The Ruthless Lady's Guide to Wizardry Read online

  Next to the frills was a young lady who made Delly think of her auntie’s cat. Not how she looked—she looked like a rare pretty girl, not like a cat—but the air about her. It was a fine cat Delly’s auntie had: black and white and sleek and fat. It wasn’t the mousing kind. It was the kind that sat and purred while an old lady brushed its fur and told it what a fine pretty puss it was.

  This woman had an emerald on her finger the size of a grape, and thick black hair that gleamed in the sun against her powder-pale cheeks, and a silk dress that gleamed right back at it. She was plump and pretty and her nails were clean. Delly could almost hear the purring.

  The lady beside her was something else altogether. Maybe not rich like the house cat, but beautiful, and quality. She had that look about her. The way she sat, maybe. How well her dress fit. She had a dark, cool brown complexion, long thin braids, and a contained, thoughtful sort of way of looking around her. She was so beautiful and so quality that it made Delly want to avoid looking at her too long or too directly, like someone might pop out of the floor and smack her for peeping at her betters, though the plain cotton of the woman’s dress said that she was quality without the money to pay for folks to do her slapping for her.

  The next up was an entirely different sort of creature again. Tall as anything, broad as a back gate, enormous hands, and a craggy, handsome, mirthful sort of face, all packed into a neatly cut and pressed black dress that she wore like she felt good in it. No slouch to her like you saw in some big women, no trying to look smaller: shoulders back, eyes interested in the room. Her face was young, but the long hair she wore piled up on her head was a bright silver, and her pale complexion had a distinctly gray-blue tint. Part troll if she was anything, which was interesting: Delly had a friend who’d slept with a troll, and she’d said that modern human-troll matches were all barren. Seemed like she didn’t know the first thing she was talking about, which for one of Delly’s friends wasn’t too unusual. At least Delly wouldn’t have to guess at whether this particular troll was a lady or a gentleman, as she’d heard was usually the way it went with trolls: if this one had answered that advertisement, then Delly could be safe in calling her miss.

  “Now that we are all finally in attendance,” the magister said, with a meaningful sort of glance toward Delly, “I would like to present you each to the group, so that you might start with learning each other’s names. First, let us dispense with our latecomer. Please stand, Miss Wells.”

  Delly stood, suddenly struck with the horrible realization that she had no idea where she ordinarily held her hands and how her lips generally felt when she wasn’t sneering hideously. “Miss Wells,” the magister said, “is an accomplished fire witch. She may be of some interest to you, Miss Dok.” The pretty black-haired cat arched an eyebrow. Delly bobbed an uncomfortable curtsy and then plummeted back into her chair.

  The magister made a sound that sounded to Delly like a muffled sigh. “Thank you, Miss Wells. Now, allow me to present Miss Abstentia Dok and Miss Bawa Usad.” The house cat and the high-quality woman both stood. “Miss Dok and Miss Usad are both senior students at Weltsir University.” Delly tried not to wince at the mention of the Weltsir University of fucking Magic: she thought she did all right. No one seemed to notice her flinching, at least. “Miss Usad will act as my proxy for the duration of the seclusion, and Miss Dok will act as her second.” The two ladies both curtsied at that—Miss Dok with a small smile that made her look more of a pleased pussycat than ever, and Miss Usad with a modest inclination of her excessively beautiful head—and then sat.

  “Thank you, girls,” the magister said. “Next, allow me to present Mrs. Corma Totham and her householded daughter, Miss Ermintrude Totham.”

  The old lady and the whey-faced blonde creature stood. The magister said, “Mrs. Totham is an accomplished body scientist, and Miss Totham is a cloved woman.”

  There was a sound like a strong wind blowing through from the women gasping or murmuring or shifting in their chairs. Body scientist was what polite water-drinking types called necromancers, and up till now Delly had been reasonably fucking certain that cloved women were just a goblin story for scaring kids with and not a type of person that actually existed in this particular and late period of human fucking endeavor.

  “She ain’t, either,” said Delly, before she had time to tell herself to keep her damn herring-hole shut. Cloved women were supposed to be wild-eyed hillclanners who turned into feral pigs at will and ate men who came into their villages after dark, and this girl looked like she could be overcome by a largish pork sausage.

  “Are you implying, Miss Wells, that I don’t know my own business?” inquired the magister.

  Delly shook her head, feeling her innards clamp up. She didn’t know why she had to always go and talk when all she relefting well needed to do was sit still and be quiet. “No, Magister. I only meant to express my surprise, Magister, that a young lady of such daintitudinous aspect might be a cloved woman, Magister.”

  The magister looked at her cross-eyedwardly. “Daintitudinous,” she said, “is not a word. And I have been made perfectly satisfied as to Miss Totham’s abilities. As are the Bastennes, who have engaged the Tothams on more than one occasion for their services as bounty hunters.”

  The handsome trollish woman looked interested in that. “The Bastennes? My mother and father worked for them back when I was still the proverbial twinkle in dear Pop’s eye. Jolly small world, eh?”

  Delly blinked, not sure which way to squint at the expensive silver-coated plum-puddingness of that accent coming from this woman. The magister just looked resigned. “I suppose that I might as well introduce you, Miss Cynallum.”

  The big troll gull popped up to her feet. “Winnifer Cynallumwynsurai, at your service and keen as razors,” she said. “Winn Cynallum if you’re short on time.” Then she popped right back down again.

  There was a bit of a pause from the throng before the magister gained the strength to continue. “Miss Cynallum,” said the magister, “is a markswoman and illusionist.” Then she stopped and looked constipated for a bit before she carried on. “As well as a practitioner of . . . hand-to-hand combat.” Delly could see why she’d been looking like she found the words so indigestible now: had to be hard to make that sound nice and prim and ladylike.

  Miss Cynallum didn’t look like a woman who minded, though. She looked comfortable as could be, like she thought she had every right in the world to be just where she was. Delly liked it. It was calming just to rest her eyes on. She seemed to notice where Delly’s eyes were resting, too, because she looked right back at her and smiled. Delly felt her face heat up. “Wouldn’t mind learning some of that” was what then came popping out of Delly’s damn cursed pothole of a mouth.

  “Oh, really? I’d be happy to teach you. Just pop around to my quarters once we’re established at the job and we’ll have a bit of a wrestle,” Miss Cynallum said. Then she went red and looked as if she’d like to grab herself by the throat and squeeze.

  The whole room sat in deep disquietude for a span. Delly offered up a prayer to her ancestors, wishing them eternal and painful relivings for having produced such a dunce of a descendant. Then Magister Fentan said, “On that note, I would like to inform you all of the work that you shall be required to perform and the standards of deportment I shall expect all of you to abide by during the duration of your employment.”

  Delly started to pay a mite less attention at this juncture. She thought she could guess at the main points. Essentially, she ought to do none of the things toward which she naturally inclined, and do all of the things she thought were a real pain in the tits. That seemed to be the thrust of it when she turned her ear toward listening: that they would be keeping an eye on the lady at her intended’s fine house and during the journey to the place, and that they’d be expected not to make asses of themselves while they were doing it. Nothing that sounded too taxing to Delly, othe
r than having to stay out of bars for a span.

  It was when Magister Fentan got into the real meat of the matter that Delly endeavored to truly attend. The term of their employment was to start in five days—grand—and no advances would be given on payment—less grand—which would be fifty tocats for the two weeks—so grand that Delly gasped a bit at it. That was rent for more than half the year. No one else seemed near as impressed as she was, which just proved what a bunch of damned clanners the rest of them were. Fifty in two weeks. Sakes.

  Delly gritted her teeth through the rest of the meeting, then got herself a signed note from Magister Fentan attesting to the terms of her gainful employment. As soon as that was in her hand, she was off like a frog on a hot rock. She first trotted by the jail in order to thrust the note before the disbelievingly narrowed eyes of the warden, who told her that she was a sly creature who, if actually employed, would soon give her employer every cause to regret a decision that was likely preceded by their indulging in strong spirits—a statement that Delly told him she found very injurious to her daughterly affection for him. Then she took herself off, whistling, to find her landlady.

  Mrs. Medlow was pleased enough to know about Delly’s impending employment but didn’t see fit to lift the hard promise. Delly, defeated, retreated to the bar below her room for a drink or two and a few minutes of quiet ponderation.

  It took about half a glass of gin to get Delly into an expansive frame of ponder. This job was a hell of a thing. Enough money to get her own rent settled, and enough to get her mam into a room, too. More than that, even. Enough to get her mam out to one of those nice places in the countryside where they sent rich clanner ladies with nervous conditions, which Delly always took to mean that they’d been on too much gin and drip and needed to be dried out. Maybe she could send her mam to dry out in a place like that where there were nice trees and flowers and clean beds with mattresses that got turned and aired every week. Maybe her mam would be the woman Delly remembered from a few weeks when she was eight years old, fresh out of a stint in jail, sober, and suddenly full of consternation over her daughter having raised herself like a wild animal up to this point without any civilized intervention. The woman who bought bread and butter and a new bar of soap and gave her daughter breakfast and bathed her and plaited her hair and took her to the Elgarite Hall to register her for the halton school. Maybe Delly would get to see that version of her mam again.

  Or maybe Mam would take a vow of chastity and join a fucking halton tomorrow, while Delly was dreaming.

  Delly ordered another gin. The first few sips pulled her back above the cold, killing waters of childhood memories, and a few more after that set her toward the contemplation of comely prospects for an evening’s company. She started off thinking about a fella she knew who was a reliable way to waste a few hours, before her internal eddies pulled her toward someone else. That Cynallum gull from this afternoon.

  She’d looked back. Delly knew that for sure. Delly had looked at her and Cynallum had looked right back. Babbled and looked embarrassed, even, which probably meant she liked what she saw.

  A prospect.

  Delly was used to having a prospect in her life. More than one, usually: she liked having options. None of them had been anything like the Cynallum girl, though. A girl like that was a prospect for more than just fucking. More of a long game. A girl like that—that accent, those expensive-looking clothes—could be a prospect for easy living for a lass’s entire earthly amble, and a prospect like that was due more thoughtful consideration than a quick card game near Bessa’s meat-pie stand.

  And maybe Delly was getting a little fucking ahead of herself again, which she supposed might sometimes be the result that came from a day crowded with unusual incidents followed by a particularly invigorating glass or two of gin.

  Delly had a few nervous gallops to get out, to put a delicate pin-end upon it, and she knew just the lad to go to when she was in want of a bit of nervous galloping: a usually unemployed actor named Elo, whom she’d been friends with since they were both crusty-kneed West Leiscourt kids together. So, with that thought in mind, she left some money on the bar and went to check for the lanky bastard at the places where he might be doing his part to keep a barstool from floating off into the firmament. She found him at the very first joint, his red curly head bent over his beer like he thought he might spy a better life at the bottom of the glass. He seemed glad enough to have a reason to abandon the fruitless search and head off for a heartless fumble instead.

  After their gallop, she stayed in his room so they could have a bit of a chat and another glass of gin together. They got along a treat as old pals, though they both knew that he was always wishing that it was someone else he was galloping with, someone who might be interested in having a few dozen of his curly-headed children. Maybe someone who wasn’t Wester trash like him, too: both of them had ambitions above their stations and were all the more miserable for it. She told him about her new real paying job, and her new plum-pudding prospect. He gave a slow nod.

  “I’d go after it, Delly, if I was you. A slim prospect’s a thicker prospect than I’ve gotten in years.”

  Delly tipped her glass at him. “To luck a-changing and opportunity arising, then,” she said, and realized a moment later that it was the exact toast her mother had always given when the drink gave her a moment to forget her circumstances.

  3

  Wherein Dellaria Cozies Up to a Prospect and Is Enormously Alarmed and Inconvenienced by the Work She Chose to Engage In

  Delly, as a loose rule of her tenure upon this, the World as Conceived by Mortal Man, did not leave the best of first impressions. She hadn’t as a child, when she was ill-kempt and badly behaved through no fault of her own, and she still didn’t as an adult, when she was ill-kempt and badly behaved through every fault of her own. The most dispiriting aspect of impressions, as she saw it, was that after the first one went bad she was better off avoiding any further impressions entirely, as any attempts on her part to fix the damage would generally end like the time when she’d drunkenly tried to cut her own hair with a pair of nail scissors. It was preferable, in Delly’s view, to only ever meet any given person the one time: that meant that you only ruined one day out of however many they’d in the end be blessed with, rather than a whole packed trunk of someone’s few precious remaining hours. On this occasion, however, she was stuck: only showing up for the interview would defeat the entire purpose of finding gainful employment. So on the day she was meant to start work she scrubbed herself from top to toe, put on a dress that she’d really and truly put through the mangle two days previous, and arrived with her carpetbag at the same room where the first meeting had been held more than an hour before she was meant to be there.

  She wasn’t alone, as it turned out. After a servant took her carpetbag from her to bear it off to places unknown, Delly turned her attention to the two other figures from that first meeting who were there as well: the old lady and the victim of frills. Delly rummaged through her brain for their names and came up wanting. Her face froze into the sort of frantic position it usually got into when she saw the constabulary approaching. The old lady looked at her and smiled. “Oh, Miss Wells, how very nice to see you again! I was just commenting to my daughter Ermintrude on what a lovely specimen of Welkly’s Fletchling that is perched just outside of the window. The Welkly is my householder Mr. Totham’s very favorite type of Fletchling. Isn’t it lovely when you can see the bright green on the male’s breast at this time of the early spring! I always fancy that it’s as if he loves the tender buds of the trees he perches on so much that his wife sewed him a waistcoat to match them. Are you very fond of birds, Miss Wells?”

  “Ah,” Delly said. At the moment she was only exceeding fond of this old bird, who Delly was sure as anything had just provided Delly with her and her daughter’s names to save her from the awkwardness of having to ask them. She wasn’t used to anyone going ou
t of their way to keep her from being embarrassed. If her mam had ever spared her daughter’s feelings in any way, it had probably been an accident. “Middling fond. I don’t know as much about them as I should, Mrs. Totham. I’m a woefully underinformed creature, ma’am.”

  “Oh, no matter, no matter,” Mrs. Totham said. She twittered like Mrs. Medlow, but she was a much pleasanter sort of canary. “I could teach you a few of the things that I know—though of course I don’t know nearly as much as Mr. Totham. Gentlemen are so very clever with remembering all sorts of wonderful facts from books, aren’t they? They’re such lovely little creatures! Birds, I mean, not gentlemen. One never grows tired of birds.”

  Delly wondered, briefly, if she ought to take this to mean that Mrs. Totham sometimes grew tired of gentlemen. Delly sure as shit did, especially the type that kept coming around her place to look for her after what she’d meant to be a one-off gallop, but she wasn’t an elderly householded lady who figured her householder for a regular genius of birdology. Then Ermintrude, who’d been steadily sinking more deeply into her frills as her mother spoke, finally made her voice heard. “Really, Mama, she’s just being polite. No one wants to hear about birds.”

  Delly spurred herself in pursuit of a change of subject. “How did the two of you come to be in this line of work?” she asked. “You seeming like you come from a very respectable family, if you pardon the assumption, ma’am.”

  “Oh, indeed, indeed,” Mrs. Totham said. “It’s been very difficult for poor dear Ermintrude and myself, I’m afraid. Mr. Totham fell ill several years ago, and we found ourselves in some difficulty. I had never worked before, he being my householder, and we had five younger girls at home to think of. Then my eldest daughters suggested that Ermintrude and I might be interested in joining them in their profession. I householded them when they were both adolescents, you see, and I’m afraid that they had both been stagecoach guards for several years by then. I had hoped to find them nice husbands or householders after I brought them in, but they’ve proven very stubborn about their independence. They are very good girls, though, and very dutiful daughters.”