The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) (12 page)

Off Ilamira’s Main Street, the passageways diminished to little more than corridors lined with narrow-fronted buildings three or four stories tall. Most of them had expensively glazed shop fronts, carrying riches Amelia had only ever heard of in stories. Or better yet, strange artefacts that she couldn’t identify at all. Meg marched briskly on while Amelia followed reluctantly, taking in all she could. Here, a sign advertised love potions to last a lifetime (longer or shorter periods available, ask within); there, a display of iridescent stones and hanging crystals glittered and caught her eye.

“Doesn’t Harold need a cloak too?” Amelia asked.

“Harold can shiver.”

“No, I mean…” Amelia couldn’t guess why she and Meg needed anonymity but Harold did not. The rain Meg had promised hadn’t yet materialised, and Amelia was too warm in the thick cloak. “Who are we hiding from?” she whispered.

“Nobody especially. Better safe than sorry, though. Harold: wait for us here,” said Meg, indicating a bench beside what looked like a horse trough and a fountain. “We won’t be any longer than we have to be,” she told him, and they left him there.

Amelia glanced over her shoulder, still worried. “Where are we going? I thought you said I needed a –”

“Hush now! He’s not much use to us here in the magical district, believe me. And the next stop is the soul forge,” said Meg, so quietly Amelia could barely hear her above the noise of the crowd. “Keep quiet and don’t call me by my name. In fact, don’t speak at all. Can you manage that, or do I have to put a spell on you?”

Amelia shook her head violently. “Oh no! You needn’t do that!”

“The Captain said you’re to choose the soul, so I’ll pick out one that’s suitable for the job, and you just nod ‘yes’ if you’re satisfied with it. And don’t go getting all sentimental and picky, because there’s a lot of people I want to talk to before we leave. See if anyone knows anything about those blasted griffins,” she muttered. “Come along now, we’re almost there. And don’t forget: not a word! One squeak out of you and I just might turn you into a mouse, understand?”

Amelia nodded mutely and vigorously. It was hard to say if Meg was joking or not, but better not to take any chances. She followed Meg into a building with no shop sign over the door or the murky window. It might almost have been a private house, for all that it advertised, but Amelia could see otherwise as soon as she went inside.

The shop’s interior was dimly lit and musty smelling. It was much smaller than the haberdasher’s, largely dominated by a big old desk with dozens of drawers lining its sides, and a lantern sat upon it. All around, on every available surface, stood hundreds upon hundreds of glass jars: every size and shape imaginable; every one of them empty. Or at least, so they appeared…

A man dozed in a frayed armchair beside the desk, his hat over his eyes. “Good afternoon,” he said, not getting up. “May I assist you, or will you browse?” His sarcastic grin was the only part of his face that Amelia could see.

Meg looked unimpressed. “I’m planning to spend a good deal of money,” she said. “There are other places in this City where I can find overpriced glassware, if that’s all you have here.”

The shopkeeper lifted the brim of his hat just enough to look up at Meg. “And who are you, precisely?”

“The
Storm Chaser
, in need of a new soul.”

The shopkeeper nodded very slightly, satisfied with this answer. Then he turned his attention to Amelia. “And you: what a soft pretty thing you are. Learning the trade at your old mother’s heels, are you?”

“Don’t waste your breath speaking to her,” Meg interrupted. “She’s mute as a rabbit.”

Amelia looked at her shoes, hiding her face in the shadow of the voluminous hood of the blue cloak. She didn’t know quite what role Meg would have her play. She wished the shopkeeper would stop looking at her.

“What about you then?” said Meg. “Are you a soul forger or not?”

The man got to his feet. “The very finest in Ilamira,” he said, bowing creakily, with a sly grin. “Indeed, the very
only
soul forger in Ilamira. Let’s see what I can provide you with today, Madam
Storm Chaser.
”

As the soul forger explained, souls glowed and spoke (or growled, chirped, barked…) only in the presence of a specific type of magical light, such as that found in the
Storm Chaser
’s soulchamber. He took a mirrored lantern from the desktop, and crumbled a handful of dried sage green leaves into the flame. Immediately, the light within the dingy shop took on the familiar cold blue light of the soulchamber, and a murmuring started up, all around them. The soul forger swung the lantern around to a nearby shelf of jars, and the murmur swelled to a cacophony of bird song. The jars were small, the souls within mere flutterings of wings, recognisable by their voices as starlings, sparrows, blue tits. The soul forger moved his light along the shelves, slowly, so that Amelia could see jackdaws and crows, hear their raucous noise. In a fit of morbid curiosity, Amelia couldn’t help but peer closer. Further from the light, other things shimmered at the edges of her vision, unidentifiable, a rumble of noise at the threshold of hearing. The next shelf up from a long row of magpies, cat souls slept curled up tightly in the bottoms of their jars, the purring of a dozen of them loud despite the sealed jars. Amelia, who quite liked cats, felt a pang of sadness at how many jars of cats he had, and had to look away. Holding the magical lantern high, the soul forger moved on inevitably towards the biggest of the jars, smiling as he must be saving what he deemed the best for last, but Meg stayed his arm.

“We’ve seen enough for the time being, thank you,” she said, eyeing the larger jars warily. What on earth could be in them that she didn’t want Amelia to see? And how much worse could it be to know, than to imagine? A moment later, the magical light went out, the ghostly apparitions disappearing, their riotous noises silenced. Amelia shuddered to think that they must all still be there – unseen by mortal eyes, unheard by mortal ears, but there nonetheless, waiting behind glass. She stared at the many and varied jars: from what looked like tiny bottles meant for rare and exotic spices, to huge vessels that must cost a fortune in glass alone, never mind whatever souls they might contain. Some of the jars could have held a good-sized man, with one or two of them more than big enough for that. In a corner, one tall slender vessel stretched all the way to the ceiling. Each jar bore a label or tag tied to it, but in no language that Amelia could read. She suspected it might be some magical language other than the one Meg had begun to teach her, and guessed that the labels not only identified the contents, but cast a spell to keep them contained. You couldn’t just pop a soul into any old jam jar and expect it to stay put, after all.

“What are you thinking, Madam
Storm Chaser
? A kestrel, perhaps? Or an eagle?”

“Not an eagle,” said Meg, sharply.

Amelia didn’t listen much as the two discussed the relative merits of different types of soul: wyverns, vultures, giant bats. She knew she ought to pay attention, but all the options Meg suggested sounded perfectly horrible. As she looked around at the many glass jars, she remembered with a jolt where they were: Ilamira, a Flying City. Steady as her footing felt, the entire city was suspended thousands of feet above solid ground, anchored to the trade town below. How fast could it fly, when the time came for it to move on? Despite the City’s name, she couldn’t entirely believe it flew – not in the same way as birds, or even skyships. Maybe it could drift slowly and serenely away. She doubted it, suspecting that even with the slowest and most careful movements of such a behemoth, all the many people within its walls would have to grab hold of something to steady themselves. It showed no signs of being like Meg’s snailcastletank, well equipped with crockery that didn’t spill easily, and furniture bolted down. She hadn’t seen it arrive, but she wished she had. She liked the idea that perhaps it simply vanished like a mirage, only to appear again miles away. But, why call it a Flying City then? Meg had commented on the weather: what happened to a Flying City in storms and gales? It looked as solid and heavy as a rock; levitated like a soap bubble on a breeze. It stood still in fine weather, but she had an awful vision of the whole City tipping dizzyingly in a sudden storm. In her mind’s eye she saw, clear as day, all the jars sliding inevitably off their shelves to smash on the tiled floor in a cacophony of splintering glass. Every soul freed, and then where would they all go?

~

Harold clutched his borrowed sword tightly, now a good deal more afraid of losing it than of having to use it. Unlike Amelia, he’d been to Market Days before, although never anywhere so big as Ilamira. He watched carefully for likely thieves, although he had nothing of value on him besides Captain Dunnager’s sword, which he did his best to hide from view. So many strange people, of so many strange colours and voices and clothes… Not so many down the side streets, but enough to be loud, and enough to smell. Harold reckoned people were worse than pigs for the smell, when you got enough of them together. None of them took much notice of him. Just somebody’s errand boy, idling at a fountain. Anybody who noticed the too-big sword might take him for a squire, perhaps. Not long ago, even squirehood would have been a lofty ambition for the butcher’s boy. He couldn’t help but wonder if Meg’s talk of him being a bodyguard had been only talk, though. Why else would the two women go off by themselves into the unknown dangers of a foreign city, and leave him kicking his heels at the fountain? Better than staying cooped up on board the
Storm Chaser,
at least. He watched the troupe of dancers cavorting past on the main street, although he’d seen them go past a few times already, the flash of colour, the laughter of bright bells. He watched pretty girls in fine dresses flit from shop to shop, colourful as butterflies visiting flowers, chattering and laughing under the stern eyes of their chaperones. One in particular caught his attention: a delicate and graceful girl with skin the colour of clear tea. A veil covered the lower half of her face, but her dark and beautiful eyes flashed a smile his way. A huge man laden with boxes, bags and rolls of fabric followed closely in her wake, sparing Harold little more than a disparaging glance as the beautiful girl vanished into a jewellers. Harold sighed. She could only be a princess of some exotic land. He wished he could be
her
guardian, her… what was that word Meg had used? Her paladin. Amelia was nice in her own way, with a pretty-ish face and that long, silky fair hair, but she would look dowdy and plain side by side with the veiled princess.

While he waited, hoping Amelia and Meg might not return before he caught another glimpse of the foreign princess, an odd carriage rattled down the road, enclosed by heavy velvet curtains, hauled by four strong men on foot. Twin gentlemen in fancy but dark clothing went by arm in arm. A lady with a hat the size and approximate shape of a grand chandelier picked her way through the narrow side street with great care. And Harold, whose brain had taken a moment to catch up with his eyes, stared in open-mouthed horror of recognition at the retreating backs of the twin gentleman. They were headed in the same direction as Meg and Amelia had gone off in. He’d been told to stay put, but that was stupid – he’d seen those two in Lannersmeet, talking about snails. He’d had a bad feeling about them then, and the fire sprite Stupid had got all shy of them too. Surely there could be no coincidence in meeting them again here. Harold unfroze, jumping down off the bench and elbowing through the crowds after the two dark figures. He just caught a glimpse of them through the window of a shop selling crystals and other fancy rocks, where they stood talking to the shopkeeper. A big grey rock shaped like a ram’s horn formed a part of the shop’s counter, and this apparently had drawn the attention of the twin gentlemen. Harold hurried on down the side street, the tall buildings crowding ever further in on either side, closing ranks, making the street dark and unwelcoming. Where had Meg and Amelia got to? He wished they’d told him where they were going, at least. The few shops that had signs above their doors or windows gave him no clues – Harold could read well enough for what he’d needed back in Springhaven, but all these foreign names and weird scripts confused him.

“Amelia!” he shouted, hoping that the two strange gentlemen were still busy with the crystal seller. “Amelia!”

In one murky shop window a smudge of blue appeared, and then a pale face peered out through the glass, resolving into familiarity. Amelia opened her mouth as if to speak, but then stopped, hurrying away.

Harold rapped on the window, and Meg came to the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Shouting folk’s names all over the place – don’t you know how dangerous that is? What do you want?”

“I think you’ve been followed!” Harold’s cheeks reddened. “I should’ve said before, but back in Lannersmeet there was two gentleman talking about snails, and I just seen ‘em again, here!”

Amelia peered out from behind Meg, her face white and worried. She opened her mouth, but then said nothing, glancing over her shoulder anxiously. She tugged at Meg’s sleeve.

Scowling, Meg stretched up on tiptoe to scan the crowds. “All right, we’d best get away from here. Walk calmly, and keep close to me.” And with that she struck off at a brisk pace, back up towards Main Street.

“We can’t go that way!” Harold whispered loudly, almost grabbing her by the arm but not quite daring to lay hands on the witch. “I seen ‘em in a shop up there.”