by Jayden Woods
“Anti-safra?” King-wife Eleanor stroked her chin thoughtfully. “I really don’t know what you mean by that.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the comforting sounds of metronomes ticking, gears turning, and hammers striking rhythmically outside. The beat of the Earth Mechanic could be heard in all things—even things which at first sounded cacophonous. God’s beat was hard to find within the shocking news that the king and queen of Dearen had been openly assassinated, even if it made little sense to her on its face. Underneath it all, the Mechanic must have his hand somewhere—turning a gear here, turning a gear there—all for the sake of creating something incredible.
She opened her eyes and studied her visitor with a freshly synchronized mind. He offered very little information about himself, not even a name. He called himself a merchant, and the rest she could only deduce by his unusual appearance. He had dark brown skin, like the bark of the mahogany trees that grew on the inner meadows of Yamair. His eyes were so black the irises could hardly be discerned from the pupils. But this did not distinguish him so much as his strange clothes. A hat full of feathers covered his head and hid all his hair. His blue suit was of a strange cut and design, all sharp lines and angles. The spin of the fabric was strange, also, comprised of undulating columns of thread, all so perfectly arranged she wished very much to know what loom created it.
That question, however, was for another day. Today she must learn as much about the momentous events in Dearen as she could—especially the valuable information this strange Merchant seemed to have of them.
“I know that you are reluctant to discuss your own involvement in the recent events of Dearen,” King-wife Eleanor said carefully. “But please understand I need more information if I’m to make sense of your accusations.”
The gentle scratch of a pen against parchment echoed her words. As always, the Royal Scholar sat nearby, writing down the events that took place. The Royal Scholar was a woman named Rebeka, ever present, ever silent except for the scratch of her pen. Sometimes, the king or king-wife asked the Scholar for factual information. The job of a scholar was to both store information and retrieve it. But most of the time, Eleanor forgot she was even there.
“Oh please, Majesty, I accuse you of nothing.” The Merchant pressed his dark palms together in a gesture of supplication. “I only wanted to warn you of the danger your kingdom might face, if you or a known Synergist of Yamair were ever implicated in the assassin’s activities.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said the king-wife, though she wished she did not. She stood and walked to the Great Clock upon her mantlepiece. The click of its ticker set the tempo of every rhythm in Yamair. Considering that, it was such a small and simple thing, made of polished wood, golden gears, and sheets of crystal.
She could see her own reflection in the glassy surface, reminding her of her own smallness compared to her great responsibility. As King-wife of Yamair, her heartbeat was like the metronome of all her people. Normally the king served as metronome, of course. Eleanor was merely an echo of his own rhythm, a synchronized gear to his engine. But the king was gone now, and he had been gone for several weeks. No one knew the day of his return, and of its soonness, she could only guess. Until then, she ruled as King-wife. She served as Metronome to all the people of Yamair.
She dabbed the bound coils of her blond hair self-consciously, afraid that some piece might fall lose. Every button on her blouse must be secure, every frill symmetrical. The seams of her trousers must fit perfectly to her legs, and the soles of her shoes must remain in good condition. She must be the walking image of efficiency, the perfect example of Synchronization. She took a deep breath and tried as she might to wipe all emotion from her face as she turned back to her visitor. “Yes, I’m beginning to see why you came to me, and I grow increasingly thankful with the realization. You say the assassin wore a kerchief that seemed to shield him from the effects of safra. Meanwhile, the Synergists of Yamair are known for their ability to concoct chemicals affecting one’s moods and productivity. Persons in Vikand or Dearen would lack the means and motivation to create something like so-called ‘anti-safra.’ Therefore, it stands to reason that someone unpracticed in the arts of deduction—such as the prince or princess of Dearen—might make the unwarranted assumption that Yamair was somehow involved in the assassination attempt.”
The Merchant smiled so widely that his white teeth seemed to glow. “Your intelligence is dazzling, oh King-wife. You voice my own fears as if you could see into my mind.”
“Far from it.” As she glanced once more at the dark holes of his eyes, she only wished this was the case. “I am only utilizing the powers of rationalization granted to me by the Earth Mechanic himself.”
He laughed softly, his voice like a bell upon the breeze of the open window. “Very well. In that case I hope you can deduce my own interest in this most unfortunate affair?”
“I’m afraid not. I lack sufficient knowledge for that.” She sat down in the armchair across from her guest, crossing one leg over the other. Queens in other countries would probably sit in a “throne” rather than a simple armchair. But in Yamair, the effectiveness of the chair mattered more than anything else. To serve as a good chair, it needed only a strong frame and a comfortable cushion. To please the eyes, a hand-woven design of flowers served this purpose efficiently. “It is rational, of course, that I give you something in return for the information you gave to me. Nothing in life should be free; for everything of value there is something else of equal value, required to provide proper balance. So tell me, Merchant. What do you need?”
“Need?” The Merchant shrugged. His gaze meandered to moving gadgets along the cabinets and mantlepieces of Eleanor’s home. “I need very little. But the world needs very much.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Eleanor’s tone became sharp. “I’ll ask again. What do you require in return for your information?”
His gaze met hers, the dark eyes somehow deep and penetrating all at once. “I am a merchant, but I am also a traveler. The two go hand-in-hand, you might say. Therefore I am always looking for something valuable to trade.” He settled comfortably in his chair. A very calm and polite expression softened his features. “This anti-safra, if it exists, interests me very much. I care nothing for the politics involved and I promise you my utmost discretion. But if you know how to make anti-safra, or something like it, then I need the formula.”
For a moment, Eleanor felt petrified. She could not even breathe. She wondered if the Merchant noticed. She wondered what he thought of her if he did. But in the end, it hopefully wouldn’t matter. “What you ask for is too valuable,” she snapped at last. “Furthermore it puts me at risk. Ask for something else.”
“One bit of information for another,” said the Merchant. He rose to his feet in a swift motion, his long slender body unfolding limb by limb. “It seems a fair trade to me, and it’s the only one I’ll accept.” He bowed deeply. To her surprise, he reached up and pulled off his hat with the movement. Long, white hair spilled from the garment and over his cheekbones. It was such a contrast to his dark brown skin that she nearly gasped aloud. “I’ll be staying in the Turbine Tavern if perchance you change your mind. ‘Til then, King-wife.”
He left without even waiting for her response, much less her dismissal. The weight of their discussion distracted Eleanor from any offense.
“Oh Byron,” she whispered, “what would you do?”