The Smoke-Scented Girl Read online

  The

  Smoke-Scented Girl

  Melissa McShane

  Night Harbor Publishing

  Copyright © 2015 Melissa McShane

  ISBN-13 978-0692368497

  Published by Night Harbor Publishing

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Ronnell D. Porter

  Prologue

  Being reborn hurt more than dying did. She felt as if she were being sculpted by giant hands, molded like clay and forced back into human form. Skin grated on bone, bone crushed her lungs and stomach and the heart that never stopped beating, even when it was disintegrated into a burning mist. She cried out in agony, but heard nothing, and wondered if she had ears yet.

  Then, as always, the fire left her, and she was Kerensa again. She fell to the ground, her hands and knees cracking the brittle, glassy crust that was all that was left of the bare earth beneath her. The air felt like knives in her chest as she sucked in a breath, then another, and sobbed great tears that steamed as they struck the ground. She crouched naked and alone in the center of the firestorm’s aftermath. Smoke wreathed her, blinded her, filled her nostrils with the smell of wood and bubbling tar. She pushed herself to her feet, wobbled, took an involuntary step back to steady herself on the rapidly cooling surface and felt her foot come down on something hard but brittle. She kicked it away in terror and revulsion, felt ash stick to her bare foot, and choked back bitter bile. There weren’t many bone fragments this time. Only one victim, thank the Twins—not that They were interested in her thanks.

  She’d tried to lead the man away from the houses, but he’d shoved her into the narrow, dark space between them, and now both were blazing, the fire spreading too rapidly, as if it were a living thing crawling up walls and across roofs after its prey. The roaring in her ears, the sound she could never identify, was replaced by more normal sounds, screams and shouting and the distant nasal honking of the fire brigade’s horns. The thick smoke flowed into the street like drifting fog. Everyone who could still see was looking at the burning buildings; no one was looking at her. That wouldn’t last long. A naked woman drew even more attention than a burning one. She staggered through the narrow space and went around a corner to duck into the alley. She’d stowed her bag here when she felt the fire begin to take her. Her fingers shook as she dug through it—plain rough linsey-woolsey dress, her precious shoes, a kerchief to wrap around her long blonde hair. Someday some urchin would find her bag before she returned to it, and that didn’t bear thinking on.

  She came back out of the alley, bag over her shoulder, and looked up at the burning buildings. The fire had nearly consumed the house on the right; the other burned less fiercely but was still doomed. The fire brigade was taking far too long; the fire would spread to both houses’ neighbors before they arrived. She closed her fist hard on the leather strap and turned away. Nothing she could do.

  Hoarse, desperate screams cut across the clamor of the bystanders. Kerensa glanced over her shoulder and saw a man tearing at the hands restraining him, trying to reach the front door which was limned with orange fire. The man’s screams were unintelligible, but she had no trouble interpreting them. Fire tore at her heart. My fault, she thought, my fault, and she tossed the bag back down the alley, kicked her shoes after it, and darted through the crowd, shoving hard until she reached the front line of onlookers who stood well back from the blaze. They watched the fire silently, with the expressions of people who were grateful it wasn’t their lives being devoured. No one heeded her, just another woman in the crowd, so no one stopped her as she pushed through the line and ran for the door. Another shout, but it was too late; she had the door open and shut behind her in two seconds.

  That brief gust of air made the fire roar. She ignored it. However much air she fed it, it could not consume her. The claustrophobic hall of the cheap lodging house had narrow doors opening off it on both sides, single rooms that would house two or even three families each, and she moved down the hall quickly, glancing inside each room. Empty. Steep stairs that would have been unstable even if they weren’t wreathed in fire waited at the end of the hall; she took a deep breath, choked on the heat and smoke, and began to crawl up them. One snapped in half as she put her weight on it. She lurched, and clawed at the next step to keep from falling through. Eyes watering from the smoke, she kept crawling.

  The hall at the head of the steps was identical to the one below. Grateful that there were only two floors, she crouched low to stay below the smoke and then had to scramble backward as a burning beam sagged and fell almost on her head. She yanked on the hem of her dress, caught beneath the fiery wood, and slapped at the glowing, shriveling fibers to put them out. The fire was spreading more quickly. She climbed over the end of the beam that wasn’t on fire and began checking the rooms, trying to hear human sounds above the laughter of the fire.

  She mistook the woman for a bundle of old rags and would have moved on if the woman hadn’t seen her and cried out. She huddled in a corner, cradling a toddler who wasn’t moving, and shied away from Kerensa in mindless terror as she approached. Fire rolled along the ceiling and crept down the walls toward them both. Kerensa cursed and snatched the child out of the woman’s arms. She couldn’t tell if it was even still alive, but the mother wailed and lurched forward, and Kerensa grabbed her upper arm and pulled her into the hallway, over the beam and down the stairs, heedless of the flames, driven by the crackling and howling of the fire devouring the house. Near the foot of the steps she tripped and tumbled to the bottom, dragging the woman and the child with her. She half-landed on the child, who stirred and began to cry. Not dead, then.

  The woman heard her child’s voice and clawed desperately at Kerensa, who pushed the toddler into its mother’s arms and then shoved the woman to the ground when she would have risen to her feet. “Stay low!” she shouted, though she knew the woman was too terrified to understand her, and crouched in demonstration. She took the woman’s upper arm again and urged her forward, creeping on hands and knees to match the woman’s halting pace. Her kerchief hung loose and her hair fell forward over her face, curling up from the heat. It was going to be too hot to breathe in a moment, even low to the ground as they were, and they still had to get through the front door. Flames scurried up the walls and across the ceiling, gold and yellow and red like autumn leaves. The fire was beautiful and she loathed it.

  The door was entirely aflame now, and Kerensa imagined she could see the heat radiating from the latch and from the iron hinges. The woman reached out for the latch, but Kerensa pushed her aside and took hold of it herself. It was so hot her brain told her it was cold, bone-searing cold, and she gripped it tightly and pulled it open. Fire erupted around her as air blew through the opening and the flames went wild. Part of her sleeve caught fire, but she didn’t have time to think about that, she needed to get those two out, two lives for one—surely that would make up the balance.

  She turned, and couldn’t see the woman for the smoke rushing past, so she dropped to the ground and felt around. She found a piece of cloth, an ankle, groped her way up the woman’s body and found her arm, now so familiar to the touch. The woman didn’t move. Kerensa found her face, which felt blistered from the heat, and thought she could feel breath sighing in and out of her nostrils
. Kerensa’s muscles burned with fatigue and heat, and she wanted to collapse, but she got under the woman and heaved her over her shoulders, then picked up the child, unconscious again, and half-crawled, half-staggered toward the door.

  She was barely aware of passing across the threshold, there was so much smoke, but then someone lifted her burden from her back and she took that as a sign that she could lie down. She curled gently around the child and hoped it wasn’t a corpse she was cradling. A fit of coughing struck her, and someone lifted her head, another person took the child from her, and then she was choking on cold water that tasted of soot. Or maybe it was her mouth that tasted of soot.

  “Damn fool woman, like to get yourself killed,” said the man holding the flask.

  “She saved two lives,” said a woman.

  “Still a damn fool thing to do,” the man muttered. The flask was withdrawn. “Can you stand?”

  Kerensa shook her head. The damn fool thing wasn’t running into the fire, it was letting everyone see her come out. Shouldn’t have done it. Couldn’t have done anything else.

  A great moaning creak sounded over the dull roar of the fire, and a cry went up. Her two ministering angels left her side, and Kerensa rolled to her feet and ran. Behind her, the house collapsed on itself with a crash, and the fire’s clamorous roar redoubled. It sounded victorious. She didn’t look back.

  Her bag was still where she’d thrown it. She put on her shoes, wrapped her hair around her head and tied the kerchief over it, dunked her still-smoldering sleeve in the downspout of a rain gutter to douse it, washed her face with what water was left. In the distance, thunder growled. The rain would come too late to make a difference. She wiped her face with a clean kerchief from her bag, then walked away down the street. Two lives. Two lives, against who knew how many dead. She’d stopped counting months ago. She walked faster, though she knew it didn’t matter how fast she moved or what direction she took. The leather strap of her bag felt slick in her left hand; she closed her right hand, unmarked by the red-hot latch, into a fist. Thunder, again, like the laughter of the gods mocking her. She walked until the fire was far behind her and then kept on walking out of town, trailing behind her the acrid scent of smoke.

  Chapter One

  Failure was a puddle of liquid wax, seeping through the cracks in the blackened oak table and dripping noiselessly to the tile floor beneath. Evon dropped heavily onto the low stool that put his eyes even with the table top. From that perspective, the molten ivory beeswax made a thin meniscus in which the lonely wick, defying gravity, still stood erect, white and uncharred. The wax had no odor to it, but if it did, it would probably reek of his growing despair. Evon closed his eyes, which felt dry and gritty as if he hadn’t slept in...how long had he been working on this spell? A day? Two? He could feel his diminishing magical reserves as a knot of tension at the base of his spine that radiated cold down his legs and up his arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and stood to find a cloth to wipe the table with, quickly, before the wax solidified and he had to waste time chipping it off. The hanging lamps, glowing dimly with spells that he ought to renew soon, cast strange, fuzzy shadows over the table and whitewashed walls. He swept the cooling wax off the table and into his hand, squeezed it, then pinched it into a roughly human shape. Man of wax, subject to his whim. He really had been working on this spell for too long.

  Being able to create a defensive shield independent of his body had turned out to be the easy part. Making it flame resistant, heat resistant, was proving more difficult. He refused to think it might be impossible; Miss Elltis was not paying him for impossible. And if he didn’t find a solution soon, she wouldn’t be paying him at all. He threw the wax-smeared cloth toward the dustbin and picked up the palm-sized ceramic tile from the center of the table. Wax had puddled in the grooves of the runes he’d carved on it, and he lit one of the dozens of candles in the room and heated the tile in the flame until the wax ran like oil off its surface, then took it over to one of the tall windows that let in the cold blue winter daylight and held it up to examine it. Perhaps the rune was wrong. He’d tried everything else. Silica glass bell, so the shield would manifest at a distance. Ceramic tile for fire resistance, and he couldn’t think of anything more symbolic than that. And presadi was the standard command word to shape magic into any shield. It had to be the rune.

  He threw the tile after the wax-coated cloth and heard it clatter across the floor instead. Nothing he’d thrown at the dustbin in the last four hours had come anywhere near it. He must be tiring. He eyed the cot in the corner of the room. No. He wasn’t yet so tired as to sleep before he discovered the secret, and he was running out of time. It had to be the rune. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe the rune needed to be simpler, not more complicated.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Evon, startled, reached up to straighten the neckcloth he wasn’t wearing. Miss Elltis had strong opinions about the behavior and attire of the magicians belonging to her cooperative, and finding Evon in his shirtsleeves with, he suddenly realized, a thin film of ash and copper chalk dust coating said shirtsleeves would prompt her to make one of those subtly cutting remarks that reminded the recipient that she was first among equals, even if Evon was more equal than most.

  “I must say, Lore, I didn’t expect to find you quite so disheveled,” Piercy Faranter said, pushing the door open with his hawk-headed walking stick. He’d started carrying the thing when he was twenty-one, probably in an effort to look more mature than his youthful face suggested, and in the last three years Evon had come to think of it as an extension of his body. “I had the impression that professional magicianing—is that a word? Well, it is now—was rather cleaner than being a chimney sweep.” He sniffed dramatically and held a linen handkerchief to his nose. “And it’s rather more...fragrant...than I would have imagined. When did you last bathe?”

  Evon sat down on the stool again, realized he was looking up his friend’s nostrils, and stood back up. “Piercy. What in the Twins’ names are you doing here?”

  “I’m crushed, dear fellow, crushed indeed. Can a man not visit an old friend at his place of employment without being greeted with such dismay?” He tucked his handkerchief back into the pocket of his elegant maroon waistcoat, straightened the front of his equally elegant black frock coat, and gave Evon a look of sorrow that on his long face looked more comical than injured.

  “I’m working on confidential government research—visitors aren’t allowed. I wonder that you were able to pass the doorkeeper. Tell me you didn’t bribe him.”

  “Merely a trifle. Besides, I told him I was on official government business. I have the most brilliant secretive gaze, you know. Gets me into so many places.” He winked, his brown eyes merry as always.

  Evon picked at the wax that, despite his best efforts, had coated the table with a thin veneer. After hundreds of tests, that was to be expected. “If I don’t solve this problem soon, we’ll lose our contract. I’m very busy.”

  “Yes,” Piercy drawled, and poked Evon in the sternum with the head of his stick. “I inquired at your home. Your mother informed me that you’ve been ‘very busy’ for several days now. Haven’t slept in your own bed for a week, I believe was her precise wording. I heard in her unspoken plaint a clear message to me. It was a message that said, ‘Piercy, your old friend Evon Lorantis has once again chained himself to his desk, possibly not metaphorically, and it is your duty, nay, your Gods-given responsibility to free him from his shackles, possibly not metaphorically, and ensure that he cleans himself up and eats something more nourishing than the hunk of cheese he has stowed in a bag hanging out of his window.’”

  Evon glanced at the window. “There’s bread too,” he said defensively.

  “You have the most distressing tendency to become wrapped up in your work these days,” Piercy said. “What are you doing that is so important you forgot to keep your appointment to dine with me?”

  Evan’s stomach sank. “That wasn’t today, was it?”
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  “It was two days ago, and I was deeply wounded. Well. In truth I was merely put out a bit, since I have known you since we were both ten years old and I’m accustomed to your little quirks.” Piercy looked around for a chair, dusted its seat with the same dove-white handkerchief, and sat. “In all seriousness, Evon, I’m concerned for you. You can’t possibly do your best work if you push yourself past breaking, and based on what I see before me, you are very close to breaking.”

  “I’m very close to succeeding, Piercy, I’ve almost figured this out! A fireproof, heatproof shield! Think how much it will mean to the war effort!”

  “And I’m sure the Despot of Balviros trembles in his sweaty boots to know it, but a day’s rest isn’t going to change the course of the war. You need food, you need sleep, and you need something else to think about to give your prodigious brain time to recover.” Piercy removed a sheaf of papers from inside the greatcoat draped over his arm and slapped them against Evon’s chest. Evon reached out to take them automatically, turned them over and nearly dropped them.

  “These are restricted-access government documents! Piercy—”

  “You can thank me later, Lore.”

  “From inside my prison cell? Or will I be sharing one with you?”

  “I have my superior’s tacit permission to show this to you. He may be under the impression that you’re somewhat older than you are and have a quarter-century’s experience in all things magical, but I couldn’t exactly tell him that my ‘specialist’ has barely a quarter-century’s experience in life and is a junior member of a magicians’ cooperative.”

  Evon squared the pages without looking at them, as if they carried some contagion transmitted through the eyes. “Why didn’t you take them to an experienced magician?”