Introducing...The Sleightmaiden
What follows is an excerpt from the first chapter of my novel, The Sleightmaiden. For the full chapter, head on over to this post. If you are a current subscriber and want to read more, this article will tell you how to make sure you’re signed up. And if you’re new here and like what you see, be sure to subscribe for a new chapter each week!
Chapter I. Notice
Visitors to the Inn
Sard was the first to hear the sound of approaching hooves, as he had been tasked with splitting wood out back, behind the shed, which had failed to protect its already-generous stockpile from the pervasive damp of midsummer rains. By the time he ran inside to alert Molara, the pounding was audible throughout the inn—the rest of the apparent staff had gathered in the inn’s dining room, whipped into a panic at the prospect of having to host guests so soon after their arrival. Molara calmed them as best she could, reminding her staff of the countless times they had been through this routine. With varying degrees of nervous energy, they returned to their assigned duties; by the time the door swung open, the staff appeared to be bustling about with relative normalcy (or, at least, normalcy relative to an establishment that was markedly out-of-the way from the nearest highway). Still, Molara doubted her guests would notice anything odd, besides the exceptional surliness of the barmaid or the oddly formal speech of the bellhop. That Rusie was no more a barmaid than Molara was an innkeeper had yet to have occurred to any of their guests—but this was a new town, and new towns always brought fresh uncertainties.
A company of men entered the inn’s great room, and Molara immediately recognized the motley uniforms and embroidered insignia of Findermen. These were not her first Findermen, by any means, but she would have preferred to entertain such when the inn was not quite so empty of other guests. Hitching a smile, she hurried across the room; the largest of the men eyed her suspiciously as she approached.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Molara greeted the company.
The man—evidently their leader, identifiable by the crest that Molara spied on his chest, above his standard insignia—surveyed the room slowly, as if he had not heard Molara’s question—then remarked, “Not exactly close to the town are you?” He did not look at Molara.
Bemused, she answered, keeping her tone light, “Not exactly—but not entirely out of the way.”
Finally, the man turned to her and beheld her with a calculating stare, his features inscrutable. “Anyone coming from the city would have decided to move on for the night before they found you.”
Molara tried not to let her impatience show, though she privately agreed with the observation. “And how much more would their relief be, to find rest after resigning themselves to several hours more of riding.”
The man’s brow creased as he studied Molara, as if evaluating her answer. But when he spoke, it was to answer her first question, finally.
“We need rooms for the night,” he declared officiously.
Molara smiled—extra warmly, to cover her bemusement. “We can provide that.”
“And care for our horses.” His tone was strangely sober, as if this was an unusual accommodation for a wayside inn to provide.
“I can see to them myself,” Molara assured him, turning, beckoning Grosgrim over. He had been lingering in the doorway, but he glided toward them as Molara added, “My man will see to your bags, and there is food if you are hungry.”
“Thank you, but we ate,” the man interrupted her. “And we have no bags but the satchels we are carrying.”
This time, Molara was ready. “Then he will take you to your rooms—,” she parlayed smoothly, “—how many will you need?” She looked over the company, who numbered eight.
“Three.”
Molara nodded and stood aside for the men to follow Grosgrim.
“The horses are tied in the yard,” the leader clarified unnecessarily (for Molara would have expected the horses to be hitched in the place that was constructed around that purpose).
“I will take them to the stables and see to their food and comfort.”
After another short pause, during which the man studied Molara, he gave a curt nod and turned to follow his men, who were already moving with Grosgrim toward the doorway. Molara waited, watching until the company was out of sight. Then, with a last, uncertain glance at Rusie, who looked positively morose, she turned and exited into the cool evening.
In the Stable
Molara was just settling the last horse, a great black gelding, when a voice beside her made her start.
“Your establishment has quite a lot of help—but I saw no sign of other guests.”
She turned and looked over the stall door, where she saw the largest Finderman leaning against one of the posts along the opposite row of stalls. She relaxed her body, careful not to let an audible sigh escape, then returned to filling the horse’s trough. She did not respond to the comment as she picked up her bucket and exited the stall, giving the horse a final pat. She returned the bucket to its place and was ready to leave the stable—but the man did not budge, so she returned and stood opposite him.
He was positively hulking, with the broad, barrel-like chest of a man accustomed to physical work. He had a reddish-brown beard—fluffy, but trimmed neatly into a modest curve, which matched his close-cropped brown curls. His eyes twinkled—not with joy or mischief or malice, but with an alert energy that unsettled Molara. He had discarded the vestments of his position in favor of a light tunic and simple breeches, though he still wore his riding boots. The sleeves of the shirt had been torn off above the elbow, and the collar had been similarly torn open, displaying the cultivated competence of his thick arms and sculpted chest. Yet Molara was careful to observe these things only in the periphery of her vision, as she was not inclined to give this man the gratification of her notice. When she met his eyes, he smiled—cunningly, Molara thought, though she wondered if perhaps she was assuming too much, given the paucity of available information.
“How long have you had this place?” the Finderman asked.
“Four years,” Molara answered, as easily as if it were true. She had rehearsed for this question, as well as the types of questions that would naturally follow—but the man did not continue his inquiry. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pipe and pouch. As he added tobacco to the bowl, he raised his eyes. “Fancy a smoke?”
Molara did not fancy a smoke, but she did not wish to invite suspicion by seeming too eager to be away. She shrugged. “Sure.”
“I have a spare—,” the man began, but Molara was already reaching into her own pocket.
“No need.” The man, having finished his packing, looked up, eyebrows raised. Molara held out the silver snap case, by way of explanation. “I have these.” She flipped open the case and took out one of the short, scarlet sticks within.
The man, putting his pipe to his lips, cocked his head. “Cigaroles?”
Molara nodded, flipping the case shut and returning it to her pocket. She pulled out her lighter from the same pocket and flicked it once, lighting her stick and inhaling. As she blew out the smoke, she added, “from the south—near the coastal regions.”
The man looked impressed. He chewed on the end of his unlit pipe, again studying Molara. After a few moments of silence he removed the pipe from his mouth and gestured with it at Molara’s feet, visible below the split hem of her navy work skirt. “Nice boots. I don’t think I’ve seen riding boots quite like them—at least for ladies.”
Molara dragged again, glancing at her feet, as if she had forgotten the look of her own shoes. She snorted at a private joke. “They’re not for riding,” she explained, “—or not just for riding. They were built by artisans in the Layidran foothills, meant to be comfortable walking for days at a time, on any terrain.”
The man’s eyebrows were up again, and he was patting his pockets absently. “Does keeping an inn generally require walking for days at a time?” he asked through his teeth, which were still clenched around the stem of the unlit pipe.
Molara smiled, as if he had meant the question truly as a joke. If he thought she misspoke, he was not as shrewd as his many affectations were meant to make him seem. But Molara was not entirely dismissive; even a foolish Finderman could seriously endanger her.
“Certainly, it seems that way. I am rarely off my feet—even with a large staff; there is so much I insist upon doing myself.”
“Subordinates are only as useful as you allow them to be. I, too, struggle to delegate.”
Molara gave a congenial half-smile, though she wondered how long she was obliged to continue this conversation—her stick was halfway gone, and the man had yet to light his pipe.
As if following her thoughts, he withdrew his hands from his pockets and said apologetically, “I’m sorry—I seem to have forgotten my matches. Could I use your lighter?”
Molara, taken aback by the humility in his voice more than by a request that seemed entirely warranted, took a moment to comprehend. When she did answer, it was perhaps a bit too warmly, given her composure thus far. “Of course!”
“I’m Cantrick, by the way,” the man said, as Molara fished again in her own pocket.
“Molara,” she responded, glancing up.
“Molara,” Cantrick repeated slowly, as if assessing the shape of the sounds. “Lovely.”
Molara smiled graciously and extended her right hand, offering the lighter to Cantrick, who took it and, finally, lit his pipe. He tried out a few test puffs and, judging it adequate, leaned back, settling contentedly against the post. “Molara,” he murmured again into a ring of smoke, as he held the lighter back out to her.
It happened faster than Molara could react: as soon as her fingers closed about the lighter, Cantrick’s fingers closed around her wrist—her right wrist, his thumb pressed to the invisible insign that twisted down the center of her forearm. She pulled back reflexively, but his thick, straight fingers held her in place. Molara’s eyes darted to the Finderman’s face, but his eyes were fixed on her inner forearm as he rotated it slightly away from her body. Molara followed his gaze and realized, with blossoming horror, that Cantrick could see the golden patterns, shimmering slightly as he turned them toward the light. She looked back at his face, ducking ever-so-slightly, so she could see his eyes—and see the glint that flared in them. She stood, frozen, her lips a thin line, her mind whirring.
“What a fascinating mark,” Cantrick murmured, his voice between a rumble and a sigh. Molara said nothing, for she was determined to evade—if she could manage. She could not be sure what Cantrick had seen; perhaps he saw only a slight shimmer in her skin, or a few gold lines. Certainly, he could not see the impossible stitches of pure gold thread tracing a fantastical seam up her forearm. Whatever he assumed or suspected, she would confirm and obfuscate as best she could.
When her silence persisted, Cantrick’s eyes flicked upward, studying her face—though his grip remained absolute. “I have never seen such ink—such a mesmerizing shimmer…where did you get it?”
His eyes bored into Molara, but she breathed an internal sigh of relief: he believed her insign to be a mere tattoo. “Oh, you know…,” she drawled lightly, “…a back room in a dingy shop, set along a dark alley in a dingy city.” One of Cantrick’s eyebrows shot up, and Molara forced a wry smile. He nodded slowly, digesting this explanation. Then he turned his face slowly back to her forearm.
“A dingy shop…,” he repeated absently, pulling the design closer to his face, causing a contortion that made Molara wince. He slid his thumb forward, across the insign, where he left it—and Molara had to work much harder to suppress the sensations that seared her at the prolonged touch. She turned the whole of her focus on the one fact that could help her right now: he did not know what he was touching. “A dingy city…,” Cantrick mumbled to himself. Then he straightened abruptly, adjusting his position (including the merciful retraction of his thumb), pulling Molara slightly closer, which forced her to stoop, so as not to wrench her arm. The awkward position required her to crane her head to look up at the Finderman as he spoke again.
“‘Cigaroles from the coastal south’…‘boots from Layidran’…; you volunteer the provenance of ordinary objects, but when I ask you directly for the source of this uncanny shimmer, the best you can give me is a dingy shop in an unnamed city?”
He cocked his head, sliding his thumb briefly across the insign again—this time, Molara struggled to suppress a shudder. Cantrick pulled her closer still, obliging her to stoop even more, so he fairly towered over her. He stared down into her face through narrowed, suspicious eyes. “What are you?” he asked in a low, harsh voice.
Molara, looking up into Cantrick’s stormy eyes, knew that further lies would be futile. Of course, she would not tell him the truth—but the question itself was too close to the truth to admit a rhetorical escape. The only question left was how blatant her escape would be—and how bold she would need to be to keep the Findermen from following or finding her again.
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