The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

“Aye, missus!” The lad saluted grandly before dashing out the still open door, and then back in again. “M’name’s Walther, so’s you dun forget!” And he was off again, his new socks stuffed willy-nilly in his pouch and flapping behind him as he ran.

  “What is it?”

  “An order for a man’s dress suit. I have his measurements on string already, as he notes, so I should be able to tailor it properly. He only wants one fitting.”

  “Only one? For a dress suit?”

  Lily closed up the communication and slipped it into her apron pocket. “Most men seem to dislike fussing with clothes. I doubt he’s an exception. At least, I won’t have to provide the cloth and thread. Walther will no doubt be banging back into the shop in a day or two.” She smiled, and tweaked Nutmeg’s nose. “Now if we can just get the trade of some fine ladies, things would be going nicely here.”

  “We’re trying. I think Keldan’s building a form for you, so you can put a gown in the front windows, for everyone to see.”

  “Is he now? And whose idea is that?”

  “Grace’s,” said Nutmeg as Rivergrace murmured, “Meg’s.”

  “I see.” Lily stepped back into the workroom, calling back over her shoulder, “Good work, both of you.”

  Rivergrace began to finish the lamps in the room while Nutmeg hurried after, her face brimming with questions about to spill over into words. Adeena resettled with a sigh, pulling her ink cuffs up over her sleeves, and taking up her pen again. Grace stopped by the desk. “If he comes in again, he’s a good lad,” she told the assistant before passing into the storeroom to put the oilcan away and gather lighting sticks.

  Nutmeg came to get her, a long, trailing gown in hand. “Put this on,” she announced.

  “Me? Whyever?”

  “They’re strolling the streets now, all the fine ladies. I want you to stand in the doorway and look, well, tall and well-dressed.”

  “Nutmeg!”

  “I mean it. Till we get a form or two to put in the windows, we can do this. And you look . . . tall.”

  “They’ll be looking at me.”

  “At the gown, anyway.”

  From the corner, Adeena said mildly, “It’s a good idea. The wealthy shops actually send costumes and gowns to some of the richer families when the dance season starts. It’s as well they know we sew for Kernan and Galdarkan as well as Dweller. As much of a stewpot as Calcort is, there are many whose businesses only serve those of their own kind, and Kernans are the vast majority here.”

  Nutmeg brought something out from behind her back as Rivergrace stood in unhappy hesitation. “And wear this.” She held out an embroidered veil, its gauzy beauty sparkling in the late sunlight.

  Rivergrace took it, her throat going a bit dry. Go and appear as what you are not, and hide what you are. How could Nutmeg ask that of her, and how could she refuse? She looked down and saw not an inkling of anything in her sister’s face but eagerness. “Just . . . just a few moments, then.”

  “Call me! I’ll help with your hair.”

  Nodding, Rivergrace stepped into the changing rooms, clutching the veil in one numb hand and the gown in the other. Nutmeg bounced in after, helping her tug the new gown about her, finally jumping onto a tall footstool to finish the outfitting. Whatever misgivings Grace had, they slowly tiptoed away as the soft folds of the dress fell into place about her body, transforming her bit by bit into a stranger.

  Nutmeg balanced on the stool carefully, pulling the veil into place over hair that had been brushed and pulled into lustrous obedience. Rivergrace watched as the material dropped over her face, hiding yet revealing her features but not the color of her eyes, or the small dimple to the right curve of her mouth, or the slight pitch of her ears. Nutmeg made a small sound of awe.

  “You’d never know it was you.”

  “Until I bumped into the doorway or tripped over my own feet.” She sighed at the figure in the mirror.

  “You wouldn’t do that if you’d think about where you were going instead of other things.”

  “Or think at all.” Rivergrace twitched an edge of the veil into place over her shoulder and pulled her sleeves down to cover her brand. Laundering had brought the freckles out on her fair skin and even tanned her a bit, but that scar had only gone white and stayed, determined to mark her. “You want me to stand where?”

  “Just outside, at the window.” Nutmeg hopped off the fitting stool, instantly becoming much shorter. She squeezed Grace’s hand. “They’ll all want to look like you!”

  “Or find a use for those nasty old rotting fruits just lying around.” She turned and followed Nutmeg through the shop, eliciting a soft cry from Lily and a gasp from Adeena as she went. The gown flowed about her ankles, never quite burdening her, yet never quite as free as it might have been. She supposed it could have been worse. Much, much worse. She stepped into the lowering sunlight, saying, “And what are you going to be doing?”

  Nutmeg had hauled her stool with her, plunked it down, and took up another veil, an embroidery hoop and needle. “I am going to sit right here with you and work.”

  “Why can’t I sit and work?”

  “You have to look like a client. A very pleased client, too.” Nutmeg wrinkled her nose up at Rivergrace, setting her nimble hands to work on the veil, putting in tiny bumblebees of gold thread against the darkest of blue netting.

  She put her hip to the doorjamb and watched the walkers upon the streets, noting as Nutmeg already had, that the women of quality had begun to come out, strolling among the vendors and enjoying the cooler air and beginning of dusk.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  MAYOR STONEHAND LOOKED at the two Vaelinars facing him with unreadable expressions, their riding clothes far grander than what most citizens would wear to a celebration, and he fought the desire to wring his hands in his dismay at their displeasure for his plans for the Warrior Queen. Fine livery draped their tashya horses, and he took note of every gem set, every silken fold of cloth, knowing his wife and daughter would grill him at dinner that evening, and that the cost of the dancing gowns they had ordered would soar at the retelling, for they would be no less well dressed than a Vaelinar’s horse! His own dignity as mayor nagged at him. He had everything in readiness for Lariel, and they sat doubting him! “She can’t enter by the East Gate. Dignitaries come in by the West Gate. We’ve security there, committees waiting to greet her, folk and vendors ready to line the streets for a look at her. It’s always been done that way.” He pled his case quietly and hoped his confidence would sway them.

  “Which is precisely why we wish to come in without ceremony, by way of the East Gate, on the morrow.”

  Stonehand bowed in acknowledgment in the direction of Jeredon Eladar. A button on his vest bulged out, threatening to pop, yet another unruly event thrusting against his strived-for serenity and efficiency. “I understand, Highness, truly, but can you not talk her out of it? People are hoping to catch a glimpse of her, as her visits are so rare and her presence so well felt and beloved, Queen of the Andredia and Larandaril. All preparations have been made, and I assure you there will be no such incident as during our last meeting.”

  The half-breed Vaelinar riding with Jeredon moved imperceptibly in his saddle at that, his clothes equally distinguished, and his silence and deference the only thing which might indicate his status. Thom did not remember having seen the young man before, but as he was here now, he would be treated as Jeredon and the rest of the queen’s entourage would be treated, with dignity, respect, and extreme caution.

  “Let us hope not.” Jeredon sat back in his saddle in a ripple of gold-threaded cloth which caught the last rays of the summer sun as it dipped toward sunset. “One does not dice with the Kobrir.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  Jeredon quirked his head toward the other rider, faint surprise crossing his face to be quickly replaced by his customary neutral expression but not before Stonehand had caught it. “Do so.”

  “Let me
scout the city first. Upon my report, she can decide which gate she wishes to use.”

  “A possibility. Mayor, your permission?”

  There should be nothing untoward to fear. Stonehand inclined his head as he stealthily checked the security of his vest button. “Of course, granted.”

  “Do that, then. I’ll expect you back by midnight.”

  The other nodded, guided his horse past the mayor and the gate guards of the eastern portal, and melted into the thin crowds.

  Stonehand exhaled slowly. “An equitable solution,” he offered.

  “I hope you’ll think so in a few hours. He is formerly a citizen of your streets, and he knows, as the saying goes, where the bodies are buried. If there’s anything amiss in Calcort, he’s likely to find it.” Jeredon Eladar smiled thinly, and the mayor took a gulping deep breath, popping a button wildly, and it disappeared into the air as if from a slingshot. Trying not to laugh, Jeredon left Stonehand standing in total discomfiture and dismay, wringing his hands.

  Sevryn stabled his horse quickly, admonishing the lad as he did so, noting that there would be a tip if the horse and livery stayed in the same good condition. The stabler and his lad promised and Sevryn had no doubt they’d stick to their word because he’d put his Voice into his instructions, and it would take a bit of willpower on their part to disobey. It could happen, but since most common thieves tended to be lazy, he doubted it. He stripped down as well, changing into his road clothes, and packing away the regalia gear that Lariel and Tiiva had insisted they all wear, with good sense, for it was the clothing that would be remembered more than the personage inside them. Sevryn doubted, as he hit the streets, if Mayor Stonehand could give any kind of description of him at all.

  Lariel’s head of security, one Navdon, had concurred that the surest way to flush out trouble in Calcort would be to send Sevryn through, with a free hand to look about, knowing that Stonehand would undoubtedly not agree after first being insulted and annoyed. Navdon, one of Bistane’s bastard sons, had the same finely honed innate sense of trouble legendary to his father and his legitimate brother. He’d discussed options with Sevryn, finally coming upon this method of getting in and out, and it was to Navdon he’d report rather than Lariel who would be gathering together political intelligence on who was likely to be at the Summer Conference and who was likely to have spies there instead. Street and court intrigue were two different matters although both could be equally deadly.

  He’d footed it about the quarters, ducking into taverns both renowned and of ill-repute, drinking little, listening a lot. The folk of Calcort seemed remarkably indifferent to the coming of the Warrior Queen, or any other Vaelinar for that matter, to the Summer Conference, worried more about heat and crops and the increase of Raver attacks up and down the coast. A few even pondered the brutish Bolgers clanning together again as if they were getting their spines up for another bout of wars. Darkness had just fallen when he reached the northwest quarter, with its spattering of once-fine neighborhoods and a few country manors of note, and it looked as if he’d have a very early evening, when he saw a shadow that ought not to be moving rippling at the back of an alleyway.

  Sevryn put a hand up, catching the corner of a low eave and hoisted himself up silently. As noiselessly as he could manage, he merged into the skyline, crept closer, and looked downward across the rear end of the alley which slanted into another back way, smelling of night refuse and stale beer. It took a long moment to recognize one hunter in hiding and catching up with another, and he sucked his breath in very slowly and quietly.

  Daravan. And on whose tail, he could not quite tell...yet.

  That Daravan happened to be in Calcort at the time Lariel planned to be might be a worry, or it might not. That Sevryn had crossed his trail a second time in less than a moon’s turning was. Daravan’s patterns were as unknowable as any arcane mystery, yet either he trailed Sevryn, or some meddling God had put Sevryn on Daravan’s trail. Either way boded ill.

  He flattened himself to the roof even as the fiery wash of pain from his healing scars reacted to the touch, and with teeth biting his lip to keep him silent, he put his head down, watching and listening, and wishing for the Talent of Hearing, so that he could hear those below and muffle their sensing of himself. Alas, that was not his ability.

  He watched the two. It struck him that Daravan was not stalking the first but quietly, after observing him, moving into position for a meet. That begged the question, then . . . who was the second man? He flattened himself farther, ignoring the flare of pain as if he were lying on sun-fired bricks, and crept closer.

  Words, softly murmured, passed between the two. A hand on a wrist from Daravan. The other, shrouded from head to toe, pulling back. A noise of scorn. Then the second man moved into a moonbeam, shifting from shadow to light and into shadow again, but not before Sevryn saw him. Kobrir!

  He tensed to leap, but the shifting of the man into shadow was the first step of his leaving, disappearing into the darkness of the back alleyway. He held up. What had they exchanged? Daravan moved away too, and Sevryn scuttled along the rooftop following him, as quietly and as quickly as he could. Daravan strode below, moving deftly behind the cluster of buildings, giving no sign he heard Sevryn up above. Sevryn swung down to the streets, falling into a light crowd lengths behind his quarry, while he debated with himself on following Daravan or catching up to him and seeing what story the man would spin for him.

  Before he could decide, Daravan whistled at a crowded corner outside a run-down tavern, and within minutes, one of the streets lads appeared at his side, panting a bit with hurry. He slipped a package to the lad who stowed it in his pouch, straightened his sash, and rocked back on his heels, listening as Daravan gave him a coin piece. Then, threading the crowd as skillfully as a tailor with a needle, the lad barreled off.

  Sevryn decided to go after him. Cutting the sash and lifting the pouch would be a great deal easier than getting the truth out of Daravan. He angled down the street after the messenger.

  The street filled with the lithe bodies of Calcort women and their attendants, shopping and enjoying a bit of gossip, perusing wares, and filling the night air with their soft perfumes. He slipped through their parties as carefully as he could, trying to cause as little notice as possible, and watched the lad as he stopped at a fruit drink stand.

  The messenger took a drink and made as if to drink it, but his attention roamed about. Hell’s blast. He was searching for a tail.

  Sevryn ducked back into the crowd and went around the block, picking up the messenger ahead rather than from behind. Tailing from the front took a bit more finesse but there was no way a still-wet-behind-the-ears boy could best him at street running. It had kept him alive for decades as he matured and grew more slowly than any other street urchin, and he’d had to step lively to stay alive. He slowed when the messenger did, and kept pace with him by watching him in the reflections of the nicer shops using glass windows or mirrors at their fronts. Then he began to drop back as the crowd thinned and the shops did as well, readying to cut the sash.

  Suddenly, the boy looked up with wild eyes like an unbroken pony, mane of disheveled hair over his forehead.

  He looked straight at Sevryn. Then, with a squeal, he swerved right and darted away.

  He’d been made. With a grunt, Sevryn sprinted after the urchin. They turned the corner back onto a more crowded street with far more fashionable shops, and the messenger lad kept to his heels, drawing away with the speed of the frightened and determined. Sevryn was losing him, and whatever Daravan had slipped to him, and the Kobrir had possibly given/sold/transferred to Daravan.

  The lad barreled into a ladies’ shop, the doorway filled with two young women, Sevryn right after him, colliding helplessly into soft figures, abdundant gowns, and fleshy curves, all falling into a heap. He grabbed for the messenger boy, catching him by the shirt and sash, as the lad tried to wriggle free.

  A wisp of veil broke loose and fluttered past him as
he pinned the boy down, and he turned his head to look into a pair of most remarkable eyes, eyes of the ever-changing sea and river, Vaelinarran eyes that struck him to the core. He waited for the lightning of prophecy to strike him, but it didn’t; it had not since the last time he’d faced her, as if burned out, finally, having shown him the way to his destiny and flickering out. He let his breath out softly.

  “Aderro.”

  He’d found her again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  THE LAD BEGAN TO KICK and wail, his voice rising in an ever louder shriek, his frayed shirt tearing as he attempted to wriggle out of Sevryn’s hold. He doubted if she of the eyes could hear him, or anyone, over the caterwauling of the urchin, but from the pile of clothes and bodies in the dress shop doorway, a Dweller lass pulled free and caught the lad by the ear, pinching him till it turned beet red.

  “Shut it,” she warned, “or you’ll lose the ear, and don’t think I won’t do it. Imagine how much easier it will be to beg with an ear gone.”

  The lad shut up immediately, with a sniffle and another roll of his eyes. The Dweller lass drew her legs under her, sitting up more comfortably. “Now,” and she glanced to Sevryn. “What is going on?”

  “I dun noffing,” the lad spat out before Sevryn could say anything.

  He got to his feet, helping the young lady with the remarkable eyes to hers. When last he’d seen her, she’d stood over a Raver’s dead body and unless he was mistaken, the Dweller lass with a death grip on the urchin was the person she’d been defending. The hometown militia and crowds of farmers carrying crude weapons and rushing in had separated them, led her away, and he’d never caught up. He had spent days inquiring about her, but no one admitted to actually knowing her, and Sevryn had finally given up, recognizing a community stonewall when he saw one. Not a day went by that he did not think of her and her quiet, desperate beauty. She had grown a bit, though faint freckles still dusted her nose, and the remnants of a veil hid a cascade of lustrous, dark chestnut hair. She dusted herself off and started righting what had been a beautiful gown before the incident, checking seams and workmanship as she did.