Red Jack

by Alex Linwood

  As she approached the Academy, its clean lines impressed her. There was more than one building, but it was clear they were all together because they were the only buildings in the city made of blue stone. She had never seen buildings that color before. They sparkled with magic—it was the only way they could look the way they did. Her stomach tightened when she looked at them, and she felt a strong pull. Something was telling her this was the place she needed to be.

  She stepped onto the campus and felt a tingle go all over her body. It was the same sensation as stepping into the shower, but she could not see any water or any other reason for it. She was dry. But she did not let the sensation stop her, especially since she felt no force pushing against her. She made her way to the main building that was front and center of the drive up.

  There were two guardsmen on the outside of the building, dressed in blue livery. They looked a little surprised to see her, she could tell, by the tightening of their eyes. Did they not expect any visitors the day before the test? But again, they did not stop her. Instead, they wordlessly nodded at her then opened the front doors in unison. She nodded back, entering the building.

  The inside was dark when she had first looked in but grew gradually lighter and lighter when she entered. She could not see the light source. It seemed to glow directly from the walls and ceiling. The entry was empty—and gigantic. There was nothing in it to absorb the sound, so her footsteps echoed and reverberated back at her. She stopped in the entry’s middle and looked at the two staircases arching both left and right up to a tall landing in front of her and then away to both sides again. She could see nothing further up there. There was no one around.

  “Hello?” she called out tentatively. No one answered. Would it be impertinent for her to go exploring to find someone? No one had told her she could not be here, but she would hate to lose her chance to test by breaking some unknown rule. “Hello?” she called out again.

  A shimmering column formed in the entryway’s center, coalescing into the image of an old woman dressed in long robes. The woman was slightly see-through, so Portia knew she was not really there. She wondered where the woman was if this was a duplicate. The woman looked at her assessingly. She nodded slowly, then addressed Portia. “How may I help you?”

  Portia swallowed, nervous. “I’m here to take the test. I have magic…” Portia trailed off. She didn’t know what argument to use, only that the tests were open if you had magical ability.

  The old woman held up her hand to stop Portia from speaking further. “Have you an invitation?” she asked. Portia shook her head no. “Then you may not test. All invitations for this cycle have gone out.”

  “How do you get an invitation?”

  “By asking for one by letter or in person before rolls close,” the old woman said. “Rolls closed yesterday for the session. Come back in five months and two weeks and register for the testing that shall begin in six months hence. You may test then.”

  “But I’m here now. Surely there is a way to fit one more in?” Portia asked, her face flushed red with the shameful feeling she was begging.

  “There is not. This is how it has always been and how it will always be. Return as I have told you.” The old woman looked down after speaking. Her image shimmered away into nothing.

  Portia stared now at the opposite side of the entryway through where the old woman had been. “Wait, wait!” she called. She turned in a panic, trying to find anybody to speak to. There was no one. The doors behind her opened, and she saw the two men in livery waiting for her to exit. She swallowed and straightened her shoulders, walking out with her head up. She wondered how much they had heard.

  Leaving the Academy grounds was painful. She was at a loss of what to do. She had to survive in this town for six months, or go elsewhere. Once again, she was homeless—and now on the run from Deyelna and her minion, Peter, and possibly others.

  Looking down at what she could see of the city from the Academy, she spied an area that was more rundown than the rest of the town. There were wooden planks nailed to buildings in a half effort to repair roofs, crumbling plaster walls on many buildings, and trash on the streets. It was the first trash she had seen in the entire city. It looked more like Valencia than any other place in the city. She thought she should go there since she might blend in better.

  Portia spied a washing woman coming her way lugging a large basket of laundry. She intercepted her and asked what the name of the rundown district was. The washerwoman replied that it was the Warrens while also warning her away from it. Portia nodded her thanks and waited for the kind woman to continue on her way before she headed directly towards the area the woman had cautioned her about.

  The Warrens were just as she expected—vagrants on the streets, rough-looking fellows, and women who leered at her as much as they did the men. It was familiar to her, and for that alone it felt comforting. She walked several blocks, trying to find a place that was a likely gang house.

  Portia felt a hand on her side and instinctively grabbed it with her left. She realized the hand was on her dagger, trying to steal it. While still hanging on the offending appendage, she whirled to face a gritty young man. He pulled back on his hand, giving her a forced smile. She did not let go. His smile faltered. He straightened, and because she still gripped his hand, ended up pulling her closer.

  He smirked. “Such a pretty dagger belongs with someone like me, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  He tried to shake his hand free. “Well, if you don’t think so, why are you still holding on to my hand? Are you sweet on me, dearest?” he asked, looking pointedly at his hand.

  “Because,” she said, removing his hand from her dagger with her left while her right grabbed the hilt and pulled the blade from its sheath, “I thought you might want to see its usefulness.” She swung the dagger out towards the man, zigzagging left and right with its tip close to his body. She stood back a moment. Slowly, his tunic and shirt fell in shreds to the ground. He looked down incredulously. There was not a mark on his body. She had neatly sliced his clothing from him without leaving a single scratch.

  He looked back up at her in horror. “You devil!” he shouted, backing up while scooping the remains of his clothes from the ground. He held them to his chest, then turned and ran, wild-eyed, from her.

  “You should thank me for leaving your breeches alone!” she called after him.

  A soft laugh came over her shoulder. Portia turned to see an elderly man lounging on a stoop, leaning against the entryway. He had white hair down to his shoulders, worn but clean clothes, and a twinkling smile he beamed at her.

  “Nice work. That kid always irritated me. But I have to say, you’re the first one I’ve seen that has taken care of him right off.”

  Portia smiled back at him. “Thanks.” The man waved her over. He made room for her on the stoop. Portia hesitated for a split second then sat down, joining him in watching the passersby by on the street.

  “New here, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “That obvious?” That concerned Portia a little. She didn’t want to be a target for the locals.

  The man glanced at her, seeing her look. “Only because I’ve been here forever. Most of these young people don’t pay that much attention. You’re a breath of fresh air though. You remind me of my daughter.”

  Daughter. Portia had never been anyone’s daughter, not that she could remember. A lump swelled in her throat. She fought it back, blinking rapidly while facing away from the old man. She didn’t have the luxury of emotions right now. “Oh, how so?” she asked, working to keep her voice steady.

  “For starters, she didn’t like that boy much either,” the old man said with a laugh. This made Portia smile. She thought she would have liked his daughter. “Also, she was good with a knife—though she probably spent too much of her time with one cooking. I miss her cooking.”

  Portia sighed. Anything cooked right now sounded good. Her
stomach agreed and answered with a rumble. The old man looked down at her belly then up at her eyes with raised eyebrows. “Another fan of cooking, are we?” he asked.

  Portia laughed, then nodded, tears and laughter mixing on her face. After the seriousness of the last few days, it felt good to laugh.

  “That’s the good thing about the young—always up for some eating. Speaking of which, I have extra stew on the stove. Come in and have some,” the old man said. He stuck out his hand towards her for a shake. “Elyas Penry.”

  Portia shook his hand. “Portia Harris.” She regretted telling him her real name immediately, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

  “Nice to meet you, Portia. Come in and share a bite with an old man.” He stood, opened the door, and motioned for her to enter. She could see inside the dwelling. It was clean, neat, welcoming. A red enamel pot hung over the fire. The smell of herbs and stewed meat overwhelmed her. Portia hesitated.

  Elyas considered her, then gave a little chuckle. “I’ve seen what you can do with your knife. I have no death wish, so believe me when I tell you I’m not inviting you in with any ill intent. I’m a simple old man without any tricks up his sleeve.”

  Portia nodded at that. He was only asking her to share a meal. She had her dagger if she needed it. She also had her magic. Her stomach, growling in complaint, reinforced the notion that going in was a good idea. But Portia still hesitated. “I have little to share in return,” she said, reluctant to become indebted to a stranger.

  Elyas made a small clicking noise with his mouth, waved her in more emphatically. “No worries. What I want more than anything is a bit of conversation. Pay for your dinner with that.”

  Portia nodded. She stood before the doorway then looked up at Elyas. “Why is your daughter no longer here?” she asked.

  A dark look crossed his face, then he banished it with a small smile. “The plague.”

  Chapter 8

  “The plague?” Portia asked, as she entered Elyas’s home.

  “Yes. The healers were slow on that one. It spread through the city. Sad too, more sad than normal, since it seemed to hit the youngest the hardest. My daughter thought she was safe since she rarely went out. But no one is safe with the plague.” He shook his head. “But let’s talk of happier things, like dinner.”

  Portia sat at the wooden table in the kitchen. Elyas handed her a yellow stoneware bowl full to the rim with the brown stew, then sat down with his own bowl. She could see carrots and potatoes and chunks of meat—her mouth watered immediately. He nodded at her to start, and she did so, shoveling in a huge spoonful. It was spiced perfectly. She practically hummed in happiness.

  They ate in silence. Without even asking, Elyas topped off Portia’s bowl before it was empty. She merely nodded and kept eating. Finally, when they were both sated, they leaned back in their chairs in contentment. Portia rubbed her full belly. It had been a long time since she had been able to eat as much as she wanted. In Valencia, there never seemed to be money for enough food. And while the tavern food had been good, it had not been nearly enough—filling up on ale was not the same thing as gorging on real food.

  “So, what are your plans in this city, young lass?” Elyas asked. He picked his teeth with the tines of his fork, trying to get the last bits of meat out.

  “I need a job, I guess,” Portia answered. She thought about the six months she needed to bide until the Academy gave the magic test again. She would need enough money for a roof over her head and food to eat. She was down to her last copper.

  “Job? What skills do you have? Cook? Tailor? Serving wench? Although, I don’t think you have the temperament for that one. Drunkards like to keep their clothes about them,” Elyas said, giving a little chuckle at the memory of Portia’s knife work.

  Portia looked up at Elyas through half-lidded eyes. The warmth in the fire relaxed her from the outside while the warmth in her belly relaxed her from inside. His twinkling eyes were kind and welcoming. He seemed trustworthy. She thought he might be levelheaded enough to not react ill to her past. Her neck tingled, as if to confirm her hunch she could trust him. “I have thieving skills. Good ones.” She checked for his reaction at those words. He only smiled knowingly.

  “Is that how you learned the knife skills? That’s a dangerous profession, so it’s good you can take care of yourself.” He gave her a teasing look. “I hope you’re not here to rob me of more than dinner.”

  “Hey!” Portia said, feeling slightly indignant. “You offered dinner for conversation, so let’s talk. But that does not include insulting your guest.”

  “No insult intended, lass. Just some good old-fashioned teasing,” Elyas said, gathering up the dinner bowls and placing them in the sink. He turned to face her again, leaning against the counter. “If you want work like that, it can be had here, without having to sell what you get on the black market.” He turned back towards the sink again, pouring water on the bowls. “It’s what I used to do when things got too tight. You do what you must to survive in this world.”

  Portia relaxed at those words. Far from being judged, she had found someone who understood where she was coming from.

  “Go to the house with the sign of a mouse and a hen on it. It will get you what you need. Tell them I sent you,” Elyas said, bringing two glasses of mead to the table and sitting down. “If you’ve got no money yet, you can stay here until you are on your feet. I’m a lonely old man who’d appreciate the company. And if you’re feeling guilty, you can always cook.”

  Portia laughed at that. He did not want her cooking. Even Mark had complained when she had attempted it in the Black Cats’ kitchen and asked why she did not get food from Cook instead. “I’ll think about it. I should probably go before it gets dark.”

  “I’d say it’s too late for that,” Elyas said, nodding towards the window where the sky was turning a dark blue over the curtains blocking the bottom half of the glass pane. “Stay tonight, then find your job in the morning.”

  Portia agreed to stay the night after he showed her the bedroom with the locking door and the fluffy goose down mattress. She lay down with her dagger lying on her chest, firmly gripped in her right hand. She didn’t think she had anything to fear, but it was always best to be prepared. She nodded off within seconds of closing her eyes.

  The sun beamed down on Coverack in the morning. There was not a cloud in the bright blue sky. Portia made her way through the Warrens, her belly full of the cold meat pie that Elyas had fed her that morning. Children ran through the streets, some without shoes or much clothing at all, while their mothers carried baskets of laundry they had taken in. Shops were everywhere. Some looked like they were doing a decent business, while others were boarded over and abandoned. Nothing looked new .

  She searched for the sign of the mouse and the hen. All the signs she saw were of an animal of some sort, or else the moon and stars or some other symbol. She didn’t understand how anyone knew where anything was. A young girl gave Portia a small smile as she passed by with a basket of mead bottles. Portia ran after her. “Miss, would you happen to know where the sign of a mouse and a hen is. I don’t understand the signs here. I mean, how do you know which shop the butcher is, or anything else?”

  The girl stopped, eyed Portia. “No one can afford new signs all the time. Businesses come and go—they use what was there before. We know what’s where.”

  “Do you know the mouse and the hen?” Portia asked.

  The girl nodded, pointed off in the direction towards the Academy, then went on her way.

  Portia set off in the direction pointed out by the girl. Three streets down, she found the right shop. The sign overhead with the mouse and the hen was the best-looking part of the entire storefront. The door needed a coat of paint, its existing paint peeling in long strips. The windows were dirty, making the inside appear dim and unclean. Portia took a deep breath then entered.

  The inside was indeed no better than the outside. Piles of linen topped every
surface, most of it old. A few newer pieces by the door were still bright with sun bleaching but showed holes and irregularities where stitching had been pulled out. She knew the linen was stolen by the existence of the holes—they showed where the insignias from their house of origin had been poorly removed. Portia snorted at the bad workmanship.

  Her snort alerted the shopkeeper in the back. He passed into the main shop through a curtain leading to the backroom. He was a skinny man who looked half-starved. He looked Portia up and down, sizing her up as a possible customer. Portia gave him a smile that she hoped was reassuring .

  “Morning,” Portia greeted the shopkeeper. “I was looking for a job and thought you might need help.”

  The shopkeeper’s expectant expression turned to disdain. “Job. Ah, no. We don’t need help here.” He motioned for her to leave before turning to return to the back.

  “I have talents you could use here. I know that just from walking in the door,” Portia said, mustering a challenge in her voice.

  The shopkeeper slowly turned back towards her. “And how do you make that out?” he asked.

  “I can remove stitching so well, you can’t even tell it had ever been there,” Portia said. The shopkeeper shrugged his shoulders, unimpressed. She pressed on. “I can even get product.” She gave him her best confident look.

  His face relaxed into a smile. “That’s a lot of promises. How about some proof?” He waved to the back of the shop, indicating Portia to enter. She nodded and preceded him to the rear.

  Three girls sat at small benches in the tiny room, working under dirty windows. They were pulling out stitches from stolen linen. The shopkeeper tossed Portia a hand towel from a pile near one of the girls. Portia grabbed a small knife from the workbench and quickly plucked all the stitches from the house insignia on the hand towel. She pulled the loose threads through and gave the towel a final rub with her thumb, feeling the tingle at the back of her neck as she mentally nudged the threads of the towel to go back into place, the way they had been before any embroidery had been done there. It looked perfect. She handed the towel to the shopkeeper. He eyed it appreciatively, giving her a nod of approval.