There was a large straw mat placed squarely on the floor at the other side of the door. Kaddie stood at its center while rain dripped from the hem of her sodden coat. The light was low but she saw enough to determine that she was standing inside a large, fully stocked dispensary. Directly ahead stood the counter, and behind it the walls were covered in shelves crammed with all manner of containers, their contents undetermined in the gloom. A strong scent of hethermint drifted about the room, most welcoming after the smell she had encountered outside the city gates.

  The young man who’d opened the door beckoned. She could see little of him as she followed him through the dispensary and into a short passageway.

  “You’re late,” he said. “He won’t like that.”

  In no mood for a scolding, Kaddie’s irritability entertained the notion of beating him senseless with her heavy bag. “Sorry,” she mumbled. There had been no time specified in recent correspondence, simply the day, and it wasn’t even time for dinner.

  Behind the dispensary was a large kitchen dominated by two long preparation tables. Here, two older women were in the middle of peeling and chopping a huge stack of bark. They nodded briefly toward her as she stared in astonishment at what lay on the nearest table, before glancing at one another and getting back to work. Behind them, a robust fire crackled in the hearth and she saw steam rising from a huge cauldron of water. Sheets of gauze were hanging from the ceiling, drying in the heat, and there was an old gray cat curled up as close to the hearth as it could possibly get without bursting into flames.

  “That’s strifefire,” she said. The bark’s scent was unmistakable. It was a rare commodity and she had never seen so much gathered together in one place. One of the women glanced up from her work, giving her a look that told her she wasn’t particularly impressed with Kaddie’s declaration.

  “You can leave your coat and your bag here,” the young man said. In the firelight she could see he had dark, wavy hair, much like her own, but it was glued to his scalp as if he had also been outside and had got caught in the rain. Slightly taller, he didn’t look much older than her eighteen years, either.

  She felt the beginnings of a headache and wished she was back inside the carriage and heading home with her mother. Thankfully, her coat had stopped dripping, and after removing her outer garments and hanging them on a nearby hook, she followed him up a narrow staircase.

  “I’m Torrell Voldan,” he said, part way up, “Poisoner Robles’ assistant.” He was ahead of her on the stairs, blocking out the light, but she saw enough of his face to suggest he was wary of her, as if she might leap forward and bite him, which was ridiculous.

  Alas, in her current mood she was in no position to set him at ease and therefore, “Hi,” was all she could manage.

  Up the stairs, across a dark, unlit hall, they subsequently entered one of the untidiest rooms she had ever seen. It was choked with furniture—chairs, tables, side tables—and each piece was piled high with books, scrolls, bottles, and other items of poisoner paraphernalia. At its far side was a hearth containing a robust fire, and standing alongside it was a tall, broad-shouldered man with clipped, snowy-white hair. Immediately, her anxiousness returned, making her throat tight and her heart pound inside her chest.

  Her companion cleared his throat. “Poisoner Matthen Robles,” he announced.

  “Miss Loxton, I presume?” Robles’ voice was deeper than expected and carried a mischievous lilt. Was this the man whom her grandmother had described as a fraud? Somehow, it didn’t seem to fit. Most of the fraudsters back home hid their lack of knowledge by cultivating an aura of strangeness and mystery which invariably reflected in their facial hair and clothing. In fact, she had been a little worried on that score, as to whether or not she would have to subscribe to similar affectations, depending on her new employer’s whims. However, he was dressed in a fine linen shirt and pants, a well-cut velvet vest, and wore so many gold rings on his fingers he would have her believe he was a nobleman.

  “Yes,” she said, and inclined her head. It seemed to be the polite thing to do.

  “The one who sent me those beautifully illustrated journals?”

  “My mother sent them.”

  “Hmm.”

  Her eyes returned to the gold rings and the fingers that bore them. There were no stains to tarnish the flesh. His fingernails were spotless. Whereas she’d had to scrub her hands mercilessly before setting off for the city, and had only managed to render them part way clean. But that was to be expected. Frequent handling of the materials of her trade invariably resulted in badly stained fingers.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  To her horror she realized she was staring. She raised her eyes, but it was too late. He’d already noticed her illicit inspection.

  Robles smiled. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Torrell, do the honors.” He waved regally. “Take a seat, Miss Loxton, if you can find one.”

  She discovered a three-legged footstool alongside an armchair piled high with books. It wobbled beneath her as she sat. The sodden fibers of her dress succumbed to the heat from the fire and water began to evaporate from her shoulders. She felt untidy, miserable, and was convinced she was giving her new employer the wrong impression.

  “The journals suggest significant schooling. Where did you learn such things?”

  “Shadow Valley has supplied remedies to the city and its outlying areas for over two hundred years.”

  “Are we to surmise then, that everyone in your community has similar expertise? Are there dozens of you with skills such as yours?”

  “I’m sure—”

  “Ah, no matter. Here is the tea.”

  The young man named Torrell rejoined them, carrying a tray containing a battered metal teapot and a single mismatched cup and saucer. By all accounts she was to drink alone.

  “Well, let’s hope we city-dwellers can still teach you a thing or two,” Robles said. He smiled magnanimously as Torrell poured tea into the cup with a shaking hand.

  Kaddie frowned as she raised the cup to her lips. There was a strong smell of hethermint, along with a faint, underlying scent she couldn’t quite place. Putting it down to the local water, she took a large sip, realized how thirsty she was, and was prepared to down the entire cup when her innards fluttered. She dropped the cup and fell forward onto her knees. “Maiden’s fingers,” she croaked.

  Torrell was immediately at her side. Somehow, he’d produced a small bucket out of nowhere, and without further ado, Kaddie threw up the tea along with whatever else had been churning inside her stomach.

  “Your first lesson,” Robles began, “particularly for a country lump such as yourself, is to trust no one in this city.” He crouched alongside her while she continued to heave. “Tell me what it is. Come on, girl.” He hammered his fist repeatedly on the floor. “With what did I poison you? Tell me.”

  He had to wait until she had finished convulsing. “Mallowbright,” she gasped. “I thought I detected something, but—” She leaned over the bucket once more.

  Robles regained his feet and returned to the fire. “In my employ you’ll be required to visit places of questionable repute and interact with a number of difficult people, some of whom will consider robbing you blind, not to mention stabbing you in the back, a perfectly natural part of doing business in this city.”

  Air scraped by her throat as she took in a breath. “You think—you think I can’t take care myself?”

  She heard him laugh. “Welcome to Terohas, girl. Torrell, get her up to her room before she starts soiling herself, there’s a good man.”

  Her surroundings spun. She felt Torrell’s fumbling fingers pressing awkwardly into her shoulders as he pulled her upright. Under normal circumstances she would have insisted on standing unaided, but abruptly it became important to focus on her breathing instead.

  Together, they made an unruly pair as they ascended two more flights of stairs, she of the unsteady feet, while Torrell supported her with one hand while carrying the bucket with the other.

  They entered a tiny attic room. A single lantern quivered at the center of a small table, threatening to plunge the immediate surroundings into darkness at any moment.

  “Water,” she croaked, dropping to her knees on a bare wooden floor. She grabbed the bucket.

  “There’s some on the night stand. Will you be okay?”

  “I’ve… felt better.” She drew air into her lungs, nice and slow.

  “He did that to me, too, on my first day.”

  “Crone’s b—” was all she managed before retching once more, immediately followed by, “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  Relieved to be on her own, she crawled toward the night stand and discovered a large jug of water, and for a long while she sat on the floor alongside the bucket, nursing the jug, while her head spun and spun.

  There was a narrow cot covered in blankets by the window, and once she had regained a partial state of equilibrium she sat there huddled beneath the blankets as twilight gathered outside, silently cursing the name of Poisoner Robles, despite the fact that her grandmother had inflicted worse on her over the years. Immunity to the venom of three varieties of snake, along with varying degrees of tolerance to a number of common poisonous substances, had come at a high cost. It was also the only reason she had vomited, but not soiled herself, thanks to an embattled but fortifying childhood.

  Her room was at the front of the house and offered her a good view out of the window, all the way along the wide avenue toward the square. The rain had stopped, and in the far distance she could make out the solid black line of the city wall beyond hundreds of rooftops. Lights flickered everywhere, in windows and out on the streets. Occasionally, they darted about the rooftops like orange and lilac will-o-wisps. In fact, as night fell proper, the streets gradually cleared and the populace took their business and pleasure out onto the roof, and for a long while she forgot her immediate plight and watched the city at night.

  At one point she heard shouts and saw a fire in the distance. An accompanying column of smoke momentarily blocked out the stars. Flames rose, but were quickly extinguished.

  Drowsiness arrived, pushing aside the sourness of Robles’ welcome and allowing her to acknowledge that she was finally here, in a place she had constantly dreamed about. A grand city on two levels, sprawled atop a much older ruin whose secrets and folklore her grandmother had always refused to discuss.

  Gradually, the lights were extinguished on the rooftops and the city became cloaked in darkness. A few stubborn lanterns held out. Her own lantern spluttered and diminished. Exhausted, she wasn’t long in following it into temporary oblivion.