Chapter Three #3
Baldbeak had strewn the sausages across the grass while he feasted, making them look uncomfortably like entrails.
“I am going to Quell,” I confessed, making the decision to come clean. After all, he might be able to help.
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a long way for a young woman traveling alone.”
“Well, I don’t have much of a choice. How do young women travel, usually?”
“By carriage, if they are of the nobility. With footmen, and outriders, and perhaps a hired mage in case of any magical trouble on the road.”
I sighed. “That would be nice.”
“If I could summon more than pretty lights and juggling balls, I’d be delighted to be of service,” Patrick said.
He leaned forward suddenly. I recoiled, but he was just plucking a coin from behind my ear.
He flashed it at me, smiling, then started to spin it between his thumb and forefinger.
“It seems awfully cumbersome, though. Hauling all those spellbooks around with you because you’re not sure which one you’ll need.
Leafing through to the right spell when you’re attacked by a highwayman, for example. And then saying it in time.”
“I’m sure they prepare the enchantments beforehand,” I said drily.
“And ending up bald or toothless when you’ve defeated your enemy,” he went on. “Much worse than an ugly coat.”
“Hair, teeth, nails,” I recited. “Yes, they fall out when you cast, but they grow back. Magic requires sacrifice. You have to give up a part of yourself to cast a spell.” Mother had drummed this into me over the years, and my voice was confident. “It’s the only responsible way to use magic.”
“Responsible,” he murmured. “I see. And to whom are the mages responsible?”
“To …” I frowned. “To magic itself, I suppose. They have a duty to handle it carefully, and seriously.”
“We wouldn’t want people running around taking magic lightly,” said Patrick, flicking a speck of lint from the sleeve of his patchwork coat.
“Well, no. That’s how the Plague came about in the first place.”
“I see. And you believe that.”
“It’s not a matter of believing.” I gestured vaguely. “It’s the truth. It would be like believing in … potatoes.”
“Potatoes,” he repeated gravely, although the corner of his mouth twitched a little.
“It doesn’t matter whether or not I believe in potatoes. They just are.”
“But even the humble potato can take many forms,” he said thoughtfully. “Mashed, for instance. Or boiled.”
“You are poking fun at me.”
“Plague forbid. I am simply saying that which we take for granted can still surprise us with new and different manifestation. Like a potato.”
“Could we please stop talking about potatoes? I am just saying that magic requires sacrifice, and hard work, and study.”
“Sounds a little dull.”
It does, Baldbeak agreed. I glared at him.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s dull or not. That’s what you have to do. If it was as easy as … as plucking a coin from behind someone’s ear, then everyone would be doing it.”
“And would that be so terrible?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” His eyes widened with polite interest. “How so?”
“Because then just anybody could use magic! They wouldn’t have to be … to be qualified, or wise, or educated, or …”
“I see,” he said gravely, although I still had the sense that he was making fun of me.
“They could do harm, is what I’m trying to say.”
“Harm that wise and educated people would never do.”
I felt like I had been bested somehow, although I could not see how.
He was quite the most irritating person I had ever met (although, of course, I had technically only met three other people that I could remember, besides Mother), and I just wanted him to go away.
I stood, brushing the crumbs from my skirt.
Baldbeak immediately started pecking at them.
“Thank you for the food,” I said primly.
“So formal,” he said. He stayed sprawled comfortably against the tree trunk. “May I offer a suggestion?”
“That depends on what it is.”
“There is a band of Followers not far from here, and I believe they are bound for Quell. I passed them not long ago. You would be quite safe journeying with them. They are kind to travelers. They have to be—it is part of their vow. Anyone may walk with them safely, for as long as they wish, without harassment by the guards or even the Temple itself. It is the arrangement they made, long ago, after the Plague ended.”
“What if someone is a murderer? Or a thief?” I asked skeptically.
“After three days, the sanctuary ends. Then the murderer or thief can choose to join the Followers permanently, or they are subject to the kingdom’s and Temple’s laws once more.”
“Well, what if they pretend to take the vows and then murder everyone in their sleep?”
“You have a very morbid imagination,” Patrick said. “The Followers are not defenseless. I imagine they have ways of protecting themselves from such things. Why? Are you a murderer?”
I wasn’t a murderer. I wasn’t.
Yes, you are, said Baldbeak with approval. Pride, even.
I mean, technically, I had murdered someone, but he had been trying to murder me, so surely that didn’t count? And I hadn’t exactly planned to throw him out of the window. He had overbalanced, and …
Patrick laughed, seeing my face. “I didn’t mean to send you into a panic.”
“I’m not panicking. Just …” I pressed my lips together. “Well. Thank you. I’ll talk to them.”
He swept a seated bow. It had a slightly mocking air. “Delighted I could help.”
The movement had exposed the seam again.
“Wait a moment,” I said. He paused.
“What?”
“Your seam, it’s …” I gestured.
“Oh.” He looked down. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I can mend it for you.”
For the first time, he seemed a little uncertain. “Oh no, you don’t need—”
“It will only take a second. Just take it off.”
He looked at me with eyebrows raised, but obeyed, shrugging the motley thing off his shoulders and handing it to me.
I was worried it would smell, but fortunately he seemed remarkably clean for a traveling magician, and the fabric gave off only a faint scent of soap and something astringently herbal—rosemary, perhaps.
I recognized it as the same scent permeating the borrowed linen shirt I wore.
I ran the tear through my fingers, letting my fingers learn the cloth, and then crouched in the shade and shrugged off my pack. It was a simple enough job. I riffled my fingers over my threads as if over the strings of a guitar, finding the one that sang.
“You have an awful lot of sewing supplies in that pack,” he remarked.
“It’s a normal amount,” I said absently.
“I see.”
I had found the right thread—tarnished silver, showy and shabby at once.
I snipped off a length and threaded one of my bone needles.
Just having the needle between my fingers made me feel better, more in control.
It was such a small repair, but I couldn’t help giving it a flourish.
I used the stitch I thought of as the Feather, because it mimicked the spines along a quill’s length.
When I had finished, the line of stitching looked like a swan’s plume, still glossy from the river, had been laid gently across the shoulder of the many-colored coat.
The sheen of the silver thread made it appear to move.
I cocked my head and eyed it critically.
Shiny, said Baldbeak.
“Well of course you like it,” I muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” I handed Patrick back his coat. “Thank you for your help.”
I felt better now that I had performed that small service for him. There was no debt between us now. I found that I liked that and felt more charitable towards him in general.
“One moment,” he called.
At this point I just wanted to get away, but I paused. “What is it now?”
He stood and came close. The liquid shadow of the trees made his changing eyes very green.
“My shirt,” he said. “Your clothes might be a little drier by now.”
“Oh.” I flushed, and he turned around again as I stripped off the shirt and pulled on my own dress again—still damp, but bearable. Baldbeak hopped off to wait on a branch while I changed, then returned to my shoulder. If a raven had been able to grimace, he would have grimaced.
Cold, he said.
“My apologies,” I muttered sarcastically.
“In Quell,” said Patrick, his back still turned, “you might want to look up a friend of mine, in the Tin Quarter.”
I waited, saying nothing.