Interlude
Midwinter four years ago, Canal Bridge
I take the narrow alley hung with icicles, down slick steps to the canal path. Under the bridge, fires gutter in braziers; the sick huddle near vents of warm air left by the last earthshake. Blue fingers. Thin coats. The cold will finish what illness started if I don’t hurry.
I speed up—and my boots shoot out from under me.
The canal rushes up. I flail, eyes squeezing shut—
Then hands catch my arms. Strong. Steady.
I look back. That faintly shimmering face. The whiff of wintergreen. The mask.
“Maskios,” I breathe. My private name for him. He gave me “Calix Solin” last time, but I like mine better.
“That’s not my name,” he says evenly.
“Did you follow me?”
“You looked like you were up to something you shouldn’t be.”
I eye him. “So are you here to stop me? Or help?”
He glances past me, to the bridge and the sick beyond it. Hesitates. Then—
“Why not. I’m a criminal, after all.”
I rise onto my toes and tug his hood up over his head. A small gesture. Unnecessary for a man already masked, but I’m . . . compelled to do it.
“Follow my instructions,” I murmur.
I take his hand and lead him beneath the bridge. I pass him three bottles of herbal teas and my apothecary pouch. “Do you know your herbs?”
“Better than most.”
There’s already a line of patients. They greet me with kind smiles and offerings—prettily knotted thread, wildflowers. Whatever they have. I slip one posy of flowers behind the clasp on Calix’s cloak and get to work.
“Why not use a medius spell rather than all these simplex ones?” he asks, flicking a drooping petal away from his mouth.
“The guillotine,” I say lightly.
“I’ve seen—” He stops. “You’ve never used medius spells here?”
“Only when I’m sure I’ll get away with it. The local luminist loves to—”
Bell-chime.
As if summoned, a luminist in white robes appears, ringing his spiritual bell.
“Live virtuous, modest lives. Follow the rules of the linea, and be reborn as linea; blessed with magic. Pay homage at the luminarium.”
I yelp, grab Calix, and duck behind a brazier.
He murmurs against my neck, “Why are we—”
I slam a palm over his mouth and shake my head.
Only when the luminist has passed do I exhale and drop my hand, now damp with Calix’s breath. He stares at me in the dark, and that oddly ticklish shiver returns.
I hold his gaze. “He and I don’t see eye to eye. If he sees me, he’ll tell Father.”
We emerge from behind the brazier to tend to a malnourished child covered in rashy rings.
“Is it plague?” her mother asks, clutching her close. “Is she going to—”
I take the girl’s pulse. “It does look fearsome, but I’ve seen this before.” I speak gently to the child. “Did you play in the woods? Did you touch a plant that looks like strawberry vine?”
She nods. I smile. Calix watches closely.
“She’s touched thistleweed,” I murmur. “Harmless. It’ll fade on its own eventually. But . . .”
I pour a spell into her skin. Within minutes, the rash fades. The girl giggles. Calix watches the spell closely, head tilted, weighing methods.
We go on. The line shrinks. My hands shake. Heat crawls up my spine; the last of my idleflower drains into a spell, and still there’s one more chest to ease.
At last: done. Past midnight, wind knifes through the arch. I climb the icy slope and the world tilts.
Arms catch me. His.
“Windy,” I mutter through my teeth.
“Sit.” Calix steers me to the bridge wall. We perch, legs dangling over black water. Across the canal, the luminarium glows—half temple, half court. I grimace at the sight, then bow anyway.
“You bow,” he says.
“I distrust the promise that obedience buys magic in the next life,” I say. “And I’ve repeatedly, shamelessly broken linea rules. Bowing seems redundant.” A shrug. “But just in case.”
He looks away, a careful breath leaving him. “I tell myself not to do certain things,” he says quietly. “I keep doing them. Telling myself no seems pointless. I keep trying. Failing.”
“Trying and failing to reform your criminal ways?” I nudge.
“As successfully as you are.”
I huff a laugh that tastes tired. “I wish I could practice properly. Licensed. There’s so much I don’t know. Spells I’ve only heard about, and more I haven’t.”
Another bell-chime. Closer.
I slide off the wall, knees complaining. “That’s my cue.” The arch is a slope of glass. I angle for the shadows of the side streets.
“Cael,” he says.
I glance back.
“Be careful.”