Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  The fire in this parlor was lit with a purple flame to match the lanterns overhead, but gave no heat. Bartrum was surrounded by an assortment of characters, men and women who seemed to hail from all districts of the city. Some were dressed in their riches and finery, others clearly came from the poorer parts of town. And all eyes turned to face Fox and Darby as they entered. Bartum was the last to look up, busy arranging the coins in front of him into small towers.

  For the briefest moment, Bartrum’s face shifted. And then, so quickly Fox wasn’t sure he’d seen it at all, his smile snapped back into place, and he stood so quickly he sent his cards and several piles of coins flying.

  “By all the gods, if it isn’t Forric Foxglove!”

  “Hello again, Bartrum,” said Fox, grinning. He had missed the pleasantly odd merchant, and longed to talk with him about the time since they had parted.

  “Darlings,” said Bartrum to his companions, beginning to sweep his winnings into a velvet purse, “I fear I must take my leave of you! Old friends have found me, and there are great stories to tell!” He playfully ruffled the hair of one of his fellow players as he passed, saying “Don’t worry, Jakka. I’m sure you’ll beat me one of these days!” And, amidst a gale of laughter from the rest of the parlor, Bartrum swept expertly between Fox and Darby, linking each of his arms with one of theirs, and led them away.

  Fox had to laugh at Darby’s face. The dwarf did not take kindly to being so familiarly touched by strangers, and he opened his mouth to argue. But before he could, Bartrum spoke up again. “Just an absolutely charming place, isn’t it? I’ve been spending quite a lot of time here since stumbling into town, and they’ve been spectacularly welcoming.”

  He kept up a steady dialogue with himself about the Goblin’s Crown and the Nightshade District as they walked. In fact, every time either Fox or Darby tried to respond, Bartrum ploughed over them. And Fox began to suspect that this wasn’t simply oblivious ramblings: he wasn’t letting them speak on purpose.

  It wasn’t until they had been closed in an empty upstairs room, with the door locked firmly behind them, that the litany stopped. Bartrum leaned with his back against the door, the smile and light fading from his face. Quietly, he said, “Fox, what in Father Spirit’s name are you doing here?”

  “It’s where the wind brought us,” said Fox, confused at the shift in demeanor. And then, remembering, he said, “This is Darby, my master. I’m apprenticed with the Shavid now.”

  Darby grunted his acknowledgment at the introduction, but didn’t move when Bartrum smiled and offered his hand in greeting. “And you’re just a wandering merchant, are you?” he said.

  A bit of Bartrum’s old charm returned as he bowed low and said, “Bartrum Bookmonger, purveyor of fine paper goods at your service!”

  It happened in an instant: a small throwing blade appeared between Darby’s fingertips,, and he hurled it at Bartrum. Before Fox could so much as shout a warning, Bartrum had straightened lightning-fast, and thrown out his hand. When the blade hit his open palm, it did not pierce it. Instead it simply turned to paper, and crumpled, useless, to the floor.

  Silence hung between the three men as, not for the first time this evening, Fox let confusion totally wash over him. Then, the moment passed, and Bartrum sighed. “You’ve chosen a good friend, Fox,” he said, in a voice much lower than his usual pitch. His accent, too, had eased somewhat, until he sounded just like anyone else in the city. Not too proper, nor too common.

  “He’s my charge,” said Darby sternly. “And part of our family. I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt him.”

  “Believe me,” said Bartrum, “the last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

  Darby looked the man up and down for another moment, sternly scrutinizing everything from his pointed boots to the jeweled broach hanging haphazardly from his open scarf. Then, he nodded brusquely and finally extended his hand.

  As the two men shook, each relaxing a bit, Fox said, entirely bewildered, “When either of you decide to tell me what’s going on, then ... ”

  “Yes,” said Bartrum. “There is much, much to tell. But you and your people should not be here. It isn’t safe.”

  “Our people?” asked Darby.

  “The Shavid,” said Bartrum. “Your unique magic, it makes you a valuable commodity. And not one I would want in the wrong hands.”

  “But we’ve only just arrived,” said Fox. “I’m not sure how long Radda’s planning on us staying, but I’m sure we’ll be alright. We can all take care of ourselves.”

  Bartrum rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, then ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “It may already be too late. Lord Gilvard will already know you’re here.” And then, pity and regret all over his thin face, Bartrum said sadly, “I am so sorry for what you have gotten lost in, my young friend. But something is amiss in Calibas.”

  Chapter Six

  The Royal Spymaster

  “How did you know what I was?” Bartrum asked Darby. The three were still in the upstairs room, which seemed to be some sort of private office. Bartrum had pulled a tea set from somewhere, and a bottle of some kind of sharp drink, which he poured into the fine china cups and passed around. They had all taken seats, Bartrum behind the polished wooden desk with his feet propped up on it.

  “I was chosen as Fox’s mentor for a reason,” replied Darby. “I’ve a bit of a knack with forgotten magics. But a Codexian, that is a Blessing even I haven’t seen in decades. I wasn’t sure there were that many of you left.”

  “Codexian?” asked Fox.

  “The common term is ‘Pagemaster’,” answered Bartrum. “And there aren’t. Most are much, much more accomplished than I am. But they all knew about their unique gifts far earlier in life than I did, and they’ve had more time to draw the public eye. For my ... unique purposes ... it’s helped that I’ve gone more-or-less unnoticed.”

  “You’re a spy,” said Darby.

  Bartrum raised his teacup in a toast. “Spymaster, I’m afraid.”

  “Spymaster?” said Fox disbelievingly. “For how long? The whole time?” And then, just as bewildered, “What could you possibly have come to spy on in Thicca Valley?”

  Bartrum lowered his cup again, looking sheepish. “Ah yes, that. That was, well, my attempt at a quiet retirement. But the king had ... other plans for me.”

  “Which king?” asked Fox eagerly. “Ours? What do you do? Why are you here?”

  “That’s the problem with Shavid,” said Darby through a slight smile. “They’re never truly satisfied unless they’ve got a good story. So, best start spinning your yarn, Bookmonger.”

  Bartrum sipped his drink thoughtfully before he began. “Well, as I’ve told Fox, I never completed my apprenticeship. As quite a young man I was indentured to a lady bookbinder, and began to learn the workings of the trade. Rather quickly, however, my own talent began to surpass hers, and she turned me out. Jealousy, and fear of competition got the better of her, I expect. In any case, I was left to my own devices. Still a shy, quiet scholar, with a gift.”

  “Until you became this character,” said Fox, remembering.

  Bartrum ducked his head apologetically. “That is where my story to you ended, yes. But there’s a bit more to it than that. I made my own way, buying and selling books, paying visits to libraries and repairing their damaged volumes with an expert hand. I didn’t have a name as such, no one had really heard of me, so I always had to work extra hard to prove myself whenever I lobbied for a job.

  “If I’d known I had a Blessing, it might have been easier for me. I could have sold myself as a great Pagemaster, come to work his magic. But I still just thought I was naturally talented, nothing more.” He smiled at Fox ruefully. “I suppose there was always something in you I found familiar. Had you known your own gift when you were younger ... well, things might have gone differently for both of us.”

  “How did you finally learn?” asked Fox.

  “A priest found me,” said Bartru
m. “I was very poor back then, and often didn’t have enough coin to stay at an inn, so I would seek refuge at the local temples. If they would take me.” He shrugged at the memory of it. “Sometimes they did. But just as often I was left out in the streets, made to look for a barn or a stable instead. Anyway, I was stranded in a summer thunderstorm one night, and this tall, bald priest offered me an actual bed to sleep in. They had whole rooms down below the temple that were built for refugees. Apparently, this city was known for taking in those running from war or famine or plague. Some sort of magic in the blood of its own citizens kept them extremely healthy, so they didn’t fear outside disease, and opened their arms to everyone.

  “The priest — Carin, his name was — said I could stay as long as I liked. I asked if I could do anything to repay him, and told him my business. He lent me some of the texts the priests read from, and I repaired their wear and tear with ease. Carin recognized my gift for what it was at once, and made sure I was sent to the proper tutors. And, in this case, the proper tutors happened to be the crown prince’s own.”

  “You were in Athilior?” asked Darby.

  “Nearby. But that’s where he sent me, and that’s where I learned. Prince Hawke and I became ... quite good friends. His magic was very different from mine, but magical control has the same principals at its core, no matter the area of discipline. That’s how I was able to teach Fox how to start managing his own. I lived in the castle, and worked as a scribe and messenger. But it quickly became clear how much my magic could be utilized, and how great its variety.

  “Written codes could not hide from me. Languages came to me as easily as breathing. I could craft intricate models and illusions, just out of paper. The possibilities went on and on. But at heart, I was still just a scholar. A bookbinder, and lover of the written word. I took solace in the king’s library, and in writing my own accounts.

  “And then, when we were about sixteen, the prince’s youngest sister was kidnapped. The whole kingdom was turned on its head as they sent out search parties and interrogators. For me, business carried on very much as usual. There were more messages to send and to transcribe, and the castle was in a high state of alert, but my station did not change. Hawke, however, fast became a new man. The prankster I knew from our lessons changed into a soldier. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the man who would soon become one of the greatest kings his bloodline had ever known. He led many of the search parties himself, and weeks would go by without so much as a word from him.”

  Bartrum took a moment to sip his drink before he continued. “Then, he sought me out. He had a note, intercepted from a city in Gallad. It was in code, complex and foreign to the king’s own spymasters and cryptographers. But not to me. The princess was rescued, and the beginnings of a rebellion stomped out before it could truly find its footing. And with that, I was plucked from my quiet life of scholarly pursuits, and nothing was ever peaceful again.

  “I worked for Hawke’s father, King Balinor. Quickly, I became an invaluable part of the court. The character of Bartrum Bookmonger truly took shape, and I became known as a foppish charmer among the courtiers, an odd and amiable scholar and teacher, with a love for the finer things. But behind closed doors, I worked tirelessly to end wars before they began. To silently broker peace treaties, and rescue prisoners. Espionage and trickery became my new normal. By the time Balinor passed, only a few years later, and Hawke was crowned king, I had replaced the old spymaster.

  “I was privy to every secret, and keeper of every deepest confidence. Hawke relied on me more than his own queen. I was his closest companion ... always. And he was a fair, strong ruler. He raised his children to be just as fair. But when he died, and his son took the throne ... it was my time to move on. As close as I was to the entire royal family, my life had not been my own for longer than I’d realized.”

  “Just how long?” asked Darby, scrutinizing Bartrum across the table. “King Addoc has been in power for twelve years. His father, King Hawken, ruled for almost fifty years before that.”

  “Forty-eight,” confirmed Bartrum.

  Fox stared at Bartrum, trying to count the numbers in his head. This man couldn’t be much past his late thirties, could he?

  Before he could do the math, Batrum answered with a wry smile. “It is a little-known side effect of Codexian magic, longevity.”

  “How old are you?” asked Fox, astonished.

  “Eighty-two, as of last month,” said Bartrum. “And long past my turn to retire. Ten years I spent traveling the Known World, selling my books in peace once more. But Addoc tracked me down, and implored me to come back to Athilior. After a decade of wandering, I finally went home.”

  He sounded weary as he finished his story. It was as though he had relived his entire journey in the telling of it. As Bartrum finished his drink, Fox stared at his face, hunting for any signs of age. But not a single grey hair or deep crease betrayed him. It was only in the spymaster’s eyes that Fox saw a hint of his years. Compared to his youthful and boyish face, they suddenly looked ancient. And exhausted.

  “So, what made His High-King-ness send you out here?” asked Darby.

  “You said we shouldn’t be here,” remembered Fox. “That we were ... a commodity. That you wouldn’t want in the wrong hands.”

  “Your magic,” corrected Bartrum.

  “And whose hands, exactly, would be the wrong ones?” asked Darby.

  “Lord Gilvard’s,” said Bartrum, refilling his drink.

  At this, Darby laughed outright. It was rather a jarring sound, after such a somber tale. “Gilvard? That spoiled little lordling? Ha! I’d like to see him try!”

  “Who is he?” asked Fox.

  “Head of the ruling house of the city,” said Bartrum. “But he’s not to be laughed at, I promise you. He may have been when last you were here, dwarf, but something has taken hold of him. There is a hunger for power that has consumed his once trivial desires. Bedding women and getting into tavern brawls seems to be long behind him.”

  Darby gave one last skeptical chuckle. “Don’t tell me he’s what brought you here?” But Bartrum did not laugh. He did not even smile. Darby’s own amusement slowly faded, until finally he said, “Gods, what in the depths could have happened?”

  “We’re not entirely sure,” admitted Bartrum. “But there has been a change, a shift in the natural balance of things. There is a poisonous magic brewing here, and none of us know where, or how. Or why.”

  “Poisonous?” asked Fox.

  “Dangerously so,” said Bartrum. “The Court Archmage at Athilior was the first to sense it, growing somewhere to the East. He said it felt toxic, and hungry. All magic has a life of its own, but this one ... this one felt different. Strange, and new. He was simply curious at first, and tried to reach out and make contact with his own powers from afar. But then, curiosity became concern. Wherever this magic called home, it was protecting something. Hiding it. The Archmage was able to trace the magic’s origin here, to Calibas. But then, he tried to investigate too deeply. They say they found him dead at his scrying table, with no apparent cause.”

  “Because of the magic?” asked Fox, nervously. For he had suddenly remembered his own encounter with the magic of Calibas, earlier that very day. He remembered how it had clung to him, filling his lungs and pressing in around him. And while Farran had insisted that the magic was simply curious, and didn’t mean him any harm, it was clear now that it had meant somebody harm. Fox shivered, and ran a nervous hand over the back of his neck, where Farran had touched him to place his protective charm. He wished he’d thought to ask the god how long it would last.

  “It’s a powerful thing that can take a life from so far away,” said Darby, all traces of humor gone now. “That’s what brought you here?”

  “It is a secret, isn’t it?” asked Bartrum. “And a secret that could be dangerous to the crown. It is my job to stop wars before they begin. So, yes. That is what brought me here. And I don’t like what I see. Calib
as has always been a beacon of culture and learning, with one of the most well-respected universities around. But now, everywhere I turn, life has turned to the militant. Especially up at the university. Lord Gilvard has started focusing every department he can on warfare. The barracks have almost doubled. Money this city doesn’t have is being spent on the finest new equipment and training, and I don’t doubt he’s made some illegal treaties of his own to get it. Even the scholars and the Hall of Mages have been studying war magic, almost exclusively. New magical experiments seem to crop up daily, each more dangerous than the last.”

  “That’s why you’re teaching there,” said Fox. “You went right to the heart of the problem. But, if this Lord Gilvard is the problem, why don’t you just ...” He looked for a kinder way to say “eliminate him,” but nothing came readily to mind. Bartrum seemed to understand what he was getting at, however, and answered him anyway.

  “Espionage is not all-out warfare. It’s research, and careful, measured steps. If I simply arranged to assassinate the ruling lord of the city, something much worse might be headed my way. Especially in cases like this.”

  “The toxic magic could be blood-linked to him,” supplied Darby helpfully. “I’ve seen that before, where the magic user is the driving force behind an ongoing spell, and killing them has dire consequences.”

  “Or he could just be a pawn in a larger underground force, and killing him would spark a riot. Or a thousand other possibilities, even ones I’ve yet to think of. Killing Lord Gilvard is a far, far distant choice. And a dangerous one. I hope to find more answers long before I am driven to that particular option.”

  Fox slumped in his chair, somewhat embarrassed by his immediate instinct.

  “Either way,” said Bartrum, “the sooner your company leaves town, the better. Such a unique collection of magical gifts in one place, with someone as power-hungry as Gilvard around? It’ll be worse than a raiding pirate ship.”