An abandoned boy, a grieving prince, and a reclusive sorcerer find themselves caught in a web of peril and mystery...
Domi, a young thief abandoned on the street at birth, just wants to save his dying foster mother. But first, he must survive the m...
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On the morn of Domi's big heist, the boy hurried out of bed, into his tunica, and down from the Black Flight's loft. He wanted to start his day before his ma could wake up and coax any uncomfortable truths from him.
Whistling to keep his nerves at bay, he plowed through his chores.
He hauled in the buckets of post-Brightening rainwater for washing and made the bread dough for Merula's trip to the ovens. He weeded the odoratus and chucked the rubbery leaves into the ceramic lye tub. He pulled yesterday's matte-black and red-black sheets of fresh-pressed odoratus pulp off the drying racks and heaped them in a pile for the needleworkers. Finally, he sorted the shoes delivered by the city's snatcher teams for redistribution and wiped down the wine bar's tables in preparation for opening.
Then he attended to his personal business.
Collecting his coin from the pawnshop was easy, but visiting the forum marketplace to buy an outfit was another matter.
"What do you mean, no?" he asked. "I have the coin right here."
He couldn't afford the tailored attire he originally planned to buy, but he possessed enough coin for these imitation garments the uppity middle class loved to wear. They were the proper pastel color and luxurious length he needed to pass muster at a glance, though a real sorcerer would wear far more expensive fabric. He would need to get in and back out before anyone studied him too long and realized he wore cotton satin and not clivia silk.
But first, he needed to find someone willing to sell him clothes at all.
The man sniffed and tugged the pale-lemon tunica out of Domi's hands. "Stolen coin. Go away, Pullatus."
The second stall owner proved no easier to persuade. "I don't sell odoratus pulp garments, Pullatus."
"Great," Domi said, rolling his eyes. "I can make those myself for free. I need something better."
"Sorry," the woman said with a sneer, "what I meant to say is I don't serve your kind."
Domi scowled. "I have gold. Gold I would love to give you." He sighed as the woman pointed at the busy street beyond. "Fine."
In the end, he did what he did best. While the young woman at the fifth clothier's stall turned away to flirt with a flower seller, Domi snatched what he needed right off the racks. He left a pile of coin, at least.
At last, he marched in his brand new outfit back to the pawnshop. And by marched, he meant tripped. Every two steps, the long fabric wrapped around Domi's legs, making him stumble. No wonder dunces walked everywhere with slow, graceful steps; if they didn't mince their way around with ginger movements, they'd fall flat on their faces.
The Appraiser eyed Domi as the boy stepped into the pawnshop. Jewelry covered the countertop before him. "You're back. And you look ridiculous."
"So do you," Domi said, "but at least I can blame it on the clothes." He offered the old man the winning smile that always earned him an extra coin or two from charitable citizens when he begged on the street corners. "So, I'm doing it today."
