I reckon we’re about to find out.” She turned to look at the stairs. “Herb—” she began.
But just then, Chall managed to catch hold of the magic, gripping it tight as it thrashed around like an oily eel in his grasp. He focused his attention on it and then the magic was there, forming in his mind as clearly as it ever had, creating that which he had meant to create. At least, mostly. What he had meant to do was to create a dozen roses—always a sure fire way to a woman’s heart, at least, that was, when coin wasn’t an option. Instead, he was left holding a single, rather wilted lily.
She turned from the stairs, scowling at him and then at the lily then back at him for good measure. “And what? I’m supposed to be impressed that you carry a wilted flower around with you, that it?”
“What?” he said, frowning. Fire and salt, but roses would have been better. “No, that is—look, I just made this, you see?”
She opened her mouth again, likely to yell for Herb, so with a quick, practiced flourish, he made the flower disappear. Only, the flourish wasn’t quite so much a flourish as a panicked gesture—Herbert really was a big man—and it had the side effect of also making a half-empty ale cup vanish to shatter on the floor a moment later. He winced, expecting the black eye she’d promised from her if not from the hired help, but the innkeeper was left blinking at him, apparently unaware or uncaring about the glass he’d broken. “How’d you do that?”
“I told you,” he said, smiling triumphantly past his increasingly bad headache, one which a bit of prestidigitation always made worse. “Magic.”
She frowned doubtfully but, at least, refrained from shouting for her bouncer, so that was something. “Do something else.”
He grunted. “Want a free show, is that it? Well, I can’t say that I’m inclined to—”
“It’s good enough, maybe I’ll let you stay the night. If it ain’t, you can take your ass outside and sleep in the street for all I care.”
Chall considered that. He hadn’t performed much magic in the last few years, having largely found his “gift” to be more of a curse than anything. Besides which, he knew that doing so would make his headache worse than it already was. Still, he’d tried sleeping in the street plenty and didn’t particularly care for it, so he nodded. “Of course. Tell me, Palla,” he said, smiling his best flirtatious smile, “is there a man in your life? Or, better yet, one you wished would be in your life? Or, at least, your bed?”
She scowled. “My personal life’s my own business, charlatan, just as my lovers are. Now—”
Chall thought she was being far too optimistic if she thought he—or anyone sober enough to still be conscious—would believe that she had not only one lover but multiple. But he didn’t think that was the most politic thing to say, so he held up his hands to show he meant no harm. “You don’t need to tell me anything about him—or her, who am I to judge? All I ask is for you to picture this man—or woman—in your mind, alright? Just an image.”
She frowned. “And then what?”
He smiled. “Then, prepare to be amazed.”
She studied him for several seconds then finally sighed. “This had better be good.” Then, she closed her eyes.
Chall studied her for a moment. She really was unattractive. Rail thin with hands calloused from work, her hair a dull, lank brown. A man would have to be a far more powerful magician than he—or anyone, come to that—to see her womanly charms. Certainly, she had no curves to speak of, no softness neither in her body, nor in her manner. A damned miserable excuse for a—
“Well?” she demanded.
Oh, right. He took a slow breath, calling on his magic again. This time, it answered more quickly, if still somewhat reluctantly, and he winced as he performed his working and a fresh spike of pain lanced through his temple. “Okay, open them.”
When she did she let out a satisfying gasp. “Faerie dust, but you were telling the truth.”
Chall grunted. Of all the curses his people used, that was probably his least favorite. He’d had some run-ins with the Fey—far more than he’d ever wanted, in fact—and knew there was no such thing. Unless, of course, people referred to dust actually made from faeries after they’d been set ablaze, and somehow he doubted it. Still, the last thing he needed was to get on her bad side, so he sketched a bow—the best of which he was capable still seated at the table with his gut pressed against its wooden edge—more of a nod, really. “I said as much.”
She smiled, and there was some slight warmth to it. She stared at him then, and he was about to ask her what was wrong, if maybe he had a booger or had messed up the nose—the damned nose was always the trickiest part—but then he realized that nothing was wrong. At least, not with him. She was trying—and failing miserably, it had to be said—to give him a seductive look. But doing so as if she had only read about it in some book or maybe not even that. All in all, a thoroughly shitty job. “So,” she said in a seductive voice which was at least as bad as the look, “you were saying you wanted a room, that it?”
Chall considered that, considered whether the price of said room would be worth it or if he’d prefer the street after all. It took over a minute, and he would have kept considering it if a frown hadn’t slowly begun to spread on her features. “Well?”
“Oh, right,” he said, giving a sickly smile, “of course.”
“Well,” she said, offering him her hand, calloused and all, as if offering him some
