Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(7)
Safi’s lips crooked up. The jackets were standard attire for all Guild apprentices—and these two in particular were trophies from the girls’ first holdup.
“I still maintain,” Safi declared, “that we should’ve taken more than just their jackets when we left them tied up in the storeroom.”
“Yes, well, next time someone ruins a silk shipment and blames you, Saf, I promise we’ll take more than just their jackets.” Iseult tossed the black wool to Safi, who swooped it from the air.
As she hastily tore off her clothes, Iseult settled on the edge of her cot, lips pursed to one side. “I’ve been thinking,” she began evenly. “If that Bloodwitch is really after us, then maybe the Silk Guildmaster could protect you. He’s your technical guardian after all, and you do live in his guest room.”
“I don’t think he’ll harbor a fugitive.” Safi’s face tightened with a wince. “It wouldn’t be right to drag Guildmaster Alix into this anyway. He’s always been so kind to me, and I’d hate to repay him with trouble.”
“All right,” Iseult said, her expression unchanging. “My next plan involves the Hell-Bards. They’re in Ve?aza City for the Truce Summit, right? To protect the Cartorran Empire? Maybe you could appeal to them for help since your uncle used to be one—and I doubt even the Dalmotti guards would be stupid enough to cross a Hell-Bard.”
Safi’s wince only deepened at that idea. “Uncle Eron was a dishonorably discharged Hell-Bard, Iz. The entire Hell-Bard Brigade now hates him, and Emperor Henrick hates him even more.” She snorted, a disdainful sound that skittered off the walls and rattled in her belly. “To make it worse, the Emperor is looking for any excuse to hand over my title to one of his slimy sycophants. I’m sure that holding up a Guildmaster is sufficient reason to do so.”
For most of Safi’s childhood, her uncle had trained her like a soldier and treated her like one too—whenever he’d been sober enough to pay attention, at least. But when Safi had turned twelve, Emperor Henrick had decided it was time for Safi to come to the Cartorran capital for her education. What does she know of leading farmers or organizing a harvest? Henrick had bellowed at Uncle Eron, while Safi had waited, small and silent, behind him. What experience does Safiya have running a household or paying tithes?
It was that last concern—the paying of exorbitant Cartorran taxes—that had Emperor Henrick the most concerned. With all of the nobility wrapped around his ring-clad fingers, he wanted to ensure he had Safi ensnared too.
But Henrick’s attempt to nab one more loyal domna had fallen apart, for Uncle Eron hadn’t sent Safi to study in Praga with all the other young nobles. Instead, Eron had packed her off to the south, to the Guildmasters and tutors of Ve?aza City.
It was the first and last time Safi had ever felt anything like gratitude for her uncle.
“In that case,” Iseult said, tone final and shoulders sagging, “I think we’ll have to leave the city. We can hole up … somewhere until all of this blows over.”
Safi bit her lip. Iseult made it sound so easy to “hole up somewhere,” but the reality was that Iseult’s clear Nomatsi ancestry made her a target wherever she went.
The one time the girls had tried leaving Ve?aza City, to visit a friend nearby, they’d barely made it back home.
Of course, the three men in the tavern who’d decided to attack Iseult had never made it back home at all. At least not with intact femurs.
Safi stomped to the wardrobe and wrenched it open, pretending the handle was the Chiseled Cheater’s nose. If she ever—ever—saw that bastard again, she was going to break every bone in his blighted body.
“Our best bet,” Iseult went on, “will be the Southern Wharf District. The Dalmotti trade ships are berthed there, and we might be able to get passage in exchange for work. Do you need anything from Guildmaster Alix’s?”
At Safi’s headshake, Iseult continued. “Good. Then we’ll leave notes for Habim and Mathew explaining everything. Then … I guess we’ll … leave.”
Safi stayed silent as she towed out a golden gown. Her throat was too tight for words. Her stomach spinning too hard.
It was then, as Safi fastened the ten million wooden buttons and Iseult tied a pale gray scarf around her head, that a knocking burst out through the shop.
“Ve?aza City Guard!” came a muffled voice. “Open up! We saw you break in!”
Iseult sighed—a sound of such long, long suffering.
“I know,” Safi growled, sliding the last button in place. “You told me so.”
“Just so long as you’re aware.”
“Like you’ll ever let me forget?”
Iseult’s lips twitched with a smile, but it was a false attempt—and Safi didn’t need her Truthwitchery to see that.
As the girls tugged on their scratchy apprentice jackets, the guard started his bellowing again. “Open up! There’s only one way in or out of this shop!”
“Not true,” Safi inserted.
“We won’t hesitate to use force!”
“And nor will we.” At a nod from her Threadsister, Safi scooted to Iseult’s bed. Then they both dragged the cot toward the door. Wooden feet groaned, and soon enough they had it heaved on its side to form a barricade—one they knew worked well, for this was hardly the first time Safi and Iseult had been forced to sneak out.