Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2)

by D J Salisbury

  Lorel’s sword met it inches in front of her face. She twisted her wrist and Ahm-Layel’s sword slid away.

  “Well done.” Ahm-Layel backed away and grinned. “I think you’ve perfected that parry.”

  About time. She’d been knocked down so many times trying to learn it, her shoulders and hips were as bruised as apples bouncing around on cobblestone streets after falling off a market cart. Good thing bruises didn’t show up on her dark skin as bad as they did on the kid’s golden hide. She oughtta be able to sneak the marks past Mom.

  A whippoorwill hooted scornfully. Blood in the Weave. Even the forest birds were sneering at her. “Let’s try it again.”

  Ahm-Layel shook her head. “Pack up. I need to get back to town.”

  “This early? It’s hardly past dawn.” She opened the ugly old harp case’s lower false bottom and secured her short sword next to her long sword before repacking her sheet music and the ancient traveling harp. Two false bottoms had been her mom’s most brilliant idea ever. Dad never noticed the second one, no matter how many times he pawed through the papers in the top one. He’d even complemented her on writing her own music, and that was weirder than Jonpaul’s three-eyed cat. She’d just scribbled down some tunes that rattled around in her head.

  “I really need to get back to town.” Ahm-Layel picked up her gear and turned toward the trail. “We’re shipping out at noon. My troop picked up a new commission, and we’re heading north.”

  Shipping out? Weaver’s Blood! “You’re leaving? Without warning me? You’re abandoning me?”

  “You knew I couldn’t stay forever.” Ahm-Layel glanced over her shoulder. “People like me come and go all the time.”

  “Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. I never meant nothing to you.” She should’ve known. Mercenaries only cared about their own selves. “You’re just gonna leave me? How am I gonna learn to use my swords? You ain’t taught me hardly nothing. I ain’t never gonna learn enough to be a warrior.”

  “You’ll never learn what you need until you learn to control your temper.” Ahm-Layel shrugged. “You’ll never be a warrior until you think about what you’re fighting for and who you’re protecting. You’re too absorbed in yourself.”

  “I ain’t not.” Lorel stomped down the trail. “I help people whenever I get the chance.” Hadn’t she helped the kid get revenge a few days ago? Hadn’t she gotten vengeance for the children the gang had murdered?

  She pushed Ahm-Layel aside and stormed past her. “You don’t care about me. You’re just looking for an excuse to leave. Well, I don’t need no excuses. I don’t need you at all.”

  The harp case thudded against her back like a coffin bumping around in a hearse. Harp strings jangled. New-leafed trees blurred as she sprinted down the trail, she was running so fast. It wasn’t tears that muddled her eyes, she never cried. Birds stopped tootling and hid when she passed them.

  Maybe she was mad enough to scare the critters out of the trees. She’d never been so angry in her life. Not even the kid frayed her thread so bad, and he was the most annoying person she’d ever met.

  But he did carve her swords and knife, out of monster bones, of all things, so she owed him. Owed him everything. He’d made her biggest dream real when she’d given up on all her dreams.

  If only she could learn how to use them swords.

  She slowed to a fast walk when she entered the orchard. The caretakers rarely bothered anyone on the trail, but they’d chase her down if she ran through their territory. And they were famous for ratting people out. Someone snitching to her dad would get her grounded, but hinting to Mom that they’d seen tears on her face would cause a new Imperial War.

  Those weren’t tears. She was just sweating from running so hard. Lorel wiped her cheeks with both grass-stained hands. Oh, great. Now she had grass blood all over her face, too. She must look like a birthday-baby elf about to start a juggling routine.

  She trudged past Trader’s Inn with her head down. Nobody looked at her, bless the Weaver. Nobody laughed at her green-striped face and clothes. They better not. She’d beat the crap out of them.

  Blood in the Weave. She couldn’t even get into a fight. Not in this part of town. Somebody would call the City Guard, and the guards would search her. Not that she’d ever been in trouble with them. Not serious trouble.

  But if they found her swords, they’d hang her. That gotta be the awfulest way to die in the world. The Nashidran Army hanged a rebel in Slaughterhouse Square just last year, and that poor guy kicked and wiggled at the end of the rope for ages, pissing and pooping all over himself. By the end his eyes bulged clear out of his head, and his tongue stuck out of his mouth like a fat blue fish.

  Just the thought of getting hung gave her the wicked willies.

  Worse yet, the miswoven guards would confiscate her weapons and hand them over to some Nashidran lording. No matter how much she wanted a good fight, it wasn’t worth getting hung or losing her swords.

  She could leave Outland Ter and wander through gang territory. Those guys were always up for a fight. She was even mad enough to take on Kraken and risk getting beat into horse mash.

  But she was carrying her swords. Kraken would bust up the harp case just for the fun of it. He’d find her swords and steal them faster than she could defend them.

  So she couldn’t go look for a fight. It just wasn’t fair.

  At the last alley before Market Square, Lorel turned off Outland Ter for Saddler Street and traipsed along the back wall of Edmund Edmonson’s livery stable. If she couldn’t rumble, she could at least admire a few horses.

  Horses wouldn’t care that she was covered with grass blood. They wouldn’t care that her sword teacher had deserted her. They wouldn’t care that she was nothing but a loser.

  She ducked through the loose board in the fence, pulled the harp case in after her, and strolled into the stable. The big red mare in the first stall nickered to her.

  Lorel leaned against the wooden stall door and stroked the mare’s soft muzzle. What she’d do for a horse like this. Give up her weapons? No. But almost anything else.

  “Blood in the Weave. You again.” Edmund stomped down the aisle, glaring like he’d like to take a bite out of her.

  Could she fight with him? Maybe not. He looked older than her grandfather. And shorter than her by a foot. But he weighed three times as much as she did. That evened the odds.

  But if she made him mad enough, he’d never pretend he didn’t see her. She’d never get to mess with the horses again.

  She sighed and turned toward the back entryway.

  “What?” Edmund stopped and crossed his beefy arms. “I need help and you run off?”

  “Help? What kinda help?” Shuttle on the Loom, she’d do anything. She didn’t dare admit it out loud, though. People wanted the strangest things. Just yesterday old Chorette talked her into digging up a flowerbed with a teaspoon.

  “Mucking out stalls.” He waved a hand down the long stable aisle. “I got forty-two filthy stalls, and both my stableboys got the pukes.”

  Shoveling shit didn’t sound like no fun. She stared down the aisle.

  Forty-two pairs of huge, curious eyes stared back. She’d swear they were smiling at her. And asking her for help. Who wants to stand around in knee-deep in crap?

  “I’ll pay you. And teach you some about horses.”

  “I’m in. Where’s a shovel?” Pay was nice, but learning how to care for these beautiful creatures was pure gold.

  Edmund laughed and pointed at pegs on the wall that held a thousand pitchforks. And shovels. And wheelbarrows.

  Lorel sighed inside. Of course she’d have to shove shit after she’d shoveled it. That was how her life always went.

  But she’d be with horses. That made up for all the crap.

  “Start with this one.” Edmund thumped his hand against Big Red’s stall door. “She’s got a sweet nature. You can handle her easy enough. First you–”

  Edmund’s plump littl
e wife dashed into the stable. “Darling, help me! Tommy can’t stop throwing up.”

  Without a backward glance, Edmund dashed toward his house.

  Should she wait for him to come back? Nah. How hard could mucking out a stall be?

  She hung the harp case on a peg, grabbed some tools, eased into the stall, and made sure the door latched behind her. If Big Red got away, she’d be in trouble forever. But it sure was crowded inside the stall, with her and a horse and a wheelbarrow. She barely had enough room to swing the pitchfork.

  This was gonna take forever. If she was late meeting Faye again, she’d get her ears chewed off.

  She kicked at the soggy straw.

  Poisonous steam flooded out of the bedding. Her eyes watered like she’d been working over a vat of turpentine.

  Blood in the Weave, wet straw stunk worse than a pissed-off skunk. Well, it was full of horse pee. And fresh horse poop. But she could fix that.

  She stabbed the pitchfork into the bedding and, scoop by scoop, tossed all of the straw in her half of the stall into the wheelbarrow. The mare watched her like she was the most entertaining thing to happen by in ages.

  “You need to get out more, Red, if you think I’m interesting.”

  The horse snorted and pawed at the dirty bedding.

  How was she gonna get to the rest of the straw when the mare was standing on it?

  “Move over, would you?”

  Big Red perked her ears up, but didn’t shift her feet. Her hooves. Whatever. Silly horse.

  “Come on, I got work to do.”

  The mare shook her head like she was chasing away flies, but didn’t move out of the way.

  “Noodle brain.” Lorel scratched along Big Red’s cheek bones. The horse sighed and closed her eyes. “Don’t go to sleep on me. You was supposed to move over.”

  Now what was she going to do? How did anybody shift a horse? The fraying thing was seven times as big as she was. How about if she leaned on it?

  She set the pitchfork against the wall, placed both hands on the mare’s shoulder, and pushed.

  Big Red lazily lifted one hoof and eased it down. On Lorel’s boot.

  Air squeaked into her lungs. Her eyes felt like they’d pop out of her head. Her foot felt as mashed as an overcooked turnip.

  She tried to yank her boot free.

  The saucer-sized hoof pinned her boot to the floor. And she was pretty sure the horse hadn’t put down its full weight yet.

  “Shove over, girl.” Her voice chirped shriller than a horde of sparrows squabbling over a squirmy worm. Didn’t seem to worry Big Red. The horse just flicked her ears.

  She leaned her shoulder against the mare’s and pushed. The horse shifted her weight.

  Pressure eased off her foot, and she yanked her boot free. Spots danced in front of her eyes.

  The mare snorted into her face.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Red. No harm done.” Her foot hurt so much, she’d limp for a lunar, but Big Red looked pretty sad. “Not to worry, old girl.” She scratched around the mare’s ears.

  The horse shifted her weight.

  Lorel scooted her feet back. “Right. I ain’t finished in here yet.”

  Red was still in the wrong half of the stall, but the job had to get done. Lorel grabbed the pitchfork and gently scraped wet straw from the ground around the horse’s hooves. She couldn’t get all the crap, but it would do until Edmund taught her the trick for doing it right.

  She petted Big Red one more time, unlatched the stall door, and pushed the wheelbarrow out. After rescuing her tools, she bolted the door. No escaping horses on her watch.

  But what to do with the crappy straw? No idea. For now she’d leave it in the aisle.

  She fetched another wheelbarrow and limped toward the next stall.

  A gray horse – a gelding, if she remembered rightly – pinned back his ears. She’d be cranky, too, if somebody’d chopped off her private parts. “Hey there, Gray Boy. Shift over.”

  The horse bared its teeth and snapped at her.

  Lorel smacked him on the nose.

  Gray Boy yanked his head back. He stared at her like he’d never seen a tall, messy-haired, green-striped, beaky-nosed girl before. Though he had. She’d snuck in to pet him lots of times, and some days she’d been messier than she was right now.

  His ears slowly swiveled forward.

  “Hey, Gray Boy.” She reached forward and gently stroked his soft muzzle. “How about you let me clean your bedroom?”

  ˜™

  Sixteen wheelbarrows cluttered the aisle before Edmund shuffled back into the stable. He paused in the stable doorway and stared at her.

  Why the look? Lorel glanced down at herself.

  Sweat drenched her grass-stained shirt. Tangled curls hung loose around her shoulders, dripping sweat and looking like coiled black snakes during a downpour. Stinky straw covered her soggy clothes. Horse dung plastered her boots and trousers.

  She’d never been so happy in her life. The only reason she’d stopped for a rest was she’d run out of wheelbarrows. “Where do I empty them things?”

  “I’d forgotten you were here.” Edmund shook his head and pointed to the far door. “Across the courtyard, to the left. You’ll smell it.”

  Like she could smell anything at the moment. “Right.” She sucked in a deep breath in hopes of regaining a little strength and grabbed the first wheelbarrow’s handles.

  Fire spurted from her palms up to her elbows. “Blood in the Weave!” Where did that come from? Where there splinters on the handles?

  Blisters coated her palms and fingers. Weaver’s chamberpot. They was gonna slow her down. How’d she ever hide them from Mom?

  Edmund laughed. “You’ve done enough for one day. I’ll empty those out. You better wash your hands up good.” He pointed to a large basin in the corner. “Manure in a broken blister can get nasty.”

  None of hers were broken yet. Might be hard to keep them that way, though.

  She washed her hands in the icy water. The blisters didn’t look any smaller. In fact, they looked bigger. Even Dad would notice them now. Her thread was so snipped.

  Edmund pulled a few coins out of his pocket and counted out three shillings. “Here. You’ve earned these.”

  Three whole shillings! Mom would be thrilled. Dad would grumble, but he wouldn’t yell none, not ever at her filthy clothes.

  Her brothers would be so jealous.

  “Thanks.” The warm coins stung her palm. She eased them into her trouser pocket gingerly. Horse crap couldn’t damage them, no matter how dirty her trousers got.

  “You’ve missed lunch,” Edmund said. “You want Ammie to fix you something?”

  She’d missed lunch? Oh, crap, she’d missed meeting with Faye. “No, thanks. I gotta run.” She grabbed the harp case down from the wall. Weaver drowned in tears, her hands hurt.

  “Come back after your blisters heal.” He glanced into a stall and grinned. “I’ll teach you the finer points of mucking out a stall. And grooming a horse.”

  Lorel waved as she dashed out the door. She had to find the boss. Like an hour ago. Where would she be this time of day?

  She galloped to their usual meeting place near the kid’s house. No Faye, but she’d expected that.

  She trotted to Market Square and jogged past the stalls. People moved out of her path like she’d broken out in the Kerovi Plague and had purple spots all over her face.

  Well, she did have green stripes on her face. And she stank worse than a pepper-eating Kerovi demon hunter who hadn’t bathed in seven years. And her hair was as tangled as blackberry vines after a hurricane. Even her brother Chalmer didn’t seem to recognize her. Her luck was so good today.

  Maybe it was good luck that Ahm-Layel had dropped her. Now she’d have lots of free time to work at the livery stable. Though she’d rather be learning how to use a sword. Maybe she could drag the kid back into the forest for a few practice sessions.

  Market Square cleared out enough she co
uld identify all the remaining shoppers. No Faye. That left only one place to look.

  She trudged down the hill to the edge of the shipyard. Her miswoven legs were so heavy. Must be all the horse crap she was carrying around. She needed to stop and scrap some of it off.

  But not until she found the boss.

  Smooth white marble outlined the warehouse door. Shiny gray marble covered the floor. She really hated this part of town. Granite had so much more character.

  Granite buildings never held snooty people. Two men stared at her openmouthed, their eyebrows almost hiding their shifty eyes. Three women backed away like she’d get their fancy skirts dirty from twenty feet away.

  How close did she need to be to shed a little manure on them? She strolled in their direction.

  One woman shrieked, “Fayette!” All three bolted for a tall oak door.

  Faye stepped through the doorway before the squeakers got there. Her jaw dropped. “Lorel? Please tell me that’s not you.”

  Hey, she didn’t look that bad. “Sorry I’m late, boss.”

  “Late? You call three hours behind schedule merely late?” Faye’s voice shrilled so high her words echoed through the warehouse like temple bells. “Where have you been?”

  She couldn’t say aloud she’d been at sword practice. That could get her hung. Besides, Faye knew she had lessons or practiced alone every morning.

  And it was obvious she’d been somewhere else, too. “My friend needed help at the stable.”

  “Horses are more important than I am?”

  Horses were more important than everything except her swords. It didn’t seem like a good idea to say that aloud, either.

  “You reek of sweat. I can smell you from here.” Faye crossed her arms. “You’re covered with horse manure.”

  Lorel hung her head. Guilty as charged. She should’ve taken time to clean up a little.

  “You don’t respect me at all.”

  “I do!” Filthy curls bounced around her face when she jerked her head up. “I just lost track of time.”

  “You constantly lose track of time, of hygiene, of where you’re supposed to be. I’m fed up with you. I never really needed a bodyguard. I certainly don’t need a useless twit like you.” Faye chopped her hand down. “Go home to your family and build musical instruments. Go roll in the muck, for all I care. Don’t bother me anymore. Don’t come near me. You don’t work for me. Do I make myself clear?”