A carriage creaked and rattled its way up the road. The horses that pulled in stepped in perfect time with each other.
Clip. Clop. Clip Clop.
Amika stayed hidden among the shadows. The driver neither saw her nor heard her, she was too good for that. She had spent long hours on creaky floors and between hanging sheets and bells practicing for her mentor, Scree. He whipped her legs with a cane every time one of the bells rang or a sheet swayed in the wind of her passing and then he made her do it again. And again.
The front door opened and Lord and Lady Kalingim erupted into the night with stern orders to “Keep an eye on things” from him and a cloud of sharp smelling perfume from her. The carriage creaked under their weight as they stepped inside. A quick snap of the carriage whip and they were off. Off to some party where everyone minced around in too tight shoes with too tight smiles on their faces.
Lud. Amika was grateful to be spared that life.
When the street was silent but for the hiss of the gas, Amika made her way to the front door. The windows were darker now, one eye closed for the night. She fumbled in the bag slung across her shoulders and pulled out a small ceramic bottle and a soft cloth. She hated this stuff. She had heard of folks dying from too much of this potion. Too little and she wouldn’t be able to finish her job. What Scree wanted, Scree got.
Amika dripped some of the potion onto the cloth a drop at a time. When she had enough she put the bottle away and knocked on the door with a quick glance up and down the street. Wouldn’t do for some nob to catch her in rags on the front doorstep, he might think her a beggar and set the watch on her. She wasn’t opposed to spending a night in the gaol now and again but she had better lined up. If she could finish her dithering and get this job done.
The rap on the door was firm and steady, professional even. A messenger come calling in the middle of the night. When the servant opened the door, Amika darted forward and covered his nose and mouth with the cloth soaked in the potion. Her eyes swept the street and she strained to hear any sound while she waited the agonizingly slow moments for the magic to do its work.
Luckily all remained quiet and still while the old man slumped in her arms. Working quickly, she dragged him inside and kicked the door shut. Amika found a pillow on the chair in the entry hall and placed it beneath the old man’s head. He wouldn’t be grateful for the courtesy but she couldn’t stand to leave him be on the cold floor.
“Third door on the left.” That’s what Scree had said. Third door on the left was where she’d find it, in the gent’s study. She slipped through the polished wooden door and stood in the dark, settling her nerves. She had gotten by the dragon at the door. The rest should be easy.
Reaching again into her bag, she pulled out an old brass candle holder, the handle long ago broken off. She mixed two powders in the recess in the middle with a bit of her spit to bind them together. Soon a dim light illuminated the area around her. One day she hoped Scree would tell her where he got his toys.
Amika looked around the room and blew out a very low whistle. “Fancy that, a room for books and gew gaws.” She shook herself free from the awe she felt at the foibles of the rich and headed for the opposite wall. A painting hung there of a green field dotted with pale purple flowers and trees. It was all very foreign. Nothing like that here in the city. It was pretty.
She couldn’t practice this part. Not even Scree could afford the enchantment like this to practice on. She knew what she had to do. In theory. She was a good student. She could do this.
She set the light aside and closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. In and out. In and out. Time passed, Amika concentrated. The old man would be in dreamland for hours and the rich nobs who owned this place wouldn’t be back until dawn. When she had her focus, she opened her eyes. She lifted her hand and reached for the tree, only the tree, nothing but the tree. Her hand slid through the surface of the painting and it was as like putting her hand through dry dusty cobwebs.
She was doing it. Her breathing quickened and her concentration began to fall apart. The painting gripped her hand, tightening with each ragged breath. Amika snapped her eyes closed again and breathed, scrambling for focus again. Gradually the painting released its hold on her and her fingers found something. Something hidden in the painting.
She closed her fingers around the smooth cold object she had come for and withdrew it from the painting. Amika held it close to the light, admiring the red fire in the heart of the jewel when light speared through the shadows as the door opened.
A masculine silhouette stood leaning against the door jam and applauded. “Well done, my little theif. Well done.”
April 18th, 2010 at 4:47 pm
[...] Initiation [...]