Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Lai felt herself smiling, felt the thrill of anticipation rising within her. “This isn’t a sword,” she countered. “It’s the blood of every sailor who stood in a pirate king’s way.”

  The watching trainees cheered. They thought it was a show. They thought Lai was being dramatic, like the storyteller she became many nights at the Five Sides. But Lai knew this was different. She continued, swinging her newfound cutlass as she spoke, demonstrating its range of motions. “It is sturdy enough to hack through rope and wood. Short enough to be well-utilized in close quarters. And deadly enough to gut any fishbait sailor who dares oppose the sea!” She gave the weapon one last flourish before settling into a comfortable, natural stance. A stance she had never practiced before, not even with her wooden practice swords. But a stance that felt solid. Across the circle, Cullen’s self-assured smile faltered somewhat, and he raised his own sword a bit more cautiously.

  A moment of stillness hung between them as the trainees watched, and Cullen sized up Lai with a newfound curiosity. Neither of them moved. And then, Lai winked at him rakishly, and lunged.

  Swordplay had never been her strong suit. Daggers and hand-to-hand combat came much more easily to Lai, even though Cullen had started training her in fencing privately on occasion. Eventually, she knew she’d be able to hold her own, but when it came to dueling, Cullen was the trainer. And she was merely his sparring partner.

  But this was different. An ease Lai had never experienced flowed through every limb. The aches and pains of the morning melted away as she slid seamlessly between the drilled steps Cullen had tried so hard to teach her. Parry. Thrust. A wide swing and a counter-step to avoid Cullen’s blade swinging past her. It was a pattern that she’d never quite grasped, and it was coming to her now as easily as breathing.

  Cullen began to pick up the pace, a small smile spreading across his mouth. And then, just as Lai was feeling invincible, Cullen shifted. With a triumphant laugh, he transitioned from practiced drills to new steps, and Lai had to adapt quickly to keep up. The swords might be dull from disuse, but they would still cause serious damage if they made contact. Heart racing, a need to survive kicking in, Lai began to improvise on her own. Back and forth the pair went, circling and calculating each other every time they stopped to draw breath. Around them, the crowd of trainees cheered and shouted encouraging nonsense that Lai only barely registered.

  And then, Cullen lunged once more, and Lai raised her cutlass to block him. Instead, Cullen slid into a crouch and kicked out at Lai’s knee, bringing her crashing down in an echo of the move she had pulled on him earlier. The moment she was down, he rolled on top of her, straddling her waist with his knees so she couldn’t move. With one hand, he pinned her sword arm to the ground. With the other, he leveled his own blade across her throat.

  Cheers filled the air, but they sounded like waterlogged echoes to Lai. Her own heart was pounding in her ears as she stared up into Cullen’s triumphant eyes. For a moment, something flashed in his blue-green gaze: a shadow of the hunger Lai felt for the pirate blade. But then, he was on his feet in one swift movement, pulling her up with him, and the moment was gone. The cheers crashed into Lai from all sides as she let her fingers uncurl from the cutlass. It fell to the ground at her feet, and every moment of pain from the entire morning seeped back into her.

  As training resumed, the rest of the group excitedly paired up with their new weapons. There were not enough blades to go around, so only about half of them could practice at a time. They took turns, with those who weren’t actively sparring watching their fellows. Cullen took point on the instruction, starting with simple drills. By the time another hour had passed, and Cullen ordered a cease, everyone was sweating but smiling. The grounds emptied as they had filled, in small waves as the Thiccans returned to their daily routines. There would be another training group in the evening, this time with Picck taking charge, but until then, business in the valley would return to normal.

  Widow Mossgrove was one of the last to leave, hoisting the satchel of weapons over her shoulder, and waving off Cullen’s offer to help. “Not going far,” she said gruffly. “Just dropping these off with Penn at the smithy. He’ll bring them back tonight.” And then, with a brief farewell, she began her hike, leaving Cullen and Lai alone to help tidy up the rest of the grounds.

  They worked in silence for several minutes, straightening dummies that had been twisted loose, and recovering stray arrows from the tall grass. Every inch of Lai hurt, and each step was met with protest.

  It wasn’t until Cullen was escorting Lai home, as he often did, that he finally spoke. “I desperately wish I could take credit for what happened today,” he said quietly. “I wish I was such an accomplished swordsman that your sudden display of skill was inevitable. A byproduct of good training.”

  “It was,” Lai insisted automatically, but even she knew the reply sounded half-hearted. Training with wooden toys could not account for her work with the cutlass, nor her inexplicable knowledge of the weapon itself.

  She knew what accounted for it. She felt it when first the metal touched her hand. She could feel it while she fought, a primal familiarity washing over her like a tidal wave. This sword was in her blood. This sword, and the world it came from ...

  The world she came from. She had said it aloud. She had said it for the first time since she’d learned the truth about her own blood. Pirate. For so long, she’d avoided the word like a toxic poison, careful never to speak it. As though even thinking the title might summon Farran himself into existence before her. And yet, the Pirate God had not appeared. And the word had felt strong on her tongue. The cutlass itself had felt intoxicatingly natural. As though she were fighting with the power of an entire pirate crew at her back.

  It was a power she wanted.

  She moved in front of Cullen and stopped, blocking his path and forcing him to a halt. “Teach me how to use it properly.”

  Cullen snorted. “You don’t need my help. It’s like you were born with the bloody thing in your hand.”

  “But you did beat me, in the end.”

  “Luck,” said Cullen, shrugging.

  “Talent,” countered Lai. “What happened today was ... unexpected. And accidental. I don’t know if I could do it again on my own, but with you, I could learn to do it on purpose.”

  For a long moment, Cullen regarded her with something akin to uncertainty. Lai waited patiently, meeting his gaze with her head high, silently begging him to accept. Finally, Cullen spoke again, quietly and intently. “You are a curious woman, Laila Blackroot. And you are a skilled fighter, with natural grace and well-bred instincts. But I’ve never seen anyone take to a weapon so easily in my life. It was unnatural, we both know it. And, one day, you will do me the honor of explaining yourself.”

  With that, he side-stepped past her, and began walking once more. It was only once he’d seen her back to the Five Sides that Cullen said, “I’ll wait for you tomorrow evening. When you can get away from the tavern, we will train. Until then, Captain.” He tapped his forehead, the shadow of a salute, and set off alone to his family’s shop.

  That afternoon, in the brief moment of quiet before the crowds descended, Lai hid in the kitchen with her parchment and ink, composing a letter to Fox. She wrote all about the new training companies, and their plans for outfitting a valley militia. She mentioned the cutlass, and the strange affinity she had for it. Only Fox knew her true parentage, and he himself had a strange talent that nobody else could quite understand. If anyone could understand her fears and frustrations, it would be him.

  In spite of that, a part of her longed to confide in Cullen. That, she did not include.

  She left the finished letter upstairs in her room, sealed and carefully placed on her desk. She would arrange for it to be sent later in the week, once she’d collected any correspondence Fox’s parents wanted to send. The rest of the evening was a blur of gambling and storytelling, as Lai filled her apron pockets with her winnings. It was long p
ast midnight by the time Lai finally trudged upstairs, every part of her in pain. Her muscles hurt from the early training and the day’s work. She had a headache from exhaustion and the din of the tavern.

  By the flickering light of her bedside lantern, she almost didn’t notice that the letter was gone. And, in its place, the cutlass lay across the desk, a glint of silver in the half darkness.

  Chapter Eight

  Paper and Ink

  Fox looked skeptically at the pendant that Farran offered him. It was a black, polished creature, dangling from a fine chain. It seemed to be made from some sort of unfamiliar ore, and as the sun hit it, specks of other colors appeared, only to vanish again when the light shifted. Greens and purples and a flash of orange danced across its surface for but a moment, before disappearing with the next breath.

  “It will do the trick,” said Farran, “I promise. It was already very powerfully enchanted, and I’ve made a few adjustments of my own. Wear that, and you’ll be safe. From whatever magical entanglements this city is cooking up.”

  There was a strange tingle in Fox’s hand as he took it, examining it closer. Then, he smiled. “And I suppose it always looked like a fox, too?”

  Farran shrugged, a mischievous smile on his shadowy face. “I may have personalized it somewhat.”

  The strange stone was, indeed, fashioned like a fox. A little elongated in the limbs, and exaggerated in the ears and tail, but the resemblance was unmistakable. Fox slipped it on over his head, the chain cold as ice against his skin. Then, as it warmed, a strange echo of a familiar feeling settled over him. It was like being wrapped in one of Mother’s old blankets when he was a child, and frightened of thunderstorms: it had made him feel safe, and warm, and comforted.

  The same comfort now seeped beneath his skin, filling his blood and humming beneath his bones, warming him from the outside in. And he knew he was protected.

  As Fox tucked the talisman away beneath his shirt, feeling its weight disappear into his chest, a thought occurred to him. “If this protects me from magic, will I still be able to practice my own?”

  “It’s more like a sieve,” said Farran. “It strains out the bad, catches it and traps it, while letting the good pass. Anything that means you harm will be caught up in the warding amulet. And it can hold quite a lot of power, I’ve made sure of that,” he added proudly.

  “And what happens when the strainer is full?” countered Fox.

  With a shrug and a roguish smile, Farran began to pull on his gloves and secure his hood to cover his face. “Shouldn’t concern you,” he said. “We’ll figure out how to empty it when it becomes an issue. In the meantime, you’re late for playtime with your odd little friend. And I have a personal matter to attend to.” And, leaving Fox feeling slightly less comfortable than he had done when he first donned the necklace, Farran turned on his heel and vanished.

  ∞∞∞

  Fox sketched as he walked. He marked roads and shops in his notebook, penning a messy but detailed map of the city. He crammed labels and notes around the edges of the page, all the while following the directions Bartrum had given him. The University was easy enough to find again. His feet had been there once before, and they carried him almost automatically, leaving Fox’s mind and eyes free to do as they wished. By the time he’d reached the unfamiliar Scholar’s Suites at the university, Fox’s map of Calibas’s main thoroughfare had spread across both open pages, and a quick breeze had helpfully dried the ink. Fox tucked his book away and gazed around in wonder at the grand archways and towering columns that surrounded him. He looked up, through the seemingly endless rows of criss-crossed staircases, trying to find where it all ended.

  Bartrum’s rooms were on the third floor, but Fox found it was harder to get there than he would have initially thought. The first staircase he tried led up five flights, without ever stopping on another landing. When he tried to head down again, Fox only found stairs leading one floor in either direction. One staircase started and ended on the main floor, curving all the way back and across the whole tower, like a massive horseshoe. Along the walls closest to it were hung paintings of famous scholars and teachers, as if education on the history of the school seemed to be that staircase’s primary goal.

  It was after several minutes of frustrated searching, and wishing he’d thought to make notations in his book of which stairs he’d already tried, that Fox finally succeeded. He found a narrow stairway leading from the sixth floor to the third, and followed the carpeted hallway down to the room with Bartrum’s name stamped onto an elegant plaque: Bartrum L. Bookmonger – Professor of Curiosities, Reading and Writing Instructor, and Purveyor of Fine Paper Goods.

  He knocked twice, and let himself in when prompted.

  Bartrum was lounging comfortably in a high-backed, red velvet armchair. His feet were propped on a matching ottoman, and the wineglass in his hand was filled with a similarly-colored drink. He had a large book propped open in his lap, but he looked up from it with a jovial grin when Fox closed the door behind him. Pulling an elegant pocketwatch from his waistcoat, Bartrum said cheerily, “Only seventeen minutes! Not bad for a first-time visitor.”

  “I’m glad my struggle was enjoyable,” joked Fox. “What, do you all take bets on how long people get lost for?”

  “Only when we’re drunk,” said Bartrum. And then, with the exaggerated air of someone getting caught in the act, he quickly crumpled the full wineglass in his hand, where it became nothing but parchment stained with red ink. As he stood, both the parchment and his book soared across the room and settled themselves on his desk. Bartrum made a show of dusting off his hands and straightening his cuffs before spreading his hands in welcome. “Well then, my young Foxglove. Shall we begin?”

  “After I went through all that trouble to find you,” said Fox with a lazy shrug, “I suppose we’d better.”

  “Splendid!” said Bartrum eagerly and, seemingly addressing the room at large, he said, “The maps, then, if you please!”

  And the room, amazingly enough, obliged. Fox couldn’t help but be impressed as it came to life around him. A long work table began to clear itself off, with papers stacking themselves in neat piles, and inkwells filling themselves. Scrolls and books flew from the shelves and arranged themselves on the tabletop. Maps unrolled themselves and seemed to magically lay flat without the aid of paperweights, and tomes fell open to specific pages.

  “There is power in words,” said Bartum, leading Fox to the table even as the chaos continued around them. “Since the birth of speech, language has led civilizations to either flourish or decay. When mankind began to write, that power imbued itself in our parchment. Our books. Our maps. Paper and ink became their own sources of power, for those of us who know how to harness it.”

  The room fell into stillness once more, and Bartrum continued. “For all the magic that can be found in words, the Codexians are still a rare breed. But, truth be told, we are not so different from your Shavid.”

  “How’s that?” asked Fox curiously.

  “Words,” said Bartrum simply. “They use songs and storytelling the way we use pages: to shape reality.”

  “But not all of them,” argued Fox. “The dancers, the musicians ... none of them even speak.”

  “True,” Bartrum conceded, “but they do use a language of sorts. Movement and music are familiar, and their imagination and creativity allows them to twist it in ways that others can’t. And,” he snapped his fingers, “magic.”

  Fox frowned at the maps now filling the work table. Everything Bartum said made sense, from a scholastic perspective, however ... “Where does that leave me? They’re not words, they’re not ideas ... they’re just places. Roads. Things.”

  “Oh, come on Fox, you’re cleverer than that,” said Bartrum with a mocking grin. “The Cartomancers of old were powerful and intelligent.” He gestured to the maps spread out before them. “Think. Use your imagination. That’s all magic is, at its heart. What can you do with this language? These
lines and these words have just as much power for you as my books do for me. Why? How?”

  “Isn’t it your job to tell me that, Professor?” teased Fox. But he turned his attention to the maps nonetheless, focusing on them. Running his fingers gingerly along the lines and city names, eyes closed. The familiar borrowed sensations of faraway places began to fill him. He could smell strange spices and soaps and wildflowers. He could feel the bitter chill of the mountain winds, followed by a calm and salty ocean breeze. The sounds of everyday farmwork mingled with festival cheer and children playing. Fox drank it all in, and for a moment the maps were as vital to him as the air in his own lungs. He felt alive, experiencing so many places at once. He knew each curve of every road. He could sense the shadows of loose cobblestones on city streets, and fallen trees across forest paths.

  And then, he knew. He pulled his hands from the table, eyes snapping open. The sounds and smells drained from him like water, and he had to catch his breath for a moment before he spoke. “Others,” he said. “I can make others see what I see, can’t I? I could paint the pictures of these towns, and the roads. Keep them safe on their way, and make sure they’re prepared for their journeys.” He looked up to meet Bartum’s eyes, searching for approval. “Can’t I?”

  A proud smile stretched across Bartrum’s face, and he began to roll up his sleeves. “I do believe that would be an excellent place for us to begin.”

  ∞∞∞

  Fox’s head hurt by the time he left Bartrum’s lesson several hours later, and his hands were cramped from drawing. His fingertips were stained with ink, and several splatters had made their way onto his sleeves. He walked quickly, racing the late-afternoon sun as it set behind the taller stacks of buildings in the Upcity. The Shavid were scheduled to meet with the ruling house of Calibas this evening, and he needed to change into something more presentable. The wind helped him along his way, whispering to avoid certain roads for the crowds, and take emptier paths that would get him back to the inn much faster.