The woman groaned, curling in upon herself. The ironsong was near deafening, and Mia’s headache bounced around the inside of her skull with joyful abandon.
“Tric, shut that racket up!” Mia roared.
“It scares off the krakens!” Tric bellowed.
“Scares off the krakens …,” moaned Naev.
“No, it bloody doesn’t!” yelled Mia.
She glanced over her shoulder, just in case the ungodly racket had indeed scared off the monstrosities chasing them, but alas, they were still in close pursuit. Bastard galloped alongside, glaring at Mia, occasionally spitting an accusing whinny in her direction.
“O, shut up!”
“… he really does not like you …”
“You’re not helping!”
“… and what would help …?”
“Explain to me how we got into this stew!”
The cat who was shadows tilted his head, as if thinking. He looked at the rolling Whisperwastes, the jagged horizon drawing nearer, his mistress above him. And he spoke with the voice of one unveiling an ugly but necessary truth.
“… it is basically your fault …”
CHAPTER 7
INTRODUCTIONS
Mia pushed open the door to Mercurio’s Curios, a tiny bell above the frame chiming her arrival. The store was dark and dusty, sprawling off in every direction. Shutters were drawn against the sunslight. Mia recalled the sign outside—“Oddities, Rarities & the Fynest Antiquities.” Looking at the shelves, she saw plenty of the former. The latter parts of the equation were up for debate.
Truth be told, the shop looked filled to bursting with junk. Mia could’ve sworn it was also bigger inside than out, though she put that down to her lack of mornmeal. As if to remind her of its neglect, her belly growled a sternly worded complaint.
Mia made her way through the flotsam and jetsam until she arrived at a counter. And there, behind a mahogany desk carved with a twisting spiral pattern that made her eyes hurt to look at, she found the greatest oddity inside Mercurio’s Curios—the proprietor himself.
His face was the kind that seemed born to scowl, set atop with a short shock of light gray hair. Blue eyes were narrowed behind wire-rimmed spectacles that had seen better turns. A statue of an elegant woman with a lion’s head crouched on the desk beside him, an arkemical globe held in its upturned palm. The old man was reading from a book as big as Mia. A cigarillo hung from his mouth, smelling faintly of cloves. It bobbed on his lips when he mumbled.
“Help ya w’somthn?”
“Good turn to you, sir. Almighty Aa bless and keep you—”
The old man tapped the small brass placard on the countertop—a repeat of the warning outside his door. “No time-wasters, rabble, or religious sorts welcome.”
“Forgive me, sir. May the Four Daughters—”
The old man tapped the placard more insistently, shifting his scowl to Mia.
The girl fell silent. The old man turned back to his book.
“Help ya w’somthn?” he repeated.
The girl cleared her throat. “I wish to sell you a piece of jewelry, sir.”
“Just wishing about it won’t get it done, girl.”
Mia hovered uncertainly, chewing her lip. The old man began tapping the placard again until she finally got the message, unpinning her brooch and placing it on the wood. The little crow stared back at her with its red amber eyes, as if wounded at the thought she might hock it to such a grumpy old bastard. She shrugged apology.
“Where’d y’steal that?” the old man mumbled.
“I did not steal it, sir.”
Mercurio pulled the cigarillo from his lips, turned his full attention to Mia.
“That’s the sigil of the Familia Corvere.”
“Well spotted, sir.”
“Darius Corvere died a traitor’s death yesterturn by order of the Itreyan Senate. And rumor has it his entire household have been locked in the Philosopher’s Stone.”1
The little girl had no kerchief, so she wiped her nose on her sleeve and said nothing.
“How old are you, sprat?”
“… Ten, sir.”
“You got a name?”
Mia blinked. Who did this old man think he was? She was Mia Corvere, daughter of the justicus of the Luminatii Legion. Marrowborn of a noble familia, one of the great twelve houses of the Republic. She’d not be interrogated by a mere shopkeep. Especially when offering a prize worth more than the rest of the junk in this squalid hole put together.
“My name is none of your business, sir.” Mia folded her arms and tried her best to impersonate her mother when dealing with an unruly servant.
“Noneofyourbusiness?” One gray eyebrow rose. “Strange name for a girl, innit?”
“Do you want the brooch or no?”
The old man put his cigarillo back on his lips and turned back to his book.
“No,” he said.
Mia blinked. “It is finest Itreyan silver. Th—”
“Fuck off,” the man said, without looking up. “And take your trouble with you when you off with the fuck, Miss Noneofyourbusiness.”
Mia’s cheeks burned pink with fury. She snatched the brooch up and pinned it back to her dress, tossed her hair over one shoulder and spun on her heel.
“Word of advice,” said the old man, still not looking up. “Corvere and his cronies got off light with that hanging. Their commonborn troops have been crucified along the banks of the Choir. Rumor is they’re going to pave the Senate House streets with their skulls. A lot of those soldiers had familia ’round here. So, I’d not walk about with a traitor’s mark pinned to my tits were I you.”
The words struck Mia like a rock in the back of her head. She turned back to the old man, teeth bared in a snarl.
“My father was no traitor,” she spat.
As she stormed out the door, her shadow unfurled along the pavement and slammed it behind her. The girl was so angry she didn’t even notice.
Back out in the marketplace, she stood on the stoop, fury curling her hands into fists. How dare he talk about her father like that? She was of half a mind to stomp back inside and demand apology, but her stomach was growling and she needed coin.
She was stepping down into the crush looking for a jewelry stall, when a boy a little older than her came careening out of the throng. His arms were laden with a basket of pastries, and before Mia could step aside, with a curse and a small explosion of powdered sugar, the boy plowed straight into her.
Mia cried out as she was sent sprawling, her dress powdered white. The boy was likewise knocked onto his backside, pastries strewn in the filth.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Mia demanded.
“O, Daughters, a thousand pardons, miss. Please forgive me …”
The boy climbed to his feet, offered a hand, and helped Mia up. He brushed the white powder off her dress as best he could, mumbling apologies all the while. Then, leaning down to the fallen pastries, he stuffed them back into his basket. With an apologetic smile, he plucked one of the less dirty tarts off the pile and offered it to Mia with a bow.
“Please accept this by way of apology, Mi Dona.”
Mia’s anger slowed to a simmer as her belly growled, and, with a pout, she took the pastry from the boy’s grubby hand.
“Thank you, Mi Don.”
“I’d best be off. The good father gets in a frightful mood if I’m late to almsgiving.” He smiled again at Mia, doffed an imaginary hat. “Apologies again, miss.”
Mia gave a curtsey, and scowled a little less. “Aa bless and keep you.”
The boy hurried off into the crowd. Mia watched him go, anger slowly dissipating. She looked at the sweet tart in her hand, and smiled at her fortune. Free mornmeal!
She found an alley away from the press, lifted the tart and took a big bite. Her smile curdled at the edges, eyes growing wide. With a curse, she spat her mouthful into the muck, throwing the rest of the tart with it. The pastry was hard as wood, the filling utterly rancid. She grimaced, wiping her lips on her sleeve.
“Four Daughters,” she spat. “Why would—”
Mia blinked. Looked down at her dress, still faintly powdered with sugar. Remembering the boy’s hands patting her down, cursing herself a fool and realizing, at last, what his game had been.
Her brooch was missing.