Isaveth watched her step onto the street, where Lilet and Mimmi were waiting. Her chest tightened and her eyes blurred, but she set her jaw and blinked the tears away. Anna was right: Isaveth had to stay strong, for her sisters’ sake. And for Papa’s, too.
She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, brushed the tangles from her thick, bobbed hair, and put on the hat and gloves she usually wore to temple. She’d need to look respectable if she wanted people to buy her magic.
When she came downstairs, the Kerchers’ dog was barking up a frenzy; Loyal must have got bored and started teasing him again. Not wanting to make herself a target, Isaveth locked the door, slipped through the back garden, and opened the gate to the coal-lane.
The usual gang of neighbor children were playing ticktock-bell behind the houses, and the littlest chirped a greeting as Isaveth walked by. But the older ones shushed him and dragged him away. Isaveth clutched her basket tighter and kept walking.
The lane exited onto Grand Street, where Wellman’s Tire Factory loomed with its sooty walls and lingering smell of burned rubber, and wagons rattled over the hard-packed earth. A weary-looking man and two boys were shoveling gravel into the deeper ruts, no doubt hoping some driver would toss them a few cits for the effort. Isaveth recognized the youngest boy at once—only two years ago he’d boasted of being the smartest in their class, so she’d taken a smug pleasure from beating him for the top mark in calculation. But last year they’d both missed more days of school than not, and the prizes had gone to other students. It was hard to keep up if you couldn’t afford books, and even harder to concentrate when you were hungry.
Right now, though, the ache inside Isaveth was worse than hunger. She’d managed to choke down the porridge she left at breakfast, knowing she’d need the strength for the forty-minute walk ahead. Yet it sat like a cold rock in her belly, and she felt as though she could never face another meal again. Especially when she remembered the Lawkeepers’ terrible accusation—that her father had murdered Governor Orien, one of the most powerful nobles in the city.
Yet why would her father kill a man who’d offered to give him honest work and help him feed his family? It made no sense—surely the Lawkeepers must see that. And it made even less sense if the murder had been done with Common Magic, because Papa had never baked a spell-tablet or brewed a decoction in his life. His hands were too big and clumsy for such work, he said, and there was no need to make a fire with magic when he could do as well with flint-spark and tinder.
Though if Papa had done nothing wrong, why had he been so frightened of being truth-bound? If the Lawkeepers had some kind of Sage-charm that made it impossible to lie, shouldn’t he welcome the chance to prove his innocence?
So many uncertainties, so many unanswered questions. She could only hope that Anna would be able to get more information out of the Keepers, and maybe then they’d know how to help Papa and bring him home again.
A bit of paper blew down the street toward her. Automatically Isaveth stooped to retrieve it. AN EQUAL VOTE IS AN EQUAL VOICE, it read. SUPPORT THE REPS’ BILL—WRITE YOUR LOCAL NOBLE TODAY!
She had no idea what the Reps’ Bill might be, but the other side of the page was gloriously blank. More writing paper! Isaveth tucked the precious sheet into her basket and felt a little better. There was no telling whether anyone would buy her tablets, but at least she wouldn’t be going home empty-handed.
A horseless tram rumbled by, whipping Isaveth’s too-short skirt in all directions. But she didn’t have the two cits for a ride, so she let it pass. She kept walking past the repair shops and factories, crossing line after line of cramped and grubby cottages much like her own, until the dirt beneath her feet smoothed into pavement and the buildings around her grew tall and straight with pride. Now the side streets offered glimpses of sculpted gardens, emerald lawns, and the handsome two- and three-story houses where the wealthy merchants and minor nobles of Tarreton lived.
There were fewer wagons and more carriages in this part of town, most of them horseless thanks to the latest innovations in spell-power. She even saw a magicycle zooming in and out of the traffic, the driver grinning over the steering bar while the girl in his sidecar squealed and clutched her fashionable hat. Isaveth was nearing the heart of the city.
Soon it would be midday, and the workers in the shops and offices would step outside for fresh air—a good time for selling, Isaveth hoped. She hurried to the next junction and turned right, toward the looming bell tower of Council House.
“Nine injured in power factory explosion!” A rag-boy strode by her, waving a fistful of papers. “Trust the Tarreton Trumpeter!”
His voice was high and hoarse, but it carried the full length of the street, as did the cry of “Baccy, baccy, fre-e-e-esh baccy!” from a smoke-peddler coming the other way. Carts selling bread twists and iced pudding lined the pavement, and banners of white and blue—the Sagelord’s colors—rippled overhead. Horns blared, lights flashed, and people swarmed around Isaveth in all directions. How could one young girl stand out in such a crowd?
After a little investigation Isaveth found a boarded-up doorway between Sweets’ Tea Shop and the two-reel cinema that looked like a good place to start. She paused a moment, dabbing sweat from her face, then stepped to greet her first customer.
“Good day, missus, could I interest you . . .”
But the woman barely glanced at her before walking on. Isaveth tried again with the next passerby, a man, but he, too, brushed past her. Maybe she needed to be bolder.
“Spell-tablets for sale!” she called out, raising her basket high. “Fire and light!”
That got her some curious glances, but still no one stopped. She had to try harder—make them see her wares were worth buying. What did the ad readers on the crystal set always say? “Best quality! Guaranteed or your money back!”
A stocky woman halted to peer at Isaveth. She wore a gray checked suit and matching hat, plain but well tailored—the sort of thing a schoolmistress or a clerk might wear. “Guaranteed, you say? How much?”
“Five cits each,” said Isaveth. Please buy something, please. . . .
“Hm.” The woman plucked one of the tablets out of the basket and sniffed it. “Fresh?”
“Baked yesterday. They’ll stay good until harvest if you keep them dry.”
“Who made them? Your mother?”
Pride tempted Isaveth to take credit, but the woman might be put off if she did. “It’s her special recipe.”
“I’ll take four, then. Two fire, two light.”
Isaveth could have hugged her for sheer gratitude, but she managed to keep her dignity. “Thank you, missus,” she said as she picked out the tablets. She’d marked the wrappers with different colors, so it was easy to tell them apart. “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”
* * *
Isaveth hoped the sight of one customer buying would lend boldness to the others, and she’d soon have more people stopping to ask about her wares. But though she called and waved her basket until her arms ached, no one else showed the slightest interest.
With the sun high overhead there was little shade from the buildings around her, and the paving stones shimmered in the heat. The passing trams and spell-carriages peppered Isaveth’s legs with grit, and dust filled the sagging creases of her stockings. Not only had shouting left her throat parched, it had also revived her hunger; the delicious smells wafting out of the tea shop were driving her nearly wild. She had to find a better place to stand.
Maybe she’d chosen the wrong half of the street? She might have better luck back at the junction of Grand and Belltower, where Easson’s Cobblery faced Simkin’s Category Store. The thought of battling such a large crowd was almost too much for Isaveth’s flagging spirits, but she had to try. She tugged up her stockings, straightened her hat, and set off again.
It was the right decision. People had to stop at the corner in order to cross, and the traffic was busy, so they were forced to listen to all of Isaveth’s p
atter instead of only a few words. Within half an hour two factory workers had bought fire for their baccy-kindlers, and one nervous-looking woman had gone away with fifty cits’ worth of light in her purse.
As the traffic-minder blared and another stream of people crossed the junction, Isaveth stepped back from the corner to count her money. Sixty . . . seventy . . . eighty cits! She couldn’t buy Papa’s freedom, but at least she and her sisters would eat a proper meal tonight—
Someone barreled into her from behind, knocking the coins from her hand and sending her basket flying. Tablets spilled over the pavement and into the street. Isaveth cried out in alarm, but too late: A spell-carriage had already turned the corner, crushing several tablets under its wheels. Flames leaped up as the trapped heat escaped, and in seconds the air filled with smoke and the drifting ash of her tissue paper.
The crowd panicked. Some fled into the traffic, bringing carriages and delivery wagons to a squealing halt. But most scrambled back onto the sidewalk, only to step unwittingly on the tablets still scattered there. Men cursed and hopped about, beating at their shoes; women gasped and shielded their eyes from the blinding light. Shouting, screaming, sobbing—the whole junction was chaos, and Isaveth stood in the middle of it all.
In desperation she dropped to her hands and knees and began scooping up all the unbroken tablets she could see. One crumbled into flame as she touched it, searing straight through her glove, and she snatched back her burned fingers with a yelp.
“Miss? Miss!” A big hand seized her shoulder. “Come out of there, you’ll be hurt!” But Isaveth shook off his grip and plunged back into the crowd. Her money! She had to save that, if nothing else. Yet after groping in all directions, she found only a few tarnished coppers and one five-cit piece. The others must have rolled into the street or been snatched up before she could get to them. Sick at heart, Isaveth climbed shakily to her feet.
By now the last of the broken fire-tablets had burned out, and the smoke was clearing. There were no more screams, only murmurs and grumbles as people dusted themselves off and moved on. Only a few men and women remained, glaring at Isaveth. She opened her mouth to apologize, to explain. . . .
A whistle split the air, and a Lawkeeper rode up on his magicycle. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, raising his goggles. “Who caused this disturbance?”
“This brat dumped fire-tablets all over the sidewalk!” snapped a man with an oily mustache, jabbing his finger at Isaveth. “Right under my feet. See what she’s done to my trousers!”
“Trousers?” rose an indignant voice from the crowd. “What about my eyes? I can hardly see for the spots in ’em!” And with that, everyone else started complaining at once.
“My weak heart . . .”
“My baby . . .”
“My parcels . . .”
Isaveth cast a pleading look at the officer, but he didn’t even glance at her; he was too busy jotting notes. Fear shivered through her, urging her to drop everything and run—but no, she’d surely be caught, and that would only make things worse. So she stood mute, clutching her battered basket, until the Keeper snapped his notebook shut and the crowd parted to let him through.
“All right, young lady,” he said sternly. “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter Four
IT WAS WORSE THAN a nightmare because there was no chance of waking up. Like her Papa, Isaveth stood accused of a crime she’d had no reason to commit. And no one would listen. Or even give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Please,” she faltered as the officer seized her arm, “it was an accident, I never meant—”
“One moment, Keeper.” The light, pleasant voice came from behind Isaveth, as did the hand on her shoulder. “I was getting out of my carriage just now, and I saw it all. Some lout of a street-boy came tearing around the corner and crashed into this young lady—knocked her right off her feet and didn’t even stop to help her up. He’s the one you should be after.”
The Keeper’s brisk manner melted into deference. He took off his helmet and bowed. “Yes, milord. Of course, milord.”
Gasps rose from the crowd, and people began to nudge one another and whisper. Bewildered, Isaveth turned to her rescuer, a fashionably suited young man with the sleek, dark hair and chiseled jaw of a two-reel hero. He smiled and said gently, “Don’t worry. I’ll set this right.”
A noble—but not just any noble. Isaveth had never seen his face before, but between the Keeper’s reaction and the way the crowd was staring, there could be no doubt who her rescuer must be: Eryx Lording, firstborn son of Sagelord Arvis and the heir to the city. She bobbed a curtsy, too awed to speak.
The young man’s smile deepened, and he patted her shoulder reassuringly. Then he turned back to the Lawkeeper.
“I only saw the boy from behind, so I can’t describe his face. But he was wearing a flat cap, brown trousers, and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he ran that way.” He gestured across the junction. “If you hurry, you might catch him yet.”
The Keeper yanked on his helmet, started his magicycle, and whizzed off. The crowd on the sidewalk dispersed with obvious reluctance, and eventually all had gone except for a broad-chested veteran in the uniform of a personal guard, a stylish young woman jotting furiously in her notebook, and a boy with a click-box who kept snapping images of Eryx and Isaveth from every angle until the Lording waved him away.
“No story, please,” he said, and the journalist looked up with a red-lipped pout. “I did no more than any good citizen would do.” He took Isaveth’s singed hand, his expression concerned. “Are you hurt?”
Isaveth lowered her eyes, too shy to return the Lording’s gaze. With her hair mussed, her hat askew, and her dress streaked with dirt and ashes, she must look a fright. But though her fingers smarted, she felt strangely light and bubbly inside. She shook her head.
“I’d take you home in my carriage, but I’ve a speech to give at the Merchants’ Union.” He dabbed her brow with his handkerchief, then took her other hand and pressed the soot-smudged cloth into it. “Be well, young lady.”
Then he was off, strolling up the pavement with the guardsman at his heels and the two reporters bustling in his wake. Isaveth backed against the wall, letting the rough bricks support her as she watched Eryx Lording go.
She’d seen him only once before, and that from a distance: It was at last year’s Harvest Parade, and she’d been too entranced by the marching band with its stick-tossing drummers to pay much attention to the two open carriages that followed. But it all flooded back to her now. First Lord Arvis, with his massive body and heavy, petulant features, and next to him his wisp of a wife—Isaveth couldn’t recall her face, only the gauzy white scarf that had fluttered out behind her like a flag of truce. In the second carriage rode Eryx Lording, waving to the crowd, but he’d been facing away from Isaveth, so she’d seen only the shining darkness of his head. On the near side of the carriage sat his sister, an icy blonde perhaps a year older than Annagail, while the younger son—the Lilord, as they called him—hunched in the middle seat, as squat and sulky-faced as his father. They hadn’t been the least bit interesting to look at, and they hadn’t even tossed cits into the crowd like some of the other nobles. No wonder she’d forgotten the incident until today.
But now she’d met Eryx face-to-face, and he’d been every bit as kindhearted and generous as a true noble ought to be. Like Auradia Champion, he’d defended the weak and stood up against injustice; he’d even given Isaveth his handkerchief. Dreamily she pressed the silky cloth to her cheek—and started in surprise. He’d tucked something into the folds. A message? She laid the cloth in her palm, opened it . . .
And the hollow place inside her filled up with joy. He’d given her money, a whole two merches’ worth. Enough to pay for her broken tablets twice over and a taxi home, besides.
What must it be like, to be so rich that two days’ wages for her was nothing but pocket money to him? It hardly seemed right, yet at the momen
t Isaveth was too elated to care. She tucked the note into her sash, then set off down the street to spend it.
* * *
When Isaveth left the grocer’s stand, her basket was heavy with apples, while the bag on her arm held a half dozen eggs and a fat loaf fresh from the oven. If only Papa were home to share it with them! The best food in the world couldn’t make up for his absence, and it pained her to think of him going hungry in his cell. But a good meal would lift her sisters’ spirits and give them strength to carry on, and surely that was what Papa would want.
Isaveth’s next stop was the butcher’s, where she bought sausages and a soupbone. It was tempting to add some minced beef or even a small chicken, but they had no chill-box to keep meat fresh, and it would be reckless to spend all the Lording’s money at once. She was standing at the counter, waiting for the butcher to wrap her purchase, when a furtive movement teased the corner of her eye. Someone was peering through the window.
Yet as soon as she looked around, he vanished. Perhaps some passerby had simply paused to glance at the butcher’s wares and hadn’t been staring at Isaveth at all. But though she’d caught only a glimpse of him, too quick to note his features or guess his age, something about him set off a warning in the back of her mind. A tall, thin boy in a flat cap, a blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves . . . and even more unnerving, a patch over one eye.
No, it couldn’t be. Her nerves must be getting the better of her. After causing such a public disturbance and being chased by at least one Lawkeeper, even the cheekiest street-boy wouldn’t be reckless enough to show his face so soon. Anyway, there were plenty of flat caps and blue shirts in the world. Determined to stay watchful but not panic, Isaveth tucked her parcel under her arm and headed back out onto the street.
She’d finished her shopping, and was looking for the tram that would take her home, when she passed the Relief Shop and came to a halt so sudden she nearly dropped her basket. There in the window sat a pair of brown leather one-straps, exactly Mimmi’s size.