“And Bloodstone doesn’t?”
“Bloodstone didn’t,” Madame Moreagan corrected her, lacing her fingers together. “It does now. Because I started the Night Swap.”
Tanya frowned, suspicious. “Why are you telling me this?”
Madame Moreagan smiled. She leaned forward and plucked a corn muffin from the basket that had been left for them.
“When I arrived in Bloodstone,” she said in between nibbles, “the city was nothing but open season for criminals and worse—real monsters. There were dead in the streets. No one took responsibility for burying the bodies. There was alcohol, but almost no food and what there was would make you quite literally sick. No woman was safe. And,” added Madame Moreagan, curling her lip in distaste, “there was incompetent magic hanging over everything.”
Tanya folded her arms around her waist, concealing the quill. “Magic?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.
Madame Moreagan sighed. “Sort of,” she said. “Nothing so organized as a reasonable magical system: herbs, stars, stones—you know the thing. The problem is that, long ago, some wizard or other blasted Bloodstone into existence with a spell—I couldn’t even tell you what it was meant to do—and then left. So, this whole dratted volcano has all this . . .” She waved her arms around in front of her and continued, “Magic running around. Totally unsupervised, there for any amateur to tap into, and I have already told you the sort of people Bloodstone attracts. And this was before the so-called Aetherical Revolution, so everyone was even more of an amateur than they are now. It was really quite dangerous.”
Madame Moreagan’s words echoed in Tanya’s head, reminding her of something she herself had once thought, and in almost exactly the same words. “What changed?” she asked uneasily.
Madame Moreagan spread her arms wide, as if to encompass the entire Night Swap. “I began speaking to the other women,” she said. “It wasn’t easy. Some of the women who came here were as bad as the men—truly devious creatures, with no fellow, or rather, sisterly feeling. Others were simply useless. But some were simply like myself, in search of a place that could challenge and enhance our natural abilities.”
“Which one was Jana?” Tanya hadn’t planned on asking that question.
Madame Moreagan’s mouth turned downward. “Jana wasn’t a woman,” she said. “She was a little girl when her father was so inconvenient as to die in my inn.”
Tanya remembered the little girl she had been when Froud had taken her into the Smiling Snake and was suddenly furious. “So, she didn’t matter?” she asked hotly.
“Of course she mattered. She wasn’t a unique case, you know. Many little girls, more than you would imagine, end up stranded at Bloodstone, and most of them aren’t taken there by loving, albeit crooked, widowed fathers. They’re trained and housed by me, or one of the other women in this room. Most leave when they’re old enough to take care of themselves and we wish them well. Some stay and continue to work, with me, or elsewhere. And anyone who’s left goes to the Others. And let me tell you, they’re all damn lucky to have the protection of the Night Swap. Jana would have been, too, had she accepted it.”
“You raised Jana?”
She snorted. “I certainly did not. The girl lived under my roof and rules for less than a year. She refused to settle. She was uninterested in the work, incapable of avoiding mischief, and quarrelsome. One day, she told me she quit and never came back to her bedroom. Never came back to the Witch at all except as a paying customer. She was all of eleven the last time I had any hand in her.”
Tanya absorbed all this. She had at least been suited to the life of an orphan growing up working in a tavern. It fit her like a glove. But what if it hadn’t?
She had never thought of herself as lucky before.
Tanya was quiet for a moment. Then she asked a question; not why had Madame Moreagan allowed a child to fend for herself in Bloodstone, why Jana had left, or whether she ever thought about the little foundling she had almost raised.
Tanya asked, “Who are the Others?”
Madame Moreagan made a face like there wasn’t enough sugar in her lemonade. She reclined and inclined her head backward and slightly to the left.
“Do you see those women in the black dresses and white caps?” she asked quietly.
Tanya followed the bend of Madame Moreagan’s head and again felt a spasm of fear as she saw the green-haired woman from Bloodstone’s thoroughfare bargaining with a broad-featured woman with tangled red hair over the price of a cask of wine. She was attended by three other women, dressed identically and standing still—a splash of cool and dark in so much vibrantly colored commotion.
Tanya felt a tickle at her wrist—the quill waking up and lightly pulsing through her sleeve. She clenched her arms around her waist, willing it not to sparkle.
“I see them,” she told Madame Moreagan.
“They are the Others,” said Madame Moreagan, primly taking a sip of cocoa. “They’re the only reason magic users are even slightly under control in Bloodstone. I don’t approve of their methods, but I cannot deny that they’ve been effective.”
Tanya frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she said. “What are their methods?”
Madame Moreagan sighed and put her mug down. “They worship and serve the demon that lives at the core of the Volcano, or, rather, what was a volcano before it exploded and formed Bloodstone,” she said wearily. “Think of them as particularly unpleasant temple attendants. They do something to hold the aetheric strands in stasis, and since they set up shop in the Volcano, none of those amateurs we were discussing seem able to manipulate matter at all within the city gates. The only magic we have in Bloodstone now is the good, old-fashioned, skill-based kind, which, however unsavory the results might sometimes be, are at least predictable.”
Tanya stared. “I’m sorry, did you say those women serve a demon?” she asked.
“Yes.” Madame Moreagan wrinkled her nose. “Nasty business to involve oneself in if you ask me, but there’s no accounting for taste or inclination.”
Tanya had disliked how the green-haired woman had looked at her and the quill. She liked it even less now that she knew the quill should have gone dormant the moment she crossed the Gate—and that it was her own unwillingness to ignore a slight that had alerted the Others, the preeminent magic users of Bloodstone, to the fact that it hadn’t. The very same people whom she had been commissioned to investigate now had an advantage because of her mistake.
Tanya stood and gave a quick, polite curtsy to Madame Moreagan. “Thank you for the cocoa and hospitality, Madame Moreagan,” she said. “It has been extremely interesting and a generous use of your time, for which I have the greatest respect. I’ll say good night now. Or good morning. Whatever it is.”
“Now, hold on,” said Madame Moreagan, bracing her hands on the arms of her chair, as if preparing to battle. “I didn’t expend my indeed valuable time for hospitality’s sake. A few questions, madam, if you please.”
The Other caught sight of Tanya from across the room.
“I really must get back to my room,” said Tanya quickly. “It isn’t seemly for me to be out unescorted at this time of night.”
“You are not unescorted, you are with me. I understand from the Tomcat that you were formerly employed as a tavern maid. Which tavern precisely?”
The Volcano witch said something to her companions and then began making her way toward Tanya and Madame Moreagan. “What?” Tanya asked distractedly.
“Where were you employed prior to, let’s call it ‘joining,’ the Tomcat’s gang?”
The quill was beginning to vibrate more insistently. “At the Smiling Snake, in Griffin’s Port.”
“And what was this employment’s duration?”
“Roughly ten years. Look, I really must return to my room.”
“No.” Madame Moreagan snapped her fingers and two burly women in well-worn leathers strapped with knives appeared out of the shadows. “You may leave
when I have conducted my interview. Sit.”
The witch stopped her progress across the market when Madame Moreagan’s bodyguards appeared. She didn’t look scared at all, but she was curious—and cautious, Tanya noticed. She stepped to the side and began to examine some embroidered satin pillows.
Tanya sat down.
She looked at Madame Moreagan. “I have no idea why you would be so curious about me, one might even say rudely nosy,” she said crossly. “I’m just an ordinary tavern maid.”
Madame Moreagan smiled a little. “Yes dear, I know,” she told the girl. “Now describe to me your duties at the Smiling Snake.”
Tanya shrugged. “Everything: cooking, cleaning, laundry, seamstress work for guests. I did the brewing and the ordering. I served behind the bar and at tables. I made preserves and tonics and broke up fights. I kept the key to the cashbox.”
Madame Moreagan’s smile widened. “Perhaps I should have asked what weren’t your duties. Quite a paragon I have in front of me.”
Tanya shrugged off the compliment, uncomfortable with praise for what had simply been the work of her life. It didn’t seem appropriate.
“I didn’t do the gardening,” she admitted. “I have a brown thumb. Froud managed the herbs and such.”
“And Froud is . . . ?”
“He is . . .” Tanya trailed off. She swallowed. “He was my guardian and the owner of the Snake. But he’s dead.”
“I see,” said Madame Moreagan. “And who has possession of the Snake now?”
Tanya felt a refreshing spasm of anger flow over her. “It was requisitioned. The day I left Froud at his temple for burial, the Queen’s Corps requisitioned it. They then ransacked it and left it standing empty—and locked.”
Madame Moreagan nodded, looking thoughtful.
“Look, what is this about?” asked Tanya, leaning forward against the table, energized by the return of anger over losing the Snake. “This is very out of order, to interrogate a paying guest like this.”
“But you’re not a paying guest.”
Tanya blinked. “Well, no, not yet. But I assure you, ma’am, tavern wench or no, I have more than enough money to cover my bill, even for the private room. I will be paying.”
Madame Moreagan shook her head. “No, dear. You’re not staying in one of our guest rooms and you won’t be charged for your board.”
“Then exactly whose room have I been sleeping in?”
“Your room,” answered Madame Moreagan, lifting up her key ring and sliding off a key identical to the one she had used earlier. She pushed it across the table toward Tanya with a well-groomed fingernail. “That key will let you into every room in the building, except for the other girls’ rooms, or my office—unless I want you to have access to my office, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? It’s just a simple little enchantment—nothing I needed the white-caps for.” She sat back in her chair and pushed her fingers together thoughtfully. “I believe we’ll start you in the kitchen. In time, if you’re as good as you claim, I’ll need you to take over its management.”
Tanya, for the first time in a long time, was speechless.
Finally, she poked the key back across the table with her own, sharp fingernail.
“I’m not looking for employment at the moment,” she said icily. “Thanks all the same.”
“No? Then what are you looking for?”
Tanya sighed. “I just wanted my inn back,” she said wearily.
Madame Moreagan nodded sympathetically. “I understand. But your home is gone, my girl,” she said. “Orphan foundlings who grew up as tavern wenches don’t win one over on the Queen’s Corps. But, Tanya of Griffin’s Port, the Witch has a place for a girl like you and only for a girl like you. I want you. All your skills, the trades and tricks despised as common—I need them. I won’t live forever.” Tanya raised her eyebrows and Madame Moreagan smiled widely. “Oh, don’t misunderstand, I’ll live a good long time, much longer than I should. I have already lived longer than one would think possible—oh yes, dear, the Others do have some useful skills, and I have my own rather storied history. But I am not immortal, and I need sturdy women such as yourself to continue my work. It will not disappear—I won’t allow it. And you never know: One day you might call yourself Tanya of Bloodstone.”
Chapter
27
Tanya flinched. “I don’t think so,” she said, through clenched teeth. “Now, please excuse me.”
She stepped away from the alcove. The cavern was too crowded to avoid the Other, still hovering at a nearby booth. Tanya gave her as wide a berth as possible, but it wasn’t wide enough and the witch slid out a boot of glossy black leather, forcing Tanya to stop in her tracks.
“You are welcome in our Swap, Tanya of Griffin’s Port,” said the Other, frank possessiveness infusing her well-bred voice. “But our temple is your true destination. Our Lord of Brimstone and the Hush commands it.” The Other stepped closer. “You will seek us out. This we know. When you are ready, you may alert our servant, the Tomcat”—Tanya looked up sharply—“and he will conduct you to us. We shall see which faction in Bloodstone you’ll truly serve. But know this, girl: The Volcano claims you.”
For the first time since entering the steaming radius of the collapsed volcano, Tanya felt goose bumps raise the hairs on her arms. She willed the fear to drain away.
She brought up a picture of the Queen, who was probably poring over the map at that very moment, waiting for Tanya to fix their problem. She remembered that fear was irrelevant to her now. She had important work to do.
Tanya lifted her head. “I would be honored to pay my respects to your temple, at your earliest invitation,” she said brightly. She curtsied at the witch, then turned and dropped a lower curtsy to Madame Moreagan, who was, after all, her hostess. The older woman was watching the exchange with a puzzled and wary eye. Tanya swallowed a gulp. “I will bid you good morning,” she said.
Tanya didn’t dare stop to breathe until she had stepped into the tunnel and turned the corner. Then she collapsed backward onto the wall and closed her eyes, breathing deeply and wriggling her toes until they were partially submerged under the tightly packed sand.
She pretended for a moment that she was on the beach at Griffin’s Port. It wasn’t a resort town, but a working port, so the beaches were narrow and scrubby, littered with ashy driftwood. But the sand was cool in the summer and warm in the winter and the breeze carried a bracing slap of salt.
Tanya breathed.
As she reentered her room under the skylight and the remote glow of dawn, she decided that she had to get out of Madame Moreagan’s room. She didn’t know precisely how the tavern keeper functioned, but there was magic involved as well as simple brute force. Tanya had a feeling that the longer she stayed in this bed, the quicker she would become one of the Witch’s girls.
But first she had to check something.
Tanya sat on her bed and examined the quill. It was still black, but it seemed to be working. It was sparkling, responding to her touch; her tattoos hadn’t altered.
Tanya tentatively plugged the quill into its diamond, and it slipped in easily, just like always. She slipped it out and cast about the room for something to write on, eventually opening the nightstand drawer, and locating a white damask handkerchief.
“That’ll do,” she muttered, flattening it out on the top of the dresser. She furrowed her brow. It had been some time since she had conjured something small—something that wouldn’t be noticed.
She drew the Witch and its garden. Her eyes widened as the multitude of exotic growths populated itself over the handkerchief.
A few quick strokes later and a sprig of lavender landed on her bed. Tanya sighed, relieved. She stretched out her arm, searching for junkoff, but found no new squigglings—she would keep an eye on it, but the lavender had been small, so maybe there wouldn’t be any.
Small, but effective, Tanya reminded herself, cheering up that she was not defenseless after
all. Whatever the Volcano witches had managed with the aetheric strands around Bloodstone, for whatever reason had no effect on her quill.
She dressed quickly. Violet had packed a trunk’s worth of what amounted to her new uniform: plain white linen blouses and matching sets, in various colors, of a structured vest and narrow skirt that flared at her ankles. Tanya chose one in cerulean blue damask, embroidered in dark thread with stars.
Tanya emerged into the main room of the Witch. Other than a few sturdy girls in black, armed with dishcloths and buckets, and a dim lump slumped in the corner by a window, the room was empty.
Tanya made her way to the lump.
“Has anyone been by with a coffeepot yet?” she asked, pulling out a chair, jolting the lump awake. It straightened up very slightly.
“Don’t know, do I?” it answered, in a foggy approximation of Riley’s voice. “I was sleeping, or trying to.”
Tanya rolled her eyes and looked back at the bar. It was empty, but her twitching nose searched out the familiar sweet mud scent she was seeking, and found it sitting discreetly on one of the lower shelves of the serving sideboards.
When she looked back, Riley was upright, staring at her with bright, interested eyes.
“Jana told me you kidnapped her and forced her into Bloodstone,” he said wonderingly. “I thought she was lying.”
Tanya snorted. “You don’t have to pretend to be happy to see me,” she told him. “I—”
“But I am,” Riley interrupted, a smile breaking out over his face. “I missed both of you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He smiled again, dimples popping out on his chin and left cheek.
Tanya wanted to look away, save herself a pang. But, as Riley fully woke up and the smile warmed his eyes, she searched her feelings and didn’t find one. He had rejected her before she fled, but the memory had no sting.
Her memory instead suddenly flooded with Jana kissing her in the dark.
Ping, ping, ping went her stomach.
Shoving that unprofitable sensation down as far as possible, Tanya stood and strode behind the bar. None of the black-clad girls stopped her.
Wench Page 27
