Unlikely

by Frances Pauli

Satina sat on the fountain and unfolded the cloth parcel. She looked out toward the stables, kept her back facing his shop and let the whisper of the water block out the echo of his scolding. The boy was a thief. Did she believe that? She stared at the meal she’d been given and tried to decide.

  A small cake of goat cheese, coarse bread and a handful of berries—the stable woman had given her a better breakfast than she’d enjoyed in days. She might have found the berries, but the cheese and bread required barter. She nibbled them alternately while the town woke.

  The children appeared first. Dirty faces peered at her from behind a cluster of barrels, a few braver groups huddled on the steps of the inn. They had more than one of Marten’s games, and fought for turns to shake the little boxes. Their mothers came next, drifting between the buildings and casting their cool looks in her direction before clustering to whisper. The men would be long at their tasks already, hard at work if the upkeep of the buildings and streets were any indication.

  It was the nicest town she’d seen since the ports.

  The southern women had given her the same looks, but the buildings there had been marked on nearly every surface with a Shade emblem. What the boats brought funded the gang’s activities far and wide, and the market, for all its bounty, had equally remarkable taxes. The market was where she’d met the sailor and where her trouble had started.

  The sun broke through the cloud cover in the middle of her meal. The women faded into the buildings, and a few of the braver children moved their games out into the open. One boy darted directly in front of her after a stray cat that didn’t appreciate the attention one hissing bit.

  Satina finished. She folded the cloth neatly—it was finely woven—and tucked it into a cloak pocket. Then she turned to the inn. Four nights she’d camped on the road. She needed more than a puddle to wash in, and the idea of a real bed made her spine tingle. Would they let her get a room? She squinted at the edifice and hoped a town that allowed someone like Marten to own a store, to take up permanent residence might let her buy a night’s lodging. She’d helped one boy already, though her breakfast may very well be as much gratitude as she’d earn for that. Still, her blood had given her a friendly appearance.

  Her face showed less age than she carried. Her soft features put the weary at ease. The same blood would require two days of walking to keep the cheese and bread from taking permanent residence at her waistline. It was a fair trade-off, she supposed, for smooth skin, gentle eyes and silvery hair that grew as swiftly as a weed.

  She stepped away from the fountain, but the tramping of many boots echoed from the street beside the inn. The children all froze in place. Even the cat paused. Then all at once they moved again, slipping into alleys and vanishing in the space of a breath. The steps rang closer, and Satina scrambled back around the fountain away from the sound. Her hand slid into her dust bag, and her fingers threaded through the powder.

  A group marched into the square. The cat howled in the distance, a faint sound between the patter of blue boots against the street—and every last one of them wore blue boots. The Starlights staggered into the middle of town, stopped and settled into place. The few women in the gang hung from their men, dressed in tattered skirts, layered scarves, and puffy, blue blouses. The guards fanned out to stand at the head of each side street. They blocked all roads leading from the square, trapped Satina effectively beside the fountain.

  Their leader waved his arm like a flag, this way and that, giving silent orders. He stood as tall as the blacksmith had, at least, though he was fair and had less bulk to him. He wore leather leggings, a white tunic and the high, blue boots that labeled his affiliation. Around his neck, a long chain hung, and on this dangled a heavy metal disk carved with the starburst symbol of the gang. He brushed one hand through sandy hair and turned abruptly to fix her in his sight.

  Her fingers swirled. A little flare might distract one guard enough to let her slip away. But she stood opposite the road that led to her pocket, and what might lay in the direction she’d be forced to flee was a mystery. They’d run her down in seconds.

  The leader’s eyes narrowed. He took a step toward the fountain. Satina pinched a little dust between her fingertips.

  A hand landed on her elbow. The Skinner’s voice spoke at her shoulder, overly loud and making little sense. “That’s enough of a break,” he scolded. “Back to work if you don’t want docked for wasting time.”

  “I—I was just…”

  He tugged her backwards. She stumbled, but it only helped their act. The gang leader dismissed them from immediate concern, but Satina saw his eyes before he turned away. Marten may have saved her for the moment, but she’d garnered herself far more attention than she needed. She let him steer her back inside his shop, waited until he’d shut the door before breathing again.

  “Thank you.”

  “What are they doing here?” He turned on her, eyes flashing with more than his blood. “Are they looking for you?”

  “No. Not them.”

  “Shades?” He rolled his eyes and looked at her like he’d caught her stealing. “Either one is bad news.”

  “I know.”

  “Come on, then.” His hand remained on her elbow, but this time he pushed her in front, down the long aisle and around behind the counter. “If you try to leave town now, they’ll be all over you.”

  “Do you think they’re staying?”

  “I’m hoping not.” He let go of her long enough to open the door he’d vanished through when helping the blacksmith. His grin held little mirth behind it. It oozed disdain. “If they move on, you’ll be able to slip away at your leisure.”

  “And if they stay?”

  He shrugged and pushed her into the back room. More shelves ringed in a little desk. These held bits of things unmade or in need of repair. Marten shoved her through too fast for an inspection. Another door stood at the back wall. This one would lead outside.

  “If they stay, you’ll just have to lay low, won’t you?”

  “Where?” Her fear finally broke through. It set her hands shaking, and she found herself leaning closer to him than she should have. She could feel the warmth of his breath near her shoulder.

  “What did you get yourself into?”

  “It wasn’t them.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “No.” She closed her eyes and let a wave of nausea pass. The whole world belonged to one or the other. Where did she have to go?

  “You know where the blacksmith’s is?”

  “Across from the stables?”

  “Yes.” She pressed her eyes tight and shook her head. That was back the way she’d come, back through the square full of Starlights.

  “Don’t panic.” He shook her less than gently, waited till she opened her eyes again. “Listen to me. You go out this door and circle around. Use the alleys. Use that lovely cloak. Use the dust if you have to. Just go quietly and get to the blacksmith’s.”

  “Why there?” She remembered the hulking man, the child who was too afraid to move.

  “Behind that building is a white fence.” He spoke quickly, and his eyes locked her in a trance. He put power to the words, so that she couldn’t have lost them if she’d wanted to. “Follow that fence and you’ll end up at a cottage. It’s back from the road a ways. Tell the woman there I sent you.” He swallowed, and his eyes darted back the way they’d come. “Tell her the Skinner sent you. She’s an herbalist, has an extra room she rents from time to time. If you’re lucky you can trade for it. She’s not blooded, but she won’t mind yours.”

  “Why are you helping me?” She choked it out.

  Marten pulled her closer. The hand on her elbow squeezed tighter and his free one lifted to her chin. He raised her face and looked directly into her eyes.

  “Why?” She held her breath, and the Skinner leaned in. His eyes sparked and he said a single word.

  “Thistledown.” His grin stretched, and he pushed her out the
door into the alley. He closed it before she’d caught her balance. She bit her lip and glared at it.

  The alley smelled of rotten wood. The rear of the buildings had not received the same careful maintenance. What efforts the people could muster had been reserved for an appearance of thriving, prosperous village. A crumbling stone foundation criss-crossed the alley, a snake from the past reminding the upstart town that something else had thrived here before it—that nothing lasts forever. Satina stepped over and around the stones. She slunk right, toward the next street, stirring her dust with one finger.

  She stroked the powder over the symbols on her cloak, over Silence and Speed. They glowed, but not enough in daylight to attract mundane eyes. A Starlight guard manned the street. He stood at the edge of the square with his back facing her and his arms crossed in front. She peeked, ducked back, peeked again and then darted across to the next alley. One down. One more to cross and she’d be heading away from the square, back toward the edge of town and the blacksmith’s domain.

  This stretch had less foundation rubble, but more trash. The buildings seemed to lean together overhead, and the water barrel she passed reflected more gutter than sky. Crates waited in piles behind the next shop. Satina paused beside them, tucked in against the building and calmed her nerves. Above her head, a cat hissed. He swatted one gray paw over the box lip and growled for her to be moving off.

  Satina stepped away again, had just reached the next jut of old foundation when the air around her spoke. He used something, a spell to make him heard much farther than his voice would warrant. Whatever magic backed his speech, she heard him as if he were standing in the alley. She guessed, the entire town would hear.

  “People of Westwood!” He’d taken a moment to learn the town’s name, more than she had done, but then, she hadn’t come to claim it either. “I am Vane, and this is your lucky day.” Satina cringed and looked back the way she’d come. Did Marten think, for one second, that the town was lucky? Vane continued, and she moved again, using the cover of his announcement to mask her footsteps. She’d heard it all before anyway.

  By the time she reached the next cross street, Vane was calling for the town officials to join him in the square. He declared Westwood to be under his protection and suggested a celebration in honor of the occasion. It was a fancy way of letting the townspeople know they were about to be pillaged, but at least it wasn’t a hostile take-over. At least it wasn’t a gang war. She’d seen one of those in the south and had barely slipped out of that particular port town with her life. If there hadn’t been a pocket just inside the first fields, she’d be floating in the bay somewhere, picked clean by the tiny silver fish that liked to hover near the surface around the big boats.

  Satina crossed the street in a flash, leapt the next pile of stones and broke into a trot away from the square and the message that still blared unnaturally loud, as if Vane were standing at her shoulder.

  “A future partnership to benefit all parties,” he went on.

  A fairly handy spell, that voice stretcher. She tried to imagine how he’d done it, ducked a low-strung laundry wire and ran parallel to the main street at a full tilt now. Vane had everyone’s attention. She had her sigils and her dust, and the Skinner had…well, he had saved her skin.

  Thistledown. She’d have to introduce him to Henry. She groaned too loudly and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Thankfully, Vane was still speaking from the square. Now, however, he was having a conversation with someone who didn’t have the benefit of his magical extension. “Good for all concerned…yes. I’m sure you have…”

  She scooted past another water barrel into a narrower and darker stretch where the buildings seemed to reach out for one another and the gutters actually blocked out the sky in places. The way ended abruptly, facing directly into the smithy.

  The shed used one of the old foundations, maybe even the original blacksmith’s. The walls and slanting ceiling could have been fences once. The wood warped and showed a wisp of moss here and there. Satina risked peeking out to survey her route. To the right, a dirt track ran straight to the main road where she’d first entered the town. Left, it narrowed and wound off toward a stretch of pastures. She could see the cottony backs of sheep in the distance.

  As promised, a white fence began where the smithy ended. It stuck out beside the dilapidated shed, freshly painted, neatly aligned and glowing every two sections with a painted sigil Satina read as “assistance.”

  Vane’s voice no longer rambled in her ear. He’d finished the speech. Now, his gang would be settling in, invading shops and making themselves at home. She thought of the Skinner and cringed. His lovely shelves, all his handiwork on the open boards where the Starlights would find them irresistible. She hoped he’d stashed his powder, the little bottles of ink and her thistledown. She hoped he didn’t struggle.

  Starlight or Shade, what did it matter?

  She cast back a push of her own magic, a wisp of power and a thought for his safety. Not much protection and the afterthought of it shamed her. She could have touched his back door, made the spell stick directly then. He’d wasted his time getting her away.

  She imagined a tight knot, sent it flying back as well and hoped her late effort at least might help. The fence beckoned, and with Vane silent, the townspeople would creep out again soon. As she darted over the dirt path, Satina saw them already. The girl from Marten’s shop hid in the back of her father’s shed. Her eyes followed Satina, and her mouth pulled tight. She made no noise, however, and when a woman joined her through a side door, Satina only smiled and hurried her feet. She didn’t fancy seeing the father again.

  Her feet scuttled down the fence line. She held both sides of her cloak in hands that stroked the symbols. Speed. Silence. Stealth. A narrow strip of weeds lay behind the smithy, and beyond that, a thin walk parted from the main road and wandered through waist-high grasses to a tiny cottage. Satina veered up this, and the instant the grasses rose at her sides, her breathing settled. Her muscles relaxed and her feet slowed to a gentle stroll.

  Wildflowers and herbs hid between the blades, scattered perhaps by intention to give off a thick aroma that calmed the nerves and, she suspected, dulled the reflexes. The Skinner’s herbalist might not be blooded, but she had a craft of her own at her disposal, and not an insubstantial defense. She tried not to inhale too deeply and followed the path closer to the woman’s home.

  If it hadn’t stood through the Old Kingdoms, someone had taken pains to make it look as if it had. The thatch sagged and matted at the center. New tufts poked out here and there over the rough walls. One square window beside the wooden door bore four perfect panes of real glass. Gardens ringed the building, packed with flowering plants. A water spigot stood beside a bucket, and a handful of bright-eyed statuary peered out between the plantings.

  Satina saw at least one stone imp among the peonies. Pointy ears, gray skin, a spark in the eye—she couldn’t help the smile as she rapped gently on the front door and scowled at the little fiend. “Whatchoowant?”

  “Ah!” She leapt back, heart rattling in her chest. A raisin face squinted at her from the cracked door. It blinked and then the gap narrowed again. “Wait! Mar—the Skinner sent me.”

  “Eh.” The woman snorted. “Bastard.” The door thumped shut.

  “But.” Satina stared at it. That hadn’t exactly gone as she’d expected. She chewed her lower lip and tapped one toe against the stone at the base of the door. He’d convinced her that the woman would help, but then, Skinners didn’t have a reputation for trustworthiness. “Hello?” She hollered at the door anyway. It was this or the woods, and her tired legs demanded at least one more try. “You have a room to rent?”

  Nothing. She sighed and felt her shoulders grow heavy. Another walk, a night on the ground, probably for the best if the Starlights had taken the town. She turned back to the field and caught movement at the window. A curtain fell back into place. The door creaked agai
n.

  “You can pay?” The voice rustled like dry leaves.

  “Yes. Gold or trade.” She turned with soft feet, made no abrupt motion. “Or whatever you might need.” Her fingers brushed against the sigils of her cloak, held just enough powder that the woman might be able to see the flash. If she spent enough time around their kind, if she knew anything of magic at all.

  The eyes were too squinted naturally for Satina to be certain if they narrowed, but she thought the tone of the voice shifted. “Come in and we’ll see.”

  She vanished, but the door remained ajar and Satina slipped through it into a tidy living space. The scent of herbs drying filled the room, making breathing an effort. Bundles of foliage hung like mummified bats from rafters only a few feet above her head.

  “Let’s see then,” the woman croaked, coughed and then nodded. She waved her arms in an indecipherable gesture. “Off with that fancy cloak.”

  Satina undid the clasp and slid the garment off her shoulders. She folded the thick wool and draped it over her arm. The old woman waddled in a circle around her. Her cottage had a narrow alcove where someone had fastened half a table to one wall, stuffed two stools up beside it so close that you could just slip past them to get to the shelves and cupboards. She left this and sidled past a curtained doorway into the larger square that housed a sleeping mat piled with blankets and the building’s best feature, a huge stone hearth complete with a fat cauldron dangling over the low fire.

  She lifted a loose strand of Satina’s hair and sniffed it. Despite her best efforts at twisting the silver length into a knot, a few strands always worked free. The woman nodded and reached a bony finger out to poke at her just below the ribs. Satina felt the blush creep over her cheeks. Her gown hugged the curve of her waist a tad tightly, perhaps.

  “Goodmother,” the woman pinned her blood. She sniffed, and her lips parted into a wide smile that showed a row of poorly maintained teeth.

  “A few generations back.” Satina swallowed the urge to defend her midsection. Who knew? Underneath the layers of heavy scarves the old woman might boast a willowy, girlish figure. Aside from the wrinkled face and a few stray curls of ghost white, you couldn’t see much of her.

  “Blooded.” The hunched and bundled form completed the circuit. She stood in front of the table and let her eyes slide from the door to Satina. “But what can you do?”

  “Enough to get by.”

  A cackle exploded from the squished-up lips. A pair of icy-blue eyes widened, and the rest of the woman’s face relaxed into a smoother state. She shook herself from head to toe and unfolded into something less desiccated, though still far into her advanced years.

  “Illusion,” Satina whispered.

  “Enough to get by.” The woman mocked her. Her voice flowed like water, far clearer now the veil of magic had dropped. “So you need a place to hide.”

  She turned back to the table, waving an arm to indicate the stools. Something flashed as she moved, a scrap of silvered glass hung at her neck, peeked out from below the shawls. Reflective. Possible a mirror shard. It would explain the trick with her appearance, but whose hand had fashioned it? “And the Skinner sent you. That’s a story in itself, I suspect.”

  “A group of Starlights are in town.”

  “And you’re a Shade?” She pulled a stool out and slid onto it, propping gnarled elbows on the table and waiting for Satina’s answer with her lips pursed.

  “I’m not either.”

  “Good. Sit down.” She didn’t move from her scrutiny until Satina had laid her cloak across her lap and settled on the other stool. “You know herbs?”

  “Some.” Not as many as her host no doubt, but enough for a simple healing or protection bundle.

  “Sigils, I see.”

  “Yes.” She’d met few who could match her knowledge there. Though just looking around town, she might like to try her hand against Marten some time. Maybe just share a few notes.

  “Skinner’s never sent anyone before.” Now the blue eyes squinted again, reading something her human blood couldn’t possible see.

  “Hasn’t he?”

  “Not one. Doesn’t like people in general.”

  She couldn’t think of an answer to that, though she felt like the woman waited for one. Why had he helped her then? The thistledown, perhaps. She hesitated to mention that, already owed one person a peek at her private pocket.

  “My name is Hadja. The back room is yours. I don’t use it. Old bones need the fire.” She pointed at the curtain and shrugged. “There’s a pan under the bed though. A few coals should keep someone so young warm through the night.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll put you to work, make no mistake.”

  “I’m not afraid of work.”

  “You’ll need to give me a name as well, dear. Shouting, ‘hey you,’ to the field can have all kinds of repercussions.”

  “Satina. Sorry.”

  “Satina.” Hadja stood up again. “You’d better get settled in. If we’ve got a gang in town, there’ll be work to do sooner than later.”

  She didn’t want to agree, but the woman had the right of it. Instead, she took her direction and stood up, carried her cloak to the curtain and pulled it aside.

  “It’s about time,” Hadja called after her. “That Skinner and all.”

  “I’m sorry, what is?”

  “Ha!” She crossed to the fire and pulled a metal poker from a hook set in the chimney. Poking at the ashes with the tip, she chuckled, and Satina let the curtain drop between them. Still, she heard the muttering woman. The cottage wasn’t big enough for her to miss it. “All their blood and they think I’m the one that can’t see.”

  The flames crackled and echoed the old woman’s laughter to the sky.

  Chapter Six