As theurgy is a growing and everchanging force, individuals showing first signs of it must be blooded once every six turns of the month. The only exception is for early-bloomers, who must be blooded once in every four.

—Corthair's Compendium of Theurgy

2

↝ THE FUGITIVE AND HER SHADOW ↜

They rolled under the archs amongst a pit of travellers, the sky a dappled grey and the wind tipped with frost. Still Isla wiped sweat off her brows. Her brush with the gate guard had been uneventful, despite the thudding in her chest; so loud she thought he surely must have been able to hear. But he had taken one look at her papers, peeked into the wagon, and – satisfied that it contained nothing but barrels of coffee beans – waved her through.

Only once they were clear of the gates and well into the city did Noi crawl out and join her by the perch. 'Good idea, Isla, to leave a barrel open.'

'How is Haana?'

'More jittery than a cornered cat. Better she stay in there 'til we are home.'

The smell of the city hit her then: fish and meat and the undercurrents of dung. Carts filled the streets, and every corner a new beggar. There was a charm to it, if one were inclined to look. The bell tower far in the distance; copper turrets looming over a tier of rooftops. Over a hundred years the city had grown, orbiting the tower from which it acquired its name, and so towards it all its paved streets led.

The Seven Peals lay upon one of the quieter streets, far from the bell tower's shadow, and there Isla pulled the donkeys to a halt. Noi kept them at the inn stables in exchange for weekly supply of roasted beans, and while she tended to the two aging beasts, Isla hoisted Haana off the wagon and half-carried, half-dragged her along the footpath.

'I know it's hard on your feet, but we must hurry.' The girl was so frail, Isla wondered if she had strength even to make water by herself. 'You should not be out in the open for long. Not before we have your papers.'

It was fortunate most of the patrons making their way into The Seven Peals were occupied with either drink or fatigue. Nobody hassled them, though Haana caught a few stragglers' eyes. Malnourished or no, she was still a pretty little thing.

They lived high above an antique shop run by a Hirdii couple. It was a faded building, adjoined to one side by the narrowest flight of stairs some halfwit decided was good enough. Both girls were out of breath by the time they entered. Haana did not even wait to be welcomed before she collapsed onto the rickety old chair by the hearth. Another act of brazenness Isla did not recall of the Surikh. Not that she minded; but Noi certainly would, after a time.

She shrugged off her coat and satchel and hung them by the window. There was a chill to the room, but it was good to be home. Quiet, peaceful. Safe. Isla peered at the streets below just to be sure. Only the lamplighter, making his rounds.

'Where is your maid?'

Isla lifted an eyebrow. Hopefully inadequacy in Eling, rather than manners. 'Noi does not like to be called that.'

'But she is.'

'She's not so much my maid as she is my warden.'

'We should be proud of whatever we are.'

'Oh, Noi's a proud one. Don't you worry about that.' Isla wheedled the salamander out of her satchel and lowered it into the fireplace, where it dove into ash and cinder before lighting a pocket of fire. 'She's done a terrible thing, back in those woods. But she'll never speak of it or the man. Best you don't bring it up, either.'

'I see no reason to.'

'Are you not afraid, though?' Isla rose and faced the girl fully. 'I caught a glimpse of him. Enough to see he was an Eastern Islander. He could be Surikh.'

Haana leaned forwards in her chair and held her hands towards the fire, offering no thoughts of her own.

'Do you think he followed you?'

'Who?' Haana cocked her head.

Something about her reminded Isla of a lost cat. Or a lost sister. 'The man in the woods.'

'How am I to know? I did not see him.'

Have it your way, then. The girl did not trust her. Isla was too tired to care. 'Well. Whoever he is – he's gone now. You're safe.'

'Until someone discovers we murdered a man.'

'That's not going to happen unless one of us tells.' Isla tried – and failed – to not glare down at her. 'Noi didn't have a choice. He might have overheard things. Known you were a paddler.' And certainly known my theurgy. 'They'll give us years in the dungeons, send us back to Surikhand for it. Do you want that?'

'Do you?'

Is she toying with me? Isla drew a deep breath and reminded herself what Haana was: a girl of fifteen, alone in a world of strangers, far from home or anyone she ever loved or trusted.

She offered a hand, helped Haana to her feet. 'It's a small house. I'm afraid we must share my bedchamber.'

A pallet had been laid against the wall opposite Isla's own bed, leaving hardly any empty floor for them to pass. Her bedchamber was a sparse little nook, with a slanted ceiling and a hole beside the bed where a brick had chipped loose. She used the recess to keep her few cherished possessions. A handkerchief, a quill, a picture Tam Mai had painted. A jute ribbon their mother had made for Isla's ninth namesday. The year my theurgy bloomed. Back then, it had been a cause for celebration.

Haana unpacked the contents of her sack while Isla absently played with her father's quill. He had told her many tales; how it was made of the finest feather off the largest capradon in all the Eastern Isles.

Tales. That's all they were. Her father had never seen a capradon his entire life. But she missed his tales. All she had left of them were on the ledge above her bed, where she kept his books.

'You know the letters?' Haana, too, had noticed the books. She stood with a knee on Isla's bed, head at an angle to better read the titles on their spines.

'I can read and write, if that's what you mean.'

'That cannot be said of many fishermen's daughters.'

'What about a teacher's daughter?'

'Yes ... I forget. You did say that of your mother.'

'She always encouraged us to read. She even taught Noi.'

Haana's nose wrinkled when she smiled. 'Yet your father ... he is much learned for a fisherman.'

'Well-learned, and he was.' He had owned a large collection; only few made their way to Elingar. Tomes on ancient gods now long departed, chronicles of Surikhand and the rest of the Eastern Isles, volumes on trade politics ...

'These are expensive volumes.'

Most of them had been gifts. Isla was more interested in how Haana knew the value of her books. 'My father had many influential and wealthy friends. Yours, for instance.'

'You have known Sir Edric long, yes?'

Isla was eight when she first met the man. Her theurgy had not yet manifested. Her days were spent playing by the edges of Dowser's Cane, Tam Mai hiding by the reeds as they waited for their father to pull up with his catch.

He came one day with the Eling man on his boat, and for many weeks Sir Edric stayed in their modest little home. One day he built a platform in the boughs of a weeping fig by the river. He had spoken to them in broken Srikh, but Isla knew what he had meant. 'Now you can see your father coming from afar.'

'He's a kind man,' said Isla at long last. 'A little distant, but you would be, too, if you made a living out of bloodshed.'

'How came you to know him?'

'Twelve years ago he came to Surikhand in search of your mother.' Isla smiled. A fool's errand, but a romantic one, at least.

'Well. He didn't find her.'

'Clearly. He found my father instead. They've been friends ever since. Had been.' They were so close, in fact, that a year later Sir Edric would sign as guarantor for their travel permits.

'When will he come for me again?'

Isla shifted on her bed. Whatever Sir Edric and Noi had agreed to tell Haana about her future, she should not be the one to divulge it – nor did she want to. She was saved, fortunately, by the creak of the front door, followed by Noi calling them to the sitting room.