Magic Steps tco-1 Read online

  "You'll have a dose when we get somewhere else, mage," Nurhar barked. He frantically stuffed their belongings into packs.

  "I don't know the town," the mage objected. "I don't know what's safe. I've only been to a few places, and I need salt.

  Alzena reached into a pocket and produced a tiny silk bag. She waved it, letting the drug's pungent scent drift into his nose. "There's a safe place," she told him. "And you get this the moment you take us there, I swear on my family's honor."

  The mage licked his lips, "Tell me," he whispered. Alzena did.

  Nurhar gave the packs to her, and hoisted the carry-frame on one shoulder. He dumped the contents of two oil lamps on the bed and struck a spark with flint and steel. The oil caught, and, started to burn. "Now," he said, coming to stand beside the mage.

  * * *

  In her dream she was back at the corner of Tapestry Lane and Silver Street. The pool of unmagic—But we gathered it all, didn't we? her dreaming mind wondered—had grown, spilling into the lane. She needed to soak it up…

  She tripped. Down she fell, into that pool of nothing ness. When she struggled to her feet, the dark stuff clung to her.

  The pool was far deeper than she remembered, up to her waist. She fought, trying to wade out, but in this dream the shadowy mess was thick and gooey, like syrup. It embraced her, pulling her back into its depths.

  She flailed and sank. It rose to chest level—no, to her neck—no, her chin. Her fight to keep her head up seemed to go on forever, until weariness made her body ache. Suddenly Uncle was at the pools edge. He waded knee-deep into the unmagic, straining to reach her. She opened her mouth to warn him, and the nothingness flooded over her tongue; it poured down her throat. Sandry gasped and choked. She couldn't breathe. Unmagic flooded her nose. She gagged, and felt it roll into her lungs…

  Sandry woke. The nothingness loomed on every side to swallow her bed.

  She seized her crystal night lamp from the table, holding it against her chest as she panted. The light turned shadows into bed curtains. The dark at the foot of her bed was the coverlet, turned back for this warm Barley-month night. Her hands and nightgown showed pale, not dark. Sandry bowed her head over her lamp and waited for her nerves to calm.

  When she felt more in control of herself, she got out of bed. Her small treasure chest was on a table by the window. She padded over to it, silently undoing the magic that locked it.

  The item she sought lay at the bottom of the chest, under some ribbons, a few seashells, and what jewelry she kept with her. To most eyes the thing she lifted out of the box was only a circle of thread with four lumps spaced equally apart. To those who could see magic, the circle blazed with power, each lump showing a different color for each of four friends. To anyone who knew the laws of magic, it represented an achievement so great that it was already legend. Trapped underground with her friends during an earthquake, knowing they would die unless they could be made stronger together than they were singly, Sandry had taken their magics and spun them into one. This thread circle was the result of that, and the symbol of friends who were closer than family.

  I wish you were here, she thought passionately, touching the lumps that represented Briar, Daja, and Tris. In those hard rounds of thread she could feel their powerful spirits. If we were together, we could stop these monsters. Instead it's just me, and I can't even talk to you. However am I going to deal with this unmagic?

  She put the circle away and redid her locking spells. I don't have to manage the unmagic, she told herself firmly, settling into the window seat. The provosts mages will do that. All I have to do is teach a silly boy to keep a thought in his head longer than a sneeze.

  Outside, the Astrel Island beacon shone over the harbor. The waning moon laid a silver blanket on the islands and the sea wall. She let the view calm her mind. She couldn't help Master Wulfric beyond what she had done already. Perhaps if she concentrated on Pasco, she would keep the boy from adding to the sum of all that was going on. Keep him out of trouble, she thought drowsily, cradling her night-lamp. Leave crime to the experts. And no more dreams about nothingness.

  * * *

  The next day Pasco was at Fletcher's Circle when Sandry and her guards arrived. Sandry eyed her student with dislike, she was still weary from gathering unmagic the day before. She had slept badly once she returned to her bed, and only the knowledge that Pasco had to be taught had gotten her on a horse that morning. He looked every bit as grumpy as she felt.

  Sandry took him into the garden beside the eating-house—deserted at that hour—ordered him to sit, then placed her magical wards. Once they were protected, she sat beside him. "Let's begin. Close your eyes and inhale. One… two… three…" She stopped.

  Pasco's shoulders were slumped, his face glum.

  "You're not inhaling," she pointed out.

  Pasco sighed, not looking at her.

  Sandry gave a sigh of her own. "What is it now?"

  Pasco shrugged sullenly.

  "That's not an answer, she informed him.

  "Uncle Isman came to supper last night," grumbled the boy. "He told Papa and Mama I must have talked you into saying my magic only works with dancing. He says nobody he's asked ever heard of dancing magic. He says, if I have magic, send me to the harrier-mages at Lightsbridge. He says they'll make me put my magic to the proper use."

  "No, they won't," Saedry replied irritably. "You can only do that with certain kinds of magic. Others—the kind I have, the kind you have, only work through the path chosen by the magic. Your uncle may know all there is to harrier work, but he's no mage. He oughtn't to talk about things he doesn't understand.”

  Pasco scuffed his feet on, the: ground. "Why couldn't I be a truthsayer, or a tracker, or something? Then, maybe they'd, care. But no, what I, have isn't good for anything real. I can’t chill a riot or tell where thieves are hunting. So what's, the point?"

  "The point is there is no point, not yet!" she cried, out of patience with the whole world today. "We don't know what you can do, you silly bleater! We’re going to craft what you can do, and for that you'll have to help!"

  Pasco stared at her. "You talked street," he whispered, shocked. "Bleater's no word for a lady to use."

  "Mila of the Grain, give me patience," Sandry begged the goddess. It was time to try bribes again. "Pasco, if you don't work on meditation, I won't take you to your dance teacher today."

  His gloom evaporated like mist in the sun. "A dancing teacher? With steps and music and costumes?"

  "Meditation first," she told him firmly.

  He sat straight on his bench, eyes blazing. "Meditation, definitely. I'm ready. I'm going to start now, watch."

  They began again, and this time Pasco actually seemed to be trying. Sandry murmured instructions to clear his mind of all thought, and watched as his power trickled out of his skin, flowing away until it struck her magical barrier. It flickered and twisted or even went out completely, telling her he was thinking of something else. At moments like that, she began to see why some teachers were eager to use a switch on skittish students. She chided herself for the thought: that was just her weariness speaking, or at least she hoped it was.

  Her own concentration was poor. Concerns about Wulfric's progress distracted her. She'd sent him a note asking if Rokat House and Qasam Rokat's home should be checked and cleansed of nothingness, with her offer of help. If he'd been right about the blood, Wulfric might actually have the killers by now. That would be a relief

  The clang of the Guildhall clock brought her to her surroundings with a start. The hour was done. Pasco's eyes were open and eager. "Lady—?" he asked.

  Sandry took up her warding circle. Returning her thread to her purse, she asked, "Walk or ride? It's not far."

  Pasco looked at her guards and the horses waiting in front of the garden. "Walk. So who is it?" he begged as Sandry mounted Russet. "Is the teacher expensive? I can’t pay, you, know."

  “We have an understanding," replied Sandry, clucking t
o Russet. "Come on,"

  "But where?" he pleaded, trotting alongside her. "Who?"

  "He's chattery," commented Oarna, looking down at the boy. "You sure he's harrier-bred? Usually they don't have two words to rub together."

  Pasco grinned up at her. "That's 'cause they don't want the Dukes Guard blabbing their secrets,»

  "We'd have to be interested to steal, them, boy," replied Oama with a wink at Sandry.

  Festival, Street was like most city roads, lined with homes and businesses. The largest building on Festival between Market and Yanjing Streets sat behind a ten- foot-high stone wall. Sandry thought it may have been a warehouse at one time. Now there was nothing to indicate what use the building had. Its only marker was a painted sign over the gate—Hebet—in gold letters on a red background.

  "Here we are," Sandry announced, guiding Russet into the courtyard. Oama and Kwaben followed. When she didn't see Pasco, Sandry turned. The boy was still in the street, goggling at the sign.

  A girl came to take the horses when they dismounted. As she led the animals away, Sandry called, "Pasco."

  “I’ll get him," Oama said. She grabbed the boy's arm and towed him back to Sandry.

  "Do you know whose place this is?" Pasco asked, his eyes fixed on the building.

  "It's Yazmнn Hebet's school, yes, I know," Sandry replied. Her earlier impatience was turning into amusement. I might have acted the same if I'd heard of Lark before she took me as her student, she thought. "I believe school was the idea. May we go in, please? There's an inside here. I’m sure you'd like to see it."

  "She danced for seven kings in Aliput, and eight queens," Pasco babbled as they walked toward the open doors. "She danced for the emperor in Yanjing, just for him, for a whole year, and he made her a dress covered in blue pearls. Blue pearls, can you imagine! For dancing for one year for him and no one else!"

  Inside, the door hallways pointed straight ahead and to either side. Open rooms on the halls emitted bursts of music from various instruments, many thuds, bumps, and squeaks, and shouts in male and female voices. At the end of the hall directly ahead, a dancer in leggings and a loose tunic tightly belted around the waist did a handstand, her legs pointed straight at the ceiling.

  A boy in leggings and belted tunic raced by, stopped, and came back to them. "Was you lookin' for someone especial, my lady?" he asked, bowing low. His accent came from south of the Pebbled Sea; his skin was coal black like that of the tribesmen there.

  "Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, and student, to see Yazmнn Hebet," said Oama sternly.

  The boy grinned. "Come." He raced up a narrow stair at the end of the right-hand hallway.

  Following him, Sandry pretended not to hear Pasco's hissed, "I have a name, you know!"

  She thought she was in fairly good physical condition, but she was panting when she reached the top of the stair. Their guide was not even breathing hard. He beckoned them down a long hall, past various rooms on either side.

  "No, no, no, Thandi," cried a voice Sandry knew. "It’s turn turn turn jump, not turn turn jump. It's by threes, how many times do I have to—yes, that's right."

  The boy led them to the room where Yazmнn was shouting. He leaned in and said, "Noble in the buildin', Yazmнn."

  "Noble what in the building? Noble guard, noble lord…" Yazmнn leaned out the door. "Wamuko, you have the manners of a goat," she told her messenger. "Lady Sandrilene, welcome." She came out and curtsied to Sandry, ran an appraising eye over Kwaben and Oama, then looked at Sandry's pupil. "Come on, Pasco," she said. "We'll start with stretches." She pulled him into the room.

  "She knows my name!" Pasco whispered as he followed her.

  The practice room was large and bare, paneled in golden wood and lit by large windows. The shutters were open, admitting a breeze. Benches were arranged around the walls. Sandry took a seat on one. Oama sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, while Kwaben leaned against the wall. Yazmнn was giving instructions to three young people. When she finished, they nodded and trotted out. The flute player who had been in the corner went with them.

  "Sit," Yazmнn ordered Pasco. She pointed to the floor. Pasco obeyed. "Spread your legs as wide as you can. Wider. Here." She sat opposite him and stretched her own legs out until the balls of her feet pressed against the insides of Pasco's legs just above his knees. "Give me your hands," she ordered; Pasco did. She clasped him by the wrists and pulled him steadily forward, forcing his legs open wider. Finally he yelped. "Oh, you baby," chided Yazmнn. "Look at you, not even a decent spread, and you're whimpering. Now hold that position."

  "I think I'm stuck in it," Pasco squeaked as Yazmнn eased back from him.

  "Soon you'll be able to do this," she said, and swept her legs out farther still, until they formed a straight line with her body.

  Pasco gulped.

  Sandry heard a smothered noise from Oama, and looked down at her. The guard was chuckling.

  "You'll also learn to do this." Keeping her legs apart, Yazmнn lowered her body until she was facedown on the floor, her arms extended before her. "Now you try."

  Pasco leaned forward gingerly, stretching out his arms. He rested his elbows on the floor.

  Yazmнn stood. She walked around behind Pasco. "Does that hurt?"

  He shook his head.

  "Well, it should," she informed him, and thrust down on his back with her palms. Pasco dipped several inches closer to the floor with a whimper. Without taking the pressure from his back, Yazmнn leaned down and yelled, "You want to dance? Work for it!" She took her hands away. "Sit up." He obeyed. She thrust him down again. "Dip. Sit up. Dip. Admire the sanding we did on this floor. It's splinter-free. Nice wood grain, don't you think? Sit up. Dip. I want you doing these exercises at home. If you don't, believe me, I'll know. That's enough for now—ten of these stretches at night. Get up."

  Pasco winced as he pulled his legs together. "That hurt!”

  "Good," Yazmнn said heartlessly. "Stand up. Touch your toes—don't bend your knees. Touch 'em, boy!"

  She worked him for an hour, forcing him to bend his body in a number of painful ways. When a girl in pink ran in demanding that Yazmнn come to settle an argument, Yazmнn gave Pasco a corked flask and a drying cloth. "Breathe," she ordered, and left with the girl.

  Pasco staggered over to Sandry. "She's a monster," he gasped. He worked the cork out of the flask and drank greedily. "A pretty, tiny, squeaky-voiced monster with muscles like a smith's."

  Yazmнn soon returned, a fiddler in tow. "Now, let's see you dance," she told Pasco. He glared at her, then lurched to the center of the floor.

  Sandry got up. "Wait," she said. "Any dancing, he's got to be warded. We don't want what he does getting loose." She sent Kwaben and Oama to watch the door as the fiddler sat in the corner. Sandry created a circle big enough that Pasco and Yazmнn could stay inside without having to worry about breaking the protection on the room.

  For the next hour they reviewed common dances, ones Sandry had watched all her life without knowing that they had names or meanings. One dance was called "Dodging the Provost," another, "Bird in the Hand," a third, "Gathering Flowers." In that one the dancer skipped in a ring, plucking imaginary flowers from the air. Sandry thought Pasco might use that gesture to pull his runaway power back into himself. She wrote the idea down in the small book she now carried for just such thoughts.

  While the boy danced, Yazmнn had her eye on him, as well as her hands. She hovered, straightening his back, forcing an arm into a more graceful curve, putting more thrust into his spins. "Get your feet up!" she yelled. "It's a skip, not a shuffle. Show me air under your toes!"

  When the Guildhall clock struck the noon hour, Yazmнn called a halt. Pasco's hair and shirt were soaked in sweat. “I've never worked so hard in my life."

  "That's what being a dancer is." Yazmin's dark eyes were kind and firm. "For you it's twice a problem. It isn't just what you do to survive, it's your power. And look at you. You're a fresh youngster, not an old lady
like me, but—," She twirled seven times on the ball of one foot, lowered herself into a split, then raised herself again without once bending her knees. She leaned back until she could put her weight on her palms, raised her body into a handstand, then a split, then let her weight fall until she stood again. "I can do all that," she continued, breathing a little hard, "after chasing my lot all morning and getting you to stretch a bit."

  Sandry took up her warding, trying not to smile. It really was too bad Yazmнn wasn't a mage. If she had been, Sandry would have turned Pasco over to her without a qualm.

  She was just putting her thread away when the lad Wamuko appeared in the door: he seemed to be the school herald. "His grace Duke Vedris," he announced, and the duke walked in. Yazmнn curtsied as deeply as she had for Sandry, giving the illusion of wide, sweeping skirts when she had none. The fiddler, Pasco, and the guards all bowed.

  Sandry grinned as the duke kissed her cheek. "I'd hoped you might still be here," he commented, "and since I was in the city on business, I thought we might take midday together." He bowed to Yazmнn. "You are welcome to join us, Mistress Yazmнn. The food at the Bountiful Inn is very good, and I would be honored to act as escort to you both."

  Yazmнn smiled at him. "If I may have a few minutes to change out of these things, your grace?"

  He bowed again. "Please, take all the time you need."

  Yazmнn looked at Pasco, then at Sandry. "This meditation study you do before you come to me—if you like, I can save a room for you. That way you don't have to meet someplace, have one lesson, and then come here."

  Sandry looked at Pasco. "What do you think?"

  "Whatever you say, lady," Pasco replied, subdued.

  "Then get here at nine tomorrow. We'll meditate before your dance lesson," Sandry ordered. As Yazmнn and the fiddler left, Sandry added, "Remember to do those exercises tonight, before you get too stiff."

  "I'm not stiff at all, lady," Pasco replied. "I'm weak as an overcooked noodle. Pray excuse me while I crawl home."