Before leaving the stairwell, she checked the workshop for spies. Good, both her brothers really had gone with Dad to butter up the musicians’ guild players. If she hurried, she’d be finished before anyone noticed this fraying project.
She grabbed a pry bar and levered the top and bottom panels free. The new side panels needed to be two inches taller to hide everything. Better trace out the false bottom before she installed the new sides. Nice thing about this Loom-warping ugly case, all the pieces had good straight angles, no curves to mess with. She grabbed a pencil and tossed it on the workbench before turning to sort through a pile of thin plywood scraps. Yay, this one oughta fit.
A curvy shadow blocked the light from the backdoor. “Whatever are you doing, Baby?”
Rats. “Just an experiment, Mom.” She eased the scrap back into the pile.
Mom plucked it right back out. “This is too thin for a – oh, you’re making a hidden compartment to hide your swords, aren’t you.”
Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. Now her mother would ground her. She’d prayed Mom was too drunk that night to remember seeing the weapons. The silly hope chest never showed up, anyway. Her poor swords were still hidden somewhere in her parents’ room. Finding them was gonna be a nightmare.
“How clever of you. But how to you plan to explain the harp to your father?”
That one was an easy lie. “I promised teach the kid to read music, and I wanted something simple to show him how notes sound on paper. Something it won’t matter if he breaks it.”
Mom laughed. “Only you and your father think a harp is a ‘simple’ instrument. But good thinking on choosing this one. It was designed as a student’s instrument. Indifferent tone, but durable.”
And it was big for a traveling harp, which was why she’d picked it. Her long sword would fit cattycorner inside the case. She could haul it out to the forest and practice with it in private.
“Unfortunately, your father will notice the false compartment right away.” Mom pulled the plywood scrap out of the discard pile, poked through a few more pieces, and picked out a thicker section. “You’ll need to make two of them.”
“Two? Mom! Why?”
“One to hide your swords, and another for sheet music and, oh, traveling gear. You said your friend plans to travel, didn’t you?”
“What kinda limp thread would pack clothes in his harp case?”
“Your father.” Mom snickered. “When he was young and wanted to travel to Kerov to meet his cousins, he made a viola case with hiding places for clothes and money.”
“I never heard about that.” And she thought she’d heard all his boring stories a thousand times over.
“Don’t tell him I ratted on him.” Mom giggled worse than Baxter did when he smuggled worms into Chalmer’s bed. “Thieves stole the viola and left his pack behind.”
Lorel glared at the disassembled harp case. “That spoils this plan.”
“Not at all. Leave it old and ugly.” Mom handed her the thicker piece of plywood, laid the other on the workbench, and traced the outline of the top onto it. “Make it look like apprentice work. Your father’s mistake was to make a gorgeous case and put an expensive instrument inside it.”
“That makes sense.” She sketched the harp case outline onto the plywood and grabbed a slender-bladed saw. She managed to beat Mom’s sawing time by mere seconds. Together they cut the eight-inch-tall struts for the side pieces and fit them together with dowels and glue. “This ain’t gonna look much like a proper harp case.”
Mom twisted the last clamp into place. “If he notices it, I’ll tell your father it’s supposed to be ugly. He’ll remember. With a little luck, he won’t think to look for a second layer.” She carried the leftover wood to the scrap bin. “For now let’s hide it in my cabinet while the glue dries. I’m not in the mood to listen to your brothers whine about how it will ruin the family’s reputation.”
Lorel snorted. “They’ll do worse’n whine. They’ll try to remake it.” The frayed threads always had to prove how much better they were.
“By the time we’re finished, they’ll think it’s the original old case.” Mom rummaged through a basket of old leather scraps. “We’ll paste worn leather on the outside, and scruffy felt on the inside. And I’ll deny that you had anything to do with changing it.”
She’d do that? Mom would lie for her? Bless every thread on the Loom, she’d never dreamed her mother would stand up to her brothers.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Mom settled the case pieces into her work cabinet and shoved the door closed. “I don’t always take their side.”
She didn’t? Since when?
“It’s just that they get into so much less trouble than you do.” Mom shook her head and laughed. “But you are never, ever boring. I want to strangle you sometimes, but you hardly ever whine at me.”
Wow, she noticed. And liked it? When had that changed?
Male voices grumbled in the front of the shop. Blood in the Weave, her brothers were home. And they sounded frayed, grumpy, and looking for trouble. Just what she needed.
“Quick, clean up this mess.” Mom stoppered the glue pot and put it up on the shelf.
Lorel grabbed a brush and swept sawdust into the dustbin. Another hasty sweep around, and the workshop was as tidy as when she’d started.
Mom nodded. “Shoo. Go visit the Loresti girl. They can’t complain about that.”
“Bet they will, anyway.” Lorel paused at the backdoor, but decided against her cloak. It was plenty warm out there. And leaving it would confuse her noodle-brained brothers.
She waved at her mom and hustled down the back alley before her brothers could intercept her. Now, where to go from here?
Not to see Faye. The boss was getting too… bossy. She’d had something on her mind ever since the kid went and got himself apprenticed. Hopefully not Jorjan again. Please, anybody but that creep.
Did she have time to check out the gang’s newest hideout? Was it worth the bother? They’d been quiet for ages.
She’d rather go have lunch at Trader’s Inn. Three farthings clinked in her pocket, and that was enough for a sticky bun and small beer, if she could convince the server she was fifteen. She might have to settle for sassafras tea. Too many of the servers knew her.
Too many of the servers dated her brothers.
She strolled all the way up Outland Ter, not bothering with the alleys. As long as Baxter and Chalmer didn’t see her, today it didn’t matter who did. Mom would cover for her. She’d never have guessed her mom had such a tight thread on the Loom.
Unfortunately, the Weaver had other plans for her day.
Trader’s Inn was surrounded by Nashidran soldiers. Brand new soldiers, with shiny new uniforms, all lined up like spikes on a picket fence. Too weird. She knew most of the Guard by sight, and half by name. She didn’t recognize any of these boys.
One older face turned toward her and frowned. Blood in the Weave, the snarky lieutenant. What was he doing here? He’d never let her near those soldiers, even if all she wanted was lunch.
The toy soldiers filed into Trader’s Inn while she loitered across the street. The place was probably too full for a three-farthing customer, anyway. Wasn’t worth battling the thread-snipping lieutenant. He’d probably claim they were having a secret meeting. Right. A meeting with pulled pork and potatoes.
So what to do with herself now? Here she had a free day and no plans. No lunch, either, but that wasn’t a big deal. Wild strawberries were ripening not a mile from here, just inside the forest.
She slipped around the side of the inn and strolled into the orchard. She oughta ask the kid what kind of trees these were. Though if he didn’t know, he’d probably make it up. Maybe not. The kid wasn’t much for lying. No sense of self-preservation. Maybe it was his Setoyan blood.
The wild strawberries were tiny, but scrumptious. Not very filling, but they’d do for now. She followed the stream uphill in hopes of finding another patch.
Instead she found a stick as long and as straight as her long sword. Even the little curve in it was almost the same. Now, that was an omen. The kid didn’t show up for training near as often as she needed him. She’d just practice his newest lesson without him.
She braced her legs, swung, parried an invisible opponent, and swung in for a hard strike.
And fell over on her butt. Pain shot up her spine.
Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. Good thing the kid didn’t see that. He’d laugh until he peed himself.
She jumped to her feet and repeated the maneuver. And landed on her right knee. What a limp thread. Couldn’t she do any better than that?
Getting up took a minute longer, but she forced both legs to act like she hadn’t fallen. Or tried to. The knee was getting stiff. She flexed it a few times, took a deep breath, and repeated the maneuver.
This time she landed hard on her elbows. The sword stick thumped against her nose. How had she managed that?
Sparks flickered behind her eyelids. Blood trickled from her nose down her lip. Mom was gonna fray all over her. She wiped the blood away with the back of her hand. Not much there. Maybe Mom wouldn’t notice.
She staggered to her feet, braced her knees, and ran through the maneuver again. Slowly this time. Way slower than she wanted to.
But she stayed upright, and did it more or less right.
Clapping echoed through the forest behind her.
She whirled, raised the sword to second parry position, and fell flat on her butt.
A woman’s laughter rang through the trees. “And here I thought you’d gotten the hang of it.”
Lorel jumped to her feet and raised her sword. Her stick. Blood in the Weave, her thread was so snipped. Could they hang her for pretending a stick was a sword? Maybe she should drop the fraying thing.
“I can tell a man taught you. You need to center your hips above the balls of your feet, not your shoulders.”
Where on the Loom was the sneak? “Show yourself!”
The voice chuckled, and a hand separated from a dead trunk. No, not from the tree, from a red-haired woman leaning against the gnarly oak. Who hadn’t been there just seconds ago. How did she do that?
The woman laughed again. “I take it you’re a city girl. I haven’t astonished anyone so much in years.”
Lorel tossed the stick aside and crossed her arms. “Who do you think you are, sneaking up on people?”
“Ahm-Layel, of Melad.” The woman bowed, and her red braid swept the ground.
Melad? Where on the Loom was that? She’d have to ask the kid. Some barbaric place, from the grayish-brown leather pants and jacket the woman wore. Clothes cut in the style of a Nashidran soldier’s uniform. Nobody local wore Nashidran military styles except for Jorjan, or that much leather. Except the kid, and the boss was slowly getting him into wool and linen.
“And you’re called Lorel by that little Setoyan Outcast.” The woman stepped out of the shade. A sword scabbard hung from her belt.
A scabbard with a hilt poking out of it. That woman was wearing a sword.
“If your eyes get any bigger, they’ll fall out of your head.” Ahm-Layel grinned like she had a secret she was dying to share. “Just say it.”
“Ain’t you scared of getting hung?”
Ahm-Layel blinked. “Hung?”
“For wearing a sword, Loom lint. It’s illegal here.”
“Not if you work for Nashidrans.”
Weaver’s blood. It was that easy? All she needed to do was get hired by… Jorjan? No way. Not that he’d ever hire her, anyway. Neither would any of his friends. She had a name in that crowd. A rude one. At least this woman wouldn’t have heard of it.
“Hey! How’d you know my name?”
“I heard the two of you practicing a few days ago.” Ahm-Layel circled around her and picked up the sword-stick. “You both sounded frustrated. Catch.”
The stick flew at her face. Lorel snatched it out of the air and twirled it into first parry position. But she’d forgotten to move her feet, so her balance was all wrong. She hoped the woman didn’t come at her with that sword. She’d probably fall again.
Ahm-Layel crossed her arms.
Yup, she noticed. Lorel slid one foot back a few inches and shifted her weight.
“Better. Don’t ever worry about your dignity. Worry about defending yourself. Dignity will follow.”
Maybe that was why this woman moved like a wild cat. Like a born fighter. What she’d give to move like that.
Weaver toss the Shuttle, she’d give everything to move like that.
Trying to copy the woman’s stance, she moved her foot farther back and shifted her weight over the balls of her feet.
“Much better. Show me all the stances the boy’s taught you. Move slowly so I can see what you know.”
What did she know? Five parries. Not nearly enough to try showing off. Barely more than she knew when the kid started trying to teach her. But slow she could do. The kid always insisted she move slow, slow, slow.
First parry. Feet apart, sword down and circling to the front. Trying to move like a stork dipping toward the water. Looking like an old woman shaking a walking stick at a naughty dog.
Heat crept up her neck.
Second parry. Left foot back, sword up to eye level. Trying to look like an eagle soaring in the wind. Feeling like the dorky ogre in the magician’s kiddy show.
Third parry. Right foot back, sword crossing down left to right diagonally. Trying to become a dragon swooping down on prey.
Her face burned worse than when the kid blew up the bonfire. Why a pretend critter like a dragon? Not even the gullible kid believed in dragons. Why not a real monster, like a gyrfalcon?
Fourth parry. Feet even, sword above her head, pointed down. Trying to look like a rearing stallion with really sharp hooves.
Looking like her oldest brother about to attack the feast-day turkey. She surely felt more like a turkey than a stallion, anyway.
Fifth parry. Left foot back, sword slashing down to the right, then back to the left. Her butt wiggled back and forth like a street dancer trying to catch the attention of the sailors on the wharf.
This parry practice business was almost embarrassing enough to kill her desire to learn how to use a sword.
Ahm-Layel tilted her head, obviously fighting back a smile. “Stork, eagle, dragon, horse, lightning. Interesting choices. No wonder you’re having trouble. He started you with the advanced stances.”
It just figured the kid would teach her the hard stuff first. He never did nothing the easy way.
She sighed and tossed the stick away. Lessons were so fraying useless. She’d never learn how to use her swords.
Ahm-Layel frowned. “Do you surrender?”
“Never!” Surrender to what? Despair? She was close to that.
“So don’t drop your weapon.” Ahm-Layel pointed at the stick. “Arm yourself.”
What? Why?
Ahm-Layel jerked a switch off a bush and yanked off all the leaves in a single pull. She held the switch up chest high and pointed it straight out to her right.
That looked sorta like one of the moves the kid tried to teach her. Or at least, the beginning of one.
“Are you going to pick up your weapon or not?”
Lorel shrugged, stalked over to her stick, and scooped it up with her left hand. She pointed it straight out, mirroring the mercenary’s pose.
Ahm-Layel blinked.
Lorel shrugged again. “The kid can’t do nothing left handed. It’ll be easier this way for both of us. I’m used to it.”
“Are you left handed?” Ahm-Layel tossed her switch into her own left hand. “You need to practice with the arm you’ll be using.”
“I got two swords.” Lorel grinned at Ahm-Layel’s skeptical expression. “I gotta learn to use both hands, so I might as well start backwards. I’ll teach my other hand how to do it later.”
“Two swords. You’re not kidding me?”
Ahm-Layel slowly returned the grin. “This is going to be even more fun than I’d hoped for.”
Chapter 22.
The plains were hot, but they never felt like this.
Sweat oozed out of his scalp like squirming fly eggs. Oily beads drooled through his hair, wriggled down his back, snaked down his legs.
Viper couldn’t remember ever being so miserable, not even at midsummer the year the river dried up.
The soil smelled hot, the boulders looked hot, the air tasted hot, and the sun shone so brightly that even the blue of the sky felt impossibly hot, hot, hot.
Lorel, however, looked indecently cool. Even her black hair radiated the coolness of a winter night. With a cape of loose curls covering her shoulders, she ought to be dripping worse than he was.
“I’m gonna be your teacher from now on, kid. You’ve gotten so skinny that even if you knew more’n me, you still couldn’t teach me nothing. You ain’t strong enough to lift a sword, hardly. Look at you sweat. And we ain’t even started yet.”
If the ingrate weren’t so tall he’d strangle her. Not only for the insults, but because she had the gall to drag him so far from the cool comforts of Trevor’s Lab before telling him that he was unwanted.
So much for redeeming his honor by teaching her sword work.
The black oaks’ shade did little to ease the worst of the morning heat. Coastal breezes lifted the suffocating misery for an instant, but each zephyr disappeared too soon to cool his body. Each moment of relief left him more depressed than he’d been before.
He crossed his arms and glared at her, and refused to ask why she thought she knew so much. If she was going to act like the shaman lecturing a five-year-old herder child about the sacredness of thunder, she could sandblasted well do all the talking by herself.
She stood back and smirked at him. “You should see the look on your face. You’d scare off a dire wolf. If you didn’t melt away, first. I ain’t never seen nobody sweat so much just lazing around.”
He was not lazy. The girl showed no respect, and he deserved at least a little. He narrowed his eyes, shifted his feet to combat position, and crouched as if he were a lion about to attack a pesky hyena.
Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1) Page 20
