Ink

by Alice Broadway

  “Now, tell me,” says Obel, “what made you choose inking? You first.” He nods towards me. Fabulous.

  “Um. I’ve always liked drawing and I…” I’m so awed by this man’s presence that my mind goes blank. I blurt out, “I wanted to do something that will make a difference to people.”

  No. I used the “I want to make a difference” line. What is wrong with me?

  “Right, that’s nice. But that doesn’t really tell me anything. So I’ll ask again. Why inking?”

  I take a deep breath and focus. “I can read people and I don’t mind blood.” I’m so nervous now that I speak without thinking, and I see him hold back a smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by people’s marks – what they mean and why they’ve chosen them. I’m not squeamish. Inking seemed to fit.” I shrug and realize I could have been saying exactly the same thing as a trainee flayer.

  He laughs at that and suddenly he seems a little less stern. “You can read people? Are you sure about that, Leora?” His voice is teasing but there’s a seriousness in his eyes.

  And that’s when I see it. That’s when I notice what it is that seems different about him. I can’t read him. His marks are all there – they tell the world his age, his hometown, list his perfect qualifications. But apart from the surface meaning, his marks are silent. I can’t read anything deeper. Puzzled, my eyes meet his and just for a second his eyebrows dip as though he’s asking a question.

  “I can usually read people, yes,” I manage to say before his attention slides from me to Karl. Karl is looking at me and smirking.

  “What about you, boy – why inking? And please don’t tell me you want to make a difference.” I blush at this and notice Karl standing a bit taller.

  “Inking is what I’ve always wanted to do.” Liar, I think. “I’ve done my own work already.” Karl pulls up the leg of his trousers and shows a mark depicting a dragon. It’s pretty good. Damn it.

  “You did that?” Obel asks, eyebrows raised.

  Karl grins proudly and nods.

  “You come here with an illegal mark and expect me to be impressed? Don’t let anyone see that, ever – OK? Not until I’ve made it look less like a child did it. I can’t have people thinking that this is the sort of work associated with my studio.” Karl covers his leg, flushing. I guess he never expected to be here, illicit marks on show, having to answer to an expert inker, and I can’t help but feel a little bit pleased that Obel has taken him down a peg.

  Obel sighs and looks at the two of us without any pleasure. “Well. You might as well come this way,” he says, and we follow him through to the studio.

  It’s sleek and bright with white walls. A metal reception desk helps to divide the space so that customers can’t just walk in and watch someone being marked. The floor is tiled with black stone and I notice a large folding screen with wheels at its base that has been painted with traditional marks. Behind the screen is the black leather chair. My heart thrills – this is where I’ll make my first mark. The fear I felt earlier dissipates and I embrace the excitement that takes its place. This is where I belong, I just know it.

  Obel shows us round. He explains that today our job is just to listen and watch, so that’s what we do; pay attention and, as the clients begin to come in, run to get the equipment Obel asks for.

  The first person who comes in is a man, probably late twenties. He’s hoping to have a mark to celebrate a promotion, and he wants it done in his lunch break, in a couple of hours’ time.

  “I’m happy to do it, but I won’t mark you today.” Obel says in a firm but respectful tone. “We have a consultation first, and then the inking in a week.”

  The man frowns. “The last inker I saw always let me have work done right away, when it was convenient to me.”

  Obel dips his head in understanding. “I’m very happy to agree a time that works for you, sir, but I won’t mark anyone without going through a thorough consultation and at least a week’s reflection period.” The man’s jaw clenches and I wonder if he’ll get up and leave. Obel carries on, talking calmly and quietly. “If you regret your mark or rush into something that isn’t entirely right, I will have failed in my job. I want you to love the ink you get here. I want you to be proud of the marks your family will treasure after you die.”

  Obel’s confidence seems to placate the man and his annoyance fades. He talks with Obel about his ideas and by the time he returns to work he seems to be as under Obel’s spell as I am.

  As the morning goes on, I begin to anticipate the kit he will request as each client comes into the studio. Karl and I listen closely to the questions he asks each person as they describe the new mark they want. He doesn’t just accept their decisions: he interrogates them.

  “Have you seen this mark on anyone before? What did it make you think of? Do any of your family’s books bear the mark you’re considering? Where would you like the mark placed? What size? Will this be part of a larger piece? What do you want people to feel when they see your mark? What do you like about your job? What do you hate?”

  He asks the questions then sits back and listens. That’s when I watch him. Sometimes he is totally still, as though not wanting to interrupt or sway their answers by doing anything more than breathing. With other clients he is animated and conversation flows easily. But the moment the needle is dipped and loaded with ink and he switches on the machine he is silent. It is as though he is in the ink and the ink is in him. He seems to almost become the person he is marking, his soul mixing with the blood and the ink. I see Karl watching too, his gaze almost hungry. We’re both impressed.

  At the end of the day Obel calls Karl and me to where he’s working. “Just so you know, I’m planning to grow this business. At the end of your training I will have an opening for a new inker to join me in the studio. Prove to me you’re worth it and I might just choose one of you.”

  Karl and I look at each other. The stakes have just been raised – and I know we both intend to win.

  I leave the studio at the end of the day feeling dazed. This morning and all its anxiety feels like it was days ago. I grin as I walk into town, the excitement still buzzing through me. I want that job, I decide; trust my luck to be competing against Karl though. I bet he doesn’t even really want the job; he just wants to win. Karl may be irritating, and he may only be here because his Dad is making him do it, but I have to admit he has some skill.

  And then I remember my plan to stop by the museum and see Dad’s book, and my grin stretches broader. I can’t wait.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The air in the streets is pleasantly cool after the heat of the studio. It’s lovely to notice the breeze on my face and to feel my nervous energy ebb away. OK, Karl was an unwelcome surprise, but I survived my first day and I didn’t make a fool of myself. Let’s see how tomorrow goes, shall we? says the little voice in my head, but I shrug it off.

  The route to the museum is busy with people and voices. Shoppers walk by me laden with bags full of things they’ve bought at the market. I can’t bring myself to match their speed – for the first time in months I’m feeling a hint of contentment. I’ve had an unexpectedly good first day at work, and I’m going to see my dad in a few minutes’ time. I let myself smile. I’m not exactly happy, I’m not ready to be, but it’s like I can smell the fragrance of happiness just around the corner – it’s not far away from me now.

  Above the wide doors at the museum’s entrance is the inscription, Truth Laid Bare. It makes me shiver with anticipation and a little nervousness. Oh, I can’t wait to see him! My soft boots don’t make much sound on the tiled floor, but it’s enough for Beatrice at the reception desk to glance up at me. She smiles broadly.

  “Hi, Leora! Was this your first day?”

  “I’m at an inker’s down the road,” I tell her, grinning. “I thought I’d come and tell Dad all about it.” She nods, her eyes warm with sympathy, and she gestures towards the library section of the museum.

  I walk through the
atrium, feeling the winter sun shining on me from the rooftop window that seems so high it must make birds dizzy. Glancing at the displays as I pass through, I push open the glass doors to the library. The high stacks of books shield the room from sunlight and it always seems dingy and unwelcoming to me. The smell of old books makes me think of winter and Dad lighting twisted sheets of paper to start the fire. Verity sometimes comes here to study; she finds the quiet helps her concentrate and she likes choosing a desk and staying all day. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel out of place and on show. Taking a deep breath in, I close my eyes. I’m not here to study; I’m here for Dad.

  The librarian at the desk isn’t someone I know but she’s attentive and smiley and when I tell her why I’m here she opens a drawer, gets out a form and shows me how to fill it in. Then she sends my book request down the chute to the floor below where the archives are kept, and where those whose books have recently been completed are held.

  While I wait, I look out through the doors back into the atrium. All the other floors in the building look down into this one; it’s like a stage. I can see some of the temporary exhibits from where I stand – they change them quite often. Right now all our most respected leaders’ books are there, and the largest display case holds a replica of Mayor Longsight’s marks. I glance around the library to see if anyone I recognize is here today. There’s just a boy reading quietly at a desk in the corner.

  I sigh, wondering how long I’ll have to wait. I’m desperate to see Dad’s book and don’t want to wait a second more.

  I must have been here for about ten minutes when I hear a chair scrape. I look up and see the boy walking from his study table towards the library reception. He stands a little way from me, and puts a book on the desk. He looks a bit older than me and I feel like I recognize him from somewhere – maybe he was at my school in the year above or something. He’s gorgeous though, I would remember him from school, surely. He has a warm, black skin and intelligent eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. While he waits for the librarian to come to him he puts a notebook in his leather satchel, fastens it and passes his hand over his tight messy curls, knocks his glasses slightly and adjusts them. Oh no. He’s seen me looking. He’s going to think I was looking and I wasn’t. Well, maybe I was looking a bit, but I don’t want him to know that. I begin to study the wooden surface of the reception desk. Oh to be effortless. Oh to be like Verity – just for once.

  “Excuse me,” he says to the librarian, and his voice is nice: kind of husky and deep. “I’m looking for volume two of this – do you have it?”

  She glances at the slip of paper he shows her. “Are you OK to wait while I check?” she asks him. “I can’t promise anything.”

  The boy agrees, and when she’s gone he looks over at me and smiles. It’s a conspiratorial kind of grin and it takes me by surprise. I smile back and try not to giggle.

  Just as I shift my weight for the thousandth time an assistant walks in and passes a slip of paper to the librarian who looks up, startled. She puts down the file she’s looking through, takes the note, reads it, looks at me and folds the piece of paper in half.

  “The book you requested can’t be accessed at this time.” She speaks quietly, her eyebrows furrowed.

  “What?”

  She hands me the piece of paper and turns back to her work, giving me privacy as I read. I stare at the paper but the words blur before my eyes. Unavailable. Confiscated until further notice.

  “Wait – I’m sure there’s a mistake.” My heart is thumping hard, all my excitement at seeing Dad turning to fear. “He... His book is here – it’s just waiting for the weighing ceremony.”

  The librarian looks at me and sighs, but stays silent. Her eyes look anxious, as though she hasn’t dealt with this situation before.

  “Maybe they looked in the wrong place or searched for the wrong name?” I ask with a hint of desperation in my voice. It must be a mistake. It must be.

  The librarian gets up and comes round the desk, obviously worried I’m going to make a scene. “There is no mistake. If you look at your paperwork, you’ll see.” She touches the piece of paper in my hand cautiously, as though it might burn her. “Your father’s book is unavailable. It’s been confiscated.” She points her finger at the words and they begin to shake and wobble as tears come to my eyes.

  “If it’s been confiscated then I want to know why!” My voice is louder than I intend and I see the librarian bristle. “Please, you have to help me. Please – I need you to get my dad.”

  The librarian looks past me nervously, and I see her mouthing something to someone in the distance. Just then I feel a hand on my arm and realize it’s the good-looking boy, who has been watching the whole thing. I jerk back indignantly but he pulls me towards him, his grip surprisingly firm.

  “This won’t help. You don’t want to get in trouble here,” he whispers in my ear. He nods to a guard heading our way and I let the boy guide me out of the museum, still holding the piece of paper in one hand.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying to pull my arm away.

  “Keep moving. We can’t talk now. Come on.” He takes his hand from my arm and heads down the stone steps. I hesitate a moment, then follow, feeling dazed. I don’t want to leave Dad; I have too many questions to just walk away. But despite his quiet manner, the boy has authority. I feel the cold wind chill my skin. I go quickly down the steps to catch up with the boy. He starts walking and I follow; as I do he turns his head and gives me a little half smile that I think is sympathetic.

  When I turn and look behind me I see the guards standing at the top of the museum steps, watching after us.

  We walk in silence for a few minutes, leaving the square and heading to dingier streets of offices, shops and businesses. I feel the first drops of icy rain and begin to shiver.

  “Let’s go in here.” He grabs my hand suddenly, and we duck through a low door. It’s a coffee house I’ve never been in before. The packed room is warm and glowing with lights and there’s a pleasant warm fug of coffee and conversation. The boy says a few words to the man working at the till and, still holding my hand, guides me towards a booth in the corner of the room. The walls muffle the sounds of people talking and laughing and it feels safe.

  I realize I’m clinging on to his hand quite tightly. I drop it and try to hide my embarrassment by busily unwrapping my shawl and arranging it just so before I sit down. It’s only then that I look at the boy and the strangeness of the situation fully hits me. An hour ago I had been waiting to see my father’s book. Now I’m sitting in a place I’ve never been, with a total stranger.

  “Hello,” he says, a grin starting. “I’m Oscar.” He dries the rain from his glasses on his shirt. He has dimples when he smiles. “You probably think I’m very strange. I don’t normally kidnap girls at the museum – I promise.” He dips his head to look at me and says, “Are you all right?”

  I run my fingers across the edge of the table and feel the aged grain of the wood. “I’m OK. No, actually I’m not OK, but this is OK, I mean, it’s OK that we’re here.” Internally, I roll my eyes at myself. “I’m Leora.” I reach my hand out to him and he shakes it and smiles.

  Coffee is brought to our table in earthenware mugs that look handmade. I take a too-hot sip while I try to think of something to say.

  “So what happened in there?” Oscar asks. “They wouldn’t let you see someone?”

  I look at him. I don’t like talking about myself at the best of times. But the circumstances of our meeting are stranger than he is and I find myself feeling like I can trust him. Am I an idiot? Am I just being blinded by a pretty face and a cup of coffee? Perhaps. I’m too tired and too wired to know. But I know I want to talk.

  “My dad. He … he died.” I swallow.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” says Oscar, replacing his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose while he leans forward to listen.

  “Anyway, his book is being held at the museum until they
’re ready for his weighing of the soul ceremony, just like everyone’s always is. But – well, you must have heard – the librarian gave me this.” I produce the crumpled slip of paper and hand it to Oscar, who looks at it in silence before sliding it back across the table. “It says his book’s been confiscated and I … don’t know what to do. What does that even mean?” I dig my nail into the table and score a line along the grain while I talk. I can hear the bewilderment in my voice. I sound like a child.

  The boy is looking at me thoughtfully. “They confiscate books if something … controversial has come up during their audit. Something that needs to be taken into account at the ceremony.” He inclines his head, still leaning towards me. “Do you have any idea what that would be? What they could have found?”

  Of course I know. My mind flashes back to the moment I first saw the crow on his scalp. The mark of the forgotten.

  Instead I say, “No, I … I can’t think of anything.” My voice sounds stiff and awkward even to me. “Can they really just take his book away like that?”

  “Well. They can do what they like, can’t they?” Then, before I can ask what he means, he goes on quickly, his voice quiet. “Tell me, was your father a good man, Leora?” The coffee machine hisses.

  “He was. He was the best man I’ve known.”

  He was. He was. But why was he marked?

  “Then all will be well. We can trust justice.” The words sound dry and spiked in his throat. He gestures to my clothes and with an amused smile asks, “Are you really an inker?”

  The change of subject takes me by surprise and I laugh and say, “Well, yes. But I’ve only been there a day! What do you do?”

  “I’m a bookbinder – second year of training. I was trying to study when I saw you in the museum. I bet I’ll never get hold of that second volume.” I mumble an amused “sorry” and tell him about discovering I’m training alongside someone who hates me.