Unlikely (Kingdoms Gone), page 3
“You gave this to a boy in the road last night.”
“Yes, though I must say you’ve removed the best part.” He flicked his wrist and the box closed again. “Were I less generous, I’d deduct the cost of wasted dust from my offer.”
“Wasted…you…” Satina choked back her accusation.
“Yes?” One of his brows lifted.
“Three crowns.”
His eyes locked onto hers. Sea green, like the bay to the south where the ships unload relics from the further reaches. Satina held her breath without meaning to. She kept her eyes on his, but her hands trembled. Those she stuffed into the folds of her cloak.
His head tilted. His lips stretched. They tilted up at the corner. She twisted her fingers into the wool and smiled back.
The bells jangled again. Boots clunked onto his floorboards, and the Skinner dropped his gaze to the counter. His posture shifted, folding in and curling so that he looked, almost intentionally, submissive.
A gruff voice rumbled behind her. “Keep your hands in your pockets.”
She spun to face the intruder. Her hands slipped immediately from the cloak into the open, but the man had not been chastising her. His scowl was fixed on the girl at his side, and each word settled on her narrow shoulders like a weight. She curled deeper than the Skinner had, no doubt, had been the object of the brute’s anger far more often.
“And stay by the door,” he finished and then forgot her, turning toward the counter with a blank expression. Only the space between his heavy eyebrows tightened when he spotted Satina. His eyes lingered on her a second before his full attention settled on the shop owner. “Is it ready?” He barked the question, spared no effort on a greeting.
“Yes.” The Skinner shuffled from the counter. He vanished through a door in the back wall. The customer grunted and looked at her again.
“You’re the Granter, then?”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged and leaned one elbow against the counter. It creaked in complaint.
She stepped away, wandered between the shelving and put a little space between them. The girl obeyed his orders. She pressed tightly against the shop’s door. Her long braids trailed over her shoulders and her face had the same broad cheeks as the man, her father no doubt. The girl darted looks in his direction. Her hands remained glued in her pockets as instructed. Satina caught their movement, though, as if the girl fiddled with something.
The dark eyes turned in her direction then slipped away. Satina waited. She admired a tray of metal cuffs and watched the girl from the corner of her eye. When the sullen gaze shifted in her direction again, she smiled and earned the poor thing’s grin in return.
“Maera!” The man’s voice boomed from the aisle. His wide shoulders passed Satina’s shelf. “We’re leaving.”
She waited for them to go before sidestepping back toward the counter. The Skinner didn’t look up. He had a glass bottle out and dipped a delicate brush into sparkling, blue paint. A pair of leather gloves lay beside it, sigils half-painted.
“Three crowns, is it?” He spoke without looking at her.
“I think two is fair.”
“You’re not very good at this.” His voice warmed a little, but still held a flat edge.
“Two and a half?”
“Fair enough.” He painted the rest of his squiggle and let one side of his mouth bend into a smile. “Two and a half.”
He dropped his brush back into the paint and looked at her directly for the first time since his surly customer had interrupted them. Something lingered in his expression that she couldn’t quite place. He smiled, but the flare was gone. He reached under the counter and came up with a small stack of coins.
“I’d like to trade as well,” Satina lowered her voice. She held her hand out for the money, but with her ring finger folded tightly to her palm. His eyes widened for a second. He shook his head.
“You have something else to sell?”
“No.” She held the gesture and waited.
The Skinner placed her money into her hand. His eyes darted to the doorway and back. “One moment.”
“Of course.” She waited while he moved to the door and tugged at a thin string. It flipped a panel above the door, labeling the shop closed for business. He locked the door. Satina waited for him to return. Her eyes drifted to the one symbol in the shop that wasn’t painted in magical ink. This one had no need for dust, and any eyes could see it. The black symbol marked the wall directly above the counter. It looked like charcoal, faded and unimportant, resembling a dog’s head—or a wolf’s. It meant he sold more than what the shelves held, but she doubted anyone else in town would know that.
“Now, my dear.” The Skinner’s eyes were bright again. His smile relaxed. He returned fully to his exaggerated sense of self. “What is it that you have to trade?”
“You have raw dust?”
“I might.” He played coy, winked at her and let his eyes dance. “I have some lovely ink.” He barely moved and a second bottle sat beside the first. “Very handy.”
“I’ve noticed. They know about your items’ special attributes?”
“But of course.”
“And about your evening activities?”
“I believe you said trade.”
“Do you have dust or not?”
“I do.” He reached below his counter again, but hesitated before showing his hand. “And what do you have?”
“Your boots need repainting.” She pulled her largest pouch free from her belt and set it on the counter. The Skinner raised a brow and waited. “The symbols have rubbed off a bit.”
“And here I just thought I was slipping.”
“You should stitch them.” She fumbled inside the bag, found her smallest spool, the one she’d already pulled from. When she set it on the counter, he squinted at the thread and sniffed.
“I can dust my own thread. It takes more time and wears off just as quickly as the ink.”
“It’s not dusted.”
He laughed, but sobered when she didn’t join him. Her turn to be surprising. The Skinner cleared his throat. His eyes flashed. “What is it?”
“Thistledown.”
He bent close and inspected the thread, pulling the loose end through his fingers and then checking them for dust. He sniffed it, and his eyes stretched. “Well, my dear.” He tried to hide it, but she’d impressed him. “Tell me, where did you possibly find this?”
“I spun it.”
“Where does it grow?”
“Oh I don’t think so.” She placed one hand atop the spool and pinned it to the counter. “If I told a soul where the pocket was, how long would there be thistledown growing?”
“A trade, perhaps?”
“I think not.”
“Maybe not today.” He laughed again. This time he brought the tray of packets up from behind the counter. “But you’re not the only one with secrets. I’ll think of something, I’m sure.”
“Just the dust today.” She could already smell its magic.
“I can imagine.” He changed tactics, winking at her and shifting back to playful. “You put on quite the show last night.”
She looked down, reached for the tray of packets and did her best not to rise to his taunt. “How much for the spool?”
“A full packet.”
“Three.” Thistledown didn’t grow in many pockets. Where it did, you’d be lucky to harvest enough for a fraction of what she offered him.
“Perhaps, two?”
“Perhaps three.”
He handed over the packets less than gently, but his eyes kept darting to the spool. He’d paid a fair price, and they both knew it. “And you’re in town for how long?”
“I’ve little clue myself.”
“Hmm.” He tinkered with the packets in his tray, lining them in tidy rows before stuffing the array back into hiding. “A word of advice if you do remain.”
“Yes?”
“When the blacksmith was here…” He didn’t look up, had rolled into the humble shopkeeper routine again. For her benefit? Or as an example? “You’ve a defiant streak, my dear. It will get you into trouble eventually.” He looked up suddenly and locked his gaze on hers again. The flare shimmered between them, and his smile returned. “Or perhaps it already has.”
Satina cursed her transparency. Her hands shook again, and she stuffed them under her wool cover, lifted her chin and gave him a cooler smile. She didn’t need his warnings. Who was he to give them? “You walk a very fine line yourself, Skinner.”
“My name is Marten.”
“Thank you for the advice, Marten.” She turned and faced the doorway, took a step away when he continued.
“You didn’t give me yours.”
“No, I didn’t.” She made the door, unlocked it and pulled it open.
“The boy was a thief.”
Satina froze. “I didn’t ask about him.” Did it matter? Her stomach fluttered, said yes it did.
“No.” Marten whispered, but his words reached the exit easily enough. “No, you didn’t.”
Chapter Five
Satina sat on the fountain and unfolded the cloth parcel. She looked out toward the stables, kept her back facing his shop and let the whisper of the water block out the echo of his scolding. The boy was a thief. Did she believe that? She stared at the meal she’d been given and tried to decide.
A small cake of goat cheese, coarse bread and a handful of berries—the stable woman had given her a better breakfast than she’d enjoyed in days. She might have found the berries, but the cheese and bread required barter. She nibbled them alternately while the town woke.
The children appeared first. Dirty faces peered at her from behind a cluster of barrels, a few braver groups huddled on the steps of the inn. They had more than one of Marten’s games, and fought for turns to shake the little boxes. Their mothers came next, drifting between the buildings and casting their cool looks in her direction before clustering to whisper. The men would be long at their tasks already, hard at work if the upkeep of the buildings and streets were any indication.
It was the nicest town she’d seen since the ports.
The southern women had given her the same looks, but the buildings there had been marked on nearly every surface with a Shade emblem. What the boats brought funded the gang’s activities far and wide, and the market, for all its bounty, had equally remarkable taxes. The market was where she’d met the sailor and where her trouble had started.
The sun broke through the cloud cover in the middle of her meal. The women faded into the buildings, and a few of the braver children moved their games out into the open. One boy darted directly in front of her after a stray cat that didn’t appreciate the attention one hissing bit.
Satina finished. She folded the cloth neatly—it was finely woven—and tucked it into a cloak pocket. Then she turned to the inn. Four nights she’d camped on the road. She needed more than a puddle to wash in, and the idea of a real bed made her spine tingle. Would they let her get a room? She squinted at the edifice and hoped a town that allowed someone like Marten to own a store, to take up permanent residence might let her buy a night’s lodging. She’d helped one boy already, though her breakfast may very well be as much gratitude as she’d earn for that. Still, her blood had given her a friendly appearance.
Her face showed less age than she carried. Her soft features put the weary at ease. The same blood would require two days of walking to keep the cheese and bread from taking permanent residence at her waistline. It was a fair trade-off, she supposed, for smooth skin, gentle eyes and silvery hair that grew as swiftly as a weed.
She stepped away from the fountain, but the tramping of many boots echoed from the street beside the inn. The children all froze in place. Even the cat paused. Then all at once they moved again, slipping into alleys and vanishing in the space of a breath. The steps rang closer, and Satina scrambled back around the fountain away from the sound. Her hand slid into her dust bag, and her fingers threaded through the powder.
A group marched into the square. The cat howled in the distance, a faint sound between the patter of blue boots against the street—and every last one of them wore blue boots. The Starlights staggered into the middle of town, stopped and settled into place. The few women in the gang hung from their men, dressed in tattered skirts, layered scarves, and puffy, blue blouses. The guards fanned out to stand at the head of each side street. They blocked all roads leading from the square, trapped Satina effectively beside the fountain.
Their leader waved his arm like a flag, this way and that, giving silent orders. He stood as tall as the blacksmith had, at least, though he was fair and had less bulk to him. He wore leather leggings, a white tunic and the high, blue boots that labeled his affiliation. Around his neck, a long chain hung, and on this dangled a heavy metal disk carved with the starburst symbol of the gang. He brushed one hand through sandy hair and turned abruptly to fix her in his sight.
Her fingers swirled. A little flare might distract one guard enough to let her slip away. But she stood opposite the road that led to her pocket, and what might lay in the direction she’d be forced to flee was a mystery. They’d run her down in seconds.
The leader’s eyes narrowed. He took a step toward the fountain. Satina pinched a little dust between her fingertips.
A hand landed on her elbow. The Skinner’s voice spoke at her shoulder, overly loud and making little sense. “That’s enough of a break,” he scolded. “Back to work if you don’t want docked for wasting time.”
“I—I was just…”
He tugged her backwards. She stumbled, but it only helped their act. The gang leader dismissed them from immediate concern, but Satina saw his eyes before he turned away. Marten may have saved her for the moment, but she’d garnered herself far more attention than she needed. She let him steer her back inside his shop, waited until he’d shut the door before breathing again.
“Thank you.”
“What are they doing here?” He turned on her, eyes flashing with more than his blood. “Are they looking for you?”
“No. Not them.”
“Shades?” He rolled his eyes and looked at her like he’d caught her stealing. “Either one is bad news.”
“I know.”
“Come on, then.” His hand remained on her elbow, but this time he pushed her in front, down the long aisle and around behind the counter. “If you try to leave town now, they’ll be all over you.”
“Do you think they’re staying?”
“I’m hoping not.” He let go of her long enough to open the door he’d vanished through when helping the blacksmith. His grin held little mirth behind it. It oozed disdain. “If they move on, you’ll be able to slip away at your leisure.”
“And if they stay?”
He shrugged and pushed her into the back room. More shelves ringed in a little desk. These held bits of things unmade or in need of repair. Marten shoved her through too fast for an inspection. Another door stood at the back wall. This one would lead outside.
“If they stay, you’ll just have to lay low, won’t you?”
“Where?” Her fear finally broke through. It set her hands shaking, and she found herself leaning closer to him than she should have. She could feel the warmth of his breath near her shoulder.
“What did you get yourself into?”
“It wasn’t them.”
“Does it really matter?”
“No.” She closed her eyes and let a wave of nausea pass. The whole world belonged to one or the other. Where did she have to go?
“You know where the blacksmith’s is?”
“Across from the stables?”
“Yes.” She pressed her eyes tight and shook her head. That was back the way she’d come, back through the square full of Starlights.
“Don’t panic.” He shook her less than gently, waited till she opened her eyes again. “Listen to me. You go out this door and circle around. Use the alleys. Use that lovely cloak. Use the dust if you have to. Just go quietly and get to the blacksmith’s.”
“Why there?” She remembered the hulking man, the child who was too afraid to move.
“Behind that building is a white fence.” He spoke quickly, and his eyes locked her in a trance. He put power to the words, so that she couldn’t have lost them if she’d wanted to. “Follow that fence and you’ll end up at a cottage. It’s back from the road a ways. Tell the woman there I sent you.” He swallowed, and his eyes darted back the way they’d come. “Tell her the Skinner sent you. She’s an herbalist, has an extra room she rents from time to time. If you’re lucky you can trade for it. She’s not blooded, but she won’t mind yours.”
“Why are you helping me?” She choked it out.
Marten pulled her closer. The hand on her elbow squeezed tighter and his free one lifted to her chin. He raised her face and looked directly into her eyes.
“Why?” She held her breath, and the Skinner leaned in. His eyes sparked and he said a single word.
“Thistledown.” His grin stretched, and he pushed her out the door into the alley. He closed it before she’d caught her balance. She bit her lip and glared at it.
The alley smelled of rotten wood. The rear of the buildings had not received the same careful maintenance. What efforts the people could muster had been reserved for an appearance of thriving, prosperous village. A crumbling stone foundation criss-crossed the alley, a snake from the past reminding the upstart town that something else had thrived here before it—that nothing lasts forever. Satina stepped over and around the stones. She slunk right, toward the next street, stirring her dust with one finger.
She stroked the powder over the symbols on her cloak, over Silence and Speed. They glowed, but not enough in daylight to attract mundane eyes. A Starlight guard manned the street. He stood at the edge of the square with his back facing her and his arms crossed in front. She peeked, ducked back, peeked again and then darted across to the next alley. One down. One more to cross and she’d be heading away from the square, back toward the edge of town and the blacksmith’s domain.
