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“Not like it was a big shock,” Carra said without sympathy. “I guess the one surprising part is that the shit weasel went after an upstanding Tiranish woman this ti—”

“Wait, you said Thomil got hurt? What happened?”

“The guards obviously beat the hell out of him, you idiot.”

“No! But—I covered for him! I said—”

“That you were firing him for incompetence,” Carra said impatiently. “You know, that’s more than enough for a city guard to think they get to teach a Kwen a lesson.”

“Is he alright?”

“You don’t get to ask that!” Carra snarled. “The only reason I didn’t push you down those stairs to your death just now is that I promised Uncle Thomil I wouldn’t. That and I know he’s wanted to punch that greasy rat in the face for years.”

“What—Highmage Renthorn?”

“Who else?”

And Sciona abruptly remembered the look on Thomil’s face when she had suggested that the two of them might end up working under Renthorn the Third. Thomil had known something about Renthorn that Sciona hadn’t, something that had made him wary, even back then.

“You’re not drinking the nice tea I made you.” Carra snapped, jerking Sciona from her thoughts. “That’s rude.”

“Right. Sorry.” Sciona lifted the cup and took a conciliatory sip.

Convenience store tea was always rough; rather than dried leaves, it was an alchemical powder that was intended to simulate real leaves but always came with a caustic aftertaste.

This particular convenience store tea was also oversteeped and ice cold, possibly from yesterday.

“Mmm,” she smiled and set the cup down, “just like I used to make.”

Carra eyed her in cold confusion.

“If a boy classmate told me to make him tea, I’d always do it, but I’d make sure it was good and cold and nasty before I handed it to him. It’s a quick way to let a man know you’re not interested.”

“Don’t try to girl-talk me, mage.”

“Try to what?”

“You think because we’re both girls that I’m supposed to have something in common with. But we are not the same.”

“Not exactly,” Sciona conceded, “but we both grew up in a man’s world without mothers.”

“We both grew up in a mage’s world,” Carra cut her off, “and my mother is dead because of you and your magic boyfriends.”

Sciona bit down on the ‘I didn’t mean to’ and ‘I didn’t know’ that rose in her throat.

Your guilt is useless to us, Thomil had said, and he had a point. If Perramis walked through the door today to whine that he ‘didn’t mean to’ abandon his wife to illness and his child to poverty, what good would that do Sciona? What good would it do Carra now?

“My father came apart while I was in his arms,” Carra growled. “My last memory of him is the skin coming away from his face so I could see the white of his skull.”

Sciona tried not to grimace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Uncle Thomil tells me about the things my father used to say to me, the nicknames he used to call me, his jokes that used to make me laugh. When I try to remember any of that, when I try to remember what his voice sounded like, I can only hear him screaming. Blight took all of him. Even my memories of him. So, don’t talk to me like we’re the same. ”

And God damn it, Sciona was crying.

“Don’t do that!” Carra said in rage. “You don’t get to do that!”

“Do what?”

“Cry like I’m the one who’s done something bad to you.”

“Would you rather I not cry?”

“I’d rather you and all your mage friends shoved your staffs up your asses and died!”

“I’m—” Sciona swallowed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I’m not crying to get your sympathy.”

“Aren’t you?” Carra demanded. “That is how Tiranishwomen solve their problems, isn’t it? You just mope and cry, and woe is you, and everyone comes tripping over their dicks to rescue you.”

A laugh burst through Sciona’s tears. “That’s not…” Sure, there was some truth to what Carra was saying, but Sciona resented the stereotype. “It’s not like women—or Tiranish—have a monopoly on crying.”

“No,” Carra agreed. “You just have a monopoly on the woe is me of it all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think that if a Kwen cries over unwanted male attention, any mages come running to save her? No. She gets fired or disappeared, along with any Kwen men stupid enough to come to her defense. So, forgive me if I have trouble feeling sorry for you.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I promise.”

“Yeah, well, you’re so floppy, and shrimpy, and pathetic, it’s hard not to.”

“Hey, now!” Sciona half-laughed through the tears. “I know I’m shrimpy, but I’d remind you that I’m as old as your uncle.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes he’s pathetic too.”

“Like when he wouldn’t let you murder me with a hunting knife?”

“Exactly,” Carra said. “See, we are getting to know each other.”

And Sciona was growing to find the feral child’s bluntness refreshing. She took a moment to mop up her tears. Maybe she was being manipulative. And that wasn’t what she wanted to do. She wanted to be honest.

“The way I was orphaned… It’s not something I can compare to the crossing.

I understand that. But I’m also starting to understand that the culture that had my mother die alone, that left me without a father is the same culture that orphaned you.

The experiences aren’t the same, but they’re all connected. ”

Carra was looking at her with the same disapproving frown as always, but for once, she didn’t interject, so Sciona took that as an invitation to continue. “My mother was sickly after I was born and only lived until I was four.”

Then came the interjection she had been anticipating: “You do look like you were born of a sickly woman.”

Sciona let her have the insult and continued. “After she died, my father shoved me off on my mother’s widowed sister. So, he’s still around”—still holding political office and throwing his wealth all over the city—“just not part of my life.”

“How sad,” Carra said flatly.

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but it is sad.

It’s pathetic, frankly, that a whole class of men have gotten away with selling themselves as protectors and saviors when they’ll sacrifice their inferiors—women, Kwen, their own children—the moment it’s convenient for them.

Your father… It sounds like he was a true protector.

So was your mother. A man like my father shouldn’t get to put himself above them or reap the benefits of their deaths. ”

“Mm,” Carra grunted. It was the first response she had given that wasn’t an outright attack, and Sciona was encouraged.

“I don’t need you to feel bad for me, Carra. We don’t need to be friends—or even friendly. I’m realizing how ridiculous it is to demand civility when the world is so disgustingly uncivil upon closer inspection. So, I’m not here to ask for your friendship or your politeness.”

“Good.”

“I’m here because I have a plan that I think—I hope—will make things better. When your uncle gets here, I’ll explain it to you both.”

“Didn’t you have a plan last time?” Carra said. “How’d that go, Highmage Genius?”

“That wasn’t a plan , per se,” Sciona protested. “That was a conversation I needed to have with my mentor. This time I have a real plan.”

“You think that anything you do can make this better?”

“No. Not retroactively. Obviously, we can’t bring back your parents or undo any of the other damage the Tiranish magic has already wrought. But I do think we can make things better for the Kwen in the future. And even if we can’t—if I’m just insane—don’t you think it’s worth a try?”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me,” Carra scowled.

“Because I need to ask Thomil’s permission and yours before going ahead.

” Sciona thought she knew what she was doing, but ultimately, this parade of horrors had begun with mages taking and using without permission.

“If I’m going to activate this spellwork I’ve planned, I at least have to ask Thomil if he thinks it’s a good idea. ”

“This is a terrible idea,” Thomil said when Sciona had explained her spellweb.

“What?”

“Told you,” Carra smirked at Sciona.

“Oh, shush, Carra,” Thomil said in exasperation. “Go wash up.”

“But—”

“Wash, child. You’re tracking soot everywhere.”

Thomil and Carra hadn’t relocated to another building in the Kwen Quarter.

Instead, as soon as Thomil arrived back at the apartment, they had taken their meager belongings, along with Sciona’s travel case, and snuck into an upscale neighborhood well outside the slums. Carra cleaned for a wealthy widow who kept a sizable house—just not quite so sizable that she employed live-in servants.

That was how Carra knew the widow left her main property unattended to spend the week of Feryn’s Feast at her son’s home in the hills of the farming district.

Carra entered down the chimney and let Thomil and Sciona in through the back garden door out of view of the neighbors.

A week ago, Sciona would have balked at the idea of a pair of Kwen breaking into a respectable Tiranish home—to say nothing of joining them. Now, she just found comfort in the thought that, at least in the short term, no one would think to look for Thomil and his niece in a place like this.

It was a beautiful house—not an archmage’s mansion, by any means, but the sort of home Sciona had always dreamed of buying for Aunt Winny one day—tall windows overlooking slightly overgrown shrubbery, a kitchen with wide wooden countertops, and a sitting room big enough to entertain a whole neighborhood of friends.

There were so many cupboards that Thomil had to open half a dozen before he found the teacups.

“Why is it a terrible idea?” Sciona demanded when Carra had left them.

Thomil shook his head as he searched the lower cupboards for a kettle. “Just sit, Highmage. I’ll mm” —he winced as he bent a little too sharply and disturbed some injury in his side— “make some tea, and then we’ll talk about it.”

“No.” Sciona rounded the counter to put a hand on his shoulder. “No, you sit. And we’ll talk now while I make the tea.”