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“Not particularly, but I'm not well-versed in magic. No such talents ran in my family.” He leaned back until he lay flat on the bed, then sighed.
That was little surprise. Magic wasn't all that common. Artisans who took the time to learn to manipulate their unique talents even less so.
They'd ventured down the same path of thought, because he turned onto his side to look at her. “What happens if a Threadmancer doesn't want to learn sewing? Can they apply their skill to some other trade?”
“I'm afraid not. Well, not exactly. There's always some overlap between different artisanal abilities, and different branches of magic lend themselves to different skills.” She gestured with her fork as she spoke. “A Metalmancer isn't limited to making jewelry, though that's often the most lucrative path. They could become a swordsmith and create power-imbued weapons. Or they could become a locksmith, creating locks that know who owns them. Or even a farrier.”
“Lucky horseshoes?” he asked.
She grinned. “Precisely.”
“Huh.” Gil turned onto his back again, one hand tucked behind his head on the pillow. “I fear Kentoria's mage regulations may have harmed our predilection for accomplishment.”
“There are some who believe that, yes.” She swiped her bread through the remnants of whatever sauce had been on her meal and allowed herself a hint of disappointment she was unlikely to have more. Or, more of Jaret's sister's cooking. She hoped there would be more food. “Will we have provisions for the second leg of our journey?”
“I've already gathered what we'll need, aside from your illusions.” He nudged the sewing basket with the toe of his black boot. “From here, we wait on you.”
“No pressure,” she muttered.
“None at all.”
There were no napkins. She licked her fingers clean and rubbed them dry instead. He'd brought no cup to drink, but she recognized his water skin on the table, so she unfastened the top and took a drink. By the time she closed it again, the shift in his breathing made her suspect he was dozing. She slid from her chair, meaning to take the cloak without disturbing him, but he still cracked open an eye to look at her when she reached for the basket.
She took it anyway. “I've discovered a problem.”
He raised a sleepy brow. “With the magic?”
“With you.”
His other eyebrow climbed to join the first.
Thea returned to the chair. “I'm not afraid of you.”
“Nor I, you.”
“Aren't you supposed to be frightening? Shouldn't I be scared? You've kidnapped me, and then—”
“Kidnapped you,” he interrupted, both eyes open now. “You accused me of that before. I've thought about it since then, and I've decided I've done nothing of the sort.”
She blinked. “But you agreed before.”
“Before, you saidessentially. And I understood. We were still in Samara, and you had nowhere else to go. But now? At this point, you're following me of your own accord. You spent half the day alone in this room, after you completed your own disguise. The door was never locked. You are here because you choose to be, Thea. You could have left, and I would have done nothing to stop you.”
Her mouth fell open before she could stop it. She struggled to find some argument she could wage against that and turned up nothing. Eventually, she gathered the unfinished cloak in her hands and twisted the fabric in frustration. “You're taking me to Ranor. It's the only place I feel I have a chance of living out the rest of my life in peace. What else am I supposed to do?”
Gil chuckled. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
* * *
She had but a foot of hem left to finish when Gil announced it was time to sleep. After a long afternoon of pushing magic down her needle, Thea was disinclined to argue. They traded places, her on the bed and him again on the floor.
He woke her before dawn with orders to get ready.
There was little to do for preparation. Gil produced a bag of provisions seemingly from nowhere, which he carried alongside the bag she'd rather not think about. All Thea had to do was complete that last foot of hemming, pack her sewing supplies, and present him with his finished cloak.
“I think you'll be pleased,” she said as she offered it on upturned palms. Folding it so neatly had been unnecessary, but she was used to presenting clients with products in a way that at least resembled professionalism.
He drew it from her hands without touching her. “You are prompt.”
