Runescribe Read online

  When in the world would he have? But Tyri only said, "No employer. I was actually headed to interview for a job." Tyri tried not to notice that wonderful strength, the jasmine and anise scent, the beautiful voice. He ached to know what Rathte looked like but wasn't sure that was a good idea, given how enchanting he already seemed. "I came to the city thinking I could find work as a runescribe, but it's proven vastly more difficult than anticipated."

  It didn't help that he didn't have anywhere near the fancy training as other runescribes. The Clans did not hold with High Magic and all the 'nonsense' that went with it, like runescribing.

  Really, though, they had just hated that he was so blind, had been so for practically his entire life, it seemed. He couldn't do anything without his glasses, which meant he couldn't really perform, couldn't read and charm customers as easily as the others.

  So he'd gone, and nobody had really tried to stop him. Nor had they tried to stop him taking Vess with him. Though they were probably waiting to say I told you so when he inevitably came crawling back.

  "You are looking gloomy again," Rathte said, startling him from his thoughts. "I do not like unhappy guests. I think your toddy needs refreshed—" He broke off as a bell rang through the house, then clapped Tyri on the back so hard more of the toddy splashed out of his cup. "That will be Borin. Liste!" Rathte took off again, calling loudly as he went. "Is that Borin? Splendid to see you! Liste, another toddy for Master Tyri."

  "Oh, you know his name. Did you actually ask, or did he tell you?"

  "What do you think? Stop making fun of me and go get that toddy. And go easy on the whiskey, man. He's half my size and looks like he hasn't eaten properly in ages. Where is the food I requested?"

  "Requested? Is that what you call your bellowing?" Liste asked, though there was laughter in his voice. "It will be here shortly. I already noticed he was skin and bones, and when I told cook, she insisted on fixing up 'something proper,' rather than sending out the usual tray of your 'airy, empty nonsense.'"

  "Are you sure she wasn't describing my head?" Rathte asked.

  "Not this time," Liste replied with a snicker as Borin choked on a laugh.

  Tyri could only listen in awe. His family didn't talk to one another this way. It was something he'd only ever caught glimpses of when he watched and listened to customers. Envy and longing cut through him, but Tyri ruthlessly ignored it. There was no point in wishing for impossible things. One near-impossible thing was all the stress he could endure.

  "Get on with you, then," Rathte finally said. "And I mean it about the whiskey—go easy!"

  Liste made a derisive noise and then his heels clicked off again.

  Tyri's face burned that they'd noticed he'd not been eating much. Did he look that awful? Maybe it was for the best he hadn't humiliated himself at an interview. Maybe the spirits were trying to tell him he was chasing clouds.

  Rathte sat down next to him again, pressed far too close for Tyri's peace of mind. "As promised, we'll get you fixed right up." He patted Tyri's thigh. "Food and another toddy are on the way, as well."

  "Thank you," Tyri said. "You're going to far too much trouble for me."

  "I like trouble, ask anyone," Rathte said, and god, Tyri wanted to see the beautiful smile he could hear in that hearth-warm voice.

  Before he could figure out a reply, a blur sat down in front of him. Borin, presumably, on a footstool or something. "My, my," Borin said, clucking his tongue. "You cannot see at all, can you, my dear? Brace yourself, I am going to touch your face." Calloused but gentle fingers rested on his cheeks, thumbs resting over his eyelids, and then came the soft thrum of low-level magic as Borin read his eyes.

  After a few minutes, Borin withdrew, and then came the scratching of pen on paper. "Poor thing. I'll get to work as soon as I get back to my shop and have them ready by morning."

  "That's fine," Rathte replied. "I'd also like some spare sets, but those don't need to be done so quickly. Just put everything on my account."

  "Of course," Borin replied. "How are your new lenses?"

  They lapsed into conversation, leaving Tyri to wallow in his own worries and fears. How was he going to get home? Vess would be expecting him soon, and Mrs. Tillery would not watch her all night—and he would have to go home empty-handed and blind, and how was he going to find his way anywhere to retrieve his glasses, and he shouldn't let Rathte pay for them, but what choice did he have?

  He was stirred from his thoughts by someone pressing a large, heavy mug into his hands. Whatever was in it smelled divine enough the spirits would eat it. His stomach growled. "You are certainly pretty when gloomy, but I bet you would be prettier if I got you to smile," Rathte said, and the words should have bothered Tyri, too reminiscent of the things Forri said, but when Rathte said them they didn't make his skin crawl. They sounded like he just wanted Tyri to be happy, which was ridiculous, because why should Rathte care? And yet the impression persisted.

  "I'm fine," he insisted. "I apologize for appearing gloomy. You—you don't have to pay for my glasses."

  "You may as well give up protesting because I'm going to pay for the glasses and the clothes," Rathte said briskly. "Now, here is an early lunch for you. A nice, hearty barley soup with plenty of beef and fresh bread to go along, and a fruit tart for after. I never get those for lunch. Cook must really like you, or she's buttering me up for something."

  Tyri's stomach growled again. Spirits, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had such food. Whenever he managed a bit of extra coin, he bought food and gave it all to Vess, ate whatever was left on the rare occasion there was anything left. He pinched his eyes shut to stop the tears and managed an embarrassingly wobbly, "Thank you." But it also reminded him that Vess was still waiting. "It smells wonderful, but my little sister—she'll be waiting for me. I really must go." He tried to set the mug down, but a hand fell heavily on his shoulder, another on his knee.

  "Be still and eat your soup," Rathte commanded, wrapping his fingers around the spoon in the mug that Tyri hadn't realized was there. "We will not leave your sister to worry herself. Is there anyone else, or is it just the two of you?"

  "You've done enough," Tyri said, shaking his head, drawing back.

  "You still cannot see," Rathte said, voice firm, hand firmer as it held him in place. "There is little sense in protesting, and I want to help. Please."

  Tyri sighed but was almost amused despite himself. "You don't get ordered around much, do you? Or refused."

  "Oh, people refuse me all the time," Rathte replied. "I am quite unbearable, not least of all because I am good at bossing people around and have little interest in orders that are not my own. Now then, where do you live? I will send someone to fetch her here."

  Cringing in shame, Tyri said, "Bluebird Street, Building 6, room 412A."

  "Liste! Liste! Where are you?"

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "Our guest has a little sister who needs to come join him." He rattled off the address Tyri had given him. Tyri was grateful for his poor vision for once: he didn't have to see whatever looks they exchanged to learn he lived in the slums. "She—" Rathte stopped, seemed to turn, and spoke to Tyri. "What's her name? How old is she?"

  "Vess, but I call her Vessie. She's six. She's also mute. People think she's deaf, but she can hear just fine. She was just born with vocal chords that don't work."

  "And the two of you moved to the city alone? That is remarkably brave of you. I can barely get by in this city some days, and I have all my senses."

  "I would argue the hearing," Liste drawled.

  "I hear fine. I simply don't listen to impertinent wretches who should already be off telling one of the girls to go fetch young Mistress Vessie."

  "As my lord commands."

  When he'd gone, Tyri could not help but ask, "Is he always like that?"

  Rathte laughed and once again reclaimed his spot right next to Tyri. "Mouthing off, you mean? Always. We've known each other since we were boys.

  S
ilence fell again, and Tyri slowly and carefully ate his soup, not certain what else to say or do—not that he could do anything, but still.

  "So what job were you going to interview for today?" Rathte asked.

  Tyri shrugged. "I don't really know the details, only that it was one of a handful of runescribe positions for a wizard. He seems to be well-known but not much liked. A job is a job, though. His name was…" Tyri tried to recall it, but his head still hurt despite the whiskey, and the name wouldn't come to him.

  "Daleus," Rathte said, voice going hard and cold.

  "That's it," Tyri said, recoiling slightly. "It was the first runescribing job I've heard about since we arrived several months ago." He shrugged again, withdrew, hunching. "I don't know where else to look. Not many people want an unknown runescribe. I doubt I would have gotten the job, but I had to try."

  "What level runescribe are you?"

  "Master. My license and everything else were in my bag." Tyri gnawed on his bottom lip. "Will my papers really be all right? I can't—" He bit the words off, afraid it would sound like he was trying to wheedle even more out of Rathte if he said he couldn't afford to have new copies made.

  Runescribes were really nothing more than highly specialized secretaries for wizards—they could read and write runes as well as, if not better than, the wizards who used them. It was the job of a runescribe to transcribe their master's work, do research as necessary, take notes, communicate with other wizards' scribes, and other such duties, leaving the wizard free to focus on his magic. That runescribes could not use magic was an asset, as it meant they could not steal, sabotage, or otherwise affect the work of their masters.

  "It's rare that a nomad picks up such a skill," Rathte said thoughtfully. "But I guess with your vision—"

  "Yes," Tyri cut in, not wanting to hear it.

  "So what other wizards have you heard about?" Rathte asked.

  Tyri shrugged again, stroking his fingers absently along the rim of his mug. He finished the soup, and Rathte promptly shoved a new toddy in his hands. Despite the fact more whiskey was probably a bad idea, Tyri took a generous swallow, then finally said, "Daleus is the name I hear the most. He's an expert on curses and charms—mostly curses." He grimaced at that because he did not really favor curses, but he favored less letting his sister go hungry, and so he had made himself ignore that element. "Uh—the only other wizard I hear people talk about is one that is always causing trouble, and who has been banned from several houses in the city. I heard the other day he's been banned from the royal presence, but I think that was an exaggeration. That's Wizard Rathtelon…." He trailed off as realization struck him and flushed dark in embarrassment. "You're—that's you, isn't it?"

  Rathte laughed loud and long. When he finally stopped, he said, "Wizard Rathtelon Rediburgh, at your service." He grasped Tyri's chin, tilting his face up to kiss each of his cheeks softly in formal greeting. "I am the troublemaker, the one no one will associate with for fear of what I might do to them. I am bossy, demanding, impatient, scattered, and generally obnoxious. I have been banned from the royal presence, but only because Prince Ceddi is mad at me for making a better dragon than him. I've never kept a runescribe for longer than a week, though I am desperately in need of one."

  "Um—why?" Tyri asked, heart thudding in his chest. He didn't want to get his hopes up. He didn't. But if Rathte was mentioning all this because he thought Tyri would be willing to accept the position out of sheer desperation…

  Well, he would. In a moment. He'd start the very moment he could see well enough to write.

  "Because I'm terrifying," Rathte said. "They don't like my assertive nature and roughshod ways."

  Tyri laughed before he could catch himself. "Like practically kidnapping a perfect stranger after knocking him over? Carrying him upstairs, attempting to strip him naked, and then getting him drunk and paying for glasses and clothes no matter what protestations are offered?" He clapped a hand over his mouth as he realized what he'd just said and lowered his head, ashamed. "My apologies. That sounds ungrateful. I swear I'm not. You've been kinder to me than anyone else in this city."

  Rathte only laughed and laughed. He was so close that Tyri could feel it rumble through his own body, and if not for the combination of whiskey and steadily increasing exhaustion, he might have embarrassed himself with how much he liked having Rathte pressed close and laughing so delightfully. "Precisely. You seem to have more patience than most. Liste is the only other one who can put up with me directly every single day. We grew up together. The only time we didn't spend at least part of every day with each other was when I went off to school and he went into the military. Now he insists on controlling my household. The rest of the staff uses him as a buffer or sees me only rarely, like Borin."

  Though the words were spoken lightly, Tyri didn't think he was imagining the loneliness, the wistfulness, in his tone. "I appreciate what you've done. Disconcerting or not, everyone else in this city would have left me alone in the street, blind, wet, and with no way of getting myself home. I—"

  He broke off as the door opened, and he heard the familiar sound of Vess running toward him. His drink was taken away just in time, and he held her tight as Vess threw herself into his arms. He kissed her cheek. "Hi, Vess. I'm sorry I didn't get you myself."

  She pulled back and a moment later her little hands covered his eyes.

  "That's right," Tyri said, smiling. "They got broken. I'm waiting for new ones. This is Lord Rathte. He's the noble knight who rescued me."

  Rathte laughed. "I was also the dragon who broke them. My lady, it is an honor to meet you. Would you like something to eat? Liste! Oh, skulking in your corner again."

  "My lord," Liste drawled.

  "Oh, stop your smirking. Bring that tea tray over here. Have some rooms made up, if you haven't already."

  "I'm insulted, my lord. I did that straight away."

  "Serves you right after insulting me all day. My, look at all those little cakes. Did we always have these, and Cook has been holding out on me?"

  "I'm sure I couldn't say, my lord."

  "Of course." There was a clink of china and the rustle of clothes, then Vess was gone and, he thought, settled on a chair that had been brought over for her. "There you are, princess. Cake and milk tea, just like my baby sister liked it, gods grant her peaceful rest."

  "I'm sorry," Tyri said, taken aback.

  "It was years ago," Rathte said. "She was a few years older than Vess when illness took her. But come, come, eat up, dear princess. And you finish your toddy."

  "My whiskey, you mean?"

  Rathte laughed. "Just so." He patted Tyri's thigh, then said, "Now, pretty princess, do you know finger language? No? Well, that can certainly be taught! Here, copy me. Good, good. You have marvelously deft hands. There! Well done! You've just told me your name."

  Vess clapped, and Tyri nearly started crying again. The two of them had their own little hand signals, but it had never occurred to him there was a whole proper language. Damn it, he wished he could see her face.

  "There," Rathte said, "now you can ask for tea and say thank you for it. We'll have you chattering like a magpie before the week is out."

  "You just did more for her in a few minutes than I've done my whole life," Tyri said, voice breaking. "I cannot thank you enough for being so generous, for what amounts to no reason at all."

  "Not at all," Rathte said gruffly. "Normally when I run into people, all I get is screamed at and demands for money—which I'm happy to give, but not when people call me names and demand three or more times what the damages actually cost."

  "That's awful. I'm so sorry that happens to you."

  "Well, after a point, I'm sure I deserve it for never learning my lesson about barreling out of alleys without looking." He patted Tyri's thigh again. "Drink up, drink up, while I teach the little princess a few more basics. Then we'll get you fitted with some temporary clothes until the tailor can come and get you set proper."

&
nbsp; Tyri obeyed, listening to Rathte chat enough for two, speaking to Vess as he would anyone else, instead of talking down to her like mute somehow equaled stupid. Neither was it a chore to simply listen to the sound of Rathte's voice. It was little wonder he was used to being obeyed, with a voice like that.

  But the combination of the strange day, too much whiskey, warmth, and Rathte's voice conspired against him, and despite his efforts to stay awake and not leave Vess alone, sleep swiftly got the better of him.

  *~*~*

  He woke to sunlight on his face and jerked up—then remembered where he was, though he didn't remember going to bed. Spirits, had Rathte carried him again? Tyri rubbed at his burning cheeks.

  There was a shift as someone climbed on the bed, small enough it could only be a small girl. Or a large dog, possibly, but dogs were usually rather boisterous. "Vess?" Familiar little hands rested on his and some of his tension eased. "Are you all right?" She patted his hands three times, signaling she was fine.

  Before he could ask further questions, she pressed something into his hands—a glasses case, by the feel of it. Heart trip-trapping for no good reason at all, Tyri opened it and carefully pulled out the glasses inside. By the feel of them, the weight, they were better than any pair he'd owned before.

  Slowly Tyri slid them—then blinked, adjusting. They were…crystal clear, perfect, and he could see better than he'd ever seen before. He pulled them off and wiped his eyes, then slid them back on and smiled at Vess. She clapped and hugged him. He tousled her dark curls, then slid out of bed, looking around the luxuriously appointed room in wonder and no little awe. After years in wagons and months in a shoddy one-room apartment, this place was like living in a palace. Once they left, he doubted he'd ever see anything this fine ever again.

  The thought of leaving shouldn't hurt so much—but no, why shouldn't it? A kind man had given him glasses, had fed and clothed and frankly spoiled him rotten. And for no good reason at all, he was doing the same for Vess.