Ink Adept

by TatiAnna Tibbitts

  A moment later they were strolling down a side street and Anjita couldn’t hold herself in any longer. “What a load of old tripe!” she exclaimed. “The city council’s sure self-congratulatory.”

  “That’s no reason to be rude,” Munayair said. “She isn’t responsible for her elders’ behavior.”

  “Is that why you half-crippled me?” Anjita began to limp exaggeratedly, leaning on Munayair’s shoulder for support. Munayair rolled her eyes, secretly glad that Anjita had regained her good humor. She had known the younger Anjita to sulk for days over much more minor insults than Radhan’s. Daughter of a shepherd she might be, she had the pride of a peacock and the stubbornness of a donkey.

  The street emptied out onto a large square, as colorful as the rest of the town and packed beyond capacity. Unlike the celebratory commotion elsewhere, this crowd waited in utter silence. Every person in the square stood facing the center. Most of them were dressed much more simply than the festival crowd on the streets. Munayair recognized faces from the inn.

  Nasim slowed and bit her lip. “Oh gods. I forgot.”

  She hesitated, but Anjita didn’t. Shoving through the silent villagers with the others following, she approached the center of the square. A huge green equestrian statue of a rider reared above them, sword raised to the sky. “Oh, that’s not a bit tacky,” Anjita giggled.

  Munayair swallowed hard. Mingled with the crowd were dozens of the silent grey tachoul, like shadows not cast by the sun overhead. They waited, unseen by everyone else.

  What are those things doing here? Avlingai wondered.

  Nasim’s frown deepened. “We should hurry.”

  “Hush,” a woman craning her neck to see admonished. “They’re about to name the missing.”

  “Missing?” Anjita came alert. “Missing from where?” She received only a few scathing glares, not enough to deter her. “Let’s go closer,” she whispered, and began shoving her way through the crowd again.

  “No, wait—” Nasim missed her grab for Anjita’s robe. Cursing, she plunged after.

  Munayair hurried after them, worry like cold fingers around her heart. To keep up, she was forced to plunge directly through an especially large tachoul. It felt like cold, clammy mist, and she felt it turn to watch her as she hurried on. Something is wrong here. Very wrong.

  Why do I feel a thunderstorm building while the sky is clear? Avlingai growled.

  She looked around, ignoring the silent grey shapes spread throughout the crowd. They were waiting for something, like vultures watching a creature stumble its last steps. She couldn’t understand why. Tachoul could feed on living souls only if they were in a vulnerable state—ill, dying, fearful, or in a rage. Otherwise, the physical body was too strong a barrier for them to overcome.

  A platform stood at the feet of the horse statue. Seated on stools atop the platform were people in expensive brocades and silks, surrounded by blank-faced men in blue uniforms. A bronze braid across the chest marked their lieutenant. Despite his youth—not much older than Anjita— he stood tall with strong features and a chiseled chin. His wavy hair was caught back in a horsetail.

  “Now there’s a man worth looking at,” Anjita announced. She ignored the glares directed at them. Munayair felt herself shrinking.

  “Says you and every other woman in Adasari,” Nasim grumped. A faint pink tint rose on her cheeks as she, too, looked at the handsome lieutenant.

  A woman draped in elegant velvet rose from her stool and approached the front of the platform. Her posture was as graceful as a heron’s neck, and her pale, smooth skin belied the silver threads in her black coif. “I am Lady Chetana Tarokh,” she said. Her voice echoed through the plaza, enhanced by the spell branded into the wood under her feet. “I stand with you in solidarity, citizens of lower Adasari, in this sorrowful time. This blight is a spot on our fair city’s spotless reputation. Know that I am vigilant in pursuing every avenue of—”

  “Just get on with it, your Ladyship!” The impatient cry rose from near the front of the crowd. “Tell us who we’ve lost!”

  Spots of color bloomed on Lady Tarokh’s face. She cleared her throat, plucking a paper from her sleeve. The crowd held its breath as she read the contents aloud. “Bahram Bina,” she sighed, “was reported missing this morning. He went out to get eggs and never came back. The sign was drawn with charcoal on the henhouse door.”

  The crowd displayed a mixed reaction to this announcement. Munayair heard a great deal of sighing and weeping alongside angry yelling. Lady Tarokh stepped back to dab an embroidered kerchief to her eyes. A stumpy man with thick black eyebrows took her place, scowling nearsightedly at the crowd. “Will the family of Bahram Bina please come forward?” he said briskly. After a moment, hands shoved three people towards the platform—a woman and two small children. The guards stepped aside to let them up, then closed ranks against the vigorous throng pressing after.

  Nasim turned to Anjita. “We should go.”

  “Wait. I’m still curious,” Anjita said, her gaze resting on the lieutenant. He stood behind the weeping family as each of the richly-dressed men and women bowed low to them. The square was silent.

  No wonder tachoul gather here in such numbers, Avlingai said. All this raw, unguarded emotion. Almost as if someone is drawing them here on purpose. Out of the corner of Munayair’s eye, grey shadows moved through the crowd, sipping fear and anger like a fine wine. She shuddered.

  Lady Tarokh unrolled another scroll and cleared her throat delicately. “As of Dinse Unen, the city council has increased the rewards to the following. For information on any of the missing or their whereabouts: 10 silver ruchira.”

  Booing rose from the crowd. Loud voices shouted, “We want to know what’s being done to stop this monster!”

  “We can’t go on like this!”

  “It’s our children disappearing, our parents and spouses, not yours!”

  Sweat beaded on Lady Tarokh’s forehead. “Any information about the culprit, 45 silver ruchira.”

  A voice rose above the others, loud and mocking. “I’ve got some information, your Ladyship. Won’t sell it for less than a kiss!”

  The crowd burst into uproarious laughter. Mopping her brow, Lady Tarokh pressed on. “40 gold puhka for access to the culprit’s hideout. And 20 gold kij for his head.”

  “There’s not gold enough in the world to pay somebody to go where that monster’s hiding!” a woman shrieked. “It’s the Night Watcher taking his tribute!”

  For the first time Lady Tarokh became stern. “Such disrespect!” Her voice rolled over the square like thunder. “Why blame innocent spirits when humans are explanation enough?”

  Munayair frowned to hear a southerner exhort respect for spirits. Secretive offerings at shrines was one thing. Openly proclaiming against the religion of the adepts was another. When she glanced over, Anjita’s brown eyes were fixed mistily on the handsome lieutenant’s face. She showed no sign of even paying attention to what was happening.

  Far from shaming the crowd into silence, the unrest only mounted after Lady Tarokh’s scolding. As the guards escorted the family of Bahram Bina from the plaza, villagers shouted and shoved. Rotting vegetables and eggs flew through the air. The tachoul feasted, gathering around the angriest protesters like flies to a corpse. More shouts rose, the clamor increasing.

  “Traitors!”

  “Blood money!”

  “Youse can’t buy our silence!”

  Lady Tarokh glanced beseechingly at the lieutenant, already glowering with a fist clenched around his sword. He gestured overhead, and uniformed soldiers marched from side streets. They shoved through the crowd, singling out the especially unruly and leading them away. Meanwhile the richly-dressed city council descended from the platform. Under heavy guard, they boarded palanquins and left in a row. Their sparkling procession passed near where Munayair and Anjita stood. As Lady Tarokh passed in her blue velvet-draped palanquin, her eyes met Munayair’s and widened a fraction. She turned h
er head to stare. Before Munayair could duck back or hide her face, the lady had already passed out of view. The boisterous press pummeled them like a cork bobbing in rough water.

  Munayair clung to Anjita’s hand and called out to Nasim, “What is happening? Why is everyone so angry?”

  Nasim yelled to be heard over the mob. “Villagers are disappearing from their homes, one every moon.”

  “Disappearing?” Munayair repeated.

  “One every moon?” Anjita said at the same time. “How long has this been going on?”

  Before Nasim could answer, a nearby woman spoke. “More than a year now.”

  The loudest of the protesters had been taken away, and the square quieted as weeping villagers trickled out. Satiated, the tachoul were disappearing as well. Munayair shuddered.

  Is this what happened to the village in the woods, too? Avlingai wondered. Did they disappear one by one until no one was left?

  “Why is nothing being done to stop it?” Anjita asked.

  The woman shrugged. “What is there to be done, when our very protector has turned against us? Where other omens might be misinterpreted, this sign is clear.”

  “One a moon for more than a year is a lot of people.” Anjita’s brow wrinkled with puzzlement. “And not one has ever come back?”

  “And nobody knows where they go or why they are taken?” Munayair shook her head. Perhaps this was the reason for so many tachoul in such a peaceful hamlet? “How was the guardian spirit angered? Have any offerings been made?”

  The woman turned on her, an ugly look twisting her face. “Who asked you, you dirty idol-worshiper?” She spat in the dust at Munayair’s feet. “It’s your heathen practices that anger spirits, not pious folks like us.”

  Munayair fell back, heart pounding. Her hand darted into her pocket, then halted when she remembered it was empty.

  Disgusting, Avlingai growled. Who is the real heathen here?

  Anjita stepped between Munayair and the woman. “Hey, get away from her,” she snapped.

  The ugly expression turned on Anjita, and even she faltered. Other villagers were gathering.

  “I’m going to be so late,” Nasim muttered. She turned and darted away.

  An old man with a shiny bald head and overly large ears stepped towards Munayair. “You’re Sayakhun? You are, aren’t you? Please, I’m Lado, the tanner. The spirit took my son.” Tears stood out in his dark eyes, and his jowls wobbled. “You have to help us placate the spirit’s anger. He has not taken any notice of my offerings—”

  “Shut your mouth, Lado!” someone cried. “Take your superstition elsewhere. It’s this archaic nonsense what keeps us under the spirit’s thumb.” Voices roared approval, ringing in Munayair’s ears.

  Lado persisted with tears on his face, raising pleading hands to Munayair. “The Night Watcher has protected Adasari for hundreds of years, what have we done to enrage him so?”

  The first woman had not stopped glaring at Munayair, chest heaving. “Blasphemy like this is what condemns us,” she said. “Allowing dirt-eaters like her among us.”

  Anjita pushed her sleeves up to show her tattoos. “Step back,” she barked, meeting the woman’s glare.

  Trembling, Munayair looked at the knot tightening around them. Although Anjita was an adept and therefore considered sacred, Munayair was not. Even if the spells could scare off a few villagers, more were gathering every moment.

  “You think you’re better than us poor common folk, journeyer?” The woman shoved Anjita. “Prove it.”

  “What in the five holy names is the problem?” Anjita cried. “Are youse so ignorant you don’t fear to face an adept?”

  “We know right enough you’re an adept,” someone screeched back, “by the fancy airs you give yourself!”

  “When you’re common as dirt, as anyone can see!”

  Others took up the cry. “Common as dirt, common as dirt—”

  Anjita flushed scarlet, whirling to face her tormentors, hands twitching towards her spells. A clump of dried mud bounced off the back of her head, sending her staggering with a cry. Munayair turned to see a small boy making an impudent face, those about him howling with laughter. “Common as mud!” he screeched before darting away through the crowd.

  “Five gods!” Anjita burst out.

  The villagers gathered in a ring around them, hollow eyes and flushed faces. A look Munayair recognized, and her stomach dipped as if she had missed a step in the dark.

  Fear.

  Fear transformed into anger, into violence. She knew it better than most. She had seen it all too often as a child, when the raiders came. When they kept coming, moon after moon and year after year with no end in sight. When the villagers whispered behind their hands as she passed. When they threw dung and rocks as she left her father’s tent for the last time. She swallowed hard, the bitter taste of smoke coating her tongue. In the absence of Tel’s comforting smoothness, she gripped the slippery silk of Anjita’s sleeve.

  These demons are mere infants compared to what you’ve already faced, Avlingai said. Anger is born from fear, the need to find a scapegoat. Do not let them worry you.

  I know, Munayair replied, blinking back the overwhelming memories. Her breath choked her. Fear is like fire. It’s so hungry.

  Anjita dropped her hands and shook her sleeves back down, touching the back of her head and wincing. She let out a nervous laugh. “I can see this kidnapping business has got youse worked up. Let us pass and we’ll go in peace.”

  The woman let out a coarse laugh. “Not bloody likely.” She bent for another handful of mud. Many others followed suit.

  “Naya—what are we going to do?” Anjita hissed, pressing close so they were back to back. Munayair reached into her pocket, grabbing a shield chelka.

  Chapter : Hunger

  “Here, then, what is all this ruckus?” a voice cried from behind the crowd.

  The villagers scattered as a party of horsemen in blue and bronze sauntered through. At their head rode the lieutenant who had fascinated Anjita. He paid the fleeing mob no attention, leaping to the ground and approaching. Nasim fidgeted next to his horse, eyes cast to the ground. Munayair glanced over the mounts idly, but their horses were pedestrian. The magnificent roan from the night before was not in evidence.

  “It’s nothing—” Munayair began, but he paid her no heed. His smile broadened and he bowed at the waist to Anjita. “My lady, I hope the riff raff have not been bothering you?”

  Munayair, anticipating a scathing retort, nearly fell over when the reply came sweetly, “Oh no, sir. Nothing I can’t handle.” Anjita’s cheeks were pink.

  “It’s a crime to let a beautiful girl go unaccompanied,” he continued. “Permit me to escort you to ... where are you staying?”

  Anjita smiled in return, eyes sparkling. “We haven’t a place to stay yet.”

  Munayair frowned. “We were hoping to find the local enclave.”

  His eyes opened wide. “Well, then, you must permit me to escort you. I insist! I know the place well, and I cannot permit you to travel alone, even in our fair city of Adasari.”

  Munayair opened her mouth to refuse, only to hear Anjita murmuring, “We’d love to.”

  Somehow, a moment later Anjita was clutching at the saddle on the lieutenant’s horse while he led it by the reins. Munayair had displaced another soldier while Nasim trailed in the dust at the rear. From Munayair’s place near the end of the column, she caught snatches of their flirtatious conversation.

  Anjita gestured to the statue looming overhead as they crossed the plaza. “An ancestor of yours? The resemblance is uncanny.”

  He laughed. “You flatter me. Call him an inspiration, rather. Zain the Conqueror, first king of Thinavaru. His first victory over the Taellori savages was in this spot, long before the city. Of course, the battle would have ended much differently without the aid of magicians like yourself, milady ...?”

  Anjita’s reply was breathless. “Journeyer Palianjita Mahil. My f
riends call me Anjita.”

  “I cannot have forgotten to introduce myself,” he said. “Your beauty has made a mess of the manners my mother so carefully taught me. I am Sachin Tarokh, Second of the House of Warriors, Lieutenant of the Horse.”

  What a peacock, Munayair sneered inwardly.

  Avlingai laughed. My dear sister, your friend is hardly the first woman to be charmed by a young man in uniform. Don’t take it to heart.

  Sniffing, Munayair turned her attention to the high-class neighborhood they were riding through. Exquisite carvings, brilliant mosaics, fountains, and elegant gardens. After the commotion in the plaza, the silence was smothering. She caught snatches of Sachin’s conversation with Anjita, little though she wished to. She looked up at the mention of her own name.

  “... your friend. Munayair?”

  “Yeah, the only Sayakhun in the Marble Hall. We’ve been friends since ...”

  Sachin twisted around and his eyes met Munayair’s with a calculating glance. Then a heart-melting smile replaced the hard light so quickly she wondered if she had imagined it. Her hands tightened around the leather pommel. Just now, she thought as her heart pounded, did he look like—

  The leader of the hunters, Avlingai said. Yes, he did.

  I guess we’ll have to keep an eye on him, Munayair sighed.

  At least the view is nice, Avlingai said philosophically.

  Quiet, you, she returned. I have to get him away from Anjita.

  I have an idea, Avlingai said with a wicked giggle. When he told her, she argued for a while but eventually, having no better plan, gave in with a grumble. When the high stone walls of the adept enclave came into view, Munayair heaved a sigh of relief. The guards dismounted while servants rushed out of the house to greet them. Nasim hurried inside without a backward glance, shoulders hunched around her ears.

  Munayair slid off the horse with a tight nod to the soldier who had given his seat to her. Then she marched to Sachin and strove to control her voice. “Thank you very much for your help,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d care to come with us? Make proper introductions?”