Arabel Sloan had to approach the witch alone.
Worse, she was in the least-hospitable tavern Arabel had ever seen: the Hunted Pig, in Gorn, a village at the frontier of civilisation. As a scholar from the fortified city of Burgwec, Arabel had been sheltered from such places all her life. Standing outside the uneven, three-storey timber building, alive with rowdy shouts and bad string music, she felt her merchant-style blue-suede suit was too tight, emphasising her body rather than masking her femininity as she intended. The jacket and trouser combo was scruffy and the leather thick enough to deflect a weak knife blow, but it showed off her hips and squeezed her chest as tight as a corset. Still, scribe’s robes would’ve made her more of a target.
She opened the door and the din and smell of alcohol and unwashed bodies hit her. A small table of men playing cards glanced at her then looked away. The packed tavern’s men were too busy drinking, arguing, and propositioning busty women in frilly dresses to notice a shabby merchant. They were unclean and unhealthy, overweight or underfed, many in partial undress. Almost everyone had a blade somewhere about their person.
Arabel adjusted her round glasses, trying to pick out the witch. The sooner she got out, the better. There, in the corner, was a woman in red. Arabel started towards her. The floorboards stuck with each step and crunched with broken glass. As she passed one table, offering quiet excuse-mes, a man growled, “Evening, darling, wanna join us?”
She flashed a dismissive smile, barely making eye contact, and continued. He was a burly guy in studded mercenary leathers, a scar over one eye and missing a few fingers. He called after her, “Don’t be like that, come tell us your name!”
Arabel hurried on, until she reached the table in the corner, under the shadow of the creaking staircase.
“Mistress Caracae?” Arabel asked with as friendly a smile as her nerves would allow.
The woman had watched her all the way. She was a slender beauty in a rich burgundy dress, subtly hemmed with gold, breasts bulging out the top. Her sharp-featured, smooth-skinned face was shrewd, jet black hair long, hanging over her shoulders, down towards her waist. She appraised Arabel with big eyes and said, “I’m no mistress.”
“Sorry, of course, yes,” Arabel flustered. “I wasn’t sure the correct honorific. Lady?”
Caracae, for it must be her, laughed. “Honorifics are for civilised folk. Those that know my name know to avoid me.”
Arabel paused, reassessing the woman. She was drinking from a large metal tankard, left well alone in her nook. The closest tables had no one sitting on them; consciously or not, the tavern-dwellers gave the witch a wide berth.
“I see,” Arabel said. “Well. I’ve come with a proposition, from –”
“Not interested,” Caracae said. She had a commanding presence, larger than life even as she was sitting down and Arabel standing over her. Her smile held the invitation of a spider, and as Arabel tried not to look at that her eyes wandered down, to the hypnotic expanse of the woman’s cleavage. Man or woman, interested or not, those curves of smooth flesh would draw any eye. Arabel quickly looked away.
“You’d best leave before you draw any attention,” Caracae said.
“Right,” Arabel replied, weakly. It had been a mistake, her coming here. Caracae was as unimpressed by her as she might’ve been by Grawn or the monster hunter. The others might have provoked a witch, but at least they’d get her attention. Even with all the authority given her, Arabel had no place being here. She said, “Only, this is very important. The baron himself has an offer. It involves the Rake Stone.”
“Then he can come and find me, if he wants a talk,” Caracae said. “Go on. Get.”
She waved a dismissive hand and Arabel took an involuntary step back. Not from fear, but as if pushed. She frowned at her own booted feet. The witch was smiling again, not blinking. Arabel hadn’t imagined it – was that a tiny hint at her magic?
Arabel gulped and turned to leave. Whatever the risks, someone else could handle this. She raced through the tavern, bumping men and apologising, until she burst outside and took a deep breath of relatively fresh air. She looked side to side, realising how afraid she was, and started down the road. She’d go to the barn where the others were waiting and send Grawn instead. The royal knight might not be welcome in such a tavern, but he wouldn’t back down. She was an idiot, thinking –
“Running off so soon?” a man’s voice stopped her, a sudden chill shooting up the hairs on her neck. She slowly turned around to see the scarred man from the tavern in the street behind her. “We didn’t get to talk yet.”
He was leering an ugly smile, and had a friend alongside him, a bulky man in a tatty shirt, with a knife at his side. Arabel’s hand instinctively went to her own knife, sheathed at her hip, but the man said, “Ah, ah – be nice. Don’t want to startle Ruft.”
He nodded over her shoulder and Arabel twisted again. A third man emerged from the shadows ahead, patting a bat against his palm. He was taller, with a brick-shaped brow.
“We just want a bit of fun,” Ruft said. “New in town, ain’t ya?”
“I’m not travelling alone,” Arabel warned them. “I advise you to go back inside.”
“Oh you advise us, do you?” the first man said, making his friends laugh. He took a step closer. They all moved closer, and Arabel backed off. But she had nowhere to go – walled in by buildings either side of the street, she’d have to knock down one of them to get past.
“Relax, we’re just gonna have a bit of fun,” the leader continued. “You like fun, don’t you? Why come to a tavern if you don’t like fun.”
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“I was meeting someone,” Arabel answered through gritted teeth. The men collectively stepped towards her again, almost in arm’s reach. Another step and they’d fence her in completely. She could scream for help. As if anyone in the tavern would hear her – or care. No. She had to run.
The scarred man was about to speak again, about to take another step, when she ducked and darted past him, aiming for a gap. He flashed out quickly and caught her arm in a strong grip, pulling her tight back against him. His rotten breath curled her nose as he spat in her ear, “Now, that ain’t nice!”
She kicked and tried to pull free, but he held her tighter and the other men closed in.
Then she was thrown down, scuffing her knees across the dirt, and her glasses fell off. She crawled quickly forward, snatching the glasses back up, but no more attack came. They hadn’t pushed her, she realised, as she turned back – they’d released her. She froze.
The three men were bunched together, rigid as though being squeezed by an invisible force, faces contorted in a mixture of fear and anger. The witch Caracae stood ten metres back, arm outstretched with a hand up as though it was her who held them there. The witch was lit in dramatic shadow from the little yellow glow that came out the tavern windows, her dress down to the ground. Arabel gaped – she had never seen a witch at work before, and even doubted the existence of palm magic. But the men were locked there, groaning as they tried to resist her power.
Caracae brought her other hand up and closed both together, as if in a very slow clap, and Arabel gasped as the men shrank. In line with the hand movement, their bodies compacted, squeezed smaller, until they were so small she could barely see them floating in the shadow. Their panicked pleas rose into squeaks. Then they were released and fell to the mud with cries. They bounced like dropped toys and quickly tried to right themselves, regaining control of their bodies. All three were crying out in fear and pushing one another to break off in different directions. Arabel could just hear the scarred leader swearing at the tall one – no longer tall at all; they were the size of small mice.
“Don’t just gawk, they’ll get away,” Caracae said. The witch strode casually towards Arabael, in no hurry herself, and it made her move quickly backwards. The tiny thugs noticed her approach and shouted at one another, twisting about to run the opposite way. By the time Caracae reached them, their best sprints had only taken them about a foot over the mud.
The bulky one at the rear tripped and rolled onto his rear as he tried to get up. He shrieked as he looked up to see Caracae next to him. Arabel’s mouth was open in wonder – the witch was intimidating already, how much more terrifying to see her from his perspective, a tower of a woman.
She didn’t give him time to dwell on it; Caracae raised her leg, the dress parting to reveal a sandalled foot, and without warning she brought it down in a quick stomp. Arabel gagged, hand to her mouth as the man squelched under the witch’s sandal. Caracae ground her toe, briefly, before moving on.
The other two men had run slightly further, tall Ruft having outpaced the leader, but it made no difference. Caracae took two more steps to clear the distance, then crouched and grabbed first the scarred one then, leaning forward, the tall one. They thrashed and screamed from her fists, but at their size the sounds were pitifully quiet. Caracae rose to stand and looked from one hand to the other as the men struggled. She caught Arabel’s eye and said, “One for you, one for me. Do you have a preference?”
Arabel’s mouth was still open but she couldn’t speak.
Caracae shrugged, not waiting for her to regain her senses, and she pushed the scarred man between her scarlet lips head first. His legs kicked as she sucked him in, then his screams were muted as her mouth closed over him and she swallowed.
Arabel took another step back and tripped on the porch of the building behind her, falling to land on the boardwalk. She tried to back off, but Caracae was suddenly in front of her, moving with an unhurried yet frighteningly fast speed.
“Catch,” the witch commanded. Before Arabel knew what she was doing, she had both hands up to receive Ruft as Caracae dropped him. Arabel pushed her arms away with a squeal at the feeling of the tiny figure kicking on her palms, and she cringed as she saw him standing unsteadily, looking over her fingers, considering jumping.
“You can take the clothes off if you like,” Caracae said. “I imagine it’s your first time.”
“First time?” Arabel looked up dumbfounded.
“Put me down you bitch!” Ruft squeaked, throwing looks from looming Caracae back to her. Arabel was almost tempted to do as he said – still scared of him despite his size.
“These men were going to hurt you,” Caracae said. “You have the right to mortal justice. And whatever people might tell you, even these filthy scum are good for you.”
“You want me to eat him?” Arabel exclaimed.
Ruft froze in her hands, then started waving for mercy, shaking his head. “Miss, no! I can see you’re not like her – I’m begging you, don’t –”
“It’s up to you,” Caracae said. “My treat.”
Arabel could feel her face paling at the horrible turn this had all taken. Of all the threats she had imagined, coming into town, meeting with a palm witch, she had not foreseen anything as terrible as this.
Ruft fell to his knees, raising his clasped hands in prayer. “Miss, I’m sorry, he made us do it!”
“I’m not going to eat you,” Arabel told him, but she didn’t know what she would do. If she disappointed the witch, she might get shrunk herself. She looked up at Caracae and said, “Please. Can you turn him back?”
“Oh no.” Caracae laughed, a short, velvet sound. “It doesn’t work that way. Some powers are cannot be reversed. But if you don’t have the stomach, I’ll take him back.”
“No!” Ruft cried, and moved the short distance away from her that Arabel’s cupped hands would allow. She closed her fingers around him and drew her hands closer to her chest, defensively. “You can’t let her eat me, miss, I’m begging you!”
“Oh I’ve had enough,” Caracae said. “For today.” She undid one of a handful of small brown pouches at her belt, then held out a hand to Arabel. When Arabel hesitated, she said, “You realise what these men were going to do to you?”
Arabel swallowed. “Yes, but that’s not to say – I mean –”
“Let me make it easier. Hand him over and we’ll talk about whatever mission the baron has sent you on. You can make this offer regarding the Rake Stone.”
Arabel’s eyes widened. “You’re willing to talk?”
“Of course. I just wasn’t willing to talk in there.” Caracae indicated the tavern with a tilt of her head. “So?”
Arabel looked back down at the tiny man in her hands, and when he saw her considering it he stood and shouted, “Don’t you dare – you got no fucking right! You bitch!”
His quick turnaround brought back the encounter of mere minutes ago and she quickly decided, “Take him. I’m sorry.”
He shouted and swore at her as she raised her hand to Caracae, and he finally tried to jump, too late. The witch pinched the neck of his shirt and he flailed desperately as she lifted him away and back to her pouch. He kept shouting as she dropped him in, then his sounds were muffled by her tightening the string to close it.
“Now, do you want to tell me what this is about?” Caracae asked.
Arabel stared as the pouch bulged with Ruft’s struggles, imprisoned at the witch’s hip. She answered without looking up, imagining her own path ahead, and what an ill omen this was. “It’s the giants of Mount Blackpoint. The Thundress Tribe. We’re going there, and we need your help.”
“You’re going to Mount Blackpoint? In the Nidings?” Caracae laughed again, but it was less amused, more disbelieving. “You couldn’t survive a traveller’s inn – what makes you think you’ll get anywhere near the giants?”
Arabel cleared her throat, hoping to sound more confident. She said, “I’ve put together a team. You’re the last person I need. I believe we can get there and back alive. We have to, or the princess will die.”