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[02.1] The Fugitive and her Shadow

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As theurgy is a growing and everchanging force, individuals showing first signs of it must be blooded once every six turns of the month. The only exception is for early-bloomers, who must be blooded once in every four.

—Corthair's Compendium of Theurgy

   

2

THE FUGITIVE AND HER SHADOW 


They rolled under the archs amongst a pit of travellers, the sky a dappled grey and the wind tipped with frost. Still Isla wiped sweat off her brows. Her brush with the gate guard had been uneventful, despite the thudding in her chest; so loud she thought he surely must have been able to hear. But he had taken one look at her papers, peeked into the wagon, and – satisfied that it contained nothing but barrels of coffee beans – waved her through.

Only once they were clear of the gates and well into the city did Noi crawl out and join her by the perch. 'Good idea, Isla, to leave a barrel open.'

'How is Haana?'

'More jittery than a cornered cat. Better she stay in there 'til we are home.'

The smell of the city hit her then: fish and meat and the undercurrents of dung. Carts filled the streets, and every corner a new beggar. There was a charm to it, if one were inclined to look. The bell tower far in the distance; copper turrets looming over a tier of rooftops. Over a hundred years the city had grown, orbiting the tower from which it acquired its name, and so towards it all its paved streets led.

The Seven Peals lay upon one of the quieter streets, far from the bell tower's shadow, and there Isla pulled the donkeys to a halt. Noi kept them at the inn stables in exchange for weekly supply of roasted beans, and while she tended to the two aging beasts, Isla hoisted Haana off the wagon and half-carried, half-dragged her along the footpath.

'I know it's hard on your feet, but we must hurry.' The girl was so frail, Isla wondered if she had strength even to make water by herself. 'You should not be out in the open for long. Not before we have your papers.'

It was fortunate most of the patrons making their way into The Seven Peals were occupied with either drink or fatigue. Nobody hassled them, though Haana caught a few stragglers' eyes. Malnourished or no, she was still a pretty little thing.

They lived high above an antique shop run by a Hirdii couple. It was a faded building, adjoined to one side by the narrowest flight of stairs some halfwit decided was good enough. Both girls were out of breath by the time they entered. Haana did not even wait to be welcomed before she collapsed onto the rickety old chair by the hearth. Another act of brazenness Isla did not recall of the Surikh. Not that she minded; but Noi certainly would, after a time.

She shrugged off her coat and satchel and hung them by the window. There was a chill to the room, but it was good to be home. Quiet, peaceful. Safe. Isla peered at the streets below just to be sure. Only the lamplighter, making his rounds.

'Where is your maid?'

Isla lifted an eyebrow. Hopefully inadequacy in Eling, rather than manners. 'Noi does not like to be called that.'

'But she is.'

'She's not so much my maid as she is my warden.'

'We should be proud of whatever we are.'

'Oh, Noi's a proud one. Don't you worry about that.' Isla wheedled the salamander out of her satchel and lowered it into the fireplace, where it dove into ash and cinder before lighting a pocket of fire. 'She's done a terrible thing, back in those woods. But she'll never speak of it or the man. Best you don't bring it up, either.'

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