Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  “Stubbornness may not impress the gods as easily as it does you,” said Neil, shaking his head.

  They found Radda behind the line of wagons, by the small portable forge. His wife Adelai was there as well, and their oldest daughter Mary. Fox could see they were building tambours, the round wooden instruments the dancers often used. The women sat patiently sewing stretched skins onto the round wooden frames, which were like small drums when they were struck. Radda himself was busy crafting small metal discs that would be set into the very frame itself, and jangle like bells when the tambours were shaken. His hands and arms were streaked with soot from the close work, but he had a neat pile of finished jangles set aside on his work table, simply waiting to be polished.

  Adelai was the first to notice their approach, and she smiled warmly. “There you are! Come now, to work with both of you! Let me see what you’ve got!”

  They handed over the sacks of roots, and she nodded her approval. “You’ll need a mortar and pestle from the wagon. Strip the bark, and drain the sap from it, then grind the inner root into a powder.”

  “What’s this for?” asked Fox curiously as Neil went to fetch the requested tools.

  “The tambours,” said Radda. “This particular sap gets those jangles unnaturally shiny. Hypnotically so, truth be told. The powdered root we mix into a fine colored dye.”

  The roots were easy enough to strip, but hard to grind. They’d dried quickly enough, thanks to a small bit of magic by Adelai. But even dry, their texture was strange. They fought Fox every step of the way, and by the time he had gathered only a small dish of fine powder, Neil had already drained the sap from every flake of bark. As they worked, people wandered by in a constant trickle. Many were familiar: members of the company, or the merchants they were traveling with for now. To these people, Fox said hello by name, if he remembered them. Others who came by were patrons, come from the nearest city to investigate the strange troupe camped by the river. Every so often Adelai would stop her work to converse with one of these, or else pop into the wagon and come out with some item or trinket she thought the customer would like.

  Fox didn’t mind the work. He would have been content spending all evening forge-side with Radda and his family. But as the afternoon wore on, he knew he had chores of his own to get to. He excused himself from the group, apologizing to Adelai. “Darby will have my head if I don’t get those beasts looked after,” he explained. Then, after nimbly swiping a hunk of cheese and bread from the plate Neil had brought out for himself, Fox disappeared into the throng of the camp once more.

  He ate the stolen lunch quickly as he wound his way through bodies, tents, and wagons to the farthest end of the clearing. There, just past the treeline, a rough but sturdy paddock had been erected in the shade for the animals. Several horses and a large cart goat grazed contentedly, while a short, stout man sat perched along one of the rails, offering apples and a scratch behind the ear to any beast that clopped up to him.

  Darby Whistler was, for all intents and purposes, Fox’s master. He was the adult in the company who had final say on where Fox went or what he did. He was Fox’s guardian, and taught him the way of the Shavid. Fox, in turn, was something of an apprentice to the hostler. He learned everything from how to groom and outfit the horses to which ones liked to be sung to and which ones despised carrots. And while Darby was something of an oddity, even by Shavid standards, Fox rather liked him.

  Darby didn’t so much as glance up as Fox approached, nor when Fox climbed up to sit beside him. Instead, he silently handed Fox an apple. Fox took it and began to munch on it, enjoying the refreshing, sticky juices running down his chin. They sat like this for quite some time, neither speaking, but Fox was used to it. Darby had waited for him for a reason, and he would get to it when he was ready. Until then, Fox ate his apple in silence, watching the horses bite the heads off wildflowers and try to reach the edible tips of hanging branches.

  Of all the Shavid Fox had met, either outside of Radda’s company or within it, Darby was the only other Windkissed. And he was the only dwarf. Even at the age of sixteen, Fox already stood head and shoulders above his mentor.

  And Fox found him completely fascinating. Darby kept his red-brown hair pulled back in a short horse tail, and his beard shaved close and stubbly. To the people in Thicca Valley, Darby’s clothes might have seemed rich and colorful. But among the Shavid, there seemed to be something muted about them. It was as though he always hovered in the middle of flamboyant and functional. And always, he wore his black, knee-high boots and wide, black belt with its many hidden pockets and enormous buckle around his middle. Both boots and belt seemed to be made of something indestructible. For while they were definitely worn in, there was never so much as a nick or a scratch on the supple leathery surfaces, no matter what terrain the company traveled.

  Darby was devilishly charming and charismatic, with an ease that made Fox ache with envy. The dwarf could spin tales to rival the company storytellers when he wished to. Tales of heroism and beautiful women. Half-lies about his own travels through the world. Stories about being thrown from the High King’s court, and about a war no one had ever heard of, but that Darby swore had happened. But when it came to his earlier past, before he left his mountain home and answered the wind’s call, Darby remained stubbornly mute. No one knew anything of his family or friends before the Shavid. No one was even quite sure which dwarven clan his bloodline hailed from. All any of them knew was that he was born and raised in the dark and deep places, and that was enough to make him something of an enigma. There were only a handful of dwarves who were ever known to be Windkissed, and most of them had been born on or near the surface. But Darby Whistler was a mystery.

  This, Fox supposed, was why Radda had partnered him with the dwarf. On a very primal level, they had something in common. Both were born to lands and circumstances that did not lend themselves to this type of Blessing. And both were chosen by the wind, for reasons only the wind herself knew.

  Fox tossed the core of his apple into the paddock and watched two of the smaller ponies rush for it. They fought over it for a moment before the smaller, darker of the two won, and pranced off smugly with it. Darby chuckled. “Always liked that little demon. Reminds me of me.” He whistled a short note, and the second pony came plodding dejectedly over. “Don’t let him get to you,” said Darby soothingly. “You’ll get him next time.” He rubbed the pony under the chin, and then ran his hands down the pony’s neck, his thick fingers scratching obediently when the pony leaned into it. Then he fished out a fresh apple for the animal. They watched the pony in companionable silence for another moment or two, and then Darby finally spoke once more.

  “We’ll be heading into Calibas next,” he said. “Have you heard of it?”

  Fox shook his head, and his master continued.

  “The sweetest wine and women to ever cross my tongue,” he said with a reminiscent chuckle. And then, with a change in tone that could not quite pass as casual, he said, “There is a university, and with it one of the biggest libraries this side of the Merchant’s Highway. Volumes on everything from weaving to war.” He glanced sidelong at his apprentice, no doubt noting Fox’s sudden pique in interest, before he continued. “It is a place rich with knowledge to be discovered, but I would warn you not to get carried away.”

  “I won’t neglect my duties,” Fox assured him, but Darby shook his head.

  “Your chores are not my concern,” he said gravely. And then, he shifted uncomfortably on his perch, glancing about them as though he feared the very horses repeating him. “Your gift is unique,” he said carefully. “There’s been no Cartomancer among the Shavid for over 400 years, it’s true. Never in living memory has a Shavid Blessing even hinted at such talents.”

  “Radda said they had become the stuff of legend,” said Fox.

  “But even legends are kept alive in record and histories. Written in scrolls, told in stories.” Darby turned now to meet Fox’s gaze. “Has it never
struck you as odd that you’ve not found so much as a mention of cartographers in all the books you’ve read? Hours you have spent in libraries, wasted.”

  “Not wasted,” insisted Fox. “I might not have found anything about the cartomancers themselves, but I’ve learned so much else! About the gods, the Shavid. Strange lands we’ve yet to visit!”

  “All I mean is this: the Mapweavers passed from memory for a reason. Do not expect too much from books and scholarly pursuits. I would hate for you to lose yourself chasing ghosts and forgotten spirits.”

  Something in Darby’s voice caught Fox’s attention and made him frown. “Why are you telling me this?” asked Fox. “Has something happened?”

  For a moment, it seemed as though Darby wanted to answer, or perhaps say something more. But then, the dwarf began to climb down from the paddock railing with a groan. “Be sure everyone gets a thorough grooming tonight. We leave before dawn.”

  And with that, he was gone, leaving a very perplexed Fox alone with the animals.

  He wasn’t alone for long. Fox could smell Mindi coming before he saw her, but he kept his attention on the horses. He took his time untangling every knot from manes and tails, and picking every stray stone from their hooves. Her scent came closer, settling in on him like a shower of sweet wildflower petals. Everyone had a faintly unique scent, Fox had learned. Like their voices or their walks, no one was exactly identical. And while he’d always had a keen nose, his time with the Shavid had only sharpened his talents. He could smell the slight differences in their hair, and how much soap they used. He could smell hints of their trade on hands and clothes. Traces of leather and paint odor followed some people around, and smoke from cooking fires clung to their skin.

  It was a talent that had once overwhelmed him. But tireless practice, and long hours of studying how to control magic, any magic, kept his own senses at bay. They bent to his will now, rather than bringing him to his knees as they had in the beginning. Most of the time, anyway. It was only a small element of control in a still wildy mysterious Blessing, but Fox was grateful for it.

  Eventually, he couldn’t pretend to work any longer. Mindi was waiting by the paddock gate when he finished, and smiled when he approached. “Mother said you were helping her work earlier. Pity you never stop by to help when I’m around.” She pouted, a little too forcefully to be entirely genuine.

  “Seems to work out that way, doesn’t it,” said Fox dryly. He handed his wooden basket of grooming tools over the fence to her, then climbed over himself. Wordlessly, he took the basket from her again, nodded by way of thanks, and headed off down the treeline towards the tent he shared with Darby. Mindi fell into step beside him without invitation.

  Radda’s middle daughter had always made Fox uncomfortable. She liked staring at him, with her larger-than-average blue eyes. And she didn’t seem to need to blink as much as a normal person. She could gaze with such intensity and focus, it made Fox feel as though she were looking through him, right into his very feelings and thoughts. And she always found reasons to touch him more than was entirely necessary.

  Neil liked to tease Fox about this, much to Fox’s irritation. He’d never had anyone be so forceful in their affection for him before. To him, it was very much like making friends with a particularly loving bear cub: he might be tempted to play with it, but he was always frightened of getting bitten.

  Mindi’s magic was as sporadic as her moods — simple and light one moment, brewing up storms the next. She was the only member of the company who had any “practical” Blessing, and the workings of everyday magics came easily to her. But, like her Blessing, Mindi was often erratic, and unpredictable. She could create fires and simple illusions with a snap of her fingers, but let it get out of hand just as easily. Despite it all, however, her persistence had worn Fox down, and he’d allowed her to become a friend, of sorts.

  She twisted the end of her golden-red braid in her fingers as they walked. Fox could see her hair changing colors where she touched it; briefly blue, then deepest black, then green. “Some of us are going into the city for supper,” Mindi said after a few moments. “Come with me?”

  “Got chores,” said Fox.

  “Big suprise,” grumbled Mindi. “Finish with them quickly, then, and come out dancing!” And then, with a devilish smile, she said, “I promise I’ll save a dance for you.”

  Fox ignored her. He could see the tent, clustered with two others near the outer rim of the Shavid encampment. Someday soon, he would begin work on crafting his own tent. It was a part of Shavid tradition, a step forward in his apprenticeship. But for now, he shared with Darby, and they kept their fire with Neil and Tallac. He ducked quickly inside, glad to have a moment to himself. Dancing was absolutely out of the question. He would spar with Mindi during morning combat, and practice magic lessons with her. He would even go sight-seeing. But he knew enough about women to know that dancing was one weapon he could never put in Mindi’s hand. He’d trust her more with a dozen knives.

  He traded in his grooming supplies for an elk-hide case of leatherworking tools, then joined Mindi once more. She was still smiling at him. “Just one dance,” she said, as though there had been no gap in the conversation. “I promise I won’t bite you.”

  “Bears may intend not to bite,” said Fox before he could stop himself. “But wild instinct almost always wins out over good intentions.”

  Mindi blinked, momentarily speechless. The ends of her braid faded to grey, and began to smoke. Fox took a hesitant step back, unsure of quite what was happening. But then, suddenly, she smiled again. Softer, sweeter than before. “Bear,” she said quietly. “I like it.” Her hair shifted back to golden-red, and they started walking back into the heart of camp. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Don’t let Darby work you too hard tonight.” She squeezed his hand briefly before flouncing away to join her friends.

  The crowds had shifted in the space between afternoon and evening. As dusk painted the clearing red and grey, the casual shoppers and curious passers-by were replaced by eager, excited audiences. Some familiar faces, who had come to see the Shavid before. Others, fresh-faced and curious newcomers — those who had heard stories of the wandering players in town, and come to see them on their final night camped in these woods.

  Somebody whistled from overhead, and Fox looked up. Neil was waving at him from atop one of the Shavid wagons. Quickly, eager to watch the festivities himself as he worked, Fox clambered up with his tools tucked under one arm, and perched beside Neil on the flat rooftop. From here, they could perfectly see the clearing below, and the darkened stage at its heart. They shared a plate of sticky buns as Fox started last-minute repairs on leather harnesses and work gloves, and they waited.

  Strange, glowing lights, like the ghosts of candles, flickered into existence all through the trees as it grew steadily darker. Fires of all sizes roared into existence across the clearing. Some were small, made for the slightest illumination for storytellers and their audiences. Others were larger, and smelled of fine roasting meats. The energy was almost palpable, the air so thick with anticipation and excitement Fox could taste it. He could hear every heartbeat thrumming, and the frenetic buzz of talk. It was like being trapped inside a humming beehive of energy.

  Right at sunset, for the briefest moment, a tense quiet fell. The entertainers around the rim paused in their stories and performances. The whole clearing seemed to be holding its breath, waiting like an arrow poised on a taut bowstring. Then, as the night entirely took the sky, there was an explosion of light and sound. Multi-colored lanterns flared to life around the stage, accompanied by a burst of fireworks and smoke from its center. When they cleared, Radda was standing there, basking in the uproarious applause. He was grinning broadly, arms open in welcome, dressed in what he called his Showman’s finest — everything was varying shades of red and gold, from his crimson boots to the gilded adornments woven into his beard.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Radda’s booming voice cut easily thro
ugh the hubbub. “After tonight we take our leave of you, and your fine city! But until then, we have stories to tell and music to play! And of course,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and the crowd quieted to match, “magic!”

  The single word was like a spark, igniting the clearing. The rest of the Players appeared, each in their own way — some in clouds of smoke, others flying in, borne on the wind itself, swooping and soaring over the audience before coming to rest beside Radda.

  “When do I get to learn how to do that?” asked Fox with a pang of envy. He had seen the Players fly before, every so often. He knew it was a tricky bit of magic, but no one had ever quite been able to tell him how it worked.

  “When it’s right, I suppose,” said Neil. “I don’t even think they know quite when and how it happens. They trust in the wind, and pray that it carries them where they need to go.”

  It was not the first time such an answer had been given when Fox questioned the nature of Shavid magic. The wind would do as it did, and he was merely the ship, learning how to harness her in his sails.

  Almost as if she had heard his thoughts, the wind brushed across his cheek suddenly, and ruffled his hair. Fox smiled to himself and bent his head back to his work. Between pirates and elements, he felt sure no one had ever had quite as much divine interference in their lives at so young an age before.

  The night was long and enjoyable. Even as Fox worked, repairing harnesses and leather accents on costumes with an ease that made the seamstresses lovingly jealous, he had a steady stream of company. Performers took their breaks and came to join him, often bringing food or drink or extra lanterns, and they would watch the festivities from above. By the time Fox had finished, it was nearing midnight, and Radda was beginning his final tale. Eagerly, Fox tucked his tools away and slid all the way to the edge of the wagon to watch, his legs dangling over the edge.

  All of the lights were extinguished, save for the ones on the stage. For a moment, Radda stood alone once more, letting silence envelop the clearing. Then, he began to speak. The words that poured from him were familiar, to everyone. It was a common story, about a knight venturing forth to rescue a captured princess. But when Radda spoke, pure magic dripped from his tongue.