“Ben?” Whyl asked, confused.
“Sorry,” Jas said, “you wouldn’t have met him. He, um…he was killed going in to rescue you and the Scribe, actually. They were childhood friends, he and Eli. Grew up together.”
“Arion be damned,” Whyl cursed, adding this fact to what he knew of the Captain.
“Aye, sad business, that,” Jas said with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure he’ll ever really move past it.”
“I see,” Whyl said with a sympathetic nod. “It all makes sense now, doesn’t it?”
“What makes sense?” Jas asked.
“The Captain’s reaction to me,” Whyl clarified. “I represent the thing that took away his childhood friend, whereas Fenric represents the thing that’ll give Ben’s death value. He has every reason to hate me.”
“He does not!” Jas disagreed. “This thing: Fenric, you, the Heirs, all of this…it’s bigger than two friends at sea—”
“Unless they were more than friends…” Whyl said suggestively.
Jas grew silent, understanding Whyl’s insinuations and fighting back his own offense. “I’ll pardon your suggestion because you don’t know any better,” Jas said finally, unable to keep the anger from his voice, “but that kind of thing isn’t allowed at sea, and he wouldn’t fall prey to it if it was. That’s all you should need to hear.” He explained, “Two men don’t need to be lovers to have a meaningful friendship, and I, for one, understand the Captain’s grief.”
“My mistake,” Whyl said quickly, holding out his shackled hands as far as they would go. “I won’t say another word. Only…I do wonder if his grief is making him blind.”
“Aye,” Jas said with a sigh, his forehead back in his hand, “I often wonder the same these days.”
“If it is as I say,” Whyl said carefully, “that just as I’m being made the enemy, another man rescued from the sinking ship is being made the savior, perhaps he’s transferred his trust and loyalty to the Scribe without fully considering what the man may be.”
“Aye, mayhap he has,” Jas said, nodding his agreement. “He seems so much better, but he can’t be in his right mind, because Kaille isn’t the kind of man who’d help a murderer.”
“And so we must hold him blameless…” Whyl said. “And yet, we can’t simply allow him to fall under the power of an evil man. You’re his friend, you can’t allow him to be misled.”
“We must catch the Scribe in a lie,” Jas remembered.
“Yes, and soon,” Whyl said. “Remember what I said about the dress.”
Jas looked away, out to the dark corridor that led through the ship’s depths. “Aye, how could I forget?”
*
Chapter 8:
The Heart
* * * * *
Coquettes of Chaveneigh
A Handbook for Proper Young Ladies
An Introduction
By Madam Munificent
Translated by Berbera Lerbens
*
While it’s the position of a mother and father to decide when it’s appropriate for their daughters to enter society, for those first time parents wishing for guidelines, you have come to the right place! The average age of presentation is fifteen but it’s not unheard of for the day to occur many years sooner or even considerably later.
While it’s the expectation of a girl child to wear shin-length frocks at parties to demonstrate her separation from the more adult aspects of the celebration, it is equally inappropriate for a girl who has come of age to continue to display her legs in such juvenile attire. This is a careful line to draw in the sand, and should be handled with the utmost care and diplomacy. Consideration must be made of the child’s emotional readiness for the marriage market, which is the primary reason for being presented.
A girl’s first adult gown is a special garment—one that she will feel connected to for the rest of her life. She is, after all, wearing this gown when her name is announced to a party for the first time, being acknowledged by a new group of peers. It is in this dress also that she will first be seen by possible suitors, and, if she’s fortunate, her future husband.
It is of utmost importance that a newly presented lady prepare carefully for the occasion. She must be at the height of her beauty and glow with an aura that precedes her into the room. Her hair must be immaculate, with each strand and curl in perfect order. Her face must be painted with care by a woman of experience, who should apply her arts with a diplomatic hand.
Most importantly of all, a girl in this situation must act as if she is a woman. If she titters with her playfellows like a child, then the purpose of being presented, which is as an introduction to the adult world, will be negated. She’ll be seen as an eternal child, and will turn herself down the path of a poor marriage. She instead must be confident of bearing and omniscient of presence. She may seek out her friends, but she must also attend to most dances, leaving the dance floor only when in the presence of a prospective suitor.
So we see that a certain amount of maturity is required for a girl entering society. She must be truly ready. There’s no crime in a nervous girl putting it off until as late as eighteen or even twenty, if that’s the age at which she feels comfortable. More likely, children will be eager to participate in the full spectrum of adult celebrations, and they must be held back from moving too quickly.
Don’t fret, girls, it’s worth the wait!
* * * * *
When the Landlord knocked and demanded entry as he had every morning, Sara let him in with less reluctance than she felt. If she didn’t provoke him into a fight, she knew, he would likely leave soon. She locked the door behind him and returned to her looking glass without a word. Staring in the mirror, she wondered if the boy from the street would like her hair as she had it, or if he was used to more curls from the noblewomen of the Uppertowns.
Tobi, not sharing her sister’s distraction and dislike, rushed at Pella with a laugh and hello. When he’d got done saying his greeting to her and their mother, Tobi blurted out, “You don’t look like everyone else in town. Where are you from?”
Sara pivoted on her seat, mortified. It was true that Pella looked different from them with his dark skin and pale hair, but pointing out his strange appearance was a sign of rudeness. “Tobi,” she yelled, “don’t ask him questions.”
“It’s fine,” Pella said calmly. He gathered Tobi onto his lap and explained, “I’m from far away in the tropical river province of Isabiena.”
“Why would you ever leave?” Tobi asked, her eyes faraway in a daydream. “Is it as beautiful as it sounds? Is there really magic in the air?”
“Tobi!” Sara shouted, motioning for her sister to get off the Landlord’s lap.
Pella signaled that he didn’t mind. “Please, yes,” he said to them both. “Isabiena is a beautiful place, and it can seem magical.”
“Tell me, tell me!” Tobi begged.
“Of course, little one—” Pella began.
“No!” Sara cut in, grasping for a reason to make him leave. “You can’t. It’s time for Tobi to go to bed.”
“To bed? Are you mad girl?” Pella asked with a sneer, glancing at the sunny day outside. “You go to bed, silly woman. That would be better. Go to bed and pray that you wake with the spirit of a child.”
“Sara’s never had the spirit of a child,” Tobi said matter-of-factly, her eyes on the floor. “She’s always been like this.”
“Tobi!” Sara yelled, humiliated. “Gods, who’s side are you on?”
In well-practiced motion, Sara bolted from her seat at the looking glass and ran to her room. She closed the door with a thud, and fell upon it, her breathing heavy.
“Please, I want to hear about Isabeen,” Sara heard Tobi plead through the crack under the door. Covering her mouth to muffle her sobs, Sara lowered herself to the floor, her ear to the gap.
“Isabiena,” said Pella, gently correcting her youngest sister. “You think it’s been hot in this city? You’ve only a glimpse of how
hot it can be in Isabiena. The heat there is so wet that we sweat all year-round.”
“But what about the winter?” Tobi asked.
“There is no winter,” Pella explained. “Only the Sweat.”
“Then how do you know what season it is?” Tobi asked, skeptical of his story. “Or when a year has passed?”
Sara wanted to yell at her sister that they still had a moon and stars in Isabiena, but Pella’s answer was unexpected and startled her into silence. “By the bugs, little one,” he said merrily.
“The bugs?” Tobi asked skeptically, disgust in her voice.
“The bugs,” Pella confirmed with a chuckle. “The month of Maridens, you see, begins the season of the Farif Fly. They’ll come to eat the Farif Leaves, which grow thick just above the water level. Once the Farif leaves are gone and the flies have laid eggs and bidden us farewell, the Tuberroots at the river’s bottom finally get their sun. The Tubers shoot up their flowers to the river top, drawing out the Teribiths: long, clawed bugs with a head full of eyes. They’ll feast on the bright pink flowers by day, and then climb to the canopy to sleep, where the birds will feast upon them. Then, if you’ll believe it, there are so many birds of so many colors! They fill the forest ceiling, singing their songs to the bright blue sky. For a time all is joy and noise. But then come the mosquitoes, which love the birds best as a feast. So it is that the birds grow tired of the Itch, and they fly away, leaving the Farif Leaves, which they have pollinated, to grow again. That’s when you know the month is Maridens once more. And so the circle goes on and on and on.”
Tobi was thoughtfully silent for a time, and then she asked, “What if something went wrong?”
“Our history tells of times when it has,” said Pella slowly. “They were dark times. That’s why We of the Waterways—the Keepers of the River Forest—must keep our world in balance, lest we lose track of what time it is.”
Sara could no longer stand it. She opened the door and swept back into the room. “Don’t listen to him, Tobi, it’s just a bunch of silliness. They could just watch the sun and moon as we do here. And what of the stars?”
“It’s easy to say that here, in these lands of endless horizons,” Pella explained to her patiently. “But I come from a place where vast canopies are held aloft by towering trees. It’s not the kind of place you children would understand.”
“Stop calling me a child,” Sara demanded. “You don’t know anything about us.”
Pella smiled in his condescending way. “You think you’re so deep and worldly that your entire life can’t be read on your face?”
“I don’t know how you can judge people so quickly—before you even know them,” Sara said, her arms crossed. “It seems like a cynical way to bounce around, not trusting anyone.”
Pella’s grin broadened, reading her meaning. “You think I was too harsh on the Earl’s boy?”
Sara flushed, finding his assumption to be correct and hating him for seeing through her with such ease. “I didn’t mean…” she murmured, “well, maybe, now that you mention it. It seemed sweet of him to want to pay us a call, and you were so rude that you probably scared him away.”
“You truly are a fool if you think my disapproval will stop the Bloody Brockhammonds from doing anything they desire,” Pella said with a cynical snort. “And hopefully you’ll be able to get past your own delusions when he comes here soon.”
“Y-you think he’s coming?” Sara asked, trying not to give in to her wild wishes.
“Well,” said Pella thoughtfully, “neither he nor his father are the type for idle threats.”
Sara’s silly grin fell. “There you go again, being rude when you could just—”
“Being honest isn’t the same as being rude,” Pella interrupted, “no matter how similar they sound to biased ears.”
Sara felt tears rush into her eyes and down her hot cheeks. She stamped her foot upon the floor. “Why do you keep coming back? Go away!” she demanded. “No one wants you here!”
“I want him,” Tobi argued. “Mama wants him.”
“Mama doesn’t want anything,” Sara cried, gesturing towards the unmovable woman, “she’s a vegetable.”
Tobi grew still at this, her young jaw slamming shut. Her teeth clicked together and her tiny chin trembled. Turning quickly, she ran from the room.
Sara rushed after her, “Tobi! I didn’t mean—” but the door had slammed and there was a locking sound behind it. Sara looked scornfully up at the Landlord. “This is all your fault!”
“Don’t blame me for your ignorance, little one, it’s not my doing,” he said simply, turning from her and taking the seat opposite her mother. He took up the unflinching hand that rested dully upon the chair. Patting it gently, he whispered quieting words that Sara couldn’t hear.
She couldn’t fight him—couldn’t force him out. He was much stronger, to begin. Also, they needed him for survival. He was the only support they had. This fact only made Sara hate him all the more, however, just as her seething resentment had been steadily growing for months.
It was Pella’s assumption that he could help her mother—and that she could not!—that bothered Sara the most. It was presumptuous indeed for him to think than the words of a stranger would be more effective with her that the pleading of her own children. This supposition, she believed, made his arrogance complete.
Sara could forget that the boy in the streets was handsome and rich easily enough, for even in her wildest dreams she couldn’t hope to marry so well. What recalled him to her mind so forcibly, however, was that he offered her another option. Haskal, she thought, Haskal can save us. If she could present her case to him perhaps he would be merciful, taking her and her family away from under this strange landlord’s power.
But what good could the Earl’s son do if Pella kept him away? Feeling powerless and angry, her chest heaving, Sara rushed once more past her only source of aid and into her room.
* * * * *
Cricket screwed his face into a sneer as Auk passed him by. The Second noticed and feigned a lunge, which caused the boy to cringe despite his bravado. The others around him laughed.
Face burning, Cricket decided that the Turnagain was the last place he wanted to spend his free afternoon.
Though he hadn’t been given permission to go ashore, Cricket checked that no one was watching and made his way down the gangplank anyway. He stepped unsteadily into the tidy port town.
It was a foreign kind of place, quieter than the ports he knew well. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he felt weak wandering through the unknown streets on his own. Recalling that the shipmonkey had been sent into town on an errand for the Scribe, Cricket set out to find Benson’s familiar face.
Either the Monkey had been close by or his grubby shipboy’s garb stood out in such contrast to the clean town that he could be seen a mile away. Cricket spotted him within minutes. The red-haired bully approached, punching Benson’s shoulder in greeting and making several distracted attempts to start a conversation. Cricket paid almost no attention to what he or his chosen distraction was saying, however. His paranoid grumbling continued until he mentioned his dislike of the Tikaani savage, to which the other boy reacted.
“I like Ikpek,” Benson said. “He seems nice.”
“Who cares,” Cricket scoffed. He shot his shipmate a disbelieving look. “He’s a savage. If you’re too nice to him he’ll work his dark magic on you. Did you know that he has to eat the heart of a boy during every full moon in order to keep his magic?”
“Why would he do that?” Benson asked doubtfully.
“I don’t know,” Cricket shot back defensively. “That’s just what savages do. Don’t ask me, I’m civilized. And now that I’ve warned you, it won’t be my fault when you wake up to find yourself dead.”
Benson looked away, a smile upon his lips. Though he said nothing, it was enough to incite a response from Cricket, who couldn’t bear to be the butt of a joke.
“What was that?” he
demanded, pushing himself forward into Benson’s face. “What’d you look at me like that for? You don’t think I’m civilized? You don’t know. I could be a gentleman’s son, and you wouldn’t know.”
“I didn’t say anything, Cricket,” Benson said sharply.
“Yeah, well,” Cricket backed down, but maintained a threatening tone, “don’t think nothing either, if you know what’s good for you. What’re you looking for anyhow?”
Benson shot him a nervous look, but composed his face in the next moment. Cricket was too preoccupied to give the reaction much thought. “Fenric needed some things,” said the boy said elusively.
“So you’re his Monkey now too?” Cricket teased. He let out a piercing ape call and then laughed at his own cleverness. For several minutes passersby gave them a wide berth. “Hey, I’m just kidding. Come on, let’s go scope out the brothels. I bet this town’s got some sweet girls.”
“I can’t,” Benson begged off. “I need to do this.”
“What’re you doing anyway?” Cricket echoed his earlier question, the information having passed in one ear and out the other.
“Buying a hat,” Benson replied, holding up the top in a pile of caps.
Cricket vaguely remembered that the Monkey had indeed been trying on different headgear. “Hats?” he scoffed. “That’s creepy. What’s he got you out buying his hats for?”
“Um, I guess it’s for me,” Benson shrugged.
“You?” Cricket’s cobwebbed brain found itself in unwanted motion. “He sent you to go buy a hat…for you?”
Benson shrugged, “I guess he wants me to go with him to a party.” Fearing this was too much information, the yellow-haired boy rushed to change the subject. “Hey, tell me more about Auk.”
“A party?” Cricket asked, not to be fooled. “Oh, well ain’t you proper?” He made another monkey call and then laughed at himself once more. Then he grabbed Benson’s arm. “Come on, just buy that one and let’s go.”
“I have other things—” Benson protested to Cricket’s pull.
“It’s a stupid job,” Cricket complained, pulling forcibly. “Who is Fenric anyway, some creepy Scribe? What’s he gonna do, scribe you to death? Come on.”
“No, Cricket!” Benson shook off his grasp. “He pays me to run errands for him. I need the money for my family.”
“No way, you get extra wages?” Cricket seemed suddenly interested. “Can I get some for helping?”
The Secret's Keeper and the Heir Page 16
