Wild Magic

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The three cloaked figures hurried along the wynds of SouthFslge, Ailiki riding unsteadily on Faan’s shoulder. Except for several herds of young boys stamping the puddles, throwing mud at each other, using broken cobbles to scratch insults and their vaunt-names onto the walls, there were few people out. The peddlers had rolled their carts or hauled their bags to the nearest shelter, the old men and women had taken their gossip inside, drunks and visiting sailors had learned to stay at tavern tables during the hours each day when the thunderstorms swept the Low City.

Near the Wood Bridge, Faan handed her basket to

Dossan, tapped Ailiki off her shoulder and folded her cloak back so her hands and arms were free. Thieves sometimes lay in ambush here to catch newcomers at their most confused and vulnerable; several times she’d had to singe muggers who tried to jump the three of them as they went back and forth across the Bridge.

There was no sign anyone was about. Which was a relief; she’d improved her control since she ashed the man on the Jang, but she never felt sure of her hold on those capricious and deadly flamelets.

Stepping onto the Bridge was like stepping into an oven. Panting and drenched with sweat, they hurried up and over the high arch. Beneath them the River was a grayish-brown, an unpleasant smell drifting up from the muddy water. There were a few coasters tied up at the Southbank wharves, only one on the north side, at the Temple Landing, east of the Iron Bridge. The fish-boats were gone; they were down in the Koo Bikiyar and wouldn’t be back till tomorrow night. It was a two-day trip now; everything near the mouth of the River was either dead or too poisoned to eat.

The Wild Magic came swirling up as Faan passed the midpoint, went shooting by her in a silver-gray arrow; they slipped between the Approach Pillars on the Northbank and spread into a cloud that shimmered a neutral gray.

Ma’teesee shifted her basket to her other arm, made a face at the fine mist at the end of the Bridge. “I hate going through that stuff, Fa. Makes me feel itchy.”

Faan slapped at her friend’s arm. “Not stuff, Teesee. I told you. People. Wildings.”

“I see stuff, I call it stuff. Hunh.”

“Tsah, Teesee, they’re just telling us there’s no problem that end. No STRIKER bands hanging about.”

Dossan snorted. “Don’t waste y’ breath, Fa.”

Ma’teesee pinched her arm, swung around, and danced backward. “Choo-eee choo-ee, Miugi the

Lump,” she chanted, “dump her, ooh hee he dump her, dump her, dump her, dump her.”

“Shut up, leesee.” Faan put her hand on Dossan’s arm. “You all right, Dossy?”

Dossan glowered at the worn wood mosaic of the Bridge floor, shrugged Faan’s hand off, walked on a few steps. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said finally.

They trotted from the Approach and turned into the nearest wynd, walked quickly along it, a few of the Wildings drifting with Faan, flittering about her like flies. Ailiki swung her head from side to side as she trotted along, now and then baring her teeth and hissing at the hovering specks.