Prolonged scrutiny from others as she made her way through Wellspring Holt made her shoulder blades itch and reminded her she needed to find a stable quickly. Gharek’s mare had been an unexpected boon, and Siora wished she might keep her, but the horse was a fine mount, obvious to anyone with an inkling of knowledge about horses. Far too fine a possession for a beggar woman in rags to be riding unless she stole it.
The last thing Siora wanted was to draw attention to herself. Even when she took the risk of offering her services as a shade speaker, most only remembered what she told them about their dead loved ones, not what she looked like. A gutter rat atop a fine mare attracted notice.
Her talent for communicating with spirits had sometimes bought her a night in a stable or barn among the cattle and horses or sometimes the dinner of a meat pie or bowl of potatoes. It also created problems. Charlatans claiming to have the same talent as she had turned it into a travesty to be mocked, disbelieved, and, on some occasions, punished. Still, the Empire considered shade-speaking a kind of second sight instead of magic, so it wasn’t outlawed. Siora was happy most people thought her a trickster and her gift a sham, even as they gave her money to speak to the spirits that still lingered on the earthly plane.
She halted in front of a stall setting up to sell iron nails. The vendor gave her a suspicious look when she asked the whereabouts of the nearest public stable yard. His distrust didn’t lessen when she told him she’d been charged to drop her mistress’s horse off with a farrier. He pointed in the direction of a cluster of ramshackle buildings, then shooed her away with a wave of both hands.
His directions were easy to follow, and she soon discovered the stable yard, a bustling hive of activity with groomsmen and stable lads rushing to and fro, customers dropping off horses for grooming, vetting, or boarding, and the horses themselves, jostling each other for space at the feeding or water troughs. No one noticed Siora among the controlled mayhem, which suited her fine. She could leave the mare and simply walk away with none the wiser.
It was a shame she couldn’t sell Gharek’s mount, but attempting it guaranteed an unfriendly visit from the town’s constabulary armed with questions, suspicions, and the strong possibility of a night spent in the gaol, caged and waiting for Gharek to stroll into town and find her.
She found an out-of-the-way spot in the stable yard to dismount and strip anything of value from the tack and saddlebags, tucking them out of sight in her bodice and the pockets she’d sewn into the folds of her skirt. She kept all of Gharek’s coin, as well as a shirt, a tunic, a pair of trousers, a knife, and the half full pack of road rations he carried. She turned his tunic into a makeshift satchel, shoving all but the coin and the knife inside before tying it off. The saddlebags she left with the saddle. Of good quality and well-made, they were far too nice for the likes of her and would only draw notice.
She coaxed the mare to a cluster of other horses still tacked and saddled, whispered a “thank you” for her help, and left her at one of the hay racks before striding away from the stable yard. Soon enough someone would inquire about her owner. By then Siora intended to be on the other side of town, hiding in some niche where she could sleep a few hours and plan what she’d do next.
She hurried past shops catering to the town’s wealthy citizens: perfumeries and tailors, confectioneries and specialty cobblers, silk merchants, a sword smith, and even a book purveyor. The last made her pause for a moment to stare longingly at the bound volumes displayed in cases, the lettering on their spines hinting at the treasures between the covers. Her mother had taught her to read when she was a child. The skill had served her as well as speaking with the dead, though she considered it a gift while the other was sometimes a burden.
“Get away from there, ya lice-ridden tar leather!”
A piece of fruit hurtled through the shop’s open doorway. Siora sidestepped it and jogged away from the scowling shopkeeper who raised his arm to throw something else at her. She did stop long enough to pick up the fruit. An orange. She grinned as she sprinted down the street. The well-fed merchant might think nothing of wasting food in such a way, but Siora blessed such good fortune literally thrown at her. She had something to eat and didn’t have to spend any of Gharek’s pilfered money yet.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. The orange wasn’t much but she could enjoy it, along with a little of the road rations she’d taken to keep the hunger pangs at bay. They’d been her constant companions for many years, with only a few short respites from their presence, including the time she’d lived in Gharek’s household.
She wove a path deeper into the town, away from the main roads used for commerce and onto the narrower back streets and alleys, lined on either side by houses. Some boasted ornate doors studded with rows of expensive iron-nail caps. Others were carved or painted in lavish designs with family crests or murals depicting some familial event for which the occupants were most proud. All spoke of the wealthy living behind them and a message that rabble like her had no place here.
What this neighborhood lacked in welcome, it more than made up for in peacefulness and quiet. No one lurked in the doorways. Children didn’t play in the streets nor did women stand on their stoops to sweep and exchange gossip with each other or share in the labor of laundry from communal washtubs. It was an odd kind of distancing, one Siora welcomed. A gathering of people familiar with each other and their day-to-day lives would be quick to note and remark on the appearance of a stranger in their midst, even one simply journeying through the town on the way to other business.
Relieved that this street lacked the bustle of others, Siora followed a winding alley dividing the back walls of several homes, searching for a hideaway where she could rest without being noticed. She found what she was looking for in a tiny lean-to, empty of whatever it had been built to shelter. Just large enough for her to crawl into and obscured by a pair of overgrown bushes and numerous lines of damp laundry hanging above it. The perfect place to sleep for a few hours, out of the sun and safe from prying eyes.
Tucked into the space, she ate the orange and a little of the road rations. The makeshift bag holding the food and clothes acted as a pillow, and she lay on the ground, thankful for its coolness in the lean-to’s stifling stillness. The day’s heat and a night of running from her pursuer made her lethargic. She closed her eyes, skating the edge of sleep, wondering at the vagaries of fate that had turned a man, who’d offered her his reluctant but significant trust into a vigilante who’d chased her across half the Empire to exact revenge against her.
The memory of his daughter, small, fragile Estred, crying as she huddled in on herself while a vicious mob bellowed their outrage and hurled rocks at her, made tears seep beneath Siora’s closed lashes. The girl hadn’t even been able to protect her head from the stones with her arms because she had no arms. Courage had engulfed Siora in a red tide of indignant fury at the sight. She’d flung people twice her size out of her way to reach the terrified child and used her own body as a shield to protect her against the hail of stones raining down on them.