Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Stone and heart

  Together, apart

  Strengthen our souls when each day we start

  Light and fire

  And deepest desire

  Grant us before we depart

  As the bonfire began to die down, Thiccans returned to their homes, with pieces of the bonfire lighting their way. Glowing embers were carried off in fire-proofed pouches, and rough torches were fashioned out of half-burned logs. Each home fire would be lit with these relics, and burn through the night. As the Blackroot family returned to the Five Sides with their small beacons, Lai found herself looking one last time to the mountain road, hoping to catch any sign of the Shavids’ return. But the mountains lay quiet and still, and Lai knew that, come tomorrow, she would stop looking.

  Things were changing. And it was high time she let them.

  Chapter Four

  Shadows

  There was a strange sort of magic about the Shavid wagons that Fox could never quite figure out. No matter how much gear, baggage, and merchandise was packed between the three rolling wonders, or shunderings, there was always more than enough room for all of the Shavid to ride comfortably. And not just comfortably, sprawlingly. Amid all the boxes and instruments and costumes and cookware, there was somehow room enough for large armchairs and hanging hammocks and small cushioned footstools. The Shavid played cards and dice, with wooden crates as makeshift tabletops. They tuned and played their instruments and practiced new songs, or simply napped the afternoons away.

  Fox always liked to ride in the shundering that unfolded into a stage for the Players to perform their dramas on. To him, it was the most interesting of the three. Costumes were hung on racks that dangled from the impossibly high ceiling. Countless masks stared down at him from the walls, and props were tucked away in every corner. Every piece reminded Fox of a story he’d seen played out on the stage, or filled him with curious anticipation for those stories he’d not yet heard. And every stitch, every jeweled accessory and carved wooden sword was imbued with an almost tangible Shavid magic. The more time he spent in the shundering, the more his mind buzzed with the echoes of their stories.

  They’d been on the road for three days straight by now, headed for a city Fox had only heard scant stories of. As always when they were going somewhere new, Fox was restless and eager, and couldn’t keep his mind on one thing at a time. The other Shavid laughed at him as he paced around the shundering, going from card game to costume rack on a moment’s whim, then back again almost as quickly.

  “Amazed you haven’t burned holes in the rug, with all that skittering about,” said Donlan, glancing up from his book. He was seated around the card table with three other Shavid, but he never truly joined in the game.

  “Leave the poor thing alone,” said Aubrey, playing her turn. “He’s just excited is all.” The curvy redhead lay her cards down on the table, and while Fox couldn’t see them from where he stood, the resulting curses from her fellow players assured him that she’d won. She sat back smugly, tucking a strand of her chin-length hair behind her ear.

  “See, this is what happens when Fox can’t sit still,” moaned Merrick, sliding a handful of silver across the table. “Come on, you know you’re the only one who can beat her!”

  Fox chuckled and shrugged apologetically. “It’s not my fault that you can’t bluff to save your life. Really, Merrick. For a Player, you should really have a better handle on that.”

  Merrick pouted and threw one of his cards in Fox’s general direction. It missed by a long shot, spinning wildly to the side and disappearing into a pile of hats. As the wagon erupted with laughter, Merrick went to retrieve his thrown card and Fox stole his seat at the table. When Merrick emerged, he was wearing a large, wide-brimmed hat simply dripping with flowers and wax fruit, and another gale of laughter filled the wagon.

  When Fox had first met Merrick, the curly-haired blonde youth had been awkwardly uncomfortable about his roles in the Shavid company. Constantly reduced to playing a woman, or a fool, he’d more often than not be seen with his face the deep red of embarrassment. But by the time Fox reunited with the group, Merrick seemed to have come into his own. Now, he not only accepted his role as the fool, but embraced it. And the audiences adored him for it. Now, hoisting a practiced look of blank confusion onto his face, Merrick flounced back to the card table with his ridiculous hat, returned the missing card to his deck, and said, “Shall we play another round?”

  And Merrick wasn’t the only one who had changed. There was Mary, Radda’s oldest daughter. When they had departed, Mary had been engaged to Donlan, the tall, quiet storyteller. Now, the two were married, and while Donlan still never said much, everyone could see how happy they made each other. And James, the other young man at the card table, had picked up a series of small scars around one eye. His stories of how he acquired them changed daily, each more extravagant than the last. They merely added to his already roguish persona, and whatever tales about them he spun to the women on the road had them swooning at his feet.

  And then there was Aubrey. A feisty, care-for-herself fiddler, who bested most of the men at hand-to-hand combat if she bothered to spar with them. Though she wasn’t beginning to show it yet, the whispers through the company were that she was recently with child. Nobody knew who the father was, as no one had ever seen her courting before. And certainly nobody dared ask. Aubrey would tell them when she wished, if she wished, and in the meantime everyone turned a blind eye each time she had to excuse herself with stomach pains and morning sickness.

  Shavid had come and gone while the company had been on the road, and new faces had joined the Players before they found Fox once more. This, he had learned, was fairly normal behavior in most Shavid companies. Oftentimes, the wind would whisper something to one person, a secret it did not share with the others, and that man or woman would follow it where it led. Sometimes they reunited with their favored group, but just as often, they kept to their own path and made new companies and families of their own.

  This, Fox supposed, was what had happened with Darby, his mentor. When the Shavid had first arrived in Thicca Valley, the dwarf had not been among them. But when he had rejoined them, Fox was told the celebration was of the grandest proportions. He was much beloved within Radda’s company. And while no one knew where he’d been or why he’d gone, they were glad to have him back.

  The group played one more round of cards, and then Donlan pulled himself away from his book with a brooding sigh and said, “Ought to get to work. Calibas is not far off now.” Fox watched them rehearse for a bit, preparing their grand entrance into the city, and arguing over which story to play out that evening. Then, snatching an apple from a small crate of foodstuffs, Fox went in search of Neil.

  He slid open one of the half windows and climbed through it, coming to land easily on the back of the wagon. He slipped down and sat beside Neil, their feet dangling off the edge, the road rolling away beneath them. Fox silently offered his apple to Neil, but the older boy shook his head and held up his hands, showing he was busy constructing something out of leaves. Shrugging, Fox bit eagerly into the apple himself, swinging his legs and watching the roads where they’d already been fade away into the distance.

  “They said we’ll be in Calibas by nightfall,” said Fox after awhile. Neil only grunted his acknowledgment. After a few moments, Fox tried again. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Once, and only briefly.”

  Fox waited, and finally Neil sighed and began to talk as he worked. “It was not long after I joined the company, and Thabet still traveled with us.”

  Fox remembered Neil telling him of the man Thabet, his one connection to his distant homeland; a desert nation called Maradwell. When first they’d met, Neil had recounted to Fox the story of how his homeland suffered a political upheaval, and how in order to keep the one and only heir to the throne safe from would-be assassins, Neil and the young heir, Adil, had switched places. They had then faked Neil’s death and, with Tha
bet by his side, spirited him out of the country. Neil had never returned, but after two years of wandering with the Shavid, Thabet couldn’t keep away any longer. He had gone home to serve his master Adil in secret, and search for a way to put him safely on the throne.

  Neil went on. “I remember it was the first true city I had seen since leaving the dessert. Not just small, outlying villages and farmlands, but a teeming, thriving heart, built within massive city walls, with a great fortress set high on a hill above it. It might have only been a fraction of the size of the capital, where I grew up, but the sheer unfamiliarity of everything made it seem much, much larger in my young and overwhelmed mind.”

  “I imagine I’d feel much the same if I went to your land for the first time,” admitted Fox, and Neil smiled darkly.

  “You wouldn’t make it three steps into the city alone, my young friend. You’d be lost in an instant, or taken and traded as a slave boy.”

  And then, they fell silent again, and Neil returned his attention to the bird taking shape in his dark hands.

  “Do you miss it?” asked Fox after a few moments. “Maradwell?”

  “What’s to miss?” asked Neil. “As far as they know, I’m dead. There is nothing but war and blood and sand.” But something in his voice told Fox that his friend missed it terribly, though he might never admit it.

  It was a feeling Fox found he could relate to. What sort of home was there to return to, when everyone you knew and loved saw you differently now? Fox was an accidental hero. And Neil was a ghost.

  The older boy had finished his leaf sculpture, and held it up to examine it critically. It was a bird, beautifully woven from nothing but leaves. Its wings were perfect, outspread as though it might take off from the palm of his hand at any moment. The whole thing looked so close to real, that Fox would not have been surprised to see it breathe and chirp. He had seen the Shavid make many of these leaf creatures, and bring them to life with music. They’d sent twig-crafted fish swimming through midair and made butterflies from flower petals to drift on the wind, bringing them to rest on the noses of watching children.

  “I’ve still never got the hang of those,” said Fox. “Can’t ever seem to get the proportions right. But yours are always perfect.”

  Neil shrugged. “Not perfect,” he said, the slightest tone of bitterness creeping into his voice. And Fox knew why. No matter how artfully crafted Neil’s creations were, they would never be brought to life like those the true Shavid created. “It’s just like everything else,” Neil continued. “I could play or sing or dance just as well as anybody else. But I’ll never have the Blessing. Just a lifeless talent.”

  “Well,” said Fox helpfully, “not entirely lifeless.” And with that, he scooped the leaf bird out of Neil’s hands, and tossed it high into the air, shouting, “Fly!”

  The bird caught on the wind and fluttered madly, drifting down towards the road only to be buffeted by the wind coming off the rapidly-spinning wagon wheels. The boys laughed as they watched it being tossed crazily about, finally being carried off and away by a sudden, powerful gust.

  When Fox spoke again, it was with a practiced, measured nonchalance. “Darby said there’s a university at Calibas. And a grand, massive library.”

  “Indeed,” said Neil. “Never got the chance to set foot inside, last time.”

  “And this time?”

  Neil raised a dark eyebrow and smirked at Fox. “Have you ever known me to pass up such a chance?”

  It was true. Neil spent more time in libraries and bookshops than any four of the other Shavid combined, but it never seemed to be enough for him. There was an aggressive thirst for knowledge that seemed to go deep beneath Neil’s scholarly background. Fox knew that his friend was fascinated with the history of magical Blessings and talents, and desperate to figure out what gave one person an affinity for magic while someone else remained unBlessed. But it was a fascination that Fox sometimes worried would turn to obsession. Was this what Darby had meant, warning Fox off spending too much time buried in books and old stories? Was Fox becoming obsessed?

  “You’re joining me, aren’t you?” asked Neil. “New library, new books we haven’t investigated. Sooner or later, we’re bound to find something about the roots of your gift.”

  “I would like to get out and see the city,” admitted Fox. “But I may flip through a few volumes. If I find the time.”

  Neil chuckled. “Sure, if you find the time. I’ll be sure to save you a seat at the table.”

  And then, Fox knew. He might not be obsessed in the same way as Neil, but his own thirst for knowledge would always drive him. Neil was right; of course Fox would be joining him. There was no library they had passed that Fox had not combed through, no bookshop where he had not at least casually searched for a passing mention of the cartographers of old.

  Fox suggested they head back into the wagon for the remainder of the journey, and Neil followed him through the window and back inside. There, Fox distracted himself by watching the Players rehearse, and trying on costume pieces. He lost himself in the scraps and whispers of stories that filled him when he put on the cloaks and hats, pushing Darby’s strange warnings to the back of his mind.

  ∞∞∞

  It was dusk when they came to a halt. Fox was seated high up in the costume rafters with Merrick when the whole shundering jolted suddenly, and he had to grip the nearest cross beam. As the wagon settled into stillness, Fox jumped up and raced across the balk to one of the high windows set into the side of the wagon. He hauled it open and stuck his head out to look around. He could hear the other Shavid from all three wagons doing the same. Heads popped out of scattered openings, and some even climbed all the way out to cling to the outer woodwork, or perch on wagon rooftops.

  A wall, higher and more imposing than any Fox had ever seen, stretched out as far as they could see on either side, wrapping around the city. And before them, the city gates, closed and barred. Fox was mildly aware of Radda climbing down from his seat in the first wagon, and going to talk to a heavily decorated guardsman at the gate, but most of Fox’s attention was drawn upward. A patrol of no less than twenty men stood atop the gates, all armed, all stoic and hard-faced. Lanterns and torches were just being lit, sending little flickers of glowing light sparkling to life all along the wall.

  With a monstrous creak and the churning of heavy gears, the bars on the gate began to lift. Radda hoisted himself back into his wagon seat, and as the massive city gates began to groan open, the Shavid set up a hooting, howling cheer. But Fox just grinned broadly, staring ahead into the captivating, unfamiliar streets of the largest city he had ever encountered. As the wagons made their way slowly through the city gates, the locals began to swarm around the shunderings, and the Shavid had already begun to pander to their audience. Lutes and fiddles appeared in the hands of some of the musicians, and they plucked out cheerful little ditties for the crowd. James stood boldly atop the stage wagon and blew kisses to the gathered women, throwing in a flirtatious wink here and there.

  There seemed to be no end to the city. At every turn, there were more buildings, more twisting, stone-worked streets. Even narrow, dirt alleys seemed to empty into small forests of shops and houses. Massive wood-and-stone stairways led up to second and third levels of the city, where bridges cris-crossed overhead. Fox could see smaller, darker stairs leading down from the street level, tucked in the corners between buildings and hidden in the shadows. Here, in a land where shops were stacked on top of one another like firewood, there was not simply one village square, but rather a dozen separate courtyards where marketplaces had sprung to life. And Fox knew in an instant that he might spend a whole lifetime in such a city, and never know all of its secrets.

  The crowds shifted as the wagons finally came to rest, and the locals allowed the Shavid to disembark and greet them properly. They had stopped at a sort of crossroads, where two of the wider streets met, beneath an arched bridge dripping with multi-colored, glowing lanterns. On the corn
er across from them, Fox could see a large, illuminated sign, advertising the “Drunken Goose Inn and Stables.” The sign seemed to be lit from within, in glowing, emerald green. Fox suspected that it was enchanted, and watched as Radda disappeared within the establishment. The rest of the Shavid were introducing themselves to the clamoring crowd, announcing their indefinite stay. Fox watched the encounter from his little window, and stayed there through two raucous songs and a particularly fine juggling act. Then, as Radda reappeared, shaking the hand of the man Fox could only assume to be the innkeeper, the Shavid waved their goodbyes for the evening, promising a full show tomorrow.

  Darby whistled up to Fox, who shook himself from his own stupor of fascination. “Sorry!” he said.

  “Get down here and help me put everything away!”

  Fox obeyed at once, scrambling down the rafters, making his way through the hanging costumes of the now-empty shundering. As he gripped a long, heavily embroidered pirate’s coat, planning to slide the rest of the way to the wagon floor as if it were a rope, it happened: a wave of sea water engulfed him and filled his lungs with salty brine, and he slipped, falling to land on his back with an agonizing crack. He coughed and sat up, sputtering for air. But the sensation was gone, and Fox found himself entirely dry.

  But he was no longer alone in the wagon. A shadow of a man stood before him. He was all shades of deepest black and grey, as though he’d been painted in map-maker’s ink. But he did not flicker in the lantern light, as once he had. And as he reached out a hand to help Fox back to his feet, it was a hand that was entirely solid.

  Fox let the shadow pull him up to standing once more, and stared up into dark, but all too familiar, eyes.

  “Hello, little one,” said a warm but devilish voice.

  “Hullo, Farran.”

  Chapter Five