Whatever was going on, clearly her thirteen-year-old “daughter” was having a much easier time than Velsa, and Velsa remembered Sorla saying that she wasn’t used to anyone treating her well. Maybe because she had no particular expectations, every kind person was a pleasant surprise.
Velsa mustered her pride. She had to look at things the same way. If the only person in town who wanted to hire her was Madam Blazar, she would see Madam Blazar. Velsa was quite good at needlework, in any case.
The dressmakers’ shop was a bustling place, in one of the more refined buildings in town. Flowers grew abundantly in painted boxes in front, below large windows with blue shutters. Velsa entered a lush waiting room, painted in rather shocking colors of pink and lilac, with more flowers in tall vases and an upholstered sofa. A mother and her older daughter were flipping through books of styles and fabric samples, apparently waiting for their appointment. They stared at Velsa a moment before the mother ventured a nervous, “Hello.” The daughter smiled.
“Do you work here?” the mother asked.
“No—but I was inquiring—“
From around the corner, a woman entered the room, with heavy auburn braids in a crown on the back of her head and soft curls surrounding her face. She had strong, attractive features, the kind people called “handsome”. Her clothes were simple but very well-cut, and she wore delicate kid leather shoes with small heels and turquoise tassels. She bowed to the customers before turning to Velsa.
“Are you here for work?” she asked.
“Yes, madam.”
“Around to the back, please.”
Velsa tried not to feel ashamed as the daughter sprung to her feet, inquiring about lace, and Velsa slunk out the door. It was, of course, normal that servants would go to the back of a house, even if they were flesh and blood. But she had never had to stoop to this. She had to shake another wave of stubbornness.
The building went deep into the alley, and the back door, a sturdy slab of wood parked in the middle of a windowless wall, didn’t seem like it was asking to be opened the way the front door was, so she timidly knocked. She could hear voices behind it. A flesh and blood woman, plain and stern, opened the door, and behind her Velsa could see half a dozen Fanarlem bent over needle and thread, with a pile of piecework on the table in front of them. They were all dressed quite nicely, the ladies in ruffles and ribbons, two men in slim pants and whimsically cut jackets.
“Ah yes, you’re that girl who’s come from Nalim Ima,” the woman said, like she’d been expecting Velsa. “Rumor says you were a concubine.”
“Many years ago,” said Velsa, who planned to claim she was thirty years old if anyone asked.
“But you can sew? Embroider? Make lace?”
Velsa nodded at each question. “They teach all of those things to concubines,” she said.
“Well, come in. My name is Madam Peroneel. The rest of the girls will show you what to do.”
The other Fanarlem stared at her. They were all about as well made as Sorla, which was to say, better off than slaves in the Daramon lands, but not as finely crafted as Velsa. Her outfit was not quite as nice as theirs; however Velsa couldn’t help but notice they all looked rather juvenile, in bright colors with big buttons and sweetly curled hair.
Two of the girls were sitting together and looking at each other like they’d already been gossiping about her.
Two of them were men, and Velsa had never been around Fanarlem men in her life. One of them gave her an immediate broad grin and glanced at the seat beside him. He had a head of golden curls that must have cost a fair bit. It was strange to see a Fanarlem with Miralem hair.
The remaining two girls looked very shy of her, so Velsa felt like she had to sit next to the man, but she moved timidly. Was this proper? It was hard to know what to do with a man who was just like her, hard to even square the idea of a Fanarlem man. She was so used to men being far above in her in the eyes of society.
“No need to be shy,” said the other man, whose dark hair looked artfully tousled. He was a bit slouchy and sleepy-eyed, although this wasn’t surprising due to the repetitious nature of their work. “We’re all right.”
Velsa took a seat. Relax. It’s just a job. People do it all the time.
The flesh and blood woman stared at them all from the sidelines, in between her own work cutting cloth into patterns.
The needles here were not made of metal, but bone. Most of the fabric was wool and linen, and coarser than Velsa was used to. In the Daramon lands many clothes were made of cotton, but the Daramons owned almost all the cotton-growing land in the world so it was more precious here. Velsa’s own skin was made of cotton and her stuffing was wool, but all of the Fanarlem here looked like they might have wool skin. It was always hard to tell once the illusion spells were applied.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” the blond man said, “but you are exquisite.”
“Thank you,” Velsa said, as modestly as she could manage.
“Madam Blazar is going to have fun with you.”
Velsa stiffened. “What does that mean?”
One of the shy girls laughed. “Oh, it’s nice! She’ll dress you up. She makes all of our clothes.”
“I don’t need new clothes.”
“It’s one of the perks of working here,” the blond man said. “After you wear them for a while, and she makes you another outfit, you can sell the old one and fetch a good price.”
“But…do I have to wear what she tells me to wear?”
“No chitter-chatter, koja!” Madam Peroneel snapped. “No one is going home until that pile is done!”
She called them koja, little children. No one else seemed bothered.
“We’re just showing the new girl what to do. What’s your name?” the man asked.
“Velsa.”
“Well, Velsa, I think it’s all been explained already. We’ve got a pile to work until our fingers fall off but if we’re quick we can make it home before dark.”
“We can’t leave until it’s done?”
“Not if you want to keep your job!”
“Haven’t you ever worked before?” one of the girls asked.
“I worked in a clothing stall for a little while,” Velsa said, but it was too late to convince anyone. She could imagine how she must look, with her metal bones and expensive heeled boots, and the obvious fact that she didn’t know what it was to work for a living.
“I’m Horus,” said the blond man. “And this is Rumir.”
“She’s married, you know,” Rumir said dryly.
“I know, I was just making conversation!” Horus said, perhaps a little too loudly and vehemently. He always looked slightly surprised, like his eyebrows were set a hair too high on his face.
Velsa suppressed a smile.
The gossipy looking girls proved their reputation by whispering to each other after this exchange. Velsa wondered what they were saying about her.
She was, however, quick with a needle, and she felt reasonably welcomed by the end of the pile, when they were all able to leave before dark just as hoped. Well before dark, actually.
“It’s good to have an extra set of hands,” said one of the shy girls: Alsamir, who had wide eyes and big pink bows in her hair.
“Of course, they’ll just give us more tomorrow,” Horun said. “Can I walk you home, darlin’?”
“No,” Velsa said. “I’ll be safe enough on my own. I don’t live far.”
Rumir started to walk with her anyway. “Not to keep you safe. Just to make your acquaintance. There aren’t many of us, so it doesn’t hurt to stick together.”
“Oh.” Now Velsa laced and twisted her fingers, somewhat flustered. Horus started walking on her other side.
“You came from Nalim Ima?” he asked.
“Nisa, truly,” she said. “We didn’t live in Nalim Ima for long. And my husband is from a small town west of Atlantis. Did you all come from the Daramon lands, too?”
“Rumir is the only who
didn’t,” Horus said.
“My parents are Fanarlem,” Rumir said.
“Oh.” Velsa didn’t mean to say ‘Oh’ so much. “You mean, they paid someone to make you?”
He nodded.
Velsa couldn’t help but think this was a little cruel, for Fanarlem to actually choose to force another soul into being a Fanarlem. But maybe Rumir didn’t think so.
“I worked at a mill,” Horus said. “But I bribed some river traders to take me across to the Miralem lands.”
“How do you like living here?” Velsa asked.
“The capital is a little more welcoming,” Rumir said. “But it’s expensive to live there.”
“This place isn’t bad at all, you just have to watch out for the Fur and Hide crowd,” Horus said.
“Fur and Hide?”
“They like to hunt their food and use every part of the animal. But that isn’t the problem. It’s just that they’re very religious and they don’t trust Fanarlem or Daramons—not even the Ven-Diri—or anything new and modern. They think we’re an abomination of magic.”
“Goodness.” But Velsa didn’t feel quite as upset about it, when she had company.
“Of course,” Rumir said, “A lot of people think that, to some extent. Not just the Fur and Hide types. I’d still rather be here than across the border.”
When Velsa got home, Sorla was already there making dinner.
“How did it go?” Grau asked. He was peeling potatoes.
Velsa shrugged. “I found a job at the seamstress’s. How did you fare, Sorla?”
“Oh, thank goodness for Ruven,” Sorla said. “He introduced me to Mr. Tambs, the butcher. I wasn’t having much luck until then, but Ruven was so smart. He said, ‘You know, Fanarlem girls can’t get the blood cough.’”
“What is the blood cough?” Grau asked. “Preya said they had it in Atlantis. Was there an epidemic here?”
“No,” Sorla said. “It only hit in the south, but it made everyone nervous.”
“The butcher?” Velsa asked. “Is that all right? You’ll have to be very careful not to stain your skin.”
“I’ll be careful,” Sorla said. “Anyway, it was the best I could do. Mr. Tambs seems pretty nice. He sent me home with some bones because he’d heard Grau was recovering. The bakeries turned me down immediately.” Sorla took the peeled potatoes from Grau, quartered them and tossed them in the pot. She fussed with the stew for a few minutes, adding some herbs, before joining them at the table.
“Tomorrow,” Sorla said. “Would you mind if I went to Ruven’s house? To learn how to make the dabble?”
“You aren’t going to work?” Velsa asked.
“I mean after. During dinnertime. I’m making enough tonight that you two can have leftovers tomorrow.”
“We could always manage dinner on our own,” Grau said. “You’re not our cook for hire. We ate before you came along, you know.”
“I like cooking for you,” Sorla said. “But no one’s ever invited me to their house before.”
“Of course,” Grau said.
It would have been impossible to say no to Sorla’s shining eyes, but Velsa kept feeling trepidation over it.
“Why do you think Ruven is so nice to her?” she asked Grau when they went to bed.
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“He couldn’t like her, could he?”
“Why not? I like you.”
“Grau, you know it’s different.”
“I think if I had met you when I was younger I would have still been captivated,” he said. “But it’s entirely possible that Ruven isn’t thinking of it that way. I’m sure he’s aware that Sorla is different, but she's also pleasant company. After all we’ve been told about how friendly the Miralem are, isn’t it possible that some of them actually are friendly?”
“No,” Velsa retorted, with a small laugh. “I just don’t want her to get hurt.”
“That’s impossible,” he said. “You know it is. We’re parents of a teenager now. They’re going to do what they do.”
Their first week of employment passed. As promised, Velsa was faced with a much larger pile of piecework the next day. Every day she was there from just after dawn and on into dusk. Mostly, she lost herself in the routine of it. Back in the House of Perfumed Ribbons, the girls made their own clothes, so it was familiar to push a needle through cloth all day and let her mind wander to music and fancies.
She could have borne it for a long time, if not for the overseer, Madam Peroneel.
Madam Peroneel was a stern taskmistress. She snapped at them if they started making conversation. She never bothered to use any of their names, but just referred to them as “boy” and “girl”. Velsa quickly realized this was routine and no one spoke up about it. They were not allowed breaks under any circumstances, not to rest their eyes or take a moment of fresh air. In Peroneel’s mind, breaks were something that only flesh and blood people needed, so even while she ate lunch herself, she kept an eye on them.
Velsa didn’t tell Grau about the worst parts of work. She was weirdly ashamed of being called a child at work. Every day, she thought about saying something. Plotting how to say it was taking up an increasingly large portion of her working day.
She had not yet encountered Madam Blazar, who was apparently quite busy because the wealthier citizens of the city were ordering their summer wardrobes.
And she kept thinking of Kessily, missing her easygoing nature. Velsa might have confided to her about this. She was eaten with guilt whenever she remembered the horror of her transformation.
Rovi stopped by to check on Grau’s health, and Velsa asked her about searching spells even though they had no money.
“I don’t know of anyone in town who makes a good searching spell,” Rovi said. “And if she flew away, well, she could be anywhere in those hills. How would you get to her? I’m so sorry. But try not to worry. The Goddess will protect her. She’ll be back.”
Velsa wished she could believe that.
Rovi clucked her tongue over Grau, too. “You’re not healing as quickly as I’d like, but transferring organs is a tough business. I’d say it’s safe to move around—carefully.”
“Ah,” he said, having spent the morning ripping weeds out of the garden.
Sorla went to Myrini’s farm house and came home with a pan of the dabble, which was baked fruit with dried corn dumplings on top, odd but good. After making the dabble she said a girl who lived at the farm next door had come over and they played a ball game out in the field with Ruven’s dad and several wyverns who obliging fetched the ball again and again. She seemed to be in good favor with her employer, because every day she came home with odds and ends from the butcher shop that he had given her for free.
Velsa could hardly believe that Sorla was the one making herself at home. Maybe it was easier to be thirteen.
In the evenings, they had humble dinners, sang songs and told stories by the fire. Except for her awful job, life in Dor Temerna was starting to acquire its own sort of coziness.
In the middle of the night, someone banged on the door, yanking Velsa from sleep. Grau stirred a second later. He reached for his crystal. Velsa sensed out their visitor.
“It’s Dormongara,” she whispered.
They quickly pulled on their clothes and climbed down the ladder from the loft. Sorla cowered in the corner of the room. There was no good place to hide in the house.
“It’s all right,” Velsa told her as Grau opened the door.
Dormongara was holding a body, wrapped in a cloak. Tomato scurried into the house and right into Sorla’s arms. Dormongara followed him, more sedately. Grau nudged the cloak aside and revealed Kessily’s pale face.
“She’s alive,” Grau said.
“Kessily—thank the fates!” Velsa had never felt such a wash of relief.
“The wyvern flew into my bedroom window, and wouldn’t calm down until I followed him into the woods,” Dormongara said. “I found her unconscious there. Her a
rm was broken.”
“You mean her wing?”
“Her arm. She’s making progress.” He peeled the wrappings back. Kessily now had just one black wing. Her bandaged arm and her legs and feet were back to normal.
“I put a spell on it but you should take her to a healer in the morning to be sure the bone set properly.” He placed her on the mattress where she normally slept on the floor near the fireplace. Velsa smothered embarrassment that Dormongara was here to see their humble living arrangements.
She was wearing a very plain black tunic which had been roughly cut to accommodate her wing. Her feet were bare.
“Thank you for bringing her back here, Lord Gara,” Grau said. “And in the middle of the night, too.”
Dormongara nodded. “How are the spells coming along?”
“We’re working on them.”
“I expect some results soon.”
“Your expectations will be fulfilled,” Grau said, with deliberate patience.
“Well, I’d best get back.” The sorcerer moved to the door without another word. He did have a very slight limp, she could see now, without his walking stick.
Tomato flew to Grau and licked his face for no apparent reason, and then returned to Kessily. Sorla clutched her hand. “Kessily?”
She didn’t show any signs of stirring, so they let her sleep. Velsa, on the other hand, didn’t sleep at all. In the morning, Kessily was awake and jubilant with relief.
“How did I get here?” she asked.
“Dormongara,” Grau said.
“Dormongara…” Her cheeks turned crimson. “Did he—did he see me naked?”
“We don’t really know what happened,” Velsa said. “Tomato brought him to you.”
“I don’t remember anything after I tried to shape-shift,” she said.
“Nothing?” Sorla asked, leaning in. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m blushing because he must have found me naked!” Kessily flexed her fingers.
“Too bad it’s your left hand,” Grau said.
“I’m left handed! So it’s perfect. Maybe I can find work now. I could probably fish if nothing else.”
“I’m so sorry we weren’t able to stop you or find you,” Velsa said.
The Sorcerer's Equal (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 3) Page 10
