14

THE COFFEEHOUSE WAS ALMOST DESERTED IN THE WANING LIGHT of the afternoon, with the morning rush over, the crowd descending for chatter and hot drinks after lunch gone, and the evening’s social circles still hours away. That was why, the day after the second market day of every month, anyone frequenting the Aromatic Flower coffeehouse mid-to late afternoon could find a knot of Pellian Galatines talking charms over carafes of hot, black coffee.

Today it was just Emmi, Namira, Lieta, and a flustered Venia, whose sister was getting married in a week and had the whole family busy with plans. “She wants a huge cake like the Galatines have, instead of baka,” Venia complained, referring to the sweet pastry Pellians defaulted to for dessert. “But none of us know how to make a cake like that.”

“I’ll help,” Emmi said. Unlike the others, but much like me, she had been born in Galitha. “I know how to do it. It’s not hard.”

“Everything Galatine,” Venia continued. “Even the gown. She won’t wear my mother’s veils and sulta.” I had seen the elaborately draped robes and veils of a Pellian bride only at a distance, when a wedding procession clipped Fountain Square. I didn’t blame Venia’s sister—the getup was hardly flattering and could never be worn again, unlike a Galatine-style gown.

“I made her this,” I said, handing her a lace-edged kerchief. “She can wear it with the gown if she wants, or carry it, or wrap the bouquet—”

“Bouquet?” Venia wrinkled her nose.

“Most Galatine brides carry a little nosegay with flowers—for luck,” I faltered, trying to explain a tradition that seemed so normal to me. “The kerchief is a good luck charm,” I added.

“Thanks,” Venia said. “I wish I could have made her something.”

I had quickly realized in working with the women that charm-casting skill varied. I hadn’t known that some casters were naturally better than others, though it made sense, the same way some people are better than others at music or math or footraces. Venia was not terribly talented, but moreover, her skill was less fluid. If she was careful to focus her energies, she could etch a decent, generic good luck charm into a clay tablet. She couldn’t direct specific kinds of luck—health, love, wealth—and she couldn’t transfer the skill into anything else.

Lieta and Emmi could both quickly inscribe a tablet, and Lieta had taken to attempting traditional beadwork as a form of good luck charm with moderate success while Emmi had, under my direction, practiced more specific charms in the herbs she blended into sachets. I toyed with the idea of stitching pouches with embedded charms for Emmi’s blends. It was an interesting idea, but there was no process to test the efficacy of layered charms, any more than one could scientifically isolate whether a charm worked or not.

“I hope it doesn’t rain for the wedding,” Venia continued, interrupting my hypothetical attempts to devise a blind test to figure out if layered double charms would be more effective than a single one. “She wants to have the dancing outdoors, of course, and it’s cold enough already that I think it’s a bad idea.”

“For an hour or so, I don’t think anyone will get frostbite.” Emmi laughed. “A cold, clear night would be beautiful—the stars will be brighter than when it’s all hazy in the summer.”

“You’re used to these winters.” Lieta shrugged. “My bones are still Pellian, and they ache when the weather goes cold.”

“Mine too,” Namira said, though I knew she hadn’t seen Pellia’s shores since she was a child of ten. Yet she still wore her hair braided and bound like a Pellian matron, and I knew she carried lya, religious totems representing her ancestors and the particular spirit of her family, in her pocket. My mother didn’t even carry lya, and we had never put up the larger ab-lyret shrines in our house like most of the Pellians I knew did. “Still, I’d be more concerned about … interruptions.”

The others shared a knowing look, and Emmi rolled her eyes. “What kind of interruptions?” I asked.

“The Red Caps,” Emmi said. “They’re in the market every day with their broadsides. They don’t cause trouble, really, but they have this song they sing and they get loud.”

“They don’t cause trouble until they get into shouting matches with the dhamas,” Namira joked, using the diminutive Pellian word that translated, roughly, as “little old ladies.” I could imagine the bow-backed, white-haired Pellian market women, half-shrouded in shawls, shaking their fingers at any Red Cap who dared block their cart or stall.

“So they’re active in the quarter,” I said.

“Very,” Lieta said. “And it’s our own boys, not Galatine rabble-rousers.” I wasn’t sure if this worried or relieved her. “But they don’t stick around much at night, Venia. I’m sure they won’t interrupt the wedding party.”

“Do you think you could eat charms?” Namira mused suddenly.

“Eat them?” Venia said.

“You know, bake charmed baka or something.”

“What would happen?” Lieta wondered. “Would the charm last as long as the food was in your stomach? Would it work at all?”

“Maybe it would stick around,” Namira said. “Like when you eat garlic and smell like garlic for a few days.”

“Or maybe it would kill you.” All of them looked at me, aghast. “Well, who’s to say? I don’t know that it’s ever been tried—did any of your mothers suggest you do it?”

They all shook their heads.

“Maybe there’s a reason. Maybe it would make you sick.”

Namira stood up and went to the counter. The only difference between the design of a coffeehouse and most of our taverns was the product offered; a barkeep served customers from behind a long counter, and the day’s offerings were written in sloppy chalk on a slate over the bar.

The door opened, letting a gust of chill sneak in. I glanced at the trio of greatcoats entering the coffeehouse. Fine wool, deep black dye, modest design. I looked at the faces.

One was Pyord Venko. It had been nearly two weeks since I’d glimpsed him at the demonstration, but I easily recognized his imposing features. The two men with him were young, younger than my brother. Probably students, I surmised, and both Galatine. If they were students, they were likely noble, though very likely of lesser houses if they weren’t already at court or managing their own estates. I thought I glanced the metalwork device indicating a noble house, pinned to the coat one of the men wore.

They sat at the next table, even though there were plenty of open seats. I considered greeting Pyord, but we were far from friends, barely even acquaintances. Besides, I didn’t feel like explaining my little coven of charm casters to an outsider right now, even—especially—an outsider with an overactive interest in charms. Namira returned before I had to decide.

“All right. This,” she said with a flourish of her hand, “is a coffee with steamed milk. Observe the foam piled on the top,” she added. We laughed—she mimicked the mannerisms of a street magician perfectly. She picked up the tiny demitasse spoon resting on the saucer and dipped the handle end into the foam. She swirled it slowly, pulling just enough of the coffee to the surface to form a design. I watched the golden light form around her makeshift stylus, depositing a trail of light into the foam itself, mimicking the method traditional charm casters used to inscribe tablets. When she finished, an intermingled web of marbled milk and coffee and charmed light rested on top of the cup.

“Now what?” Venia asked.

“You’re not going to drink that,” I cautioned.

“I thought we could see how long the charm rests in the coffee,” Namira said. “Can’t hurt.”

I nodded, watching the design begin to lose form and coalesce at the top of the cup.

“It wouldn’t likely hurt you.” Pyord. I turned to face him, curious and annoyed at the same time.

“Yes?” I said. The other women watched me, unsure of why this stranger was speaking to us, or how he even knew what we were doing.

“I apologize,” he said coolly. “Your brother told me that you meet with several fellow practitioners, and I thought my students and I might observe.”

“It’s customary to ask,” I replied evenly. “We aren’t the surgical theater. You can’t just toss a coin in the box and watch.” A nearly maternal protectiveness flared in me; I was responsible, in a way, for these women. Having someone observing them like a sideshow was never my intention, but my suggestion to meet publicly had led to it. Pellians were shy enough about their customs, having them degraded so often by Galatines, but this bordered on something more aggressive. Pyord and his students wanted something from these Pellian charm casters, and the discrepancy in their social position was making my friends visibly uncomfortable. Their disquiet was palpable—how could you refuse a university professor, or a minor noble like his student?

I trapped my tongue between my teeth in frustration. Why would Kristos tell a near stranger where to find us, and when? It was almost refreshing—I’d have something besides the Red Caps and my reticence to join them to argue with Kristos about tonight.

“Again, my apologies. But ancient texts indicate no ill effects from ingesting charms. Well, they indicate no ill effects from curses,” he said with a slight smile. The two students with him realized a second too late that this was intended to be funny, and guffawed too loudly. “Early experiments with curses found that the worst they did was give someone a little indigestion—though that was just as likely from the ingredients of the potion as the curse itself.”

The students waited for my response. Annoyed when it wasn’t immediate, one spoke up. “And if a curse wouldn’t harm someone, it’s doubtful a charm would.”

“Yes, I figured.” I glanced at the three of them, still wearing their identical greatcoats. “Well, which of you cares to sample Namira’s drink?”

The two students faltered. Venko smiled the joyless smile of someone who is in the midst of a very competitive card game and has just been outbid. “I couldn’t dream of allowing a lady to buy a drink for me,” he replied.

“Very well,” I said. I looked back at Namira’s coffee. The golden light was fading, the design she had created nearly gone. It seemed the charm only lasted as long as the drawing in the foam did.

“Sophie …” Emmi shrank into her chair, clearly intimidated by the men staring at her and the others. My anger flashed again, at the objectification these supposed scholars felt was acceptable. “I think maybe I need to leave.”

“Me too,” Venia said, fastening her short cloak and wrapping her shawl over her head, in a hybrid style more Pellian than Galatine. “I need to figure out how to bake a cake, remember?”

Lieta and Namira hesitated, and I could tell neither was going to discuss the progress they’d made in charm casting since the last time we had met, nor the best gossip from their quarter of the city, nor anything at all, as long as Venko and his students watched them. They gathered their things and said quiet goodbyes, leaving half-finished coffees on the table.

I suppressed an annoyed sigh. I had hoped to talk to Emmi about coming to work for me, to discuss whether her interest was primarily focused on income, or if she hoped to learn the trade, or if, perhaps, she even wanted to apply charm casting as I did. She was right that the unrest in the city was not making finding work any easier for anyone, and the Pellians and others who were not well integrated into common Galatine culture, like provincials, were likely to suffer more than others.

I pushed my chair back and faced Venko. “I should probably leave, too. I have work waiting at the shop.” Not quite a lie. There was always work waiting at the shop.

Venko’s students slouched a little bit, disappointed. What had he promised them, a full magic show complete with disappearing doves and sword eating? That kind of magic was all illusion. The magicians of the Serafan court were masters at the art, according to some of the nobles who liked to talk too much while I took measurements and completed fittings, and some asked if it was possible that they augmented their tricks with real charm casting. How, I couldn’t imagine. Visible magic, I liked to remind anyone who would listen, was entertainment or fraud. Real magic—charms that worked—was invisible to all save practitioners.

“You really should listen to him,” one of the students finally said. He had a pockmarked face; nobility didn’t excuse anyone from acne or the pox. “He’s a genius,” he nearly whined.

“Frederick, leave her be.” Venko watched me quietly. “We should not have barged in on her and her friends. We surprised them, you see. Caught them off guard. I’m sure they’d be more willing to speak in a better setting.”

“I can’t speak for them,” I answered crisply, but I knew that they would be reticent if not outright unwilling—Galatines made fun of charm casters and backwater Pellians far more often than they wanted to talk to them.

“Then speak for you.” Venko leaned forward. “I’ve been studying the theory of magic for years. But the practice—it is not a theoretical art, is it, Miss Balstrade?”

“I suppose not,” I said. “Why study it, anyway? No one can possibly take you seriously. Ever,” I added.

His students sat bolt upright, ready to defend him, but he waved them off. “I don’t care if I am ever recognized for my contributions,” he said, with the flint of pride edging his voice that told me he full well did want recognition. “But if we can combine theoretical magic study with practical application, the gains could be as great as many being made in the other sciences. Imagine if the same rigor could be applied to magic as to physics, or chemistry. It wasn’t until we studied the chemical compositions of minerals that we could create gunpowder,” he said.

“Gunpowder—what a pleasant example,” I said instead. “You’ll notice that none of us practice black charms.”

“None of you do,” Venko agreed, but there was an unnerving emphasis on you. “Your art could work for good, more effectively than it does now,” he continued. I thought of my untestable hypothesis that layered charms could work more effectively than single ones. Though it irritated me to admit it, it was possible that Venko understood more than I did about how charm casting actually worked. If there was science to it, some understanding of the order of the natural world that explained how my charms worked, I certainly didn’t comprehend it. With an uncomfortable thought, I had to admit that I didn’t know for certain that Serafan court magicians weren’t true practitioners or that magic could never be visible—I only knew what I had experienced.

“Perhaps so,” I conceded. Pyord smiled, but cool victory bled into an otherwise friendly expression. He liked winning too much, I thought with distaste. The sycophants accompanying him only intensified my mistrust. The students stared at him as though he were a priceless artifact on display at the Public Archive, an illuminated manuscript behind ropes that they could hardly hope to understand.

Pyord glanced at his students. “Do please excuse us a moment,” he said. “I will walk back to the university alone.” Clearly disappointed, the students shuffled to the door. Pyord smiled at me, as though suggesting privacy could allow us to start afresh. It didn’t change anything. “I could happily elucidate you further on the theories. You, and any of your Pellian friends who have interest.”

Curiosity couldn’t overcome distrust. Though I may have lived, spoken, and managed a business like a Galatine, there remained some latent Pellian part of me, a protectiveness of my craft against an outsider, a suspicion why any non-Pellian would have such intense interest. I shook my head. “I am quite content with what my charms can do now.”

“Yes, I am sure. And to be frank, from what little I have observed, I am unsure that tutelage in theory could improve your friends’ abilities overmuch. You, however—your application is already more nuanced.”

Though I was sure he intended the commentary on my skills as a compliment, it snagged on my loyalty to my friends. “I’m no better than them.”

Pyord’s amused smile told me he didn’t agree. “With a better understanding of the theories, a charm caster could be a great asset to a cause she chose to support. The two of us together—we could greatly assist the aims of the League. Imagine if you could influence the outcomes of this enterprise.”

This again. “I have no interest or ability to assist. And there is a full roster of charms waiting for me at my shop.”

Venko watched me leave, but I couldn’t help but feel that I had far from satisfied Venko’s scholarly interests. He would be back.