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Caris would not be a powerful mage, Em said, the morning of the second day. They were a few hours out from the town; they’d arrive by mid-afternoon. The sun lay like lazy syrup across wagons and packs and the long grasses of the hills, emerging from the forest. Em had opted for more female this morning, and was wearing a rich ocean-blue pleated coat over her usual leathers, sleeves rolled up. Caris had opened a trunk and pulled it out, the night before, with the satisfaction of a conjuror.
“I don’t want to be a magician at all,” Caris said. “I’m not you, Emrys. I know what I’m good at. I like my life.”
“I know.” Em gave her a head-tip that might’ve been a shrug. “But you’ll have some foundations now. More control, so you can choose how to use it, or not.”
“You’ve been a good teacher.”
“Oh, no,” Em said. “No, I’m not. You’re good at seeing detail. You’ll want to practice those personal wards I showed you; it’s not a bad idea to keep them up in any case, for protection.”
“I promise to practice faithfully.” Caris poured more tea; her bracelets chimed, graceful and expensive. “When we arrive, this afternoon…”
“Go and make your delivery,” Aric said. “On time. We’ll handle your annoyance.”
“Thank you again.”
“You’re paying us,” Aric pointed out; but he was watching Emrys, dressed up in a present of a new coat, devour sticky gingerbread. “And, you know. Maybe we’ll see you again. Sometime. Around.”
“I’d like that,” Caris agreed, and found candied rose-petal jellies for Em to try.
Sudgarth’s gates were open—the Duke was hosting a massive week-long celebration for his own wedding—and ribbons and pennants flew happily from various houses and signs and posts. They added celebratory color to the town, which did not need it; Sudgarth’s population liked to paint the world in unabashed hues, and most of them had the money to do so, which meant that a rust-orange butcher’s shop sat next to a clover-green leatherworker’s, and the sign for the closest tavern swung in eye-watering violet and crimson.
Even Aric, who had been to Sudgarth before, winced. Emrys, who hadn’t, muttered something suspiciously blasphemous under her breath. “Have they all lost the ability to see color?”
“They do see color. They love color.” He and Em were back on horseback; Emrys was feeling well enough to ride, and they had a mission, in any case. “The Duke ordered that terrible green linen you hated.”
“We deserve hazard pay for this.”
“I know. Where do you want to start?”
“Oh, he’ll come to us.” Behind them, the caravan had arrived at the central square, and Caris was giving directions, standing tall and golden as a statue in the sun.
A few of the townspeople had emerged, drawn by the temptation of a spectacle; a few of them plainly recognized the Storm-Wielder and the Shadow. A murmur went around the vibrant gathering.
“Hello,” Aric said, pleasantly. His sword was at his back, familiar. Ginger stomped a hoof on cobblestones. “We’re looking for someone. His name’s Drefan.”
A few more mutters happened. Aric waited, and added, “We’re interested in talking about bridges. And why the Haver needs a new one. And witch-charms.”
That got silence, and then someone in the crowd volunteered that, in fact, they’d seen Drefan Marr in a tavern, celebrating, the day before.
“How nice for him,” Aric said. “Could you find him for us, please?”
“No need,” snapped a rough voice, and an even rougher person pushed his way forward: pugnacious, glaring, a barrel of a man. “So she hired bodyguards. Mercenaries. A witch.” He even spat on the ground, after the word.
Aric swung down from Ginger. Drew the sword, a song of motion. “Insult Em again.”
“I will if I want.” Drefan Marr scowled at Em. “Unnatural fucking thing. And you, riding with that. Might be you’re even worse.”
“You,” Emrys said, “paid someone like me for a witch-charm. So it seems you find us useful.” Her voice wasn’t loud. But it carried, clear and calm.
The man’s eyes darted around the crowd. “You can’t prove that.”
“Can’t I?” Em also dismounted, an economical gesture that somehow held more flair than Aric’s own version. “If I find your local hedge-witch, your wise woman or man, will they remember you, do you think?”
“I didn’t do the spell!” Drefan took a step back. “He did it! I only gave him the money—I’m not a witch!”
“Ah,” Aric said. “A confession.”
“What in the name of the Three-In-One is happening?” said a new voice, and the Duke of Sudgarth appeared, dressed in festive purple and silver, youthful and fair-haired but with the presence that’d made him a charismatic ruler. “I’m trying to have a wedding-feast.”
