by AnonYMous
“To use ourselves, you mean?” Driss snorted. “Now I can guess who you’ve been talking to. We cached most of it. They hope to go home one day.” He brooded, momentarily gloomy. “The rebellion can’t go on forever. It has to end, one way or another.”
Alma kicked a spray of pebbles. They clattered and bounced, trailing a cloud of dust, but didn’t go far. The slope had softened. They’d reach the flatlands soon. She stared up at the sky and smiled. The Barstous were alive. She hadn’t killed any children in cold blood. What a weight off her back.
“I wasn’t there, so I don’t know exactly how you did it,” he added. “But this way you won’t be alone.”
Alma nodded.
The soldiers had seized control of the village, some paired up to conduct searches while others stood guard over the terrified villagers. Some of these clutched their children, trying to soothe them. Others cowered and wept, struggling not to protest as their homes were destroyed.
To Ozias, anyone who harbored a criminal was a criminal and deserved the same punishment.
“Okay,” said Alma. “If I lure the soldiers out of the village, won’t that bring them right to us?”
“That will be my problem,” said Driss. His black eyes sparked with fury.
Alma considered her options. She’d never done anything like this. The safe route would be to produce an illusion. Illusions took a great deal of energy to maintain but carried few unintended consequences.
She could send an illusion of herself and Driss into the village. It would no doubt catch the soldiers’ attention. But if they chased the illusions and ran them through, if a marksman shot one with an arrow, the game would be up.
A surer method would be to trick the soldiers, to delude them. A crueler method, too. But she wouldn’t feel bad about harming Ozias’s men, and she could limit the damage.
So. She needed a spell that could lure . . . no. Separate those two. She needed a spell that she could hook to a lure.
“Can you bring one of the soldiers to me?” Alma asked. “Two would be better. In hearing range.”
Driss made a sour face.
“That seems like the sort of skill a rebel leader ought to have.”
He cocked an elegant black eyebrow. “How would you know?”
“Well, if you’re not up to the task . . .”
He cut her off with a wave of the hand. “Of course I am. Come on. Let’s get a little closer.”
They circled away from the main street, ghosting through deserted alleys until they could hear beams cracking as flames licked through the wood, the hard barks of soldiers and sobs of civilians.
“Wait here,” said Driss.
“All right.”
“If something goes wrong . . .” He paused. “Find Ben.”
Was he telling her to leave him to his fate and save herself? Would a good partner agree to something like that? Or was he suggesting, in the most diplomatic way possible, that if something went wrong, she’d probably need help setting it right?
Alma scowled. Probably the latter. “Sure.”
Driss blinked in confusion. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “I won’t be long,” and jogged off.
Alma considered the setting. A narrow street, just wide enough for two donkeys to walk abreast, intersected an even narrower passage, pedestrian only. The homes on all sides were several stories tall, the walls blank and windowless—inward facing, open to courtyards and atria. Judging by the alley’s pervasive scent of urine, the residents probably liked it that way.
So. What did she need?
A place to hide. “Boxes,” she murmured, picturing a pair of rickety crates stacked atop one another, spilling hay from between their slats. The two boxes shimmered into view.
And for a lure . . . she would choose the commonest, the most unremarkable resident of any human enclave.
“A mouse.” She threaded power into the words, let the creature take shape atop the crates. “With two tails,” she added. Make the thing specific, distinguish it from its fellows.
The mouse sprouted a second tail.
Alma crouched behind the illusory crates. She bit her lip and tried to be patient; Driss would be fine. He’d freed her from a very well-guarded prison, hadn’t he?
She adjusted her illusion so the slats in the crate were a little farther apart, giving her a sliver of a view. Enough that when she heard footsteps scuffing along the narrow passage, she could squint and see the soldier struggling hard in Driss’s arms.
“Alma?” he asked, quietly.
The mouse stood up on its hind legs and moved its little mouth with hers as she said, “Right here.”
The soldier wailed against Driss’s palm. Good. He was startled, off-balance. Seeing the impossible and trying to make sense of it.
“That’s right.” Her throat tightened, stiff and itchy. She needed to spell the soldier, but she couldn’t let go of the illusion. Tricky, but she’d practiced this with Gadi. “The creature you see before you right now is Alma the witch.”
The soldier’s head lashed back and forth in desperate denial. He had a broad, square face accented by prominent high cheekbones, a strong nose, surprisingly soft eyes. A silly mustache.
He was young.
And he’d come here, on behalf of his king, to terrorize innocent citizens. Alma steeled herself. She pitied him, but she would not spare him.
“Alma is a woman,” she continued, still crouched behind the crates. “So of course you see a woman.”
Mustache groaned, blinked owlishly.
“When you see me in the future, you will see a woman.” If she’d done this right, he wouldn’t even remember the mouse. Only a woman, the one shaped by his own imagination. “You will know with great certainty that you have seen Alma the witch.
“Driss, I think you need a proper introduction as well,” said Alma. “Let me hold him for a minute.”
Alma sent the mouse scampering down from the crate to stand at his feet, then let it dissolve. Driss hesitated, then let go of the captive. Before the man could escape, Driss recaptured him in a new grip—arms twisted behind his back, less body to body contact.
Mustache whined pitifully. “Don’t touch me. Don’t let the witch touch me.”
So he’d bought the fake switch. Good. Gadi always said that magic had taught him everything he needed to know about how to work a purely mundane con. Let the target do the work.
Alma murmured, “A ginger tomcat standing at Driss’s feet,” and stifled a laugh as the illusion took form. The cat was sleek and smug and handsome—like Driss himself.
Alma sent the cat prowling around in front of the soldier.
“Here he is.” Alma pressed magic into her voice again. “You’re looking at Driss the rebel leader.”
The soldier balked. “But . . .”
“Considering all the effort you tin-hats put into tracking me down, I’d expect you to know what I look like,” Driss proclaimed, throwing his voice perfectly—even Alma, who knew exactly what was happening, couldn’t believe it came from behind the soldier, rather than in front of him.
The ginger tomcat’s tail twitched.
She had to finish the spell. “From now on, you will recognize the creature standing before you as Driss the rebel leader.”
Mustache breathed hard, muscles tensing.
Alma took a deep breath and then spoke in a more normal tone. “Done.”
A quick punch floored the soldier.
Alma released the illusions and stood, brushing grit from her lovely knit skirt.
“We should move,” Driss said.
Alma followed Driss as he charted a course around the village’s periphery.
“Where’d you find that guy?” Alma asked, keeping close to Driss’s back.
“The privy.”
Alma chuckled.
“You need another one, right? To corroborate the first?”
“Yeah.”
They cut in close again. Their second attempt went better
than the first, now that they both knew their parts. They left the second soldier—gaunt, beady-eyed, and older than the first—dazed in an alley, and crept out of town.
“Now what?” Driss asked.
“Now we put those spells to good use,” Alma answered.
They scanned the area south of town for a likely hiding spot and ended up crouching in the shadow of a long, covered water trough. The goats penned into the pasture huddled against the far fence, bleating nervously at one another, ears pricked toward the raging fire and eyes wild. The trampled earth smelled of fermenting hay and manure.
Alma conjured the ginger cat again and set him to prowling around the edge of town. Her third spell of the day, and she could already feel the strain. Fucking prison. She used to be able to cast illusions all day without getting tired.
“That’s him!” boomed a triumphant male voice. “He’s here! The rebel thief!”
Alma let the illusion dissolve.
“Where?” demanded a soldier whose uniform glittered with gold braid and fringed epaulettes. An officer throwing his weight around. “Show me!”
“Right there!” Mustache pointed. “I saw him right there!”
The officer surveyed the area. He saw nothing, of course, but his hard, sun-browned face turned cold.
“So.” He swiveled to face the villagers. “You said the fugitives never came through here. You said you’d never harbor a criminal. How many of you lied to your king’s sworn servants?”
“Alma . . .” Driss murmured. “This isn’t good.”
Alma sent a two-tailed mouse scurrying along the main road, quick as anything, darting between legs and vanishing around a corner.
“There she is!” cried both spelled soldiers, pointing in different directions.
“Find the witch!” the commander shouted.
She called up the mouse again, closer to the edge of town. Beady Eyes raised his musket as he dashed toward the animal.
“I see her!” cried an unspelled soldier, trying to sprint ahead. “I’ve got her!”
“He’s awfully eager,” murmured Alma.
“Thinks he can steal the glory,” Driss said.
Alma called up the image of the cat. “Stalking cat.” She steadied her spinning head with one hand. “Sleek and slow.”
Mustache started. “What? Was that . . .”
“I saw him too,” said Beady Eyes. “They’re here.”
“Enough chatter!” shouted the officer. “Bring them to me!”
Alma took a deep breath. She’d pass out if she kept this up.
“I can lead them away,” Driss offered. “Give you a minute to rest.”
“And if one of them makes a lucky shot?” Alma shook her head. “I can manage.”
She began moving the illusions away from the village—never too close together, never in the same place, holding each image until her targets had spotted them, releasing the illusion before the other soldiers could second guess their claims. The spark finally caught as the whole unit began to jump at shadows.
“Alma,” Driss said suddenly.
“Yes?”
“You created an illusion of a cat and a mouse . . .”
“Uh huh.”
“In order to play a game of cat and mouse.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“With Ozias’s soldiers.”
Alma tried to look innocent.
Driss smiled, teeth flashing white. “This is no time for a joke.”
“Do you see me laughing?”
He shook his head slowly, eyes still sparkling.
“Form up!” the commander called. “We’re going after them.”
He designated two soldiers to remain behind, which set Driss at ease. “Ben can handle those with his hands behind his back.”
“I never doubted it.”
They let the soldiers move out and crept along behind. Driss led her through the tall grass with one hand at the small of her back, delivering instructions in a low voice—sometimes, “Duck,” and others, “Quick now!” so that she could focus entirely on projecting her cat and mouse illusions.
When she stumbled, he steadied her. When her vision grayed out, he guided her as if she were blind, while she swallowed down her bile and breathed air that felt too hot and too thick.
When she had enough energy to see straight, she cast again.
“How much farther?” she asked woozily.
“We’re not close.” Driss hitched her closer, the same practiced gesture from the night before, when they’d been running from the guards. It put them hip to hip, all her weight channeled through his legs, her head occasionally settling into the hollow of his shoulder.
She sighed into that reassuring strength. His skin was hot, sun-warmed, and ridiculously smooth. It was nice to have someone to lean on. Not a master—like Gadi had always been—but an equal. Someone who balanced his skills against her own.
“Rest for a minute.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an oblong object wrapped in dark leaves. He tipped his face to hers as he offered it, his thick lashes tickling her forehead, his nose brushing hers. “Here—”
Driss froze. The hand at her waist squeezed spasmodically and then he jerked away.
Alma scrambled to find her footing but she wasn’t quick enough. She dropped to one knee, arms outstretched to brace the fall. The shock of her palm hitting the earth went straight to her elbow. “Driss?” She rocked back, haunch to heel, and searched the empty grasslands. Nothing had changed. “What did you see?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing wrong.”
A lie.
Something was very, very wrong.
“It’s fine. I get it.” Alma stood and tried not to wobble. “I’m not—that other me. There’s no need to pretend.”
“That’s not what I was—”
Alma interrupted. “Don’t make it worse.”
Driss ducked his chin, a deep flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks.
Soon after that, they saw the first witches’ chimneys. These cone-shaped outcroppings of soft blond rock dotted the landscape, some singly and others in clumps. Some of the chimneys were squat, with fat bases and sharp caps; others were tall and narrow. They were all a bit lumpy, as though shaped by a drunken potter.
They’d acquired their name when the eastern plains had been much wilder than they were now, before the caves had been discovered—and the rich seams of glowstone hiding within. The first settlers had been magicians on the edge of madness. The ones who’d realized they’d become a danger to themselves and others.
They’d been the first to hollow the strange stone formations into dwellings, with doors bolted into the stone and windows carved haphazardly into the living rock. The formations soon came to be known as witches’ chimneys. Miners had driven out the magicians centuries ago, but the name had stuck.
The more established mines posted signs on the side of the freeway identifying themselves. Each one marked a road that stretched so far into the distance that Alma rarely saw the complexes that must lie at the end. Outfits like Better Bright, Even Glow, and Jalun and Sons employed hundreds of people, not just miners but chemists and inventors as well.
Families and speculators still managed to eke out a living. Anyone brave enough to survive out here could claim an empty chimney and work the land beneath, mining small seams for glowstone and selling access to the caves.
The first of these that Alma saw read Blue Yoren’s Sinkhole, 50 silver toll. Not cheap, but the network of caves stretched for hundreds—maybe thousands—of miles across the southern reaches of the country, almost impossible to monitor or patrol. With a king like Ozias, they’d developed from secret byways traveled by the few people who could navigate the labyrinth—guides known as “spiders”—to a second set of highways.
She’d hired a spider when she’d escaped the capital after Gadi had been executed. It was one of her last memories.
When they reached a sign reading Gran
d Avenue (with High ceiling! No crawling! in smaller letters and, below that at half again the size, 75 silver) Driss motioned for her to follow him down the dirt trail branching off from the main road.
They heard the crack of hammer on stone before they reached the tollkeeper, a brawny woman in a thick leather apron. She swung her sledgehammer in a controlled arc as they approached, focus unwavering, whacking chunks off a large rock. She collected the debris and tossed it into a wire-frame basket. Judging by the large, cast-iron mortar and pestle positioned nearby, she was getting ready to process the ore.
She swiped a forearm covered in fine gray rock powder across her sweaty forehead, leaving a smear of beige behind. “Come for the tunnels?”
“That’s right,” said Driss.
She hefted her sledgehammer, biceps flexing. “One gold, fifty silver.”
Driss counted out two gold coins from his purse. “We need torches, as well.”
The woman added the coins to her purse and took a key from the pocket of her apron. The key unlocked the gate barring the tunnel’s entrance. A locked chest just inside this gate contained the torches, lumps of white, powdery glowstone attached to sticks of cheap, porous pumice.
The woman touched the head of one torch to a lit candle. It caught, though the glow was hard to see so close to the entrance of the cave, with daylight still pouring through.
“Keep the spare for emergencies and don’t let it get wet,” said the woman, handing over the torch. “It’s about a mile to the main concourse from here. Straight shot.”
“Thanks.” Driss took the torch. “No need to mention that we came through here.”
“Oh?” The woman’s eyebrows rose. “How much is that worth to you?”
“Can’t pay any more,” said Driss.
“Then you’re out of luck.” The woman made a shooing motion. “Best hurry.”
Alma held her tongue as they walked side by side down the uneven slope. The gate closed behind them and soon the crack of the sledgehammer sounded again, echoing hollowly against the rock walls.
“I’m guessing you want her to report on us?”
“That’s the idea.” Driss grinned, teeth flashing white in the dimming light. “We’ve a reliable ally in the area who runs a similar operation. I can lead us to his entrance and guarantee that he won’t tell anyone we’ve left the cave system. So Ozias’s soldiers will think we’ve taken the southern route while we’re circling back around to Ben and the mountains.”
