One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)
Page 53
“I have qu—”
“You have nothin’, Drow. Unless you’ve come to buy, stop addin’ stink to my shop. My steel’s for buyin’.”
Aile considered insisting, or lying, but she decided against it, leaving the woman behind and coming back out to the street. She looked up again at the sign. It was old, the carved letters eroded almost flat. She decided to watch the shop. There were stalls selling food near enough, so Aile took her lunch and put herself on a roof across from the woman’s shop. There were plumes of black smoke from the exhausts at the top throughout the day. Even as dark came, she saw no one enter the place. She would not part with gold simply to look over the woman’s work.
As the sky turned black, a pair of guards barked at her to come down from her place atop the roof. She did as they asked and they came to her when she reached the ground.
“What’s it you’re doing on that roof?” A woman, stern-voiced and tense. The man with her looked no less ready to have trouble with an unruly Drow. The truth would suit her now.
“The shop there…” Aile pointed across to the smith’s door. “The woman would not show me her wares. I waited, hoping to stop someone who made a purchase that I might see the quality of her works. I had no ill intent, else I’d have run.”
The woman mulled her words, seeming to find them satisfactory. She looked back at the shop across the way. “Istigh. She’s a mad old bat. Don’t know that she even works the steel anymore.” She looked to the man beside her.
“Aye, she’s mad. Couldn’t say what she does in that old shack. Stories about her, though. Stories mad as she is. I’ve heard half a dozen. She worked steel for the Sisters, she worked steel for the old Treorai, she pulled her tools from the earth with her own hands.” He laughed and the woman did as well. “What’s the odds on she made them all up herself?”
“Good as any,” the woman said, turning her attention back to Aile. “You’re welcome to watch her as you like. Just not from rooftops. Upsets folks.”
Aile nodded without a word.
The guards turned, discussing the old woman as they went. Aile looked at the roof of Istigh’s shop again. The smoke still came. She worked something in that place. The dark would do her no good, and the guards had made note of her now. Though they’d given her no trouble, it would follow soon enough, she expected. There was a way about those things. Staying away from it was the best she could hope to do.
She began a slow walk back to her inn. It felt as though the day had come to no value for her. She had no more than she would in a smaller city. Access to basic herbs, but shopkeeps who were too curious about her need of them and too guarded of the ones that had real value. The whole of the city was too earnest for her liking. They were honest and welcoming and polite and happy. It was a place she did not belong. Worse, if she knew how sorely she stood out from the people around her, they would know it as well.
Her meal was ordered and she went upstairs to await its delivery, pondering the problem of Abhainnbaile. There was a war to the south. At the least, she had expected she could find coin being sent to clean up some horsefolk or another. Her hope of seeing to the elf Socair had been dashed with the news of her rise to Treorai. An unfortunate thing, but nothing to be done. Every city had grudges and bitter enemies. It was those with ambition who fed her and clothed her with their avarice. This city was in the throes of something that put those things aside. She could not know how long it would last.
A knock came at the door. Her food. She took it to the desk in the room and began to eat, looking at the revelers stumbling in the streets, shouting now that the songs had lost their allure. Perhaps it would be better if she left for the north.
Another knock came at the door. It was an annoyance, more of one than she liked considering her mood at the uselessness of the jovial city outside her window. She walked to the door, opening it, her fingers itching to have a reason to bring a blade from her leathers.
The face before her was not one she knew. A bloated elf, dressed in finery that she had not seen near her inn and who did not seem to belong there. Thin hair was pulled back over a shining scalp. When his beady eyes had finished running over her body, a smile peeked through greasy lips. She would have work, it seemed.
The Past
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e
The Past
She rubbed her wrists as she walked back from her lessons. The pain still felt fresh though surely she’d been walking for five minutes or more.
“This is for the best. If you cannot keep the people of Spéirbaile safe, then your mother will choose another.” That’s all Rianaire had heard since her coming of age. Twenty years to each Sister and she was so close to the end now. She would endure, she would be marked as Údar. Her lineage demanded it.
Rianaire winced as she gripped the handle of the door leading to her bedchamber. With some difficulty, she managed to pull the door open to find Síocháin arranging her bed dressing. As quickly as she could manage, Rianaire removed all semblance of pain from her expression but she was not quick enough.
Síocháin ran to her, “Rianaire!”
Rianaire turned to close the door, trying to avoid facing the only friend she’d ever known, but it was no good. Síocháin spun her around by the shoulders and gently grabbed her by each forearm.
“Again?!” she protested, “Rianaire, they’re too rough with you.”
Rianaire pulled away and walked past Síocháin, her head down. “It is not my place to question my betters, Síocháin. Nor yours. They know what is best for Spéirbaile.”
Síocháin followed her across the room. “And what about what is best for you? I suppose that doesn’t matter to them! The muleborn bastards.”
“Síocháin!”
“Well it’s true!” Síocháin was emphatic, “What good is a Treorai whose wrists can’t bend to make the magics they say are so important? I ought to go down to the temples and--”
Rianaire held up a hand and Síocháin stopped her ranting, “It is fine, Síocháin. I must be strong enough. Mother would never have chosen me if not.”
“But...” Síocháin couldn’t find the words.
Rianaire hugged her tight. “Thank you, friend.” Rianaire pulled back from the hug and looked Síocháin in the eyes, a smile crossed her lips.
She clapped Síocháin on the arms, “Now! Tell me about this boy! And tell me he’s not a stable boy.” Rianaire sat down on the bed and began unlacing her boots.
“Sisters, no! A stable boy? Could you even imagine? The smell alone would be like to kill me.” Síocháin shuddered to imagine it. “He’s the master-at-arm’s son.”
“Oh my. Diligent, then. And delightfully muscular, I imagine?”
“Lewd!” Síocháin blushed the quip.
Rianaire had to laugh at the innocence of her friend. “Haha! Am I not meant to enjoy the finer things?”
“But Rianaire, a lady--”
“Bah! I belong to the people every moment I am out there. A lady’s bedchamber is her sanctuary. Now tell me, have you had him to bed yet, raised beads of sweat on that muscular chest?”
Síocháin was full red by now. “Milady, please, I--” Before she could voice a further protest a sharp knock came at the door.
“Milady Rianaire, the Treorai requests your presence.” The husky voice of some guard or other.
“Very well, a moment please.” she called before turning to Síocháin and warning, “I expect to hear every detail upon my return. Vivid detail.”
Síocháin blushed and gave no reply as Rianaire made for the door. She winced, having forgotten about her wrists in the few moment’s peace she had been granted, but the heavy door gave way.
Not willing to lower her guard outside of her own bedchamber, she greeted the attendant with a flat expression. “Let us go, then.”
y Randall P. Fitzgerald
On
e’s Own Shadow y
y Randall P. Fitzgerald
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