There was no doubt about it. This was the real thing. A regulation-quality Insight.
Melaine had only been able to get her hands on a few Insights in her lifetime, and this was only the second officially regulated one she’d ever seen in person. The first had been shown to her by a visitor of the Greasy Goat several years ago. Salma, the owner of the pub, had vouched for its authenticity, and Melaine trusted Salma. She could also recognize the differences from the counterfeited ones she herself had used before, though she’d never been fooled.
Most Insights in Stakeside weren’t even attempts at counterfeiting. Though the official term—Insight—stemmed from the elitist Luxian religion’s theology, the name had long-since entered day-to-day vernacular, and the actual spell to create them, while difficult, was as common as dirt. Magic was biological in nature, so any material that stemmed from living things retained the qualities necessary to become Insights. In Stakeside, children’s lost teeth, dried rat tails, and matted braids of hair were passed around for tuppence. They all contained the most basic spells, and more than a year had passed since Melaine had seen any spells in circulation that she hadn’t learned twice over from an Insight.
More advanced spells never made it past the Stakeside wall. No middlemen, not even Vintor, had ever bothered. No one in Stakeside could afford anything beyond basic household spells that lit candles or scrubbed residual magic—the waste byproduct of magic use—from the floors.
Some spells were taught without Insights, of course, instead passed down through word of mouth. But the only way to truly learn a spell, to understand all of its components, all of its applications, and to feel the spell in one’s bones and never forget it, was to inhale it from an Insight. They were coveted possessions, no matter what part of society one belonged to. The rich hoarded Insights and bragged to one another about how many they had, which ones were embossed with gold or silver, and how many times an object’s knowledge could be consumed by different people. Then the owners would lord their Insights over each other, deciding if they would be so benevolent as to share the limited use of an Insight with their fellow aristocrats.
The coin in Melaine’s hand was a one-timer, no question. She could use it and be done, and not have to worry about anyone trying to steal it from her in the dark.
But she couldn’t use it now. She was far too drained, and learning magic from an Insight took magic from the pupil in return. She placed it in her pocket with care.
“I would say that’s a taste of what’s to come, but uh…” Vintor’s mouth twisted in a way that made Melaine’s stomach clench with worry. He sighed.
“It’s a pity, Melaine,” he said. “Your lodestones are better than Stakeside. Buyers from Middun were starting to talk about you, and this newest buyer was, well, not from Middun.”
Melaine’s heart picked up its pace. She had hardly dared to dream that her stones could cross the Stakeside wall into Middun, Stakeside’s nickname for the middle-class district of Centara. Vintor’s implication that someone from an even higher class—the aristocrats in Crossing’s Square—could want her lodestones was unthinkable. But the hesitation in Vintor’s voice didn’t reflect good news.
“I honestly thought we could give this a go,” Vintor continued. “The talent of making lodestones is rare these days, and stones of your caliber are next to impossible to find. As far as I know, your stones are better than Avery Katchmore’s up in Crossing’s Square. I was drumming up the gossip, preparing for sales. People were starting to talk, but…that’s not so good a thing anymore. I don’t know if the news has reached Stakeside, but the Luxians are acting up again. They’re starting to gain influence in certain circles. Unfortunately, those are the circles that matter to us.”
“Those loons?” Melaine said. “I thought they were all still slinking underground. The ones the Overlord didn’t stamp out after the war, anyway.”
“The Overlord may hate them, but his overseers aren’t as strict. Some are even sympathizers, I think,” Vintor muttered.
Melaine frowned. She didn’t much like the corrupt overseers of Dramore, either, a dozen men who controlled the populace with duplicitous smiles and deep pockets. But the true ruler of Dramore, the Overlord, was above all that—a man so great, he cast aside his birth name so no one would ever doubt his power, his reign, or his selfless devotion to his kingdom. He was and would always be known simply as the Overlord.
Vintor clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and slipped three fingers into each of his vest pockets. “Look, Melaine. You know how the Luxian Order feels about lodestones. And people who make them.”
“Aye, I think rounding people up and committing mass murder makes their feelings clear,” Melaine said.
“You can speak lightly about it, Melaine, but relatively speaking, that wasn’t so long ago,” Vintor said. He twitched his head with a speck of guilt. “My aunt was a Luxian. Fanatic. The stories she would tell about her childhood, the way she’d speak about those ‘cursed’ lodestoners. Melaine, I’m sorry, but I’m out. I’ve barely stepped into this business. I need to get out before I’m in too deep.”
“Vintor, you can’t be serious. Those Luxians have no power in Centara. The Overlord made sure of that. You say my stones can fetch a good price. If they’re as good as you say, we could get a fortune for them, Vintor. Don’t throw that chance away.”
“Lodestones aren’t my only chance, Melaine,” he said, stepping back. He slipped his fingers from his pocket and spread his hands. “I’ve got other enterprises. Safer ones.”
“The Overlord would never allow the Luxians to take hold again,” Melaine said, her voice rising. She closed the gap Vintor had made. “Lodestones aren’t illegal. They never will be. Tell your buyers—”
“The Overlord doesn’t seem to care much what happens down here, does he?” Vintor said. Melaine closed her mouth. Vintor looked aside. He glanced at the door again as if the Shields were going to knock it down and arrest him for treachery right this moment. The name of Centara’s law-keeping force had always sounded false to Melaine. A shield implied protection; Melaine had only seen their blades.
“Vintor,” Melaine said.
Vintor threw his hands up as though placing a wall between himself and Melaine.
“I’m done, Melaine,” he said. “I paid for that last batch of stones in full. You’ve got your extra for the sale.” He nodded to her pocket, where the Insight was stowed. “We’re even.”
“You’re a coward, Vintor,” Melaine said. “I could make you a fortune.”
“You could also make me dead if things in the upper side keep going the way they are,” he said. He no longer smiled.
Melaine’s lip twitched as she almost let another insult fly, but she scowled and looked at the glowing coals in the hearth.
“Keep your ear to the ground, Melaine,” Vintor said. His voice was kind again but resolved. “Things could get dangerous in your line of work.”
“They won’t come down here,” she said. Vintor gave her a shrug that wasn’t a disagreement. Melaine turned around and walked across the swept floor, no longer caring if she left mud-crusted footprints.
“Stakeside might be the best place for someone like you,” Vintor said. Melaine heard him sigh as she reached the door. “I just mean, for a lodestone-peddler. As you said, they might not bother you down here, even if stones do get banned. No one likes coming through that wall.”
“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you?” Melaine said. “Coming and going every day?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Let me tell you something, Vintor. When I go through that gate, I won’t ever be coming back.”
Vintor gave her a half-smile of pity. She knew what he was thinking.
No one from Stakeside ever made it out. Even middlemen like Vintor were always destined to come back.
Melaine neared the Greasy Goat pub just as the streetlamps were being lit. The iron cage of the closest lamp housed no more than a candle stump. By the looks of the sk
inny lamplighter, with fingers so arthritic they could barely snap a flame into being, she doubted he’d be able to afford a new candle anytime soon. Melaine nearly scoffed aloud as she conjured the far-fetched image of a long-lasting candle, like those in the better parts of Centara, flickering with emerald-green everflame in a Stakeside streetlamp.
Keeping the streetlamp in sight, she crossed the opening of a shadowed alleyway.
She stopped as a man sauntered out of the darkness to stand right in front of her. It was her vile customer from earlier that evening, wearing his same leering smile. But his lips were slack, and his gait was clumsy. His breath stank of mead.
“Look who it is,” he said, sucking on his teeth. His words were slurred, his eyes predatory. “I still fink you charged too much for that stone, little doxy. What’s say you give me my money’s worth? Sweeten the deal, eh?”
He crowded her, making her heel hit a cobblestone with the same force as her heart’s next harsh beat. She slipped her hands behind her back. Tiny purple lightning bolts of defensive magic crackled at her fingertips but were far weaker than she would have liked.
“You can’t afford what my stones are really worth,” she said, keeping her eyes on the man’s bleary, reddened stare. “You don’t deserve my magic.”
“Oh, I fink I deserve a lot more than just your magic, doll.”
He lunged for Melaine, but she thrust out one hand and sent a painful shock into his chest. He growled and jumped back, but her magic was still weak after a full day of crafting stones. After a mere flinch, he came at her again.
Melaine ran down the alley, the hem of her dress lifting wet leaves as her boots splashed through puddles. The man’s heavy steps pursued her, and her vision of escape flashed with white-hot panic as she realized he was catching up. She tried to force more magic to her fingertips, but it sputtered and went out.
The man crashed into her back and snaked an arm around her waist. She shoved her sharp elbow into his gut and clawed at his arm with dirty fingernails. He grunted but didn’t relent. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back as his other arm pinned her arms to her sides.
He pushed her to the ground. The rough cobblestones burned pain into her knees, shooting fire through her thighs and shins as his weight pressed against her back.
He shoved his chapped lips against her ear as he drove her other against the muddy street, pressing cold on to the entire length of her body. His yellow and black-pocked teeth scraped her earlobe and then bit her neck as his bony fingers tightened in her hair. Melaine gave a weak cry and struggled to pull on her depleted reserves of magic, begging her bones to send the smallest drops into her tendons and muscles. She squeezed the sap from her veins as it trickled toward her hands, but nothing came.
The brute shoved her head back down. She felt the cold of the street seep into her forehead and nose as gravel dug into her chin and grime smeared her lips. She heard the sharp pull of leather laces, and then his hot hand dug through her skirt, his fingernails sharp like the tusks of a rutting boar. She gritted her teeth and dragged her fingertips down the cobblestones as if a smithy’s anvil had been pressed on the back of each hand.
The man bunched up her dirt-stained petticoat. Then he stopped.
“Oy, now, what’s this?” he said. Melaine tried to glance back but couldn’t move. “This is an Insight, this is.” The man whistled. She heard the quiet slip of the wooden coin against the coarse cloth of his trouser pocket before his hand ran up her stocking again.
Melaine pushed herself to move with the silent word, No, and she slid her right hand down to her side. She finally touched the rumpled fabric of her homespun dress, and she fumbled until her spider-like fingers found her pocket, the other contents ignored by her attacker in his haste to collect the Insight. She wrapped her hand around a hot glass vial just as the man’s equally warm skin touched hers.
She thumbed open the vial’s protective cork and gave a hoarse, gut-wrenching yell as she slammed the back of her head onto the man’s nose. He cursed and raised off of her just enough for her to twist her body, elbow him in the ribs, and hurl the burning vial at his face. A sound of a splash and a high-pitched squeal of pain blistered her ears. She ducked her head away from the spray and rolled aside as the man fell. He landed on the street, quaking and rolling in fetal agony as the frothy, puce potion ate into his flesh.
Only a couple of drops landed on the edge of Melaine’s dress, eating more holes into the worn fabric. Her attacker wasn’t so lucky. She watched his skin sizzle from inches away and breathed in the acrid smoke. He clutched his potion-spattered face in his hands, but the corrosive liquid burned his palms as well. He jerked them away, still screaming as he stared at his flesh being eaten away, exposing the bone in a few places. She tried to catch his wild, rolling eyes as he shook and wailed. She wanted him to see her fury.
But he rolled away into a filthy puddle in the gutter. He submerged his face and hands into the water underneath the skim of grime and brown leaves. Melaine hoped he would drown. She watched his body twitch and his hands tremble, and then he was still.
Then with a great, gurgling gasp, he raised his head and sputtered to the side. His face bore raw, speckled worm-tracks where the potion had crawled and burned. Not for the first time, Melaine almost regretted that the corrosion potion was not meant to kill. Whether the repugnant man deserved it or not, his face and hands would heal with time.
But she got some satisfaction in knowing that his plundering hands would never regain sensation, and his face would be scarred for life. His survival and those scars would spread the word to any newcomers that Melaine of Stakeside was not to be meddled with.
Melaine breathed in and out against the cobblestones. Her thin bodice and the fingerless glove on her left hand soaked in the wet cold, and her dark brown skirt and dirty white chemise did little to protect the rest of her body. A gust of wind raised goosebumps on her bare legs.
She shivered, closed her black eyes, opened them, and then found the strength to lift herself off the ground.
Her petticoat and skirt fell back down to her worn, black boots as she settled on all fours. She focused her eyes on sharpening the outlines of the mud-bordered cobblestones, pushing dizziness away. Another few breaths and she was on her feet.
She didn’t bother lifting her skirt free of the mud and shuffled her feet over to the revolting man lying in the gutter.
She stooped down and plunged her hand into the man’s grubby trouser pocket. Finding the Insight he’d stolen was easy; the man didn’t have enough possessions to warrant a pocket-space spell. That, or he was too poor to have ever afforded the corresponding Insight. Or he was too stupid to comprehend one.
She snatched the Insight from his pocket. When she opened her grasp, she saw she’d taken out her lodestone along with it. She paused, eyeing the purple-black stone.
“Y-you can have it back,” the man whimpered against the street as his bloodshot eyes took in nothing but Melaine’s ratty, laced boots.
Melaine scoffed, a hoarse rattle of a laugh. “What would I do with it?” she asked. “For someone so anxious to get a lodestone, you would think you’d understand how they work. I can’t reuse my own magic, pillock.”
She shoved the wooden coin back into her pocket, her jaw tight as she fought her outrage. The man’s attempt to take her body was wicked, but it wasn’t the first time she’d stopped a man from the act. The idea of him taking her precious Insight before she had the chance to use it was unbearable.
“The deal will be exactly what was agreed upon,” she said, looking him over in disgust. She tossed the lodestone onto the cobblestones in front of his face. It rattled just like his tuppence had done.
“A pleasure,” she said.
She stepped over the man who moaned like a wounded animal and onto the footpath that lined the darkening street. She fought her urge to head straight home, and instead, she walked the long way around through a couple of winding streets. She had to make sure the ma
n wouldn’t follow her, though she doubted he’d be getting up any time soon.
The encounter in the dark alley left a disgusted, violated wrench in her stomach, the same as she always felt when anyone tried to touch her. Her body and magic were tied, both inherently hers. She gave up one to others on a daily basis. She refused to sacrifice them both. She refused to allow anyone to steal her body.
Though selling her body, like so many other women and men in Stakeside did, could have been a lucrative business, she had to keep some part of her for herself. She didn’t judge prostitutes for choosing to rent out their bodies; sex was their trade, and like her, everyone had to do what they could to survive these ravaging streets. But flesh-peddlers didn’t sell magic as well. They could keep theirs all for themselves.
She took some comfort in knowing that no one could steal her raw magic unless she consented to part with it into a lodestone. She could protect her magic by not making any stones ahead of time and never carrying any on her person. As for her body, well, as she walked the maze of streets, thinking of the most recent brute’s potion-eaten face, she took comfort in knowing that her precautions against thieves of either commodity were well-rehearsed by now.
She finally reached the back stairwell of the Greasy Goat pub and lifted her skirt to climb the flight of creaking wooden stairs softened by rot. Jagged splinters littered the bare dirt underneath, insects and worms thriving on the decay.
She had found a luxury in the place with its private entrance, unheard of in Stakeside. Most everyone else lived in cubbies above pawn shops or rank butcheries and tanning yards, those who had homes at all. There were constantly beggars on the streets, but most of them had turned thieves. No one in Stakeside had any money or food to freely give, no matter how charitable their hearts.
Lodestone Page 2
