To Catch A Sorcerer

Gray struggled between you can’t be in the kitchen and go away.

The girl leaned against the door frame, her ankles crossed, and her chin tilted up. Her gaze followed Alistair as he went into the stables.

‘I offended him,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ said Gray.

A stray strand of her platinum hair waved in the cool night breeze. This wasn’t the first time a girl had come chasing after Alistair, and Gray bet his right thumb it wouldn’t be the last.

‘If you’d just flirted with him, like a normal person,’ said Gray tightly, wondering if this girl had been raised under a rock because she had no idea how to interact with people, ‘he would’ve liked you.’

‘I wanted a night with no complications,’ she said.

Gray made to go past her, back into the kitchen, discomfort tightening in his chest.

‘Then apologise to him,’ said Gray. Maybe this girl needed it spelled out for her.

Maybe he’d been fighting with an eloquent simpleton, and that really was a new low for Gray.

‘He’s,’ said Gray, softening a little, ‘easy to win over.’

‘Easy?’ said the girl, delicately.

‘That’s right,’ said Gray.

Gods, Gray truly had been an asshole, fighting with such a person.

Gray had to tell Alistair. Had to warn him, because, despite appearances, there was something very off with her.

Perhaps she was mind-cursed.

‘Let’s get you back to your booth, hey?’ said Gray. ‘You travelling with someone? Where are your companions?’

The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘I have to win him over?’

‘That’s right,’ he said, trying to keep the concern out of his voice and make things soothing. ‘Just tell him sorry.’

The girl straightened, blocking Gray’s path, her gaze hard. ‘Listen, you idiot. I’m not apologising to anyone.’

Gray stepped back, feeling like he’d been slapped in the face.

‘You tell him for me,’ she said. ‘Tell him I meant no offence. And he can come to my room. I won’t pay him if it’s offensive.’

‘What?’ Gray said,

‘I expect to be obeyed,’ said the girl.

‘It’s not just the payment that’s insulting,’ said Gray, mentally rearranging his understanding of this girl back to his original opinion. There was nothing wrong with this girl. Well, there was, but not in a way that evoked sympathy.

‘The only insult here,’ said the girl, ‘is your lack of respect for my orders.’

‘Orders?’

‘Tell him to come to my room.’

‘That’s not going to work,’ said Gray, something boiling in the pit of his stomach. ‘You’re treating him like a …’

From behind her, clear through the roar of the kitchen, ‘Boys!’

Barin blew into the kitchen like an attack dog.

Gray swore.

When Barin clapped eyes on the girl loitering on the threshold, Gray thought Barin might burst a vein.

‘It’s not safe for you to be in here, ma’am,’ Barin said, ushering her back towards the dining room. He turned around to Gray, and mimed slitting his throat.

‘I’m only in here because there was no service and my drink never came,’ she said. ‘It’s really not good enough.’

‘Oh? Take a seat, and I’ll bring your drink myself, ma’am,’ said Barin.

Barin shoved Gray towards the scrubbing sink. It was piled high with pots.

-

Gray scrubbed out the last pan, his fingers pruned, aching to fall face-first into his bed upstairs.

The kitchen was dimly lit - the workers had dimmed the lamps and dampened the fire before they left at 2am – but it was still hot, and full of smells. Strings of onion, garlic, dried thyme and rosemary hung from the wooden beams across the ceiling, and all the pots, pans, knives, and spoons were neatly stacked and ordered, ready for tomorrow morning.

Finished, Gray hovered at the foot of the stairs and listened to Alistair talk to Barin. Alistair shot Gray a grin when he emerged through the double doors that separated the dining room from the accommodation, brushing past Gray, and he disappeared into the darkness as he thudded up the stairs.

There was a rumble of voices and scraping of chairs and calls of farewell from the last of the customers. Gray waited until Barin’s favourite chair squeaked – weight against straining leather – and a few seconds of silence ticked by.

Steeling himself, he approached Barin. The top of Barin’s head peeked over the high back of the armchair, and his reflection was visible in the huge, black window facing the street.

Gray set down a whisky by the lamp at Barin’s elbow, and a small dish of biscuits one of the cooks had baked that morning.

‘I thought I sent you to bed,’ Barin said.

‘You did. I’m going,’ Gray said, trying to keep things friendly. ‘I wanted to ask you something first.’

Barin sipped the whisky, apparently not hearing him. ‘Finished the dishes?’

‘Yes,’ Gray said.

‘Done the mopping in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Taken out the rubbish?’

‘Yes.’

‘Checked the horses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Polished the silverware?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Barin grunted.

‘Er. Barin?’

He side-eyed Gray. ‘What?’

‘I …’ Gray stared down at his boots. ‘I need some money. Please. To get new shoes,’ Gray rushed out. ‘Mine … well …’ He gestured to his boots.

He’d near grown out of them. The soles were almost worn through, and the uppers were straining against the few fraying stitches still clinging on for dear life.

Barin ran a hand through his auburn hair, disordering its slickness. ‘I’m not made of money. I need to buy Harriette a new violin next week.’

Harriette was Barin’s daughter, and Gray had never seen Barin love anything so fiercely.

Gray waited. Heat flooded Gray’s cheeks as the quiet pulled onwards. Barin sipped his whiskey again. Gray took that as a no. He turned to leave.

‘See my old boots by the door?’ Barin rolled out of his chair and grabbed up his old boots that had been sitting there ever since he’d stepped in a sick horse’s manure.

He thrust them at Gray. ‘You clean them up, they’re yours.’

‘Thank you.’

Gray started to leave, clutching the boots.

Just as Gray got to the doorway, Barin said, ‘How old are you, now?’

Gray hesitated. ‘Almost fifteen.’

‘How long does your type keep growing?’

Gray stared down at his legs. He was slight for his age. He hadn’t thought he’d grow any differently from everyone else and he certainly hoped he’d grow more.

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

‘Eh? Speak up.’

Gray cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Your powers of fortune telling gone astray, have they?’

Barin was on a knife’s edge, but he was sometimes like this. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be stuck with a stray kid, courtesy of one of his late wife’s previous marriages.

Barin eventually snorted, and then broke out into a chuckle, and went back to sipping his whisky.

Gray left to clean the boots, spending some time getting them fresh, as the tavern around him grew dark and still. He set them by the dying fire in the kitchen to dry. They were good boots, black leather and mid-calf high, but miles too big. He’d have to try trading them at the pawnshop in Endells Lane tomorrow.

He traipsed up the stairs to the small attic room he shared with Alistair.

The door was closed. Gray pressed his ear to the timber. After the first time walking in on Alistair with a girl, he knew now that a closed door meant knock or leave.

‘Alistair?’ said Gray. ‘You decent?’

Alistair’s voice came muffled through the closed door. ‘I’m wearing pants, if that’s what you’re asking.’

Gray shouldered into the room. The timbers creaked with the force of the wind - they were strong tonight - and the room smelt like cigarettes.

Their room was all corners and angles, with rough timber floorboards and giant windows that let in cold air. Twin beds piled with blankets were up against one wall.

Then, Gray noticed Alistair had pulled out all his new clothes Barin had gotten him for his birthday, and his old clothes he’d mostly worn out, and had laid them on the bed.

Gray stilled, his pulse beginning to strengthen.

Alistair glanced at him. ‘Which shirt best brings out my eyes?’

This was so unexpected, and Alistair said it so casually. Maybe this wasn’t Alistair packing up to run away. Maybe Gray had it wrong.

‘Hot date?’ said Gray, carefully. ‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it?’

Alistair dropped his voice to a smooth baritone. ‘They’re better when they’re late.’

Alistair smiled, and then shifted underneath Gray’s stare.

‘Going somewhere?’ Gray said.

‘Philosophically, or ..?’

Gray stayed silent.

‘I’m meeting Rosie,’ Alistair said. ‘And Lilyanna.’

Gray dropped his gaze, flipping open one of his alchemy books, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes down. He pretended to run his finger down a list of symptoms for compulsion draughts. That stuff was dark. Confusion, forgetfulness, insanity, burst veins …

‘Rosie Thindrall?’ Gray burst out.

Alistair scratched his neck. ‘Yeah.’

Alistair had always told Gray that he didn’t like Rosie, but he certainly seemed to spend a lot of time with her. Gray wondered, sometimes -

‘Are you pissed?’ Alistair said.

Gray snapped the book shut. ‘About your hot date? Not really. I mean, you’re cute and all, but you’re really not my type-‘

Alistair threw one of his new boots at Gray. Gray dodged, grinning.

‘Actually, not going on a date,’ Alistair said. ‘I know you like her. Got other plans to put into motion. You know that.’

Gray didn’t. He didn’t ask for clarification.

Gray just made himself grin at Alistair, so that he wouldn’t see Gray was a jealous, self-obsessed ass, that he hated Barin, Harriette, Rosie, everyone liked Alistair more than they liked Gray. In that moment Gray hated him for it, stinging like bitter lemon on a cut.

Gray tossed Alistair back his boot.

‘You look pissed,’ Alistair said.

‘I’m not. That’s just my face.’

Alistair stalked over and pinched Gray's cheeks, and wouldn’t let go.

Muffled, ‘Alistair.’

‘I’m so scared,’ Alistair said. ‘Look at this face. You’re so dangerous. So fierce.’

Gray shoved him off. ‘Alistair.’

‘You long-haired dish-rag, you dried chicken’s tongue, you ball-less fey.’

Gray reeled. ‘Wow. That’s nice.’

‘You bright-eyed goat fiend!’

Alistair got him in a headlock and they scuffled until Gray begged for mercy. Alistair planted a kiss on Gray’s forehead, slightly whiskery, then released him.

Gray slumped against the wall, his hair hanging in his face.

‘I’ll be at the alehouse, mage,’ said Alistair. ‘Don’t wait up.’

Alistair snuck out the window, scrambling over the rooftops like a thief.

Gray started unbuttoning his shirt, finally about to fall into bed, when Barin knocked on his door, which was kind of an issue because Alistair was still running across the rooftops outside.