Sweetblade

by Carol A Park

  Ivana gave her a tight smile. “Thank you.”

  Veryna curtsied and left with the dishes.

  Was that reassuring, or not? If he didn’t intend to harm her—and as Veryna noted, he likely hadn’t rescued her out of the kindness of his heart—why had he brought her here?

  Her brief conversation with Veryna raised more questions than it had answered, and Ivana retreated to her room to face the darkness again.

  Now that she had Elidor’s blessing, Ivana determined to begin her search for work the next day. She bundled herself up in the cloak Veryna had found and struck out.

  She began with the places most likely to need a copyist: the library, and then a bank, and then a solicitor’s office. But all professed to have no need of help—though the amusement and sometimes scorn in their voices told her they wouldn’t have hired her even if they had needed it.

  She moved on to shops, entering each and inquiring up and down each street in the nearby commercial district until she had almost returned to where she had started, with no leads. Finally, she came to one of the last shops, looked up at the sign, and was surprised to find that it was an apothecary.

  She hesitated on the stoop, staring up at that sign and the apothecary’s mark: a lush, fern-like leaf. It seemed simultaneously eons ago and only yesterday that she had stood on another apothecary’s stoop, but not here in Carradon.

  “Can I help you?”

  Ivana stepped back and blinked, startled. A young man stood in the doorframe, a quizzical look on his face. She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t even heard the door open.

  “I…ah…was looking for…um…” She couldn’t get her words out clearly.

  His quizzical look changed not to irritation, as she might have thought, but a gentle amusement. “The apothecary? Then you’ve found it.” He opened the door for her to enter.

  Not knowing what else to do, she nodded to him mutely and moved into the store.

  Her nose was accosted with a riot of smells. Rose and citrus, from a rack of petals and peels in the window, drying in the sun. The earthy smell of roots and saffron, the tang of cumin and cinnamon, and the unmistakable unpleasant odor of aloe.

  She wrinkled her nose. In fact, the aloe was particularly unpleasant here. Was that even aloe?

  The young man rubbed at the back of his head and shrugged. “I, ah, sorry for the smell. A little experiment of mine went a bit wrong.”

  She turned her eyes toward him. He was wearing an apron and had stepped behind the counter, so she assumed he worked here. “Experiment?”

  His eyes brightened. “Aloe and star-leaf,” he said. “It didn’t turn out well—or at least it doesn’t smell too well. See, aloe can help relieve labored breathing, and I’ve found that star-leaf has similar properties, so I wondered what would happen if…” He flushed. “Well, I guess you’re not interested in the details.”

  “Star-leaf? Really?” she asked, curious.

  “Yes…I, uh, not that I spend a lot of time inhaling it or anything.” He coughed, and she hid a smile. Star-leaf was best known for its recreational, not medicinal, properties.

  “It’s also a phenomenal pain-reliever,” she offered.

  His eyes widened. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  He wouldn’t have. Her father had discovered it.

  An ache welled in her chest, and she clenched her fist so that her fingernails dug into her palms. Remember why you’re here. “Are you the owner?”

  He shook his head and laughed. “No. She’s out right now, but I can help you with most purchases.” His eyes swept over her once. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”

  “I’m new to the city,” she said. “Actually, I’ve been asking around, trying to find work…but I guess you wouldn’t be the one to ask.”

  “That would be Da Grania. But I can tell you she doesn’t need any help.” He gestured toward himself, an apologetic smile on his face. “She keeps a constant flow of apprentices for that.”

  Ah. An apprentice.

  That would have been an interesting line of work, had her life not taken such a swift turn for the worse.

  “Is there something I can get for you?” he asked.

  “No, that was all. Thank you for your time.”

  At least he hadn’t looked at her like she was a blob of wayward mud on a freshly cleaned floor. In fact, right now, he was looking at her as though he were downright intrigued. “Feel free to come back anytime.” He flushed again. “That is, I’d like to hear more about what you said about star-leaf.” He fiddled with a piece of that same leaf that had fallen on the counter. “You can ask for Boden.”

  “Ivana,” she replied politely.

  Ivana. Somewhere, somehow, along the way, she had stopped being “Ana.” She had never given that name again, not since she had told Airell her name was “Ivana.”

  Boden inclined his head and then gave her a sheepish smile.

  His sweet and bashful demeanor made it almost impossible to remain in the darkness of her own mind. She couldn’t help it. She returned his smile.

  Ivana trudged back to Elidor’s house, her head down and her hands grasping her cloak tightly around her, and almost ran into someone leaving a shop.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Your pardon, Dal.”

  The man she had run into waved his hand in front of his face, as though she were a bloodsprite that needed swatting away, and hurried on his way.

  She glanced at the door he had appeared through. The sign hanging above it was shaped like a horse and proclaimed the establishment not as a shop, but as The White Stallion Inn and Tavern.

  And a help wanted sign hung on the door.

  Her heart sped up even as her stomach sank. She hadn’t had any luck finding work, and now the possibility of work had fallen in her lap.

  An inn. She couldn’t. She didn’t even want to enter.

  She gritted her teeth. That was ridiculous. Did she want to try to provide for herself or not? How long would she rely on Elidor’s charity? How long would he let her?

  She took a deep breath and shoved open the door.

  Dinner hadn’t been served yet, but the inn was still busy—and warm. Both men and women warmed their hands near the fireplace and laughed over pints of beer. Serving girls, some looking not that much older than herself, delivered drinks and received sly winks from men who had had one too many.

  She turned away, feeling sick.

  “A table, Da?”

  One of the serving girls stood in front of her holding an empty tray at her side.

  “Uh. No,” answered Ivana. “I-I wanted to inquire about the notice on the door.”

  The girl nodded toward the bar. “Have to ask Dyric about that,” she said, then started to move off.

  “Is it so bad?” Ivana blurted out. “Working here?”

  The girl followed her gaze to a table where one of the other serving girls was leaning over a table, pushing a mug toward a man who was admiring the view.

  The girl shrugged. “You know. You get used to it. And Dyric says being good-natured about it keeps the customers happy.” She flicked a glance at the bar. “Sorry, Da, I need to go.” She curtsied and scurried away.

  The man at the table made a comment to the girl serving him, and she flushed but laughed it off—at least until she turned away and irritation flashed in her eyes.

  The air in the room thinned; Ivana’s chest burned and her head swam. She couldn’t do this. Not every day, not all the time. Back home, it hadn’t been like this. There it had been a friendly small-town tavern owned by a middle-aged widow. Back home, it had just been one man. One mistake.

  Bile rose in her throat, and she turned and rushed out the door before she drew more attention to herself. The cold air settled her stomach, but not the ache in her chest. Only one thing would do that.

  She hurried back to Elidor’s—and her razor.

  Ivana had been defeated. She had tried for one day, and she wouldn’t
try again. Not after the inn. But she had to find something else to occupy herself, so she ventured out to find Elidor, ready to see what proposal he had for her. A few odd jobs to earn her keep, perhaps?

  It was the first time she had sought him out. She had to go looking for Veryna in the kitchen to ask if Elidor was still at home, and if so, where she might find him. Veryna directed Ivana toward a door that Ivana had always found locked. Apparently, it led to Elidor’s study.

  Ivana didn’t know what to expect to find there. As she walked down the hall, her imagination ran wild. Did he keep shrines to the heretic gods? Cages of bloodbane kept for experimentation? Torture devices for undefended waifs that he and Veryna, actually partners in wicked deeds, lured here?

  By the time she reached his door, she was trembling, which was ridiculous. He was the one who had told her to come to him, after all. Nonetheless, her hand shook when she raised it to knock.

  She received silence as an answer. She fidgeted while waiting. Veryna must have been wrong; he must have left his study.

  She started to turn away when finally the bolt turned on the door, and it opened. Elidor stood at the door, regarding her with those strange, probing eyes.

  “I-I—” she began, and then she remembered his admonition about stuttering. She forced the words out, plain and to the point. “I had no luck with work today, so I came to you as you asked.”

  He was going to send her away, she was certain of it—but finally he stood aside and gestured for her to enter.

  The study could not have been more dissimilar to her imaginings. It was small and nondescript, with nothing strange-looking to match Elidor’s personality. A large desk filled half of the room. An overstuffed chair sat in the corner to her left, next to a filled bookshelf. Directly across the room from her was a metal door—probably his safe room.

  The only curiosity in the room was the painting on the wall behind the desk. She recognized the scene as one straight out of Setanan history: the execution of the last Aife, remembered by history to be an iron-fisted despot who had eventually received what was coming to him. Three men looked on, expressions fierce and triumphant. These were those who would become the first three Ri after they divided the land as it existed then between them. Beyond the Ri were indistinct masses, arms held high in celebration of the victory for the common people.

  At least, that was what she had thought it had depicted. She had only ever seen small charcoal illustrations before, but the painting was full color and large. Those who had been faceless figures now had faces, and she could see their expressions—not of celebration, but of horror. Because of the execution of the Aife? No—behind the headless body of the Aife a line had been drawn in the sky, which was in the process of splitting into two lines, like a seam being ripped apart, and black flames licked out of the gap between.

  She caught herself gaping at the painting. “What…?”

  Elidor, who had continued across the room toward a row of cabinets while she’d halted to inspect the wall hanging, turned. “Have you never seen The Execution of the Last Aife before?”

  “I have,” she said. “But not like this.”

  “Copies can be altered.”

  “Altered?”

  “To fit the narrative, of course,” he said. “The Execution was painted long before the Conclave’s rise to power.”

  “The Aife was a Banebringer,” she said, suddenly understanding.

  He shrugged. “Can we know for sure? Perhaps it was thought so at one point, perhaps it’s symbolic.”

  “But…why would that not fit the Conclave’s narrative? An evil man, executed in a coup for his tyranny, turns out to be a Banebringer? Of course. That would make perfect sense. Evil begets evil.”

  Elidor paced closer to the painting and stared up at it, his hands behind his back. “You’re missing something crucial.”

  She stared at it as well. Then it clicked. “Their faces.”

  “Whose faces?” It was a first: his voice carried something other than indifference. It was almost…eager.

  “The Ri—they don’t see it. They’re so wrapped up in their victory that they don’t realize their execution is about to unleash a terror on the land. And also the mass of people, because in contrast, they do see it.”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “If the artist had painted different expressions on their faces, the entire meaning of the painting could change. So small, yet so important.”

  It could have been symbolic. It would depend on when the work was created, of course. She couldn’t remember; art history wasn’t a subject she had delved deeply into. If painted during the era directly after the despot’s rule had ended, it might have been intended as literal—a memory of recent events, perhaps. But it wouldn’t have been much later for it to take a more sinister, symbolic turn. The saviors of the masses in reality unleash a new horror: the war machine that came to be known as Setana, mercilessly swallowing land after foreign land on the backs of its people, perhaps?

  It was fascinating; she reached up to touch the bottom of the painting before she realized what she was doing.

  And then she felt Elidor’s gaze on her. No, not her. On her arm.

  Her sleeve had fallen back, revealing her self-inflicted wounds of the past weeks, many of which were healing, but a few of which were fresh.

  She dropped her arm, flushing, but he grabbed it before she could tug her sleeve back down.

  He turned her arm over to look at her forearm, and the new cuts from that afternoon started bleeding again as his grip pulled at the skin.

  “You’re—You’re hurting me,” she whispered.

  He raised his eyes to meet hers but didn’t let go.

  For one tense moment, she was almost certain he didn’t care. Her heart started pounding. The theory about him and Veryna luring unsuspecting girls here seemed more credible than ever. Perhaps that door didn’t lead to his safe room. Perhaps it led to the chamber with all her other imaginings. And she had followed him into the most private room in his house.

  He let go of her arm, and she cradled it close to her chest.

  “You don’t want those to get infected,” he said. “I’ll have my housekeeper send some ointment and bandages to your room.”

  She blinked. That was it? That was all he had to say?

  He strode toward the cabinets on the other side of the room and threw open one of the doors.

  All her fears were forgotten in an instant. There, on a shelf, sat a microscope.

  Chapter Four

  The microscope made her father’s lovingly carved wooden version look like a child’s plaything. Elidor’s was made of burnished bronze, and the metalworking had attention to detail that was both pragmatic—such as the tiny clasps to hold a lens in place—and decorative.

  The desire to both touch it and recoil from it warred within her. All at once, she was filled with an irrepressible longing born from warm memories that quickly turned to a hollow, heavy ache.

  She wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to suppress the throbbing, and focused on the matter at hand. “I surmised you were well-off,” she said to Elidor, “but I must have severely underestimated how much so if you own a microscope.”

  He removed the microscope from the cabinet and set it on his desk. “You’ve seen one before?”

  She gave a tight nod. She didn’t feel like explaining further.

  And he didn’t ask her to. “All the better. It’s on loan to me from the university.”

  The university had loaned him a microscope? How many were even in existence? “Da Veryna said you worked for the government.”

  Elidor removed a scrap of paper from one of the desk drawers. “You could say that.”

  “And…what services do you offer that warrant you getting to borrow a microscope?”

  “I’m an analyst.”

  “An…analyst?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “What do you analyze?” she pressed, unwilling to let it go now that he had
given her a trickle of information.

  “Trends in violent crime.” He gestured to the microscope. “Do you know how to use this?”

  There were people who studied trends in violence crime? She finally put her hand out to run a finger down the body of the device. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a little different than my…” She swallowed. Just say it, Ivana. Will you choke on the words forever? “My father’s was. But it’s not that complicated.”

  Elidor put the slip of paper he had been holding down on the desk. “I have reason to believe that this”—he tapped the paper—“might hold information critical to determining when a certain criminal might strike next.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “And this information will help you…analyze?”

  He continued on as if she hadn’t spoken. “But whoever wrote it managed to write in such small letters that I can’t even read it with a magnifying glass.” He pushed the microscope closer to her with one finger. “Hence the microscope.”

  Her other eyebrow went up. “Someone could write that small?”

  He frowned. “You ask too many questions. Will you look at it or not?”

  She shrugged. It was an odd request, but she didn’t see the harm in agreeing.

  So she finally took the paper, secured it in place with the clasps, and looked through the eyepiece.

  The microscope had a knob on the side to adjust the magnification—a drastic improvement over her father’s—and she twisted it until the letters came into focus.

  She almost laughed when she saw what was on the paper. “I don’t think the size of the letters is your problem,” she said. “They’re small, but not that small.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Xambrian, not Setanan. You must have assumed they were tiny, squished Setanan letters since you didn’t recognize them.”

  Ivana looked up to see Elidor staring at her, his face unreadable.

  And then she realized what she had said.