Healer's Touch (2 page)

She couldn’t be found there with the body. The Farries would hang her without question. She turned and ran from the alley, emerging alongside the front entrance of The Diamond Duster, the last of Cheer’s bars to close for the night, and even then usually only at the Farries’ specific request.

“Bit of a rough one, there, lad?” someone called after her.

Llew kept to the shadows; not that there were many Cheer locals out this late in the dark folds of night, but she had no way to explain her blood-soaked state if she did run into anyone.

The distance back to her hovel by Big River seemed greater than normal, but finally dusty dirt road gave way to swathes of tussock punctuated by the occasional matagouri or lancewood. She pushed her way through long grasses and past branches heavy with yellow bell-shaped flowers, now grey in the early morning light, past her thatched, thigh-high hovel, before pulling off her shoes at the stony bank and wading straight into the water, not bothering to remove her clothing. To have any chance of washing the blood from them, she would have to soak them now.

The swift current carried away the sensation of the man’s weight lying over her even as it lifted the blood from her skin and washed it away. It was her blood. It was all hers. He had killed her, and now he was dead.

She had never killed before. Probably because she had never died before. Healing, yes, she’d done that. She knew what must have happened, and yet couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Surely she couldn’t do that: she couldn’t come back from the dead. No one came back from death.

She pulled the shirt over her head, then squeezed it under the water, rubbing it and rinsing it and rubbing again. The cold glow of dawn crept across the sky. And the browned blood could not be washed from the garment. She had left Kynas’ late, but not that late. How long had she lain unconscious – or dead?

Llew cursed and threw the shirt to shore. She only had one other shirt, and she was almost certain it was getting too small. She would have to spend a good deal of her earnings on a new one, or take the risk of stealing more than her usual quota. But she maintained a quota for a reason. After all, she only needed what she needed, and being greedy got you caught.

Already half undressed, she fought with her trousers until they jerked free of her body. They, too, were stained with her blood. Damn it! Clothing wasn’t cheap. She could feed herself for free, but if she wanted to mingle with the general public she had to buy clothes. While she knew how to use a needle and thread, her skills in that department only went as far as basic repairs.

She dug her hands into the river bed and then, with handfuls of sediment, scrubbed the last of the blood from her chest, her face and her arms. Now acclimatised to the water’s chill, she waded in a little farther and dunked herself under, emerging a few seconds later to wipe her eyes clear of water and slightly-too-long hair trailing over her face. She pressed her feet through the muddy sediment, feeling it erupt between her toes, and took the time to appreciate the warmth beneath its surface. Strange how that little bit of heat always remained, somehow not leached by the rushing water above. Like her own sense of worth, somehow not drained by living beneath the flow of Cheer’s society.

Cheer. Named for the happiness the first settlers experienced when they started digging gold. The gold was gone. As was the cheer. But Cheer remained.

She peered at her hands in the rippling water. A man had died at her hands. But she had died at his hands first. It was little consolation, but it made forgiving herself easier.

Her fingers began to tingle and sting from the cold and she made her way back to shore, wiped herself down with handfuls of grass, returned to her little hovel and wrapped her woollen blanket about her. Despite having spent however many hours unconscious, she needed sleep. There were only a couple of hours before the market started. She drifted off, revelling in the aromas of dew-soaked grasses, damp stones, and thyme.

***

The heat of the sun on her otherwise frozen toes woke her. Llew lay there a few more moments, pulling the blanket clear of her legs, savouring the heat and drinking in the perfumed air. There was little in her life she cherished, but moments like these almost made everything worth it.

She dragged herself from her bed, pulled on her clean shirt – which was a little too tight across the shoulders and hinted at the breasts she preferred to keep hidden.

She sharpened her knife on a river stone, grabbed tufts of hair in her other hand and began hacking. The fringe had grown to her eyebrows and the sides were nearly covering her ears. Too long. She cared little for the end result – the less pretty the better. By the time she finished, the sun was well up. The market would be in full swing.

She struggled into the damp pants, fastened her belt, and headed for town, hoping brown stains on brown material would pass unnoticed.

The monthly market was one of the few times the people of Cheer really mingled and paraded. Women displayed their curves with cinched-in waists below elegant necklines, and men wore pressed shirts, trousers hooked up by suspenders, and vests decorated with gold chains and pocket watches. They preened and swaggered, yet still shared the street with the others who had arrived in Cheer too late to make their fortune. The predominant colour was brown in all its shades, with splashes of red, blue or yellow marking either a woman of class or a girl prospecting for tricks.

Llew was invisible among the finery and silent amid the propositions.

She had already collected three purses when something caught her eye. Two things, but there was only one she would be taking with her. That was a knife. It hung from a belt slung across a pair of trousers filled in a most tantalising way by a fine arse. She watched the way the folds of material moved and shifted as the owner passed by stalls selling every variety of produce from meats to baked goods, hand-made crafts, and even entertainment in the form of song or dance. If she walked about with a knife like that slung from her hip, people would reconsider pushing her into alleyways. She was halfway certain the knife’s finely carved ivory, or bone, handle had drawn her eye down first. A knife like that made a statement.

She needed that knife.

Her eyes trailed the handle everywhere it went. Her feet followed, and the rest of her body weaved its way between people and stalls. The arse and knife stopped. So did another street kid thinking he was in with a shot, and anger flashed through Llew. The knife was hers!

Whipping round so fast she barely saw him move, the man bared his teeth and growled at the would-be thief, frightening the desire for the weapon right out of him. Side-on, Llew could see the man’s vest. A leather vest, heavy with smaller knives. Not small knives, just smaller than the one on his hip. She nearly reconsidered her need for the knife, but was convinced she needed it more than the man did. He did, after all, have all those others at his disposal.

The boy stammered out an apology. Released, he ran with absolutely no care for who he bumped into along the way. So unprofessional.

The long-haired man in his dusty black, wide-brimmed hat turned and muttered something to his curly-haired companion. Both men laughed and turned their attention to a stall selling a range of meaty nibbles. Llew moved closer.

It was hard to stay inconspicuous. People divided around her, she was like rock poking through water’s surface. While extra height had its advantages, it was beginning to get ridiculous. Llew was keeping pace with most of the boys she knew, and despite most girls her age having matured a couple of years earlier, she only seemed to be getting taller and a little broader. No worthwhile breasts, though, damn it, just enough to compromise her pose as a boy.

As if to rub it in, a stylish dress with a tasteful neckline cupping two beautiful, rounded breasts, hooked Llew’s attention on its way past. It disappeared back into the crowd and she looked down at her own shirt that hung almost straight down – straight down enough, for nearly everyone to assume she was a boy; which was fine by Llew, really, it was. A girl her age, with no parents, was better off being seen as a boy in a place like Cheer. Still, it didn’t stop a small part of her coveting the chance to wear a pretty dress one day. One day. Not today, though. Dresses tended to lack pockets.

The task at hand was the knife, and the opportunity to take it presented itself while the men were distracted by a clown hopping around with bells attached to his shoes. He jiggled these in the air while he juggled flaming batons. The taller, curly-haired man’s eyes shone in delight at the display. The shorter, darker, knife carrier watched as a fellow professional might: nothing escaped his attention.

She moved in, her hand twitching, her finely honed muscles tensed. Keeping her eyes on the men and concentrating on looking like a casual passer-by to other passers-by, she flicked the domed catch securing the knife in place, then moved with the dark-skinned man as he shifted his weight. She gripped the end of the knife handle between finger and thumb, and pulled: gently, but swiftly.

Llew withdrew back into the throng. She hefted the knife a couple of times and smiled at the weight and balance. There was something so right about it.

She slid the knife into her belt and pulled her shirt as low as it would go. The tip hung below the linen, but it wasn’t enough to give the game away, she was sure.

“Hey!”

Now she was less sure. A quick glance over her shoulder removed all doubt. He was enraged, and he and his companion were pushing through the crowd toward her.

Llew took off, ducking fancy hats and parasols. She spared a moment of thanks for the unusually long legs that carried her through the crowd just as fast as the men following her. Skirting parcels and large bellies, and leaving a trail of indignant exclamations, she soon reached the edge of the market and slipped around the corner of a blacksmith’s forge. Clinging to the wood-panelled wall, she listened intently. No footsteps to be heard. She took the chance to breathe deeply and relax. Being there, smelling the furnace and hearing the clang, she as always felt contempt for the men who’d told her she couldn’t run her father’s smithy when he disappeared. Who were they to judge her ability? Being a girl had nothing to do with it. She had worked by his side for years and was perfectly capable.

Hearing a creak, Llew looked up, but could see naught save the eave of the roof. She stepped out from the building for a better look.

A crouching figure pounced. The sun, suddenly revealed, blinded her and she was thrown back, her head ringing from its collision with the road. Her wrists were pressed to the ground either side of her head. Her vision cleared to reveal a face framed by sandy-brown hair. She recognised the knife-owner’s companion. He was grim, although there was something else there; a hint of exhilaration lit up the blue eyes. She struggled in his grasp, but he was strong and straddled her across the middle. Another set of footsteps approached and then a hand gripped her collar. The curly-haired man stood as she was wrenched from the ground and shoved into the nearby wall. Something sharp pressed against her chest.

She glanced down at a compact crossbow, loaded, and digging into her sternum; she looked up into a dark, scowling face.

If he hadn’t been threatening her, she might have thought he was attractive despite the scars – a peculiar hand-shaped burn under his jaw and a couple of lines through an eyebrow, among others. He had a darker complexion than most Cheer locals, with brown eyes and long dark hair. The wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow across his eyes.

“Well, you’re a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day. Or should that be the other way around?”

“Shut up,” he said. His voice was deep and gravelly though he looked barely in his twenties. He spoke with an accent. Not local, then.

“Jonas—”

“Back off, Al. He took my knife,” he said over his shoulder without breaking eye-contact with Llew. Then he leaned in so close she could taste his breath. “Now, give it back.” He spoke quietly, but the commanding tone made her jump. The point of the crossbow grazed her chest through the thin shirt.

“Alright, alright!” She fumbled at her waistband to free the knife. “Could you consider maybe not pressing that thing in to me? I think you’ve drawn blood.” Sure enough, a little red seeped through the linen. Great. More blood-stained clothing. She held the knife up next to her head and managed to bite her tongue against further comments. She guessed he was one to take care of his own problems rather than turning to the authorities – something that could work in her favour, if she played her hand right. Of course, it could also go horribly wrong.

He grabbed the knife, and, stepping back, sheathed it. Then his fist was in her gut, emptying her lungs and folding her over. He turned on his heel, saying, “Come on, Al. We got work to do.”

“Thanks for the sport.” Al grinned and his blue eyes flashed. “It’s been fun.”

Clutching her belly, Llew watched them disappear around the corner. A punch in the gut beat being hauled off to the gallows any day. Even as she coughed up phlegm and tried to take in a full breath, she was intrigued. They were certainly not locals.

The scratch on her chest stung. She scanned the area about her, then saw what she was after. Across the street, perched in a windowsill, sat a flower box overflowing with flourishing forget-me-nots. Ignoring the sign on the wall decreeing a “Magic-free Aghacia”, she brushed her fingertips across the leaves. They wilted. The pain in her gut eased and the graze on her chest tingled and ceased to hurt.