Company of Strangers, #1

by Melissa McShane

  Company of Strangers

  Company of Strangers, Book 1

  Melissa McShane

  Copyright © 2018 by Melissa McShane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Allyson Longueira

  Map by Oscar Paludi

  Dedicated to the cast of Critical Role,

  for helping to keep the dream alive

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part II

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Sienne’s Spellbook

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Stone of Inheritance (Company of Strangers, Book Two)

  Part I

  1

  The playful west wind, threading its way through the narrow streets, brought the briny smell of the harbor and the fainter, sweeter scent of clematis growing up the wall of the Lucky Coin tavern to Sienne’s nose. More scents, those of barley soup and roast chicken, tangled with the wind, free advertising for the tavern’s wares. The umber stone of the pavement, slick from an early shower, gleamed dully in what little morning light found its way through the high walls that made a brown brick canyon of the little street. The Lucky Coin’s heavy wooden door was banded with iron as if the owner expected to have to defend against bandits here in the capital. It hung slightly ajar, inviting Sienne to step inside.

  It was as good a place as any for a last meal.

  Sienne pushed the door open and squinted into the dimness. The tavern lay tucked between an apothecary on one side and a chandler on the other, so no windows lit its interior. Instead, dozens of frosted glass bulbs, each containing the steady gleam of a magical light no bigger than a button, lined its walls. The cold white glow made the few people within look sickly, consumptive, though they were no more gaunt than anyone else.

  A man sat at the long oak bar, cradling a mug in his large hands and staring at its contents as if willing them to reveal the future. Four or five people sat at a table in the corner, playing crack-stones, with another two people standing nearby watching the play. A woman about Sienne’s age leaned against the wall in a chair near the hearth, empty this fourth day of true summer. Fine dark blonde hair was braided in a crown around her head, wisps of it escaping its bonds and standing up in all directions. Her eyes were closed, and the remnants of a meal lay on a nearby table. By noon, the place would be packed with laborers seeking a quick, cheap meal, but at nine o’clock in the morning only the desperate had found their way to the Lucky Coin. Sienne wondered what their stories were. It was unlikely any of them were as desperate as she.

  She took a seat at the bar, several stools away from the quiet drunk, and shifted the spellbook that lay nestled against her stomach. A short, stout woman, probably less than five feet tall, came out of the back room, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’ll it be, miss?”

  Sienne mentally checked the contents of her purse. It didn’t take long. “Soup,” she said, opting for the cheapest thing she could think of. “And half a pint of the house brew.” She probably couldn’t afford it, but she had to eat, didn’t she? And then—she stopped herself thinking about “and then.”

  The woman nodded curtly, took Sienne’s coin, and bustled away. Sienne shifted the spellbook again. It would have been more comfortable to carry it in her pack, but this was the big city, and who knew what cutpurses were capable of? Losing the book would be the worst fate she could think of, worse than what awaited her if she couldn’t find a job, and soon.

  She glanced at the man nursing his pint, then swiftly looked away before he made eye contact. He had the look of someone who wanted to share his sad story with a compassionate listener, and the way she was feeling, she didn’t want to be that person. She wanted to get drunk and feel sorry for herself and maybe cry a little, not in that exact order, and being a listening ear didn’t fit with that plan.

  The mirror over the bar was cracked and blistered at the edges, sign that it was a real mirror and not a magical effect. Well, a place like this probably couldn’t afford that kind of wizardry, the light globes notwithstanding. Sienne pushed her chestnut brown hair back from her face and examined herself. Was it the mirror, or did she have spots on her cheek? She rubbed at the offending mark, but it didn’t go away. The mirror, then. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose against a headache. If she knew the right spell, she could offer to replace the spotty mirror with magic, pay for her meal that way. But she didn’t know the spell, and that was the problem, right there. Not knowing enough.

  The woman came back and set down a pottery bowl with a shiny red finish. Soup slopped up the sides as if she’d slammed the bowl on the bar. Sienne accepted a spoon from the woman and smiled half-heartedly. The shiny, almost oily finish told Sienne the bowl had been treated with the same magical invulnerability that protected her spellbook and the glass lights, though invulnerability frosted glass rather than giving it an oily sheen. Maybe she was wrong about the relative prosperity of the tavern.

  The woman turned her back on Sienne and lugged a short stepstool out from under the counter. Sienne took a careful bite of barley soup. It was almost too hot to eat, which suited her just fine, because it meant she could spin this meal out indefinitely. She watched the woman climb to the top step and reach for a wooden box on the highest shelf. Her fingertips just brushed its lowest edge as she strained for it. The stool rocked, and the woman froze, her other hand gripping the shelf.

  “Here, let me help you,” Sienne said, unable to bear the suspense. She nudged the box tentatively with a brush of magic she always thought of as invisible fingers. Not too heavy. The box slid forward, then floated down to rest on the bar. The man with the pint ignored it. This was the big city. People could afford to be blasé about magic.

  The woman stepped off the stool and wiped her brow as if she’d run a mile. “My thanks,” she said. “You a scrapper?”

  “Sort of,” Sienne said. Could you call yourself something if you’d utterly failed at becoming one? It was the only identity left to her, which was a depressing thought all by itself.

  “Never do know what to say to a scrapper,” the woman said. “Might well get yourself killed in the Empty Lands if I wish you luck, you know?”

  “I’d settle for a nice boring job somewhere close to home.” Sienne took a long pull on her pint. It was good, if not nearly strong enough. But getting drunk was a bad idea for a wizard, especially an unemployed one, so she reminded herself to be happy with what she had.

  She drained the bowl, careful not to spill on herself. Invulnerability sounded like a good idea, but it made pottery surfaces virtually frictionless, and unless you wa
nted your food to come off your plate a good deal faster than was healthy, you treated unbreakable dishes with care. Then she turned around and watched the crack-stones game for lack of anything better to do while she nursed her pint. The players, all men, were nearly silent, telling Sienne it was a serious game for high stakes. She was terrible at crack-stones, or so Rance—

  She closed her eyes and cursed herself for her momentary weakness. She was never going to think of him again, not even so much as think his name. Some people had told her she was bad at crack-stones, which she knew; she was too straightforward a thinker, always looking at her own throws and not at the other players’. She preferred to watch, trying to guess the tosses before they fell.

  From where she sat, she couldn’t see the lead’s stones, because he had his back to her, but she could see three of the other five. One played daringly, tossing his stones almost too high to be legal, but the other two kept their throws close to the scarred surface of the table, its finish so dark as to be nearly black. It was a fine contrast to the pale ovals of the crack-stones.

  Sienne watched as the bold player once again tossed his stones high. They seemed almost to hover at the apex of the throw, quivering with excitement. Her eyes narrowed, and she took another look. That wasn’t normal behavior. Something else was going on.

  She set her mug down and slid off her stool, crossing the room to stand beside one of the observers. The short man looked up and flashed a smile at her, which she returned absently. The other watcher, a slender woman with prominent front teeth like a rabbit, ignored Sienne. Her eyes were fixed on the stones in play. It was mid-game, half the stones scattered in front of the players, the others still in hand. A pile of coins and a few forfeits lay in the center of the table.

  Sienne examined the bold player. He had the fairer coloring of a Wrathen, his hair light brown and braided halfway down his back, and his eyes were half-lidded as if he were, despite appearances, falling asleep. “My luck can’t last,” he laughed, and tossed the three stones he held. They spun lazily in the air, first cracked faces up, then smooth. Then they landed, bouncing across the table until coming to rest, one of them striking the coins in the center. All three landed smooth face up.

  The other men groaned. “Your luck will cost me everything,” one of them said, flicking a coin into the pot and rubbing his other hand over his beard. “Which avatar did you sell your soul to? Or did all of them get a cut?”

  “He’s cheating,” Sienne said.

  Everyone turned to look at her. Out of the corner of her eye, Sienne saw the woman leaning against the wall sit up. “What was that?” the bold player said. “You calling me a cheat?”

  “Yes, actually.” Sienne pointed at the rabbit-faced woman. “Or, rather, she’s cheating for you. Is she your sister? Lover? Or just a partner in crime?”

  The man shoved his chair back and stood. “I won’t be slandered by some chit of a girl got nothing better to do than stick her nose in where it’s not wanted.”

  “You have been awful lucky,” the bearded man said. “Miss, what proof have you?”

  “She’s using magic to turn the stones,” Sienne said. “It’s a simple trick. I can feel her touching them with magic every time.”

  “You have no proof,” the woman snarled.

  “You’ve all been watching him play.” Sienne included the other players in her gaze. “The stones land neatly on the table no matter how high he throws them. If magic didn’t keep them in place, they’d bounce all over the room, thrown that high and hard. Have him make another throw like those and you’ll see.”

  The other players looked at each other. “I…think I want to see this,” the bearded man said. “Make the toss.”

  The bold player scowled. “I got nothing to prove.”

  The scrape of steel against leather sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room. The bearded man rested his hand, holding a wickedly sharp dagger, on the table next to the heap of coins. “I say you do.”

  The bold player cursed and shoved back from the table. “I’m no cheat,” he said, “and I won’t play with people as think I am. Come on, Latrice, we’re leaving.” He made as if to scoop up the coins from the table, then froze as the bearded man reversed his grip and drove the point of the dagger deep into the table beside the man’s hand. He snatched his hand back, snarled wordlessly at Sienne, and stalked away, the rabbity woman scurrying to keep up. Sienne let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  “Our thanks,” the bearded man said. “You didn’t have to say anything. It’s not your problem.”

  Staying silent hadn’t occurred to her. It never did. “I don’t like cheats,” she said, and went back to her seat.

  “You didn’t make friends today,” the barkeep said in a low voice. She picked up Sienne’s empty bowl, but stood there holding it. “Seen those two before. They’re not the nicest of characters.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Sienne said. She realized she was fingering the edge of her spellbook through her shirt and made herself stop.

  The woman shrugged. “Wizards usually can. Don’t suppose you can teach me that lifting magic?”

  She smiled to show it was a joke, and Sienne smiled back. Nobody who wasn’t born a wizard could do anything the least bit magical. “No, but I could give you an extra twenty inches of height,” she joked back.

  “That I could do with. I suppose it’d slim me down some, too?”

  “Not this spell. But it only lasts six hours, and I likely won’t be here this afternoon to repeat it.”

  “Too bad.” The barkeep winked and went away into the back room with the bowl and spoon. Sienne drained her mug, too late remembering she’d intended to make it last. She set it down on the counter and sighed. One last time at the market board, and then—

  “Pretty girl,” the drunk beside her said. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing here, all alone?”

  Sienne rolled her eyes. “Leaving,” she said. She stood and strode to the door, adjusting her pack and shifting the spellbook.

  Outside, the bright sun of true summer blazed in a cloudless sky, only visible as a sliver from where she stood at the bottom of the brick canyon. Women carrying bundles over their shoulders walked past in both directions, some of them hauling huge jugs of water drawn from the communal well. Sienne headed that way. The market lay past the well, and at the center of the market lay the board where people posted scrapper jobs they wanted filled. They were the lowest of the low, grunt work or jobs too dangerous for any sane person to take on, and Sienne had disdained them when she first came to town. As the weeks passed, she discovered she wasn’t as picky as she’d believed. This time, she’d take whatever was offered, anything but—

  A hand grabbed her by the back of her collar, yanking her sideways into a tiny alley that stank of turds and piss. “Think you can ruin our game?” a deep, harsh voice said.

  The bold player shoved her up against the wall, making her pack dig into her spine. Sienne opened her mouth to scream and felt the prick of a knife blade between her ribs. “Scream, and I knife you,” the rabbit-faced woman said. “Where’s your spellbook?”

  Sienne felt the book shift under her shirt and said nothing. The man transferred his grip from the back of her collar to the front of her shirt and tugged it aside, revealing the pouch she wore there. “Back country girl, thinks her money’s safe between her breasts,” he said, yanking on the cord around her neck and making it cut into her skin before it broke. “Call this a painful lesson, country girl.” He opened the pouch and shook its contents. “Hah. Nothing but a couple of centi.”

  “I want her book,” the woman whined. “That ought to make up the difference.”

  The man spun Sienne around and pulled the pack off her back. She lashed out with her foot and caught him hard on the knee, making him curse and stumble. She wrenched free of his grip and tried to run, but found the woman and her knife in the way. “Mistake,” the woman said, thrusting at Sienne’s midsection.
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  The knife struck the concealed spellbook with a sharp crack. The woman’s eyes widened, and she smiled, her prominent front teeth gleaming. The man wrenched Sienne’s hands behind her back, painfully tight. The woman lowered the knife and approached, hand outstretched to take the hem of Sienne’s shirt.

  “Now, is this the way Fiorettans welcome strangers?” said a new voice from the alley’s mouth. It was a woman, backlit by the scant light hitting the street, and she held a slim blade as if she knew how to use it. The rabbit-faced woman half-turned to look at the newcomer, the hands gripping Sienne’s shoulders loosened, and Sienne took advantage of their distraction to twist away from her captor and snatch up her pack from where it had fallen.

  “This is none of your business, woman,” the man growled.

  “Oh, I think I want it to be my business.” The woman advanced, flicking the tip of her blade toward the rabbit-faced woman. “Back away. Slowly.”

  “You can’t take both of us at once.”

  “You want to bet on that? I think this woman just proved how bad your luck is. Besides—” The woman gestured with the sword. “I can certainly take one of you, and I don’t much care which one it is. So you might want to think about the odds of it being you.”

  The man swore and took a step backward, raising his hands. Sienne darted forward, past the rabbit-faced woman, past her rescuer, and turned, clutching the spellbook to her stomach. The woman raised her sword in mocking salute and said, “Good day to you both.” She lowered her sword and walked away, out of the alley and down the street.