by K. M. Shea
After giving me a pep talk about honor and my position, she tells me my words are disturbing. Hah! He shook his head and grinned. I don’t know if there is anyone in the world who cares less about my title than Myth.
The realization made him stop in the middle of the hallway. He turned around and looked back at the royal wing.
And there isn’t another woman I care more about. He furrowed his brow as he was almost afraid to let the thought form. She’s become so much to me. But every time I test it, she reminds me that she’s an “employee”. Unless I really flirt with her, but then I run the risk of making her feel uncomfortable. It’s such a careful balance, and for the life of me I can’t seem to get her to tip toward me!
It occurred to Arvel that it was, perhaps, the greatest irony that he—who fled eligible ladies every week ever since he was named heir—was now chasing after an eligible young lady who didn’t flee from him per se, but was choosing to be very…difficult to sway.
“Your Royal Highness? Is something wrong?” the Honor Guard directly behind Arvel asked.
“Sorry, no. Just lost in thought.” Arvel shook his head, as if he could clear it that easily, and strode off to find his father and continue their conversation about the investigation.
I have time with Myth. For now, the thing of greatest importance is to see that she is safe…and to punish Uncle Julyan for his flagrant illegal activities, and for making Myth cry as if her heart was breaking.
Myth tried to swallow, and instead almost choked on her own spit.
She clutched the leather satchel that held the Fulton ledgers to her chest as she coughed. Eventually, she was coughing so hard she had to lean against one of the wooden railings of the raised bridge she stood on.
Plopped in front of her was a magnificent tear-shaped building. From a distance it appeared white and glittery, but this close Myth could see the massive windows that seemed to defy physics and twist around the sides of the tear. The windows made up most of the walls, with the exception of the white stone framework that gave the building structure. A stream of water curled around it, emptying into the channel Myth’s bridge crossed.
As she stared at the beautiful building, Myth’s hands shook, and the air seemed unbearably hot.
I’m being an idiot. This is the Translators’ Circle. I live here. It’s not terrifying or fear inducing.
And yet, standing in front of the building, Myth wished herself just about anywhere else. But that wasn’t so much because of the building, as because of what she was about to do.
Myth made it a personal policy to refrain from asking for help. It was always better to find the answer herself or to muddle through on her own even if it took extra time. Because that was far better than to ask and be ignored, or to annoy someone, or then to even hear the unwillingness in a person’s voice and witness how little they wished to help her.
Blaise was the only exception to this rule. Or she had been. Myth had become painfully aware the past few days just how much she’d come to trust Arvel. It was possible the crown prince had also become a member of this very elite group, but Myth didn’t particularly wish to find out if her inkling was true or not.
No need, it’s true. Or I wouldn’t be here, doing what I’m about to do.
Myth shut out the thought as she stared down the Translators’ Circle, which had somehow gone through a miraculous transformation from a beautiful and welcoming building, to intimidatingly austere.
She clutched the leather satchel so tightly her fingers were starting to hurt, then darted across the bridge before she could second-guess herself.
There was a set of stone stairs dotted with moss that led up to the Circle’s entrance. Myth took the steps two at a time and didn’t risk glancing back to ascertain that her escort was following her until she reached the doors.
Grygg trailed closest behind her, and he flashed her a wink and meandered up so he could stand side by side. “I’m guessing we’re not here so you can introduce me and the boys to all your single friends?”
A nervous laugh escaped from Myth. “That would be a much more enjoyable task. But no. I am here to ask for a favor.” The phrase tasted sour, and she grimaced.
“Anything we can do to help?”
“I’m afraid not, but thank you, Grygg.”
He bowed with a lot more care than necessary given her position as a mere translator. “’Tis my honor.”
Myth considered asking him about the bow, but she knew herself well enough to know she was stalling. So instead she made herself open the front door and march in.
In keeping with its name, most of the architecture and decorating of the Translators’ famed building was circular in shape.
The floor was tiled with large circles and loops spiraling through the room. The central staircase snaked its way upwards in long, circular floors, every door was circular, and every candle was spherical.
How much money do we waste ordering those custom-made candles? Myth wondered as she mechanically strode through the central chamber.
Her gait was stiff, and the closer she got to the massive, round door she needed to step through, the slower she went.
By the time she reached it her pulse was galloping once again, and she’d left a sweat smear on the leather satchel.
It was official. This task was a thousand times worse than retrieving the ledgers from the Fulton town house.
But I’m going to do it anyway. Because Arvel and I worked too hard for this…and because they set the library on FIRE!
Her anger propelled her forward, and she yanked on the iron ring and pulled the door open with a creak.
Inside was the trade translators’ workshop.
Unlike the social and governmental translators who did much of their work outside the Translators’ Circle, trade translators worked together in one massive room that stretched at least three stories high.
The room was filled with padded wooden benches and wooden tables angled for ease of use. Most translators sat at their personalized desks, scratching away at their papers as they copied, created, and edited sheets of numbers, columns of records, and a seemingly endless number of charts.
Students rushed up and down the three floors, carrying messages to different desks and running to the Log Masters, who stood in front of rows of locked bookshelves filled with logs, ledgers, filed paperwork, and more.
In the center of the room, her arm tossed casually over a podium as she adjusted her spectacles with her free hand, was the leader of the trade translators, Chairwoman Errim.
The chairwoman was a Calnorian woman of short stature, no nonsense attitude, and tidy dress. Like Myth, she wore the trade translators’ signature jacket, pants, and boots, although hers were colored white and gray due to her position.
Myth had met her on three occasions—when she first became a student in the trade program, when she graduated and made the rank of apprentice, and once when she explained to Myth that they didn’t have a master translator to assign her to yet.
With so many translators under her, there was no possible way the older woman knew Myth. But Myth, driven by both her anger and the painful need that was her whole reason for coming, slowly approached the chairwoman.
Halfway across the massive workshop she glanced back, and was relieved to see only Grygg and one other Honor Guard were behind her. The rest waited at the open door.
Good. That’s fewer people to observe the sting of failure this might become. But I have to ask!
Myth rolled her shoulders back, and once she was at the proper distance she fought against her rising panic and called out. “Chairwoman Errim?”
The older woman turned around, her smile polite if not pleasant. “Ahh, good morning to you, Apprentice Mythlan.”
“Good morning.” Myth bowed her head to Errim.
“What brings you here today? I haven’t received your release papers from the social translators, so I assume you are still acting as His Royal Highness Crown Prince Arvel’s translato
r.”
“Yes, ma’am. That is to say, I have the day off…” She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
Myth wouldn’t have thought she was afraid of much—unfortunately the past few weeks had rapidly corrected that, so the list now included fires in the library and, apparently, asking a supervisor for help.
This is silly. Even if she refuses, what’s lost? Nothing! It will hurt, but if she does help, it’s worth it.
Chairwoman Errim folded her hands behind her back with thinly veiled impatience. “Yes? And?”
“I’m here to ask for help,” Myth blurted out. “I need ledgers copied, and some new trade reports drawn up from all the Fultons’ trade records over the past two years.”
Chairwoman Errim narrowed her eyes, which nearly disappeared in the wrinkles of her face. “This is for the Fulton investigation His Royal Highness is conducting, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Myth said. “We gathered all the information he needed for His Majesty King Petyrr to convict them, but the records were destroyed in a fire yesterday. Fortunately, the main pieces of evidence—two personal ledgers from the Fultons—were kept separate and weren’t destroyed.” Myth held up the satchel for reference. “We have all the information we need between these and the trade records, but the information has to be cross-referenced and written up to prove the Fultons’ faulty reports and illegal dealings.”
“When was the ruling supposed to be?”
“Tomorrow.”
Chairwoman Errim whistled.
“Arvel can’t work on this information now—he’s involved in the investigation of the fires. But if I can’t reproduce the information, the judgment will be canceled tomorrow,” Myth said. “Unfortunately, it’s too much information for me, and I’m a mere apprentice…”
Chairwoman Errim held up her hand, demanding Myth’s silence.
Myth’s heart fell as the chairwoman walked away from her.
She’s not going to help. I expected as much. The trade translators have their own assignments, and we aren’t strictly employed by the Calnorian royal family, so I can’t even guarantee they’d get paid for the work. But I had hoped…
Chairwoman Errim stepped up to the tall podium and picked up the wooden hammer that hung from a leather loop. She smacked the podium, then whistled a loud and piercing note that made every translator, every apprentice, every student, and every Log Master stop and look to her.
“We have a change in our schedule, my children,” Chairwoman Errim drawled. “Our Trade Darling needs help. The Fultons ruined the work she and His Royal Highness Crown Prince Arvel had organized for their investigation.”
It took Myth a few moments to realize she was the “trade darling” Chairwoman Errim had referred to. She shifted nervously, but no one stirred as they listened.
“I want everyone—except for the translators working on the next set of order forms for Lessa and those who are recording copies of the most recent transactions with Lessa—on her work immediately. Students, get your laces tied—you’ll have to retrieve some palace tax reports. Log Masters, we need all trade records we have on the Fultons from the past two years. Translators, we have two ledgers that must be copied in their entirety immediately into Elvish and additional copies in Calnoric. Apprentice Mythlan will give the rest of the details, but it sounds like we’ll need to cross-reference the information between the royal tax reports, our trade records, and what the Fultons claimed they bought and sold versus what numbers they really had in storage.”
Myth’s eyes bulged as the chairwoman continued on, rattling off all the types of paperwork they’d need.
She was so dumbstruck, so shocked, all she could do was stand there.
This wasn’t a reaction I hoped for. I never even dreamed of this as a possibility!
“Oh—you, student. Run off and send word to the governmental translation workshop that we need at least two—no, four—of their best translators to teach us what format our work needs to be in, and tell us if there are any extra forms we need.” The chairwoman finished with a business-like nod, and immediately everyone hopped back to their work.
Myth watched, astounded, as dozens of translators nonchalantly pushed their work to the side, capped their inkwells, and hurried down the stairs, making their way toward her.
She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, feeling like a fish out of water as the translators swarmed her and Chairwoman Errim. “But…why?” she finally asked.
The closest person, a senior translator, gave Myth a curious look. “What do you mean why?”
“Why would you put everything aside to help? I didn’t get a chance to warn you, but I didn’t ask His Majesty King Petyrr for his approval—”
Once again Chairwoman Errim held up her hand, and Myth fell silent. “You don’t seem to understand, Apprentice Mythlan,” she said. “But we’re translators. We work together—not as mere coworkers, but companions. And you, our little Trade Darling, are the pride and joy of our section. Of course we’re going to help you—particularly since you never request aid in any shape.”
“I am?” By this point Myth had heard so many unexpected things, she was starting to wonder if something was wrong with her hearing.
Chairwoman Errim rolled her eyes, but the senior translator laughed. “Obviously! You’re the best translator to pass through the Circle in decades. Chairman Farthyndil of the governmental translators almost challenged Chairwoman Errim to a duel when you selected us as your translation path.”
Translator Krim, who had served as one of Myth’s instructors, added, “All apprentices are beloved, Mythlan, because it takes great intellect, perseverance, and love to continue the pursuit of languages. We get many applications, but it is usually only a handful who manage to make it to apprentice. And yet you were not satisfied with merely making that position, but you picked up additional languages and continued to work with diligence, never acting prideful even when your fellow apprentices requested your help.”
It seemed to Myth that whole chunks of the Translators’ Circle that she hadn’t even known of were falling into place. “You know I’ve studied other languages?”
Now all the translators who were gathered around her laughed.
“Of course we knew, dear,” Chairwoman Errim said dryly. “You’re our Mythlan. Now, where are these ledgers of yours?”
Myth fumbled momentarily with the satchel and pulled the two ledger books out. “Here.”
Chairwoman Errim took them with another snappy nod. “Excellent. Translators—let us begin!”
Myth shifted into a new position on the blue settee she was perched upon and made a valiant effort to scoot a strawberry across her plate.
“They should be done soon, Lady Mythlan,” Wilford assured her.
“And there’s no possible way King Petyrr found those scoundrels anything less than guilty as sin,” Grygg added.
Myth smiled. “It is to be hoped that is true.”
Wilford shook his head. “I imagine you and your Circle ruined many of Fultons’ schemes with your swift translations. I don’t think Lord Julyan even bothered to put together a defense, he was so sure they were getting away with it.”
Grygg sighed happily. “I still can’t believe my lucky stars that I got to be the one to escort Lord Julyan to the palace. He was so shocked the case was still on, he puffed up like an angry cat and yowled something fierce. I even got to threaten violence against him!”
Myth cracked a smile at the thought and finally ate her strawberry.
Thanks to the majority of all trade translators working on recreating Myth’s and Arvel’s findings, the translators finished everything by dawn the day of the judgment against the Fultons. Myth—leaving an extra copy of everything in the Translators’ Circle, because she wasn’t going to risk losing their research again—had rushed to King Petyrr and King Celrin’s private study and submitted the paperwork with enough time for the proceedings to still take place.
And they had, to Lor
d Julyan’s shock.
She’d seen the enraged nobleman when Grygg and his men bodily escorted him into the courtroom—he was white with fury.
It makes me glad my presence isn’t required.
Chairwoman Errim had offered to stand testimony and answer any trade-related questions King Petyrr might have, and, given the setting, Arvel required a governmental translator, not a trade or social translator. So, she was free to sit in the private parlor Arvel had reserved for her, which was conveniently in the same hallway as the court room, with Wilford and Grygg for company.
Myth sipped her tea and nudged the plate of tea sandwiches closer to Wilford, who was longingly watching them.
“Thank you, Lady Mythlan!” Wilford grinned sheepishly as he took two of the small sandwiches.
“Indeed. But I do have a question for you.” She set her teacup down and scrutinized Wilford. “Why have you suddenly taken to calling me Lady Mythlan, when you insist I shouldn’t use your titles as captains?”
Wilford choked on his sandwich, and the usually cool and even tempered Grygg looked a little panicked.
“Er, that is to say…what do you mean? It’s just a nickname!” Grygg laughed louder than the situation required.
“Except I’ve already told you my nickname is Myth, and Lady Mythlan is a far longer moniker.”
Wilford thumped his chest a few times, then croaked, “Practice?”
“Practice for what?” Myth asked.
The captains exchanged nervous looks.
“Is this a custom, or a cultural thing?” Myth continued. “I’d like to know. If I am doing something wrong I need to correct my ways.”
“It’s nothing, Lady—er, Myth,” Wilford said. “It’s just…we’re just…”
Grygg held a finger up in the air. “Practice!” he declared. “As we rise in the ranks of the Honor Guards, we’ll rub elbows with more nobles. We’re practicing for then.”
“Except I am not a noble, and I was under the impression you frequently visit with Lady Tari, who is quite noble,” Myth pointed out.
Wilford rubbed his eyes. “Why do you have to be so observant?” he complained.
