Healer's Touch (12 page)

“See you in the morning, Miss Isolda.”

The walk home was two blocks along the dirt road, and the evening was fine. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the scents of clover and pine. Glancing at the side of the road, she spied a few bees hovering over the white flowers. Honey would be in season soon. She’d have to contact the local beekeepers tomorrow and make sure she got some in stock the moment it was available.

In her arms, Rory squirmed and fussed. He wanted to walk, probably to meander and look at the bees, but Isolda was dead on her feet and eager to get home.

Not that home life was enjoyable. Ever since that day in the shop when Jauld’s friends had insulted her, Jauld had become cool and distant. He wasn’t the loving husband she’d dreamed of. It was clear now that no matter how hard she tried, her husband was never going to warm to her. He wasn’t violent or cruel; just indifferent.

It was as she’d feared—she wasn’t pretty enough to be loved. And yet she could not help feeling angry at his scorn. She’d never tricked him. He’d known exactly what she was and made the marriage offer of his own volition. At the time, it seemed he’d liked her. Now, for some reason, he didn’t.

He ought to appreciate one thing about her: she was making him wealthy. She’d transformed his business from a dingy junk shop to a clean, modern store that customers traveled miles to visit. Through her efforts—Jauld seldom lifted a finger to help—his fortunes and hers had improved. They’d been able to make renovations to their house. She’d bought a nicer wardrobe and some face paint in hopes of appealing more to Jauld’s eye. It wasn’t working, as far as she could tell, but he did still come to her bed. She didn’t enjoy sleeping with him, but she was glad he did. It was the only way she’d have more children.

Rory was the one bright spot in her life. He wasn’t an easy baby—he was insatiably curious, always getting into trouble—but, even so, he was a delight. For years she had envied her sisters their fine marriages and fine children. Now she had a baby of her own, and little Rory had become the center of her world. It didn’t matter whether Jauld appreciated her improvements to the store. She wasn’t doing it for him. She was doing it for Rory, who would one day inherit the fruits of her labor.

Stepping inside the house, she shut the door behind her and set a squirming Rory on the floor. When she looked up, her eyes met those of a strange woman sitting at the kitchen table. Isolda froze. The stranger was little more than a girl, perhaps sixteen years old, or at the most eighteen. She didn’t look dangerous—her wide eyes suggested she was more scared of Isolda than Isolda was of her—but what was she doing here?

Isolda snatched Rory up from the ground. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?” Rory kicked and began to cry in frustration, but Isolda clung to him.

The girl’s mouth fell open, but she said nothing.

“Isolda, you’re home.” Jauld emerged from a back bedroom. “This is Chari. I’m sure you two will be like sisters before long.”

Isolda trembled. This could not be happening. Please, let this not be happening. “What is she doing here?”

“She lives here now,” said Jauld. “Chari is my new wife.”

Chapter 13

“You’re putting far too much effort into this.”

Marius ignored his bodyguard’s words. Yes, they’d been at it for a while, and his first idea, of going to the Riat City Guard to ask them for information about where the Sardossians hid, had failed. He’d tried to frame his inquiry in terms of public health: there was a fever going around in Sardossian circles, and he wanted to heal it before it got out of hand. A prefect named Caellus had ushered him into a back office and asked him a lot of questions, most of which Marius had to dodge so he wouldn’t get Isolda into trouble. And Caellus had given him no information in return.

After leaving the guardhouse empty-handed, he’d come up with a better idea. He knew that Rory worked at a fruit stand.

Isolda had not said which fruit stand, and of course there were many in a city the size of Riat. But the Sardossians were concentrated in the harbor district. That was where the gunpowder factory had blown up. So he began at the site of the old gunpowder factory and worked his way outward with Drusus in tow, checking every fruit stand they came to. No doubt this unaccustomed exercise was the root of Drusus’s ill temper—but at the fifth fruit stand, Marius’s persistence paid off.

From an observation point across the street, he watched a smiling Sardossian boy with an apple in one hand and an orange in the other dart out of the Chelani Corner Market into the crowd of passersby. He hopped up to potential customers one by one, presenting the fruits. Apparently the prejudice most Kjallans held toward Sardossians didn’t apply to children when they were smiling and cute—or perhaps the customers simply mistook Rory for a Riorcan. Either way, Rory managed to lure quite a few customers toward the fruit stand. “Knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?”

“A born hustler,” growled Drusus.

“He’s charming. A good salesman.”

“So you’ve found him,” said Drusus. “What now?”

What now, indeed? He couldn’t approach Rory. The boy had street smarts. He knew to conceal his and Isolda’s whereabouts. “We wait.”

“For what?”

“For his work shift to end,” said Marius. “Then we follow him to Isolda.”

∞

Isolda shoveled more saltpeter into the base of the mill with the other ingredients, handling her all-wooden tools with care. To throw a spark here could be fatal, not just for her but for everyone in the factory. She stirred to spread the materials evenly in the well and took up the lead rope for the mule harnessed to the central shaft. She clucked and stepped forward, but the mule balked. He’d been working all afternoon, and he knew as well as she did that his shift was nearing its end. His mind was on his stall and his feedbox. “Get up,” she barked. “We’re almost done.” The mule gave a desultory toss of his head but leaned into the traces and began to pull. With a rumble, the great stone wheels of the mill began to turn, grinding to dust beneath them the raw materials of gunpowder.

Ten rotations around the mill, step by tedious step, and the grind was nearly finished. Her boss, old Twitchy Fingers, stood two mills away, talking to another worker. He was probably making the rounds to hand out the day’s pay. Nonetheless, her stomach knotted at the sight of him.

One or two more times around and she’d be finished. She led the mule slowly around the mill. The groaning of the wheels and the grating of the powder filled her ears. This was the music of gunpowder production. It wasn’t a pleasant tune, but by the end of the day, it produced one that she liked much better: the jingle of coins in her pocket.

Nearby, Twitchy Fingers said, “This batch is looking good.”

Isolda rounded the bend, and he came into view. The mule, who didn’t like Twitchy Fingers, flung up his head, yanking the lead rope. Isolda shook her rope-burned hand and clucked to send the mule forward again. The grind was nearly done, but if she let her mule decide when to stop, she’d never get him to work tomorrow. As they neared Twitchy Fingers, she murmured, “Whoa,” and the mule stopped.

Twitchy Fingers held out a few quintetrals. “Today’s payment.”

She reached for the coins, praying that he would just hand them over this time.

Twitchy Fingers grinned and yanked his hand away. “When you’ve unhitched that mule, meet me at the tavern next door. It’s a good day to unwind, don’t you think?”

Gods, not this again. “I can’t. My son is waiting for me.”

“He goes all day without you. He can manage a little longer.”

She shook her head. “He’s off work now, and I can’t leave him on his own.” Not to mention that the last thing she wanted to spend her hard-earned money on was a drink with her grabby boss. Rather than reaching for her coins, which would draw her into a wrestling match, Isolda turned toward the mule, letting his body guard one side of hers as she unbuckled his traces.

“Send young Rory for a pastry,” said Twitchy Fingers. “Boys are always hungry.”

“Are you offering me extra coin?”

Twitchy Fingers sidled closer. “Maybe I am.”

Ugh—that was
not
what she’d meant. “Please, just give me my money. I need to take Rory home.” He was standing too close, and she could not run away. She had the mule half unhitched, and she needed her wages. If only her old boss had not been killed in the explosion four years ago. He’d paid her without argument or difficulty every day.

“This job doesn’t have to be all work. Give me a smile, won’t you?” Twitchy Fingers slipped an arm around her. His fingers touched her breast through her shirt.

She winced and drew away. “Let go. Please.” Pinned between Twitchy Fingers and the mule, she couldn’t move. Anger welled up. Her arms tensed, and she had an intense desire to elbow him. Maybe slap his face, too, and kick him in the cods. But she needed this job.

“
Relax
,” said Twitchy Fingers.

Her body was stiff as an oak. “Please stop.”

“Mom!”

Her son—gods, he’d arrived just in time. She twisted out of Twitchy Fingers’ grip. “Rory?” Twitchy Fingers made another grab for her, but she dodged him and circled around the mule, jumping over the traces to look for her son.

She was shocked to see a man behind Rory—a
big
man. He looked angry, and he was running in her direction. Her muscles tensed for flight, but she could not leave without Rory. So she darted toward the man and grabbed her son. The charging man veered around her.

He grabbed Twitchy Fingers by the shirt and threw him against the wall.

The mule flung up his head, brayed, and kicked at the traces.

Clutching Rory’s arm so hard it was sure to leave a mark later, Isolda turned to flee and smacked head first into the broad chest of another man. He grabbed her, but not roughly; he only steadied her. “Easy—it’s Marius. And you needn’t be afraid of Drusus.”

That man was Drusus? She turned to see.

Drusus punctuated his words with blows as he held Twitchy Fingers against the wall. “Is that...how...you treat...a woman?”

Isolda shrank against Marius. Much as she might have enjoyed watching her boss take a beating, she knew that what she was really watching was the end of her employment.

“Stop it! Help!” cried Twitchy Fingers.

Several other millworkers gathered around to watch, but nobody intervened.

“She told
you
to stop,” said Drusus, hitting him again. “But did you listen?”

His blows were so fast that Isolda could barely see his arm move. Twitchy Fingers was trying to block them, but he couldn’t get his arms up in time. Isolda had heard of war mages whose magic granted them preternatural speed and strength. Was Drusus one of them?

“Enough,” said Marius.

Drusus released Twitchy Fingers and returned to Marius, Isolda, and Rory, examining his hands and flicking the dirt out from beneath his nails. He brushed a smear of blood from his knuckles. “Not a bad workout, but your factory manager fights like a rabbit.”

Twitchy Fingers reeled against the wall, battered and bleeding. “You have no business coming in here. I’ll call the city guard!”

Drusus laughed. “Go on and try.”

Isolda knew he would call nobody. The gunpowder factory was illegal. Her stomach sank. Where was she going to work from now on? Twitchy Fingers was sure to fire her, and she didn’t even have today’s wages. Looking around, she saw the coins he’d held back from her. They were scattered across the mill floor.

Now appeared to be as good a time as any to retrieve them. She darted out of Marius’s grip and dropped to her knees to pick up the coins, shaking black powder from each. Thank the Vagabond nothing had struck a spark.

Twitchy Fingers aimed an accusing finger at her. “You ungrateful bitch. You’re fired! Get out of here, and don’t come back!”

Isolda staggered, trembling, to her feet. She grabbed Rory’s hand and headed for the door.

She emerged from the factory floor into the waning sunlight of a summer evening.

Marius trotted up behind her. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to cost you your job.”

Isolda’s eyes welled with tears. “Never mind. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was. Drusus would never have acted if I hadn’t told him to. I was furious at the way that man was treating you, and I acted rashly. I didn’t think.”

Isolda wiped her eyes. It was impossible for her to be angry with Marius. “You meant well.”

“That man was mean,” said Rory. “I’m glad he got beat up.”

Drusus, silent at Marius’s side throughout this conversation, chucked Rory on the shoulder.

She took Rory’s hand and squeezed it. It was easy for Rory and Drusus, and even Marius, to think strictly in terms of what pleased them. They weren’t the ones who had to pay the bill when it came due.

“How long has your boss been acting that way?” asked Marius.

“As long as I’ve known him.” She waited for him to blame her.
Why haven’t you done something about it? Why didn’t you find another job?

But all Marius said was, “I’m sorry.”

She felt herself flushing as a wave of emotion overcame her—embarrassment that he’d witnessed her humiliation, gratitude that he was so understanding, shame that he saw her as an object of pity. Words bubbled out of her throat. “He thinks that because I’m Sardossian he can do what he likes—that it doesn’t matter—”

“Well, he can’t,” said Marius.

Isolda took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into Marius’s arms and cry. He was probably the only man in the whole of Kjall who would let her do it, and for that very reason she restrained herself. He was not the cause of her distress. He did not deserve to be clung to by a worthless woman who had nothing to offer him.

“No man should treat a woman like that under any circumstances,” added Marius. “I’m sorry I caused all this trouble, but let me repair the damage. I’d like to offer you a job.”

“Is that why you came here?” It occurred to her, suddenly, to wonder why he and Drusus had been at the factory. How had they even found her? “What sort of job?”