Page 1 of Talismaker

Millé shivered in the cold. Yesterday had been so nice, why did today have to turn into the fucking arctic? His breath misted as he sighed, standing in front of the tenth shop that day to tell him they had no use for his sort, no matter what his skills as a talismaker. No matter how badly they needed a qualified talismaker.

Pulling out the tattered news page in his pocket and a stub of pencil he'd filched from the post office, he braced the paper on the wall with his stump and used his good hand to cross off the latest shop. Tucking the pencil away, he held the paper and looked over his remaining options.

Just two Technically three, but he hadn't even bothered to circle the last one. If he couldn't even get a simple shop to hire him, how in the world would he convince the most brilliant wizard in the city? Laughable.

Movement caught his eye as he finally resumed walking, but it was only his reflection in the shop window. Messy hair, eyes that looked bruised, his brown skin far too pale. One sleeve folded to just above the elbow and pinned at the shoulder. A scar cutting from the bridge of his nose down to his jawline. And of course, the reason nobody would hire him: one brown eye, one blue eye. Bad luck. Ill omen. Demon-born. Changeling. A hundred different explanation for his eyes, all of them bad, all of them stupid. Wizards could have their swirling eyes, but gods forbid his not match.

All they saw were his eyes. That he was missing half his left arm. Nobody saw his years of military service. His skill as a talismaker, honed in the very army that had cost him so much. An arm. His face. His peace of mind. His ability to not jump at every too-loud sound.

Sighing again, he trudged on down the street and turned right at the corner, headed for the next shop on the list, even though it was another good fifteen minutes of walking, putting him even further from the room he was renting for the month. It had taken most of what little savings he had, and if he didn't get a job soon, he'd be on the street, but that was a problem for later. He could only handle so many of them at once.

He was practically an icicle by the time he reached it: a charming little alchemist's shop in one of the smaller shopping districts in the city, the kind of place the wealthy would sneer at while never realizing they paid more for the exact same thing just because they were convinced that prettier meant better.

Millé lingered outside the shop to fix his hair and brush snow off his clothes, take a few deep breaths and try to convince himself this time, this shop, would be the one. A job. Security. Food for the first time in three days. Warmth. Real sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a comfortable bed. Ever since he'd been evicted from the military for the crime of losing an arm he'd struggled to manage so much as breakfast.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had that, either.

Setting his shoulders, faking a confidence he hadn't felt in a long time, Millé pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The shop smelled like cinnamon and clove, warm and comforting, but the man behind the counter dropped his welcoming smile before Millé had made it halfway across the shop. "Can I help you?" he asked stiffly.

Mustering a smile, though he was sure it did no favors to his face, Millé presented the newspaper. "I came about the job posting for a talismaker. I have fifteen years—"

"The position has been filled," the man said flatly. "Best of luck elsewhere."

"Of course," Millé muttered, and walked right back out of the shop.

In the mere seconds he'd been inside, the snow had gotten even worse. His threadbare jacket was no match for it, especially as he didn't have a scarf or gloves to supplement. He'd had a rather nice set, a long-ago gift from… well, someone it hurt too much to think about, but he'd given it away to someone who needed it far more. That set had been all he'd had left of his fondest memory, but what was he supposed to have done? Let a child freeze? He'd only been able to use one of the gloves anyway.

Millé sighed and stuffed the newspaper cutting into his inner pocket where hopefully it wouldn't get wet. He was clearly done job hunting for the day. His already tattered ego could only take so many rejections in one day.

As he pulled his hand out, a smaller slip of paper, torn from the blank page of a book that had already been missing two thirds of its pages, fluttered to the ground. Millé snatched it up before the snow could soak into it and stuffed it back in his pocket.

23 Pink Lotus Boulevard

He'd spent days of effort he didn't really have tracking down the address. He didn't even need the slip of paper anymore. When he'd first been discharged, his only hope had been to finally see the man he'd secretly loved for nearly the entirety of his military career. His injuries, however, had kept him first in the hospital and then in recovery for months and months.

Then he'd been tossed out and left on his own, with barely a penny to his name, and far from the city he wanted—needed—to be in. Now here he was, destitute, jobless, everything he owned threadbare and more patch than original fabric. His hair was overlong and his razor so dull and worn that he couldn't shave well…

How was he supposed to knock on the door in one of the finest parts of the city and say, "Hello, Captain, don't know if you remember me, but I was hoping we could reconnect as civilians and maybe you could be persuaded to fall in love with me."

In his wildest dreams, maybe. He'd count himself blessed if Captain Fair remembered him and remotely cared about seeing him again. Millé had never really been the kind of person who stuck in the mind. He'd heard that often enough, in one way or another, to know the truth of it.

Shivering, brushing off the snow that had accumulated, he finally headed off back across the city, where he'd sit in a cold room under thin blankets eating the small amount of food he'd saved from last night's dinner and reading battered books that were nearly always missing pages that he'd pulled from the bins behind the library. The last time he'd tried goinginthe library, he had been strongly encouraged to go right back out.

After all these years, he should be used to it, but being constantly rejected for something that wasn't his fault was exhausting and painful. He couldn't even get most people to tolerate him, how would he ever get someone to consider him a friend or, gods forbid, a lover?

Even his military brothers hadn't reached out to him. He'd sent a few letters to those still enlisted and those who had been discharged before him, but so far he hadn't gotten a single letter back. So much for comrades for life.

The smell of roasting meat wafted on the wind that kicked up, but all Millé got was a growling stomach and snow to the face. Smelled like beef, spicy, would probably be served over rice or noodles with grilled—

A shout of fear filled the air, jerking him from hopeless daydreams of a hot meal. He looked around, traced the shout as it came again to the far end of the street. Heedless of the slick ground, he bolted down the street until he found the source just inside an alleyway, where a tall, sharp-edged man had a smaller man pinned to the wall with a knife at his throat.

"Let him go!"

The man whipped around, instinctively lowering the knife, and that was all the opening Millé needed, surging forward with a punch to the man's face, followed by a quick disarming.

"You bitch!" The man lunged at him, but his moves were sloppy, and Millé used his momentum to easily put him on the ground.

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