Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(6)
Mathew’s coffee was also not the best in the city. Even Mathew would admit that the dingy hole-in-the-wall in the Southern Wharf District had much better coffee. But up here on the northern edges of the capital, people didn’t wander in for coffee. They came in for business.
The sort of business Wordwitches like Mathew excelled at—the trade of rumors and secrets, the planning of heists and cons. He ran coffee shops all across the Witchlands, and any news about anything always reached Mathew first.
It was his Wordwitchery that had made Mathew the best choice for Safi’s tutor, since it allowed him to speak all tongues.
More important, though, Mathew’s Heart-Thread, Habim, had worked for Safi’s uncle her entire life—both as a man-at-arms and as a constantly displeased instructor. So when Safi had been sent south, it had only made sense for Mathew to take over where Habim had left off.
Not that Habim had completely abandoned Safi’s training. He visited his Heart-Thread often in Ve?aza City—and then proceeded to make Safi’s life miserable with extra hours of speed drills or ancient battle strategies.
Safi reached the coffee shop first and after hopping a puddle of sewage that was frighteningly orange, she began tapping out the lock-spell on the front door—a recent installment since the stolen cutlery incident. Habim could complain to Mathew all he wanted about the cost of an Aetherwitched lock-spell, but as far as Safi could see, it was worth the money. Ve?aza City had a hefty crime rate—first because it was a port, and second because wealthy Guildmasters were just so appealing to piestra-hungry lowlifes.
Of course, it was those same elected Guildmasters who also paid for an extensive, seemingly endless collection of city guards—one of whom was pausing right at the alleyway’s mouth. He faced away, scanning the moored ships of the Northern Wharf District.
“Faster,” Iseult muttered. She prodded Safi’s back. “The guard is turning … turning…”
The door flew wide, Iseult shoved, and Safi toppled into the dark shop.
“What the rut?” she hissed, rounding on Iseult. “The guards know us around here!”
“Exactly,” Iseult retorted, shutting the door and bolting the locks. “But from afar, we look like two peasants busting into a locked up coffee shop.”
Safi mumbled an unwilling, “Good point,” as Iseult stepped forward and whispered, “Alight.”
At once twenty-six bewitched wicks guttered to life, revealing bright, curly Marstoki designs on the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It was overdone—too many rugs of clashing patterns leapt at Safi—but, like the coffee, westerners had a certain idea about how a Marstoki shop ought to look.
With the sigh of someone finally able to breathe, Iseult strode toward the spiral staircase in the back corner. Safi followed. Up, up they went, first to the second story, where Mathew and Habim lived. Next, to the slope-ceilinged attic that Iseult called home, its narrow space crowded with two cots and a wardrobe.
For six and a half years now, Iseult had lived and studied and worked here. After she’d fled her tribe, Mathew had been the only employer willing to hire and lodge a Nomatsi.
Iseult hadn’t moved away since—though not for a lack of wanting to.
A place of my own.
Safi must’ve heard her Threadsister say that a thousand times. A hundred thousand times. And maybe if Safi had grown up sharing a bed with her mother in a one-room hut as Iseult had, then she’d want a wider, more private, more personal space as well.
Yet … Safi had ruined all of Iseult’s plans. Every single saved piestra was gone, and all of the Ve?aza City guards were actively hunting Safi and Iseult. It was literally the worst-case scenario possible, and no emergency satchel or hiding in a lighthouse was going to get them through this mess.
Gulping back nausea, Safi staggered to a window across the narrow room and shoved it open. Hot, fish-saturated air wafted in, familiar and soothing. With the sun just rising in the east, the clay rooftops of Ve?aza City shone like orange flames.
It was beautiful, tranquil, and gods below, Safi loved that view. Having grown up in drafty ruins in the middle of the Orhin Mountains—having been locked away in the eastern wing whenever Uncle Eron was in one of his moods, Safi’s life in the Hasstrel castle had been filled with broken windows and snow seeping in. With frozen winds and dank, slithering mold. Everywhere she looked, her eyes would land on carvings or paintings or tapestries of the Hasstrel mountain bat. A grotesque, dragon-like creature with the motto “Love and Dread” scrolling through its talons.
But the bridges and canals of Ve?aza City were always sunbaked and smelling wonderfully of rotten fish. Mathew’s shop was always bright and crowded. The wharves were always filled with sailors’ deliciously offensive oaths.
Here, Safi felt warm. Here, she felt welcome, and sometimes, she even felt wanted.
Safi cleared her throat. Her hand fell from the latch, and she turned to find Iseult changing into a gown of olive green.
Iseult dipped her head to the wardrobe. “You can wear my extra day gown.”
“That’ll show these, though.” Safi rolled up a salt-stiffened sleeve to reveal scrapes and bruises peppering her arms—all of which would be visible in the short, capped sleeves that were in style.
“Then it’s lucky for you I still have…” Iseult swept two cropped black jackets from the wardrobe. “These!”