Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(21)
She pushed past—elbowing him in the gut, right as they cruised by a low staircase clumped with pole fishermen.
A rough jump later and Iseult latched on to the flagstone stairs. None of the fishermen offered to help—they only shuddered back. One even stabbed at her with his fishing pole, his Threads a terrified gray.
Iseult grabbed the end of the pole. The man’s Threads blazed brighter, and he tried to yank the pole back—but proceeded to yank up Iseult instead. Thank you, she thought, straggling up the stairs. She glanced back once and saw blood streaked on the stones. Her palm was gushing a lot more than the distant pain warranted.
She reached the street. Traffic swarmed past, and she scrambled for some strategy. All of her plans were falling through the hell-gates, but surely Iseult could take a moment to think. She was crap at running pell-mell—it was why Safi was the leader in these situations. Without time to strategize, Iseult always ran herself into corners.
But as she stood there, slinking alongside the canal and clutching her bleeding hand in her cloak, she got the moment she needed.
Wide road, she thought. A main artery from town, likely alongside this canal the whole way. Traffic organized in two directions, and a man leading a saddled brindle mare. No sweat darkening the mare’s shoulders. If I take her, I can flee the city entirely and hide overnight with the tribe.
Though returning to the home she’d spent most of her life avoiding was hardly Iseult’s ideal solution, the Midenzi settlement was the only place she knew of that wouldn’t kick her out at first sight of her skin.
It was also the only place she felt certain the Bloodwitch—even if he hunted her by sight and by blood—couldn’t follow. The lands around the settlement were riddled with traps that no non-Midenzi could navigate.
So in a flurry of speed, Iseult shrugged off her cloak, tossed it over the man’s head, and then vaulted into the mare’s saddle—praying all the while that the mare’s flattening ears were a sign she was ready to ride.
“I’m so sorry,” she shouted as the man flailed beneath the salamander cloak. “I’ll send her back!” Then she dug in her heels and left the man behind.
As the mare launched into a fast trot through traffic, Iseult flung her gaze across the canal. And found the Bloodwitch watching her. There were gaps in the boats now; he couldn’t cross the water as she had.
But he could smirk at her—and wave too. A flicker of his right fingers and then a tapping of his right palm.
He knew her hand was bleeding, and he was telling her he could follow. That he would follow, and likely be smiling that terrifying smile all the way.
Iseult tore her gaze from his face, forcing her attention ahead. As she pressed low onto the mare’s back and kicked the horse even faster, she prayed that the Moon Mother—or Noden or any other god that might be watching—would help her get out of this city alive.
*
Merik stared at the miniature Dalmotti ship gliding over the chart of the Jadansi Sea. It showed that the corresponding trade ship was just hauling wind from the Ve?aza City harbors—and Merik wanted to fling the cursed miniature out the window.
The Jana’s Voicewitch, Hermin, sat at the head of the table. Though by no means common, Voicewitches were the most common Aetherwitch, and since they could find and communicate with fellow Voicewitches over vast distances, every ship in the Nubrevnan Royal Navy had one onboard—including Vivia, with whom Voicewitch Hermin was now connected.
Hermin’s eyes glowed pink—a sign he was tapped into the Voicewitch Threads—and afternoon light flickered over his wrinkled face. Distant voices, rattling carts, and clopping hooves drifted in through open windows.
Merik knew he should shut them, but it was too sticky and too hot without the breeze. Plus, the tallow in the lanterns smoked and stank—an even fouler stench than the sewage on the Ve?aza City canals.
But Merik thought it was worth saving money with smelly animal fat rather than paying heaps for smokeless Firewitch lanterns. And of course, that was a point upon which he and Vivia disagreed.
One of many.
“I don’t think you understand, Merry.” Though Hermin spoke with his own gravelly voice, he spoke in Vivia’s exact style—all drawled words and condescending emphasis. “The Foxes strike instant fear in foreign navies. Hoisting that flag now will give us a strong advantage when the Great War resumes.”
“Except,” Merik said with no inflection, “we’re here to negotiate peace. And though I agree Fox flags were once effective for intimidation, that was centuries ago. Before the empires had navies to crush ours.”
It seemed so gallant on the surface—attacking trade ships to feed the poor—and tales of the old Fox navies were still favorites back home. But Merik knew better. Stealing from the more fortunate was still stealing, and promising to avoid violence was easier than actually refraining.
“I have one more meeting,” Merik insisted. “With the Gold Guild.”
“Which will fail as all your other meetings have. I thought you wanted to feed your people, Merry.”
Sparks ignited in his chest. “Never,” he growled, “question my desire to feed Nubrevna.”
“You claim you want it, yet when I give you a way to gather food—a way to teach the empires a lesson—you don’t jump at the chance.”
“Because what you propose is piracy.” Merik found it hard to look at Hermin as the Voicewitch continued to croon Vivia’s words.