Chapter 6: Chapter 5: In which Iwy curses city life, and Triand shows a talent for bargaining

Triand made her do the coin nonsense until they reached the city gates. The most Iwy had managed was to drag it out from her palm and have it fall to the ground. If all magic was this unreasonably difficult she might as well catch the next cart to Ryebridge. Cloth didn’t argue. Cloth didn’t ask her to focus on the feeling of tugging or moving or the faint magical energy that just felt like her palms itched.

So something was there. She had known that already. What she really wanted was to get rid of it all. Then the people in town could write her burning down the barn and almost grilling a mouthy farmhand off as a one-time incident and she could go back to her life. It might be a funny story in ten years.

The road had become busier the nearer they got to Riestra. They passed through the heavy metal gates along with dozens of traders, carts, and the odd out-of-town wizard, recognisable by his staff, worn robes, and a general expression of being sick of the countryside.

Iwy had mostly forgotten what the city looked like. It wasn’t bad, as far as cities went. Lots of white walls and oaken rooftops, surprisingly clean streets. They must have added a few more buildings, because she couldn’t make out the western mountains anymore.

Riestra was fine if you didn’t have to stay too long. This was the fourth time someone had bumped into Iwy. Near the market she stumbled over some errant chicken, and a second later the bird’s owner ran into her. To her left, the drivers of two different fruit carts were getting into an argument. She tried to keep up with Triand, who meandered through the crowds like an out-of-control tennis ball. Muffled pain sounds followed her like the tail of a comet; the staff did have its use.

To her right, a vendor of bagged walnuts was adamant to get a sale out of her as they were jostled past the statue of the city founder, a foreign woman named Rimilde, hence the strange name. Every other town name in the Midlands was a straightforward affair. It was only when you went out west that things got weird. Some historical reasons behind it, but Iwy hadn’t paid much attention in the few history lessons during her brief schooling.

Triand nudged her. “Been here before?”

“Yeah, but only once and I was a kid. D’you know the founder was said to be a sorceress?”

“Makes you wonder how the witch hunters would take the news.” Triand rubbed her hands together. “What we need is some halfway decent stew and a keg of wine.”

Iwy could hardly afford a glass. Triand might not worry about money (or her health) but Iwy had spent many a day on her mother’s knee learning how to budget. “That’s a bit excessive.”

“You need to drink more. Makes the magic flow better. And makes you feel fuzzy and fuzzy is nice.”

The next person who bumped into Iwy made her spin in a half-circle.

“Hey, watch it!”

The man turned and sequined robes swished. There was probably a frown under the gigantic beard, but it was hard to tell. “Watch it yourself! Do you know who I am?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“This is not a game of ‘Who in Hell’s name are you’!” The staff thumped on the ground and a few green sparks flew.

“Now, now, now,” Triand said, getting between the wizard and Iwy. “We don’t fight in front of hospitals, do we?”

The wizard turned to look at the building behind them. He grumbled something that was almost definitely not an apology and stalked off.

Iwy looked up at the unassuming block of white stone. “Order of Ebonmight Hospital for the Depleted,” she read. “‘Where there’s magic, there’s hope.’ What is that?”

“It’s for treating magical depletion.”

“You mean, it can go away?” Iwy could feel her brain light up, metaphorically this time. Magic could stop! Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with flames leaking out of her forever. She could go home and promise to never set anything on fire again and she could keep that pro...

“Yeah, that’s why the motto ain’t the best,” Triand said, dragging Iwy back to reality. “Now come on, we’ve got business to attend to and stuff.”

“D’you think I could catch it somehow?”

“Unlikely.”

They thankfully moved into the less crowded streets. Triand stopped in front of a small shop. “While we’re here, I might as well sell these boots.”

The dim shop smelled of leather and grease from the merchandise covering the walls, bracers for falconers, aprons for smiths, thick riding trousers, sturdy travel bags in various sizes. There was a wooden counter towards the back, half buried under scraps. A brown curtain sealed off the workroom. Someone yelled “Coming!” from behind it and a few seconds later a woman stepped out.

Iwy had never had to use the word ‘buxom’ before, but now she could think of no other description. The lacings on the woman’s kirtle were clearly under a lot of strain. Her eyes fell first on Iwy, next on Triand, and that was where they stayed.

Iwy looked sideways at her master, who approached the counter with a sort of somnambular swagger, and was instantly filled with prophetic dread. “Good day. How are ya? Love the dress. I have some boots to sell. They’re new. Well, sort of. They’ve been worn. Not by me, though. Heard this was the best leatherwork shop in town.”

The woman scoffed, picked up the boots and began examining the heel and sole. “Don’t try to flatter me, mage.”

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“Not even a little?”

The corners of her mouth moved upwards, a tiny, tiny fraction. “Not if you can’t think of something original.”

“You look like you could kill someone with your bare hands.”

The woman blushed, almost imperceptibly. Iwy considered stuffing her ears with leather scraps.

“Decent boots. Don’t much like the buckle, but the decorations are very nice work. Nothing broken. Good weight in the toes. I’ll give you fifty.”

“Gold pieces?”

“Ha! You’re funny. Silver, you nugget.”

“Not even a little more? My apprentice needs to keep up her strength, you know.”

“Well, is there anything else you would like to, uh, offer?” Her hand brushed against Triand’s as she handed the boots back.

“Something ... original?”

Iwy wondered if the displayed leather pouches could drown out sound if she were to stick her head inside.

“Maybe we can strike a bargain. Why don’t you step into the workshop?”

Triand turned briefly before returning to being lost in the saleswoman’s eyes. “Iwy, you can go eat something ... or something ... I have to, uh, negotiate the price.”

“Sure you do,” Iwy said levelly, glad to move out of the zone of second-hand embarrassment and hoped it didn’t show on her face too much. Triand pressed a coin into her hands. “Um, that’s a gold coin ...”

“You’re right, you’re a grown woman. Make that two.”

Iwy walked out of the shop with enough money to buy half a pub. She chose the next one she came across, which was named the Odd Parsnip, betraying the region’s strange commitment to vegetables, but it looked clean and respectable enough. The innkeeper wore her hair in a Fallhaven braid that Iwy never managed to do on herself and was by far the friendliest person she had come across in the last few days.

She ordered what the woman called brewhouse stew and, after a moment’s thought, wine, in case Triand would be back soon. She was sure the mage would find her.

Although she hadn’t done any decent work in more than a week, Iwy dug into her plate as if she had been part of the harvest team. She hardly felt the heat, though the innkeeper said the stew was piping hot, fresh out the kettle. Her mother would want her to eat. It was the first thing she’d say if they were to meet somehow, child, are you eating enough ...

Iwy asked the innkeeper for some paper and a pencil. If she was going to be here for a bit, she might as well write home, tell them she was still alive. Or at any rate had still been alive at the time of writing. If she hurried, she could ask her to hand the letters to the next weekly courier bound for Riansfield.

In the end, she sat over the white sheet for over an hour. It was harder than she had thought. She’d been on the road for three days and there had already been two run-ins with witch hunters. She didn’t want to worry her parents, and she couldn’t send her siblings separate letters, they’d snitch. She could tell her friends back home, though. Her friend Ailsa would think it was funny, but word might get back to her parents.

And that reminded her that her friends didn’t even know she was travelling with a mage. If no one had told them, for all she knew they were still thinking she’d be at her aunt Beryl’s soon. In a week, her friend Millie might send a letter bothering her for spare cloth. That is, she would be bothering aunt Beryl because Iwy wasn’t there and that would be a long explanation.

But how did you start a letter like that? ‘Surprise, I’m a magical apprentice now. Do you want to know an anti-thief spell?’ Then again, she could finally tell someone that her new master was maybe, possibly, almost definitely a little bit insane. And an embarrassing flirt. Her neighbour Vin might die laughing if she told her about the leatherwork shop. Or maybe she would ask for some tips. Could go either way.

She had to start somewhere so Iwy decided on the usual phrases. How are you? How’s the farm? Harvest done soon? Any rain? I’m fine ... I guess.

She could tell them about the landscape. That was a pretty safe topic. The forest, the road ... a battleground that still smoked a thousand years later. It looked like any wheat field burned to the roots. What might have happened to her family’s fields and house had they not put her in the cellar.

The pencil broke.

Damnit.

Iwy reached for the knife to sharpen the blasted thing again when the door of the tavern flew open.

Triand stood in the doorway like a barbarian returning from a battle. “Blessings be upon this tavern. Where’s the hooch?”

Iwy waved her over, trying to ignore the other patrons’ stares.

The mage dropped into a chair, ignored the food, and went straight for the wine bottle. Her greying hair was a bird’s nest and the shirt under her half-open robes was on backwards.

“Are you alright?”

“More than alright.”

“You look a mess.”

“That’s city fashion.” Triand stretched her back and unsuccessfully tried to smooth her hair. “How about we take a nap before we head to the sanctum? I’m beat.”

“From what?”

“That shop owner drives a hard bargain. Whatcha doin’?”

“Overthinking.” Iwy sighed. “I’m trying to write home and I don’t know what to say.”

“Why not? You’ve almost been arrested twice, we got shot at, and we got thrown out of an inn. That’s a good story.”

“I don’t want people to worry.”

“They’re already worrying. They’re your parents. And your friends, I guess, you have friends, right? It’s their job to worry. You gotta tell them you can get through anything.” The mage pulled her pipe out of a pocket and Iwy was glad for the distraction.

“You can’t only smoke and drink, you need to eat something.”

“Food is for the weak.” At that, Triand’s stomach performed a series of growls. “And I’m very weak.”

“Come on, there’s some stew left. It’s made with beer, you’ll like it.”

“Alright. You eaten already?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Triand ladled some of the stew onto a plate. “Here’s the plan for the afternoon. I’ll get us a room here, unless you’d like to stay somewhere else ...”

“Wouldn’t know where.” Iwy handed over the change from the coins Triand had given her. This inn seemed affordable enough. For the first time Iwy wondered how Triand got money when she didn’t happen to have stolen boots to sell. “I don’t know a single place in this city.”

“So we’ll leave our bags and head over to the sanctum library. I don’t know how long it’ll take to find what we need, we might stay a few nights here.”

“Fine with me. Not like I have any plans.”

Triand jabbed her spoon at her. “I know that tone. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman, I’m not at all gonna cry because I miss my mum.”

The mage hugged the wine bottle closer. “Ah, homesickness. Reminds me of when I first left the familiar flock.”

“Do tell.”

To Iwy’s horror Triand completely disregarded the sarcasm. “I was eighteen, a kooky kid going through my Sembelli phase. You know, a hail spell and a smart answer for ...”

“This sounds like a long story, don’t we have somewhere to be?”

“What you need is a distraction. They have young people in this city. Probably some young men, too, somewhere, didn’t really pay attention. You like young men, don’t you?”

Iwy’s face coloured before she could stop it, but not from embarrassment. “No.”

“There’s lots of pretty young women in this city. I’m too old, but you’re the right age.”

“Shouldn’t we concentrate on your library project?”

“You really are homesick, aren’t ya?” Triand cleared her plate in record speed. “You’re right, this is good. You know what would go great with it?”

“More beer?”

“How do you know me so well after only a few days?”

The mage got up and swaggered towards the bar. She stayed an awfully long time. When Iwy next looked up, she was still there, leaning nonchalantly over her mug and chatting with the innkeeper who was giggling excessively. Triand whispered something in her ear and she blushed and giggled even more.

Iwy kept her eyes focused on her letters. Suddenly she could not wait to go to the wizarding sanctum.