of the many indignities Nyctasia had suffered in exile, this was the crowning outrage. It was past believing that she, a lady of the rank of Rhaicime, could be thrown into a prison cell with the riffraff of the city. She was only thankful that it was too dark to see her filthy surroundings. Fastidious by nature, she hardly dared breathe the foul air.
Corson would have enjoyed Nyctasia’s discomfiture if she had not been so wretched herself. She’d been in prison many times, during her frequently lawless career, but she could never resign herself to confinement. She paced back and forth, cursing, as the other prisoners scrambled to get out of her way.
Helplessness always frightened Corson more than danger, and her fear took the form of unfocused rage.
The man she’d attacked had simply been thrown into the cell with them; no one had troubled to discover who was to blame for the brawl. He lay huddled in the dirty straw, and Nyctasia knelt over him, tending to his injuries. Fearing that his collarbone was broken, she unlaced his shirt and removed the leather pouch he wore around his neck, then felt gently along his shoulder. He groaned faintly without opening his eyes.
Looking at him, Corson remembered the time he’d robbed her and Nyctasia just after their escape from Rhostshyl. He and his fellow thieves had not only taken Corson’s prized golden earrings, but had taunted her with her helplessness as well. Corson had felt shamed at her defeat, though she knew she was hopelessly outnumbered, She did not have a forgiving nature, and she never forgot an injury. She would gladly have taken out her panic on the thief now, but he was plainly not fair game for a fight. She stood over him, glowering, and stifled a desire to kick him.
“Stay away from him, you stupid savage!” Nyctasia hissed. “I don’t mean to be hanged for murder to satisfy your bloodlust. Let him be!”
“But-but that’s the rutting whoreson who robbed us-he was the ringleader, you remember! They should hang him.”
Nyctasia stared at her. “That is why you tried to beat him to death-for the loss of a few coins and some trumpery jewelry? That is why I am in this reeking dunghole?”
There was some whistling and jeering from the drunks and pickpockets who shared the cell with them.
“Make way for Her Ladyship-”
“Clean linen for Her Majesty here!”
Nyctasia clenched her teeth, her fine features hard with rage, but in a moment she had mastered her anger. It was not like her to give herself away. She stood and faced her fellow prisoners, suddenly seeming to become a completely different person. Corson had seen these masquerades of Nyctasia’s before, but they always caught her unawares.
“Now I leave it to you!” Nyctasia cried. “This great lummox is supposed to perform feats of strength to draw a crowd, so I can pick their pockets-and what does she do but start a fight in the middle of the marketplace! And here we are!
What’s to be done with a dunce like that?” She ended her performance with a remarkably ill-bred laugh, which the others echoed.
“Cut her throat,” someone offered.
“Get rid of the dolt-I’ll go partners with you.”
There were other suggestions of a coarser sort, but Corson was in no mood to bandy words, “I’ll serve the next who laughs just as I served that one,” she threatened, pointing at the hapless thief. No one took up her challenge.
She turned back to Nyctasia, who was once again kneeling beside the thief. “It may have been a few coins to a wealthy lady,” Corson muttered, “but it was a rutting fortune for the likes of me.”
“However much it was, it’s not worth hanging for!”
Corson looked uneasy. “He’s not really like to die, is he?”
“No thanks to you if he doesn’t. He has broken ribs.”
“Well, why don’t you use your witchery to heal him then?” said Corson, lowering her voice. “You always say that healing-spells are simple to do.”
“They are simple, but they’re not easy. To heal, you must first be whole yourself-”
Corson foresaw another of Nyctasia’s learned lectures. “Don’t explain it, just do it!”
“If you’d keep out of my way, I could get on with it! Keep everyone away from me!” She glared until Corson had retreated a few paces.
Leaning over the thief, Nyctasia laid her hand over his heart, murmuring something ceaselessly to herself. To Corson, she seemed to be somehow drawing ever farther away, though she remained still as a figure of carven stone. Corson knew that Nyctasia’s trance would take her deep into the realm of the vahn.
Watching her, Corson could almost feel that it was she herself who was stranded on the shore of a dream, while Nyctasia entered into the waking world.
Corson shook herself abruptly. Magic! she thought, and spat.