Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1)

by D J Salisbury

  It cost several minutes of gasping like a clobbered drunk before she caught her breath again.

  Weaver snip her thread. She hadn’t fallen that hard in years. In lunars anyway. What had she done wrong?

  Musta been her cloak. Her now very soggy cloak. Good thing she’d fallen inside the Pleasure District, even the alleys stayed clean here. Mom would never know she’d been rolling around on the street.

  But she couldn’t leave her cloak behind. Even here it would grow legs and find a new owner, and Mom would notice that it’d gone missing. She had to compensate for the frayed thing during her next jump.

  She sat up, rubbed the back of her sore head, and forced her body to stand upright. Any snitches? Not yet. Time to get this mission moving.

  After tying the hem of her cloak around her waist, she trotted back to the intersection, checked for spies, and dashed full out to the lowest part of the roof. She launched herself into the air.

  Her fingertips grazed the edge of the roof. Crap. Coward crap. Crap crap crap.

  She pushed off the wall with both hands, bent her knees, and landed on her feet. Not graceful, but not a fall. And she’d been so fraying close.

  Next time she’d make it. She trotted back to the intersection, checked for spies, and continued down the alley. She glared at her target.

  Weaver’s chamberpot, it was getting dark. She didn’t have much time. No more messing around.

  She leaned forward and sprinted at the lowest point of the roof. Through the intersection, up the alley, until at the last moment she launched into the air.

  Her fingers scrabbled on slick tile. Her boots kicked at the wall and gained her a couple inches of upward motion. She swung her elbows over the ledge, humped her belly onto the roof, and wiggled forward until she could pull her knees up and scoot her feet onto the tiles.

  She laid her sweaty face on wet tile and just breathed for a minute.

  Sing to the Weaver. That was harder than she’d expected. She musta gotten out of shape. She needed to start doing them exercises the kid set her to all them lunars ago.

  Speaking of the kid, she better get back to work before it got too dark to see their target. Nobody would light torches for another hour yet. Not in this district.

  When she tried to stand up, her feet slid out from under her. She thudded down to her knees. A tile snapped. It felt like her kneebone cracked, too.

  Blood in the Weave. Who’d’ve thought that tile got so slippery? It was way worse than cobblestone, and the poor kid still skidded around every time it got wet. She better remember to warn him or the plan would fall apart before they even got started.

  Where was the target from here? She couldn’t see the street at all.

  She crept on hands and knees in the general direction of the front of the building. She hoisted herself up two levels, squeezed between two stumpy turrets, and inched toward the edge of the roof. Straight across the street lay the target, a double-arched entryway with a gold and red door. Gaudy as a Kerovi pepper, just like the kid said.

  Anywhere up here would make a good observation post. There was an awful lot of slope on the roof, but she’d keep the kid from falling off. But how would she get him up here? Certainly not the way she came.

  She inched backward until she could brace herself against the turrets, and turned toward Pennydown Alley. Something over there tickled her memory. She remembered running past three doors and –

  And a woodpile. Inside a tall stone box. That should be sturdy enough to climb on.

  But before she checked it out, she had to get down there.

  She scrabbled her way up the slimy tiles to the point of the roof, slid down the far side in a steep valley, and inched around an onion dome until she reached the edge of the roof. Bad enough at dusk, but this route would be a pain after dark. Would the kid be up to it? Didn’t matter, she’d help him when the time came. She’d carry him if she needed to.

  Lowering herself down to the woodpile was easy. Hardly even a stretch, just a drop of three feet. Why hadn’t she tried climbing it first thing?

  Oh, yeah. The blood-woven Nashidran lord. Was he hanging out here? Not that she could see. Why would he? He surely never wanted to see her again, not after she’d decked him. Unless he wanted to kill her.

  Did he leave guards? None were in sight, but she’d better clear out before somebody noticed her, and ratted on her.

  She shook out her damp cloak, smoothed out the corners where she’d knotted it, and pulled the hood over her face. Nobody would bother her now. She marched out of Pennydown Alley and into Merrypenny Avenue like she owned the place.

  The fraying gray-haired patrol sergeant turned and looked directly into her eyes. Irritation darkened his face. Did he recognize her? Baby soldiers behind him started to grin.

  Her thread was so snipped.

  The sergeant reached one hand toward her. His fingers brushed her cloak.

  Why was she standing here? She leaped back, spun, and dashed into the street –

  right in front of the horses pulling a six-in-hand carriage. The lead mares reared. The driver cussed like a Kerovi demon.

  Lorel ducked her head and kept on running.

  Pale hooves flashed above her head. Both horses screamed like the driver was yanking back on the reins. The four horses behind them crowded forward like they’d been whipped.

  That driver was a limp thread. Them gorgeous mares deserved better treatment. She’d always wanted a horse of that light gray color. Or dark gray. Shuttle and Loom, she’d love to have any kind of horse, even an old one.

  The lead mares settled and stomped the ground, but one of the rear horses tried to buck free of the traces. The driver cussed even louder.

  Once she reached the corner, Lorel glanced back. The bucking horse was tangled in the harness. Baby soldiers streamed around the carriage, front and back. No wonder the driver was still cussing.

  She’d better get out of here before those long-legged boys caught up with her.

  She sprinted up Merrypenny, dashed around the corner onto Ladysmith, and raced up the hill. Ragged footsteps followed her, way too close for comfort. How could she lose those snipped threads?

  She ducked into Flint Lane, cut across the funeral parlor’s lawn, and scooted into Little Lizzie. She dared a quick glance over her shoulder.

  Four boys galloped only yards behind her, with three more in sight.

  Blood in the Weave. She needed to run faster. If she could just stay ahead until she got to Tom Tanner, she’d lose them in the warrens around Blue Dye.

  She turned her concentration to the road ahead.

  An egg cart blocked the alley. The old woman beside it stared in open-mouthed horror.

  Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. Would Margaret Lazette ever forgive her?

  She sprinted up to the cart, dropped to the wet cobblestones, and slid belly first under the egg cart.

  Cracks and crashes echoed behind her. Margaret Lazette screamed. Eggshells scattered into the air, yellow yolks splatted against the stone walls.

  Lorel rolled to her feet and kept on running.

  Boys’ voices cussed. Margaret Lazette yipped like a bull dog. Sounded like she was demanding payment. Good for her.

  Wheezing worse than the boss’s fabled teakettle, Lorel trotted up Little Lizzie Alley to Tom Tanner. But instead of turning into the warrens, she jogged down Tanner Street and over to Glassworks Road.

  By the time she reached Market Square, she was breathing normally. She paused and scanned the crowd.

  No soldiers in sight. Sing to the Weaver.

  She backed up around the corner and took off her soggy, dirty cloak. What a mess. Could she dry it and brush it clean before Mom saw her? Not a chance. And not her immediate problem. How could she make herself look less like a fugitive?

  She shook out the cloak a little. Mud splattered on the road. She shook it harder. Mud splattered up the stone wall behind her. If she shook it any harder, she’d splatter mud all over
herself.

  Who was she kidding? All of her clothes were wet and muddy. So were her boots and her hair. But honestly, she didn’t look much worse than on a normal rainy day.

  For now, all she could do was turn the cloak inside out. Would that work as a disguise? The inside looked almost as good as the outside, seeing how dirty that was. Maybe the baby soldiers were too dumb to recognize her.

  Lorel pushed back her dripping hair – when had it come out of its braid? – and marched into Market Square like she owned the place.

  The guard in front of the goldsmith’s shop glared at her.

  She hunched down a little and the guard looked away. Amazing how that worked. She couldn’t wait to tell the kid. The boss wouldn’t never understand. Wouldn’t even understand the need.

  The boss’s life surely couldn’t be much fun.

  Rain trickled down her face. Her fraying hair curled up like a bunch of squiggly snakes. She loved her braid, but wearing a cape of drippy curls drove her crazy. She looked too much like Nightgown Girl. What if someone thought she was a whore?

  One wet, muddy, miserable whore, out way too early in the evening. A whore doing her shopping? Not likely. She was just some girl out for a stroll.

  Nobody’d ever recognize her like this, not unless they got up close.

  She shook back her hair and strolled along the market.

  Bright red Sedali cherries glimmered in the torchlight of a nearby stall. Weaver’s cold toes, she was hungry. And they looked so good. Did she have any money?

  The vendor glared at her until she produced a farthing, but smiled when she handed it over. His eyes got big when he looked at her face. He leaned forward and scooped up a double handful of cherries. “You got a bag on you, sugar? No? Hold up a corner of your cloak.” He added another handful to the pile and gestured for her to move aside. “You looking for cherries, sir? I gots the best.”

  She popped a cherry into her mouth. Tart sweetness burst through her soul. She adored the first cherries of spring. Winter had to be over now.

  Somebody tapped her shoulder. Hadn’t she moved far enough out of the way? She turned toward the pushy guy.

  The gray-haired sergeant glared at her. “It was you, wasn’t it.”

  Lorel widened her eyes at him.

  “I know it was you, making trouble on Merrypenny Street.” The sergeant stared into her eyes like he could make her confess.

  The frayed thread didn’t have no older brothers, not if he thought a little staring would bother her. She spit the cherry pit into her fingers and smiled at him. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  The cherry vendor waved his hand. “She been here near an hour, trying to decide if’n to buy Sedali or Fedan cherries. She ain’t had time to get into no trouble. Besides, her da would beat her if’n she got into much mischief.”

  That was the truth. She prayed to the Weaver that Dad never heard about tonight’s adventures. Or yesterday’s, for that matter.

  The sergeant growled. Baby soldiers dashed up to him and stood to attention. Their uniforms glistened in the torchlight.

  Her jaw dropped. All of them were covered with gooey raw eggs. All of them. How had they managed that?

  The sergeant sighed and mumbled something about unfeigned surprise. He signaled to his babies and led them away.

  The cherry vendor winked at her and jerked his head at the alley behind him.

  Good idea. She eased around his cart and trotted up Old Ironsmith Alley, pausing now and then to pluck a cherry out of her muddy cloak and stuff it into her mouth. The pits she deposited inside her trousers pocket. Every year she tried to grow a cherry tree, and every year she failed. That wouldn’t never stop her from trying. All it took was one seed to sprout, and she’d have all the cherries she wanted.

  She turned back onto Ladysmith Street and trotted onward to Thorn Lane.

  The kid huddled on Trevor’s front porch with his nose in a book. How could he read by that tiny bit of lantern light? How could he read at all, when adventure called? Was he sleeping with his eyes open?

  “Wake up, kid.”

  He snapped the book shut and blinked up at her. “Any problems?”

  “Everything went real smooth.” She offered him a handful of cherries. “I need to clean my cloak, though. It got kinda muddy.” Not to mention egg splattered and tile slimed. Good thing the sergeant hadn’t looked at it close.

  “I keep brushes and stuff in the kitchen, in the cabinet by the backdoor. Use whatever you need.” The frayed thread looked at the little red pearls of spring like he’d never seen none before, but his face lit up when he nibbled on one.

  Lorel grinned and popped another cherry into her mouth. Sweet and tart bliss coated her tongue as she chewed. She spat the pit into her hand and waved it at the street. “Have fun, kid.”

  Chapter 33.

  Four hours later, and for the third time that night, Viper plodded along the moonlit streets and dark back alleys that led uphill toward the Trader’s Inn. He was getting to know these streets rather too well.

  Water dripped slowly from the eaves, the ledges, from every outthrust window. At least it had finally stopped raining. He was wet and cold all the way through. He couldn’t stop shaking, but it wasn’t entirely because of the rain.

  Why was it that when he was trying to avoid Jorjan, he couldn’t get away from him, and now that he wanted the monster, the gang was scarce as water in a seven-year drought?

  Tonight was his only chance for revenge.

  But what was the point of vengeance? To stop the vulture dreams? What revenge would be enough to make him feel safe?

  Viper sighed. He hoped Lorel was right, and vengeance would make everything better. He trudged around another corner. Anything that eased the nightmares would make his life better. Even slogging around in the blasted rain.

  Head down, deep in thought, he almost missed the soft shuffle of feet not far behind him.

  Success. If he really wanted to call it that. Now all he had to do was make sure he didn’t get caught. Whose idea was this crazy plan, anyway?

  He turned at the next corner and jogged downhill, keeping his back crouched and his shoulders bent. His pursuers needed to think he was terrified.

  Thunderer. He was terrified.

  He glanced over his shoulder. No one was in sight. Where were they?

  This part of the plan required him to keep an eye on the streets behind him while still making some speed. But only enough speed to stay out of reach.

  Running full out didn’t work last time.

  He’d rather die than let them catch him again.

  Maybe running a little faster would be a good idea, no matter how much Lorel disapproved. She wasn’t here to face the gang.

  When he reached the Red Lantern Inn, he changed direction and headed for the river. The footsteps behind him grew louder, not yet close, but now openly in chase.

  Viper lowered his head and picked up his pace. Thunderer, let him get to safety before Jorjan caught him.

  He remembered how eerily fast Kraken moved. His heart began to pound as loudly as his feet upon the cobblestones. This was the weakest part of his plan, and his tiring body knew it. His sweat smelled sour, smelled of fear.

  Predators always followed fear.

  Terror surged up his throat, thudded inside his head. He panicked and bolted down two long blocks. His boots skittered on the wet cobblestones. He crashed into a wall, bounced off, and careened down another alley.

  How much farther? Where was Lorel? Where in the Deathsinger’s tent was he?

  He fled around a corner and into a wider street. Another corner into a narrow street. He wasn’t lost. He couldn’t be lost.

  Footsteps echoed behind him. Twice as many footsteps as before.

  All he could do was run. And pray Kraken didn’t get ahead of him. He swore he’d plow right through any of the others, but Kraken? The air grew dim every time he thought about Kraken.

  He limped out of the alley and jog
ged into a bigger street. Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

  Air squeezed into his burning lungs in tiny gasps. His sight narrowed to a hazy tunnel. He forced his feet to stagger onward.

  Echoing footsteps gained on him.

  At last he recognized the road where he’d met the Kerovi trader. Ahead was the building Lorel had scouted. And the wall he planned to climb. He’d be out of reach in a few moments.

  He lowered his head and tried to sprint the last block.

  Someone grabbed him around the waist, swung him high, and tossed him over their shoulder. His gut landed against bone. Air whooshed out of his lungs. Wet cloth splatted out an icy river, soaking him all over again.

  Terror plunged through his heart like a dull knife. How had they gotten ahead of him? Who’d captured him? Not Kraken. Thunderer’s dice, please not Kraken.

  His kidnapper started to run.

  Too breathless to even squeak, he pounded his fists against wet wool. His hands swatted a rope hanging down his abductor’s back. Or a thick braid.

  “Knock that off, kid,” Lorel whispered. “We ain’t got no time.”

  Blast. He should have known the pine tree would decide to carry him. She’d been way too cagey about her plans.

  She darted around the building and climbed up a stack of firewood.

  Viper stared at the logs below his head. What was the girl thinking? “They’ll fall and wake the whole neighborhood.” Or they’d fall and break every bone in his body.

  “They’re braced up sturdy, I checked.” Lorel paused at the top of the woodpile. “Besides, ain’t nobody close by to wake.” She lowered him to his feet, squatted, grabbed him around the hips, and tossed him up to the roof.

  Or almost to the roof. His hands collided with the wall, a solid two feet below the roofline.

  Lorel reached up and put a hand under his boot, bracing him upright. She boosted him a little higher. Did the turybird think a few inches would make a difference?

  The toes of his other foot scrabbled into the cracks between stones. Hand over hand, he clambered up the wall and heaved himself up to the tiled roof. He scrambled away from the edge before she had time to pull some other humiliating stunt.