A Tapestry of Spells (3 page)

“Best hurry home, Ned, lad. I heard tell that Lady Higgleton is off to see your mistress this morn.”

The lad looked nervously over his shoulder out the window, as if he fully expected to see a legion of black mages clustered there with his death on their minds. “She wants a spell, do you think?”

“What I think, lad,” the alemaster said with a wry smile, “isn’t fit for speaking most of the time.” He started to say something else, then looked up and stiffened. He reached out and pulled the boy around the counter. “Go out the back, Ned, and run home. Keep Sarah safe.”

The lad clutched his jug of ale and did as he was told without hesitation.

Urchaid turned to see what had spurred the alemaster into such abrupt action. A man stood in the doorway, clutching it as if it were all that held him up.

He lurched inside and stumbled over to a table where he cast himself down into a chair for only so long as it took him to rid himself of his cloak. He bounced back up as if he was simply too full of energy to sit. He walked over to the bar and demanded a meal first from the alemaster, who merely favored him with a sour look and turned away, then from the barkeep, who apparently had a stronger stomach. That, or the barkeep had noted the fatness of the restless one’s purse, a purse that made a copious noise when he moved.

Urchaid caught the elbow of his serving maid the next time she passed by him. “Who is that lad eating as if he hasn’t in a fortnight?” he asked casually.

Her gaze flicked to the man and back quickly, then she hesitated. Urchaid fished a gold sovereign out of his purse and laid it on the table. There was no use in being frugal when information was to be had.

“He’s the brother of the village witch up the way,” she said promptly. She leaned over and wiped the table with her cloth, deftly scooping the coin into her hand at the same time. “He’s an unpleasant sort.”

“He certainly seems to be,” Urchaid said, depositing more money onto the table. “Does he weave spells, or is it just his sister with all the common magic?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t bother with useful spells,” she said, pocketing the new offering with alacrity. “ ’Tis beneath him.”

“Is he so powerful, then?” Urchaid asked, tracing his finger idly around the rim of his glass.

“So he says, though I wouldn’t know.” She shivered. “Thought we were rid of him.”

She turned and headed without hesitation to the back of the pub. Urchaid looked at the local witch’s brother and decided that perhaps he could pass a bit of time in conversation with the lad—just for the sake of being polite, of course.

Urchaid rose and picked up his ale. He nodded at the barkeep on his way across the room, then sat himself down at the table next to the newcomer’s. He wasn’t one for seeing things, but he could certainly smell them. A stench clung to the man, much like the smell of charred meat that lingered in the house even after it had been thrown to the pigs.

The smell of something the lad before him definitely shouldn’t have been up to.

Curious.

The barkeep himself arrived with another pint of ale. Urchaid casually gestured with his pointer finger toward the man sitting at the table next to his. The barkeep set down the second glass in front of the witchwoman’s brother.

“With his compliments,” the barkeep said, nodding in Urchaid’s direction.

“Thank you,” the man said, reaching for the glass and downing the contents in one long, ungainly pull. He belched loudly and dragged his sleeve across his mouth.

Urchaid lifted an eyebrow, then nodded to the barkeep again.

It took half an hour before the man had surrendered his name, which Urchaid already knew, and his business, which was apparently large, important pieces of magic that were bound to garner the notice of equally important people. Urchaid leaned one elbow on the table and his chin on his fist as he listened in fascination to the spewings of an utter neophyte. He could bring to mind without effort a dozen mages who would have had his naive companion for breakfast accompanied by a fine, dry sherry.

“I didn’t succeed the first time,” Daniel said, his eyes full of terrible things he likely wished he hadn’t seen, “but I will this time.”

Urchaid smiled pleasantly. “Of course you will, my lad.”

Daniel looked about himself blearily, as if he couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten to be where he was, then he turned back to Urchaid. A shuttered look came over his face, something profoundly unpleasant and cruel. That was, Urchaid suspected, a fair sight closer to who he truly was than was the persona of a happy drunk. Daniel looked down his nose coldly.

“I thank you for the ale. I’ll remember it and show you mercy when the time comes.”

Urchaid sat back, thoroughly enjoying the display he was witnessing. “Off to do foul deeds, are you?”

Daniel leaned close and looked at him with dark, fathomless eyes. “I am. And I believe, friend, that you would be wise to be very far away when they’re wrought.”

Urchaid suppressed the urge to laugh out loud. What a ridiculous boy, to be so completely unaware of whom he was dealing with. He managed a solemn nod, then watched Daniel stride off toward the doorway with the sudden soberness of a man truly off to do something truly vile. Urchaid finished his drink in a leisurely fashion and considered what he’d heard. It was tempting to dismiss the lad’s ramblings as those of one who’d had too much hard ale to accompany his eggs, but there had been something in the lad’s eye.

Something as intriguing as that faint hint of magic clinging to him.

He pushed his cup away and decided it would be rather interesting to follow Daniel of Doìre for a bit, just to see where he led. With any luck at all, the direction would be
out of Shettlestoune.
He looked around the pub again, shaking his head. To be trapped in such a place without any hope of escape. Very unpleasant. Even the barkeep looked miserable. The alemaster looked less miserable than calculating, standing there suddenly as he was with his arms folded over his chest and an unwelcoming look on his face.

Urchaid supposed that was his cue to exit stage left before he drew more attention to himself than he cared to have. He rose, nodded to the alemaster and barkeep both, then left the pub without haste. He stopped in the shadows of the building and looked up into the bright morning sky. The world trembled, as if it held its breath for a mighty change. There were things afoot in Neroche, of course, but this ... this was different. More wrenching. More dangerous.

Quite a bit more interesting.

He looked to his right, saw the path in the distance that led through yet more profoundly unattractive clutches of scrub oak, then sighed. He could hear the faint sound of Daniel’s cursing from that path. Perhaps the lad had decided that a quick visit home would be useful before he trotted off to see to his villainous business.

Urchaid began to whistle softly as he walked toward the mouth of that path. He would follow and see if Daniel of Doìre’s sister was as full of inadequate magic as her brother was. For all he knew, he might find the girl more powerful than Shettlestoune merited.

Though he sincerely doubted it.

S
arah of Doire watched a cauldron that bubbled ominously over a substantial fire and supposed that, given who she was, she should have been stirring some sort of potent witch’s brew. Unfortunately, all that found home in her pot that morning were unremarkable, unmagical skeins of wool.

She blew her hair out of her eyes, then walked away. She was too restless to give her dyeing the attention it needed, too restless to sit, too restless to even stand still and accept events as they came her way. She had known for years that she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life in Doire, for more reasons than just the landscape and the inhabitants. She had a secret that would spell her end if it was known, a secret she had kept uneasily her whole life. In truth, ’twas a miracle her brother hadn’t blurted it out in some drunken stupor. Fortunately for her, he’d been gone for the past two months, so she’d slept a bit easier at night. She didn’t have much hope the reprieve would last.

She walked along the edge of the glade, touching the trees as she passed them. She didn’t allow herself to look past them to the spots where she’d been burying gold for the past fifteen years, from the moment she’d realized that it would take more than a few coins to get past Shettlestoune’s gnarled reach. She’d covered the hiding places with clutches of nettles and carefully transplanted clusters of poisonous mushrooms. That blended in nicely with the rest of the untamed forest surrounding her mother’s house and assured her that her coins would be there when she needed them.

She almost had enough. She had supposed that five hundred gold sovereigns would, if she were very careful, finance her journey and buy her either a modest house or a very small shop when she reached the right place to land. She lacked only a handful more gold to reach that tally, though business hadn’t been precisely brisk of late. The odd silver coin, the occasional chicken plucked and ready for her stewpot, and the customary loaf of bread and jug of ale were lovely gifts, true, but they wouldn’t see her over the mountains or into a new life.

Nay, an infusion of coin of the realm it would have to be.

She walked back to her pot, picked up a stick, and lifted a skein up to study. The wool was an unremarkable, unmagical shade of greyish green that would, by evening, deepen into a much darker hue. She would dry it, then weave it into a cloak that would hide her and a blanket that would hide her horse as they both disappeared into the surrounding woods.

Actually escaping Shettlestoune was the last part of the plan she had woven in secret for months, patiently, carefully, waiting for the right threads to find themselves under her hands. She had a means of travel in the person of Castân, her faithful chestnut steed who snorted when he saw her and would have walked through fire for the love of her. She would earn her future bread by the spinning wheel she had sawed into as many pieces as she’d dared, then hidden in two saddlebags buried under piles of hay along with the other, smaller tools of her handworking trade. Once she had her cloth woven, she would take Castân and be off—

“Mistress Sarah!”

Sarah spun around, the knife she kept in the back of her belt ready in her hand. Her mother’s farm boy stood ten paces away, suddenly frozen in place. A jug fell from his hands and shattered on the stone at his feet.

“‘Tis only me,” he squeaked. “And Lady Higgleton. She’s coming with her daughter, and oy, she’s in a tearing hurry. I just saw ’em a hundred paces down the path.”

Sarah closed her eyes briefly. Lady Dorcas Higgleton’s purse was every bit as ample as she was. She wasn’t a generous woman with her servants, but she was willing to pay a fair price for magic to solve her problems. Obviously, she was ready to open her purse today.

Sarah abandoned her wool to its fate without hesitation and walked briskly toward the house, stepping over the shards Ned had created, then continuing on, wishing she looked less like a sweaty stable hand in need of a wash and more like a self-possessed, slightly mysterious brewer of potions. She snuck around the corner and into her house, trusting she hadn’t been seen. She looked quickly around her, relieved there was no last-minute hiding of household clutter to be done.

Her loom was pushed into a corner, sporting a half-woven blanket on its substantial frame. Baskets of wool in rainbow hues were tucked tidily underneath it. Hearth, shelves with bowls and platters, her own sleeping nook with its curtain drawn discreetly across it: everything was in order. She glanced at the only door inside the house, but turned away just as quickly. That was her brother’s bedchamber, a place she never approached for reasons she didn’t care to examine too closely at present.

She snatched up a skirt from off the back of a chair and yanked it down over her tunic and leggings. She scarcely had time to tie a clean apron around her waist and pin her braid around her head in some organized fashion before she heard the imperious tones of the alderman’s wife wafting into her home with all the delicacy of a woodsman’s axe.

“Witch! Witch, where are you?”

Sarah hastened to the door and stood there, attempting a pose that hinted at no haste whatsoever. She looked down at her hands, green from her morning’s work, and quickly put them behind her. She fixed a slightly aloof expression on her face and watched a potentially quite hefty infusion of gold approach.

Lady Higgleton and her daughter were, as Ned had said, marching furiously up the path toward her. Or, rather, Lady Higgleton was. Prunella was being pulled along behind her mother like a recalcitrant dinghy. Sarah half wondered how Dorcas Higgleton managed the path and her daughter at the same time. The way up from town was not particularly steep, but it was full of twists, turns, and uneven places that discouraged all but the most determined. Those who came were ones who either didn’t want to pay the wizard over the mountain in Bruaih his substantial fee, or didn’t care about the handblown vials or embroidered silken sachets that could be purchased from the sorceress over the river to the south. They wanted spells, at a decent price, provided with a minimum of fuss and a great deal of secrecy. Her mother’s stock in trade, as it happened.