Inkspice (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 2)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Darby and Bartrum both listened patiently while Fox filled in the gaps. They all sat in one of the empty shunderings in the deserted palace stables, safe from eavesdropping thanks to the small enchantment Bartrum cast over the wagon. Nothing Fox said seemed to surprise either of them. Darby barely raised an eyebrow at Fox’s explanation of the protective amulet, though he did insist on a closer look.

  “You can’t ever take it off?” asked Darby, holding the carved figurine without removing the chain from Fox’s neck.

  “Not without alerting Calibas’s magic that I’m here.”

  “Looks to me like you might have done that already,” said Darby, gesturing at the area on Fox’s chest where the burn was hidden. “From what I can tell, this thing had to try too hard to protect you. Whatever powers you were playing with last night, something in this city wants them.”

  “And they’re starting to actively hunt it down,” said Bartrum. “When I found you last night, the whole city block around your workshop was crawling with the Iron Order.”

  “The war mages?” said Darby, but Fox had other questions.

  “You’re the one who found me?” he asked. “You got me back to the palace?”

  Bartrum nodded. “Very lucky for you, I got there before anyone else could.” He nodded to the amulet. “That thing, whatever it is, is doing its job. Had I not known where you worked already, even I would not have been able to find you.”

  “And how exactly did you manage that?” asked Darby, finally releasing the necklace and allowing Fox to tuck it back beneath his shirt. “Are you keeping tabs on all the Shavid, or just him?”

  Bartrum heaved a mildly irritated sigh. “Which answer will get me out of here without an honor duel or an interrogation?” he asked. “And honestly, does it really matter? Your problems are much bigger than me. Lord Gilvard is not an idiot. He knows whatever power the city’s magic is homing in on arrived when you did. And now, after two months, he’s finally getting close.”

  “I’m sorry,” mumbled Fox. “I didn’t think —”

  It was Darby who waved off Fox’s apology with a grunt. “You were just doing what all Blessed do: finding your magic.” There was something in the way Darby was looking at Fox. In fact, both of the men were watching him strangely, Fox realized. Neither of them seemed angry, and no one had even once tried to tell him that his late-night escapades had been foolish. In fact, Bartrum in particular looked almost impressed. Were they ... proud of him?

  Hoping he wasn’t blushing, Fox continued. “I think the amulet might have done more than just protect me from begin found. I think, if I’m not mistaken, that it’s holding back the Still.”

  At this, both men’s faces shifted to concern at once. “You said you had a dream,” said Darby. “Tell me.”

  Fox recounted everything he could remember about the Doldrums, and when he was finished Darby began to pace the wagon floor. “And you’re certain this was something different?” he said tersely. “Nothing to do with your pirate visions and Farran’s past?”

  “It felt different,” said Fox. “But, there’s only one way to know for certain.”

  The costume pirate coat was hanging on a rack on the wall behind Bartrum. Excusing himself, Fox slid over to it and pulled it free, his mentors watching curiously. “Now, I’ve never actually done this before on purpose,” Fox admitted, putting on the too-large coat, “but I’d imagine all the pieces are in place.”

  “Well this can only end well,” said Bartrum dryly.

  Fox finished buttoning up the pirate garb and raised his voice, looking around for any hint of the Farran shadow. “Well, have we told enough stories to get your attention, old man?”

  There was a moment when the air around them filled with the scent of sea spray and brine. And then, swirling into existence at the heart of the shundering, was the dark-clad pirate king himself. “Oh come now,” Farran said with a mock pout in his voice, “you didn’t even tell them my best and bravest tales.”

  The reaction in the wagon was instant and frenetic. Bartrum sprang from his chair immediately, knocking it over behind him, and Darby reached for the small crossbow on his hip so quickly Fox worried he might actually fire off a shot. But Farran pulled down his hood and held up his hands in surrender. “Apologies, gentlemen,” he said lazily. “I suppose I should have knocked first.”

  The god’s face, Fox quickly realized, looked more human than it had last time they’d met. Color was beginning to show in his skin again, and his features seemed more clouded by a haze of black shadow, rather than built from it.

  “You’re getting better,” Fox remarked.

  “That coat looks ridiculous on you,” Farran retorted with a grin.

  “I’m sorry,” said Bartrum, real tension edging his voice for the first time since Fox had met him, “health and fashion aside, what the hell is happening?!”

  Fox laughed. “Bartrum Bookmonger, meet Farran Arthelliad. Pirate God, King of Scoundrels, and a genuine pain in my —”

  “I think he gets the idea,” interrupted Farran, tapping his forehead in a casual salute. “An honor. And this,” he said, turning to the dwarf, “must be Darby Whistler.”

  “You have your fun with that entrance?” said Darby.

  “A bit,” Farran admitted.

  “You get used to him, I swear,” said Fox, righting Bartrum’s fallen chair and sitting in it himself. “But, I thought it was time you all finally met. There’s too much we don’t know for me to keep everything separate now.”

  “You are correct, young Foxglove,” said Farran. “And, you’re also correct about the dream. Those visions were not mine, although I admit my constant meddling in your dreams may have flavored them somewhat.”

  “Oh sure,” said Bartrum, “that’s something you hear every day!”

  Fox couldn’t help but chuckle at the wide-eyed look on Bartrum’s face. The reality of having a flesh-and-blood diety manifest himself before them seemed to have shaken the spymaster far more than he’d expected. And then, more sympathetically, Fox said, “It was easier when he was only on paper, wasn’t it?”

  “All legends are easier when they’re just stories,” said Darby who, to the contrary, seemed to have adjusted rather quickly. He’d put his crossbow away, and now sat on a large costume trunk. After a moment, Bartrum sat again as well, apparently doing his best to compose himself once more. “So,” Darby continued, “this dream of Fox’s.”

  “It is my belief that your apprentice is correct,” said Farran. The god remained standing. “I enchanted that amulet myself, so I’ve got some connection to the warding magic. It gives me some sense of what’s happening, magically speaking, to Fox. Last night, it blocked something that was new, and twisted, and hungry.”

  “Lord Gilvard’s experimental magic,” said Darby.

  “So it would seem. But then, early this morning, there was something distinctly ... elemental.”

  “Is that just a coincidence, then?” asked Fox. “Two intense magical episodes in one night? It just seems so unlikely.”

  “The Still takes who it wants,” said Darby. “It is as fickle and wild as the wind herself. Nobody can tell it where to go; we don’t even know how it works.”

  “Exactly,” said Fox. “And we don’t know what Gilvard’s up to either. Why couldn’t he control it?”

  There was a long silence as the men looked at each other. Even Farran looked shocked, raising a perplexed eyebrow as the idea settled on them. Fox could see the realization dawning on their faces, that his seemingly wild conspiracy theory might just be right. And then, Bartrum spoke, very slowly. “Control it,” he said, “or create something that looks and acts a lot like it.”

  “If he’s manipulating the very way magic is processed,” said Darby, looking almost ill now, “it won’t just be Mindi and Fox that are affected, or even the rest of the Shavid.”

  “It will be most of the Known World,” said Farran quietly. He, too, now looked extremely uncomfortable. “Aside fro
m Sovesta, magic permeates so many parts of everyday life. It’s in the lanterns and the streets. It’s built into the very bricks of wealthier cities, and the swords of mighty warriors. And ... bloodlines.”

  Something stirred in the back of Fox’s mind, like a childhood memory struggling to resurface. Some reason why Farran would be concerned about magic running in blood. It was very, very important to him, Fox knew it. But he couldn’t remember why. And, before he could find the words to ask, the sensation faded.

  Bartrum seemed to be at war with himself. He stood again, rubbing his eyes beneath their frames, and dragging his hands through his hair in frustration. Finally, he addressed all three of them. “There are many old traditions in spycraft, regarding the recruitment of civilians. It is only ever done if there is evidence that the recruit may be able to be groomed as a proper agent in the future, killed if need be, or in times of dire need.” He clasped his hands behind his back, settling into a slightly more commanding stance. “This, my friends, is beyond dire. I thought a war was brewing, but this ... if we are even half right, the scope of Lord Gilvard’s reach could re-shape our entire world. He’s built the military strength, and the magical might for an upheaval the likes of which we have never seen.”

  “You may not have seen it,” said Darby with an uncharacteristic melancholy, “but such things have happened. Once, twice before in living memory.”

  “I mean no offense, sir,” said Bartrum, “but I am fairly well-versed in living memory, or need I remind you how long I myself have lived?”

  “You are well-versed in written record,” Darby corrected him. “And you are lucky your Blessing only grants you that. The life of memory itself is much more complex, and stretches back further than even your longevity. Tomes can be re-written, tales re-told and shaped to fit the storytellers themselves. But memory, and true history, take up so much more than parchment and book bindings.”

  Something in Bartrum’s expression shifted from insult to awe as Darby spoke, and understanding began to light up his eyes. “Living memory,” he said relevantly. “You don’t mean the collective memory of people who are living. You mean memory itself.”

  “And the Blessed who embodies it,” added Farran. He, too, was looking at Darby with something akin to worship. “I knew I smelled something divine about you. You’re the current Historian.”

  “I’m sorry,” Fox interjected, “I don’t think I understand.”

  Darby looked at him, true sorrow on his face now, and it was remarkable how much older he suddenly looked. And how tired. “Mankind has always had an Historian. The one living soul who is tasked with remembering. Where written accountings may fail, the Historian does not.”

  “What, exactly, do you remember?” asked Fox.

  “Everything,” said Darby. “Every important moment in human history has a place. Every story I hear is collected somewhere in my soul. Every forgotten war, every lost magical gift.” And then, with a slight quiver in his voice, he added, “Except yours. I know stories only, but none of them feel completely true.”

  “It takes something powerful and rare to bury something so deep that even the Historian cannot recall it,” said Bartrum. “Every few generations, the Blessing is passed on. The man or woman inherits every previous history, and is tasked with collecting their own, for as long as they live.”

  “That’s why most of them are Shavid, already poised to travel the world all their days,” said Darby. “And, it’s how I became Windkissed. I was the lone survivor in my company, in the midst of a long and terrible war. The last time, in fact, that this happened. When one man’s power tried to re-design the world itself. I should have died, like so many did. But, there must always be a Historian. And my Blessing was given to me in exchange for my life.”

  Pain twisted Darby’s face as he remembered, and his eyes began to mist over with the beginnings of tears. “This power cannot go unchecked. And it cannot remain in Calibas, at the hands of the mad Lord Gilvard.” Darby sat up straighter, his jaw set. “What would you have us do, spymaster?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pirates and Spies

  Fox stood on the ground floor of the library, clutching a single envelope. In it was a letter from Bartrum, requesting Fox’s entry into the strategy and tactics classes he’d once stumbled into by mistake. Fox also bore a small coin purse with enough gold to cover his class expenses and tuition. His job was to learn, and observe, in a place where the rest of their small order of spies would definitely have stood out. Bartrum was already posing as a teacher, so he could get closer to university research than most of them, but if he started changing his schedule too much it might raise eyebrows. As for Darby and Farran, they were both far too old to be welcome among the students. They were given other tasks. And so, with the thrill of adventure and daring humming in his chest, Fox began to climb the many staircases up to the topmost level.

  It was a mark of how truly bad things were that Darby had agreed to let Fox be a part of the espionage. All throughout the secret meetings and planning over the past few days, Darby had never once tried to shut Fox out. No secrets were kept. No objection was made to Fox’s intensified training with Bartrum, or the more constant presence of Farran. Instead, Darby was doing his part, letting himself arrive at the stables when royal hostlers were working, and charming stories out of them. He cozied up to the palace maids, and spent many late nights squiring them around town, learning bits and pieces of their day-to-day lives. Finding out what they knew about Gilvard and his plans. Before long, Darby had collected a dozen different sources, and made contacts within every branch of the palace staff, except for the Iron Order.

  And that was where Fox came in.

  It hadn’t taken them long to realize that the only people who might have a chance of getting close to the elite group of War Mages either had to enlist, or study under them. And so, Fox now climbed the library stairs up to the map room, where he’d once encountered Lady Virrix, one of the highest ranked among the Order.

  The map room was just as he’d remembered it: an elegant blend of living wood and grey-green glass. This room bridged the library with the greenhouse next door, and elements of both were present. Bookshelves and tables were carved out of the living wood itself, and glass panes peeked through the gaps in dark branches, the natural light dappling the floorboards. Above it all, hanging from a combination of natural branches and carved beams, were small lanterns, filled with the now-familiar green light that ran through the entire city.

  There was only one other person in the room when he arrived. She was a dark-skinned girl, a bit taller than Fox, and wearing robes of a deep plum. As she turned to smile at him in welcome, Fox realized he’d seen her before, the last time he’d visited the library. He wracked his brain, looking for her name. “Iness?” he said carefully.

  “Have we met?” she asked. Her voice was sweet, and tinged with a faraway accent Fox couldn’t place.

  “Not properly, no,” admitted Fox, extending the envelope to her. “I came here once before by accident. I wanted to learn, so the professor sent me to a fellow called Bartrum?”

  The girl skimmed the letter as he spoke, and then recognition lit up her face. “Oh! I remember! You said you just wanted to see the maps, and Lady Virrix called you a little boy.”

  “Did she?” said Fox casually. “Funny, I don’t remember that last bit. You must be thinking of some other short and spry youngster.”

  Iness giggled, then immediately covered her mouth to try and stifle it, as if she was afraid Lady Virrix would appear out of nowhere and reprimand her for laughing. She lowered her voice when she spoke again. “I’m glad to see she didn’t have you hunted down,” she whispered. “No one’s ever spoken back to her like you did. It was terrifying!”

  Fox’s own casual air faltered for a heartbeat. Iness may have been joking, but the thought had crossed Fox’s mind: the Iron Order were the ones who would hunt him down. They had been the ones combing the city, looking for him after h
is magical discovery had gotten out of hand. Being so close to one was risky, studying with one even more so. Fox made a snap decision, hitching a smile onto his face. He needed a friend in class. An ally. And here she was.

  “Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to offend her. I can assume by your robe color, you’re studying to be a professor?” Fox had noticed quite quickly that all the teachers wore the same shade of deep plum. Those more advanced students had longer robes, or started to add trim to their sleeves and hems. Iness’s own robe reached to her knees, and Fox thought she might be some sort of teaching apprentice, based on her age.

  “About to start my second year,” said Iness proudly. “If I do well, they’ll let me teach my own starter class next year.”

  “Fancy a practice student?” said Fox. “If I remember correctly, some of the other kids were coming to you for catch up, or tutoring?”

  “I’d be honored!” said Iness, seeming genuinely pleased by the opportunity. “Although, if you’ve been studying with that Professor Bookmonger, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

  “Oh, he’s been wonderful,” said Fox. “But, if you don’t mind, I like to be on top of my game. I could come in early every day, or stay late?”

  “How about you help me set up,” said Iness, handing him a small crate filled with rolled-up parchment. “I’ll fill you in a bit on what we’re studying now.”

  By the time the pair had finished laying out the maps and paperweights, more students had begun to filter in. The professor himself, a clean-shaven and boyish-looking man named Articus, accepted Fox’s tuition and letter of recommendation exuberantly, introducing him to the rest of the class as though they’d already known each other for years. Soon, Fox was standing among twenty-eight other students, a lone un-robed figure. He made a mental note to ask Bartrum how to go about getting proper University attire for next time.