Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  Brasley followed Rina’s gaze and winced. “Ah. Yes. Please don’t worry about Fregga.”

  “You know her?”

  “Fregga and I have been keeping company.” Brasley cleared his throat. “Her father was instrumental in setting up accounts for Klaar at the Royal Bank.”

  Was Brasley actually going a little red?

  “I should meet her,” Rina said. “Assure her she has no reason to be jealous.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He was about to say something else when the music stopped. The mass of people all turned in the same direction toward a bright throne high on a raised dais.

  A herald lifted his voice to carry across the hall. “His Royal Highness Edmund Pemrod II!”

  A cheer went up, and Rina felt Brasley take her hand and pull her through the crowd.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s been prearranged,” Brasley said. “Come on.”

  “But the king.”

  She caught a few of the king’s perfunctory pleasantries as he addressed the crowd, and Brasley led her down a side hall. The king’s muffled voice died away as he led her farther down the deserted hall, their heels clacking on the tile and echoing.

  Brasley stopped abruptly, knocked on the door. It creaked open a moment later and he hurried Rina inside; the door shut again behind them. They were in a spacious lounge, with cushioned chairs, thick rugs, colorful tapestries depicting bland landscapes.

  An old man stood before them in a heavy black robe. He wore a black velvet skull cap that fit close to his bald head. He was dour, face gray, a sparse white beard. Stooped and frowning.

  Brasley gestured to the old man. “This is Kent, the Lord Chamberlain of Helva. Lord Chamberlain, I’d like to present Duchess Rina Veraiin.”

  The nod of Kent’s head was almost a bow. “My pleasure, madam.”

  Rina curtsied deeply. “Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  The Chamberlain left the room.

  Rina’s head spun to Brasley. “What is going on?”

  “I told you,” Brasley said. “Arranging an official audience takes forever. So I just had to arrange something unofficial, didn’t I?”

  “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure myself.” Brasley went to a sideboard laid out with goblets and a crystal decanter of wine. He filled one of the goblets for himself. “But the Lord Chamberlain did say to make ourselves comfortable.” He tossed back the wine, filled the goblet again. “Want one?”

  “I’m too nervous to put anything in my stomach.”

  Brasley shrugged and sipped.

  Rina started as the door flew open again and a dozen armored men in royal livery poured into the lounge. They spaced themselves around the room, standing at attention, backs against the walls. The Lord Chamberlain followed them, and the next man who walked in was—

  Rina curtsied as low as she could without falling over. “Your Majesty.”

  “Never mind all that.” The king gestured for Rina to get up. He lifted his chin at Brasley. “You there. Pour me one of those.”

  “With pleasure, Your Majesty.” Brasley grabbed a clean goblet and filled it.

  King Pemrod’s crown was a simple gold circlet. He took it off his head and tossed it onto one of the nearby chairs. He was old, even older than the Lord Chamberlain, a man well into his nineties, but still stood straight and had a spark in his eye. A mane of thick white hair. He unbuttoned his purple cape and let it fall.

  He took the goblet of wine from Brasley and drank deeply. “Ah. That’s what I need. Damned formal balls. For some reason these aristocratic freeloaders like to get together once or twice a year to hear their king tell them how wonderful everything is. Fine. Why not?”

  He held the goblet out for a refill, and Brasley obliged.

  The king looked Rina up and down. “You’re Klaar’s new Duchess.” Not a question.

  “It’s kind of Your Majesty to make time for me this way,” Rina said. “In such an informal setting.”

  “Oh, it’s not so kind, really,” the king told her. “It’s rather convenient for me too. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t see just anyone like this, but if I grant somebody a formal audience then it’s official. It’s on the record. You understand? But if I see you like this and you say something I don’t like, I can decide I didn’t hear it. As far as the world is concerned, we’ve never met. I don’t know you.” He sipped more wine smacked his lips. “If you tell me a Perranese army has landed on Helvan soil I don’t have to do a damn thing about it because it never happened.”

  Rina swallowed hard. “You already know.”

  “The capitol is lousy with Perranese spies,” the king said. “And our spies spy on their spies. If you’re duchess then Arlus must be dead.”

  Rina bit her lip and nodded.

  “My condolences,” Pemrod said. “I met him once. I won’t say we hit it off, but it was obvious he was made of stern stuff.”

  She opened her mouth to say something but suddenly felt a lump in her throat.

  “What’s all that business?” He gestured at her eyes with a backhanded wave.

  “Tattoos, Majesty.”

  “Is that what all the young people are doing now? Can’t say as I care for it. Never mind. You took your sweet time getting here.”

  “Majesty?”

  “To Merridan,” he said. “With invaders at the door I thought maybe you’d have gotten here a little sooner to ask for my help. That is what you wanted, isn’t it? For the king to send along his soldiers and chase the savages back into the sea?”

  “Yes, Majesty, something like that.” It made her suddenly feel like a beggar. Is that what the king wanted? To make her understand she’d come begging, that his aid could be given or withheld on a whim?

  Rina’s eyes flicked to Brasley’s. The frown on his face was a clear I told you so.

  “Well, they are on Helvan soil, so as king, it’s my business, I suppose. Especially now that they’ve come down from Klaar to make incursions into the lowlands. Oh, didn’t you know that?”

  She hadn’t known. She didn’t know anything. She was a stupid girl with tattoos on her face.

  There was a moment of silence where he seemed to take her measure.

  “You’re of marrying age, aren’t you, Duchess?”

  She blinked. The question had caught her by surprise. “Very soon, Your Majesty.”

  “I have a grand-nephew,” The king said. “So young to be a duchess. Klaar would benefit from a bit of experience. Somebody solid. Wouldn’t do to send my armies up there to shoo the Perranese away just to have them come back next season, now, would it?”

  Uh …

  “That’s a most generous thought,” Rina said. “Perhaps I could meet your grand-nephew … after the current crisis in Klaar has been resolved.”

  Pemrod pursed his lips, nodding slowly. The silence that stretched this time was twice as uncomfortable as before.

  He turned to his Lord Chamberlain. “Kent, I suppose we must officially address this matter. What’s the wait for an audience now? Three months?”

  “Four, Your Majesty.”

  “Four is it? My goodness, this is a busy time of year. The wheels of government turn slowly, don’t they?”

  There was not an ounce of warmth in the smile he offered. “The crown will be only too happy to grant you an audience to discuss your problem, duchess. In four months.”

  * * *

  “Four months! That oily son of a—”

  “Will you keep your voice down, please,” Brasley whispered.

  They were in the hall just outside the lounge and walking away quickly, the angry clack of Rina’s shoes on the tile like reproachful tsks.

  She fumed. Imagine suggesting the only way Klaar might get timely aid from the crown was if she married the king’s fat, ugly grand-nephew. She actually had no idea what
the man looked like, but with her luck …

  “You could have at least met his grand-nephew,” Brasley said.

  “Shut up.”

  “We’ll have to pack quickly when we get back to the manor,” Brasley said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Klaar’s line of credit at the Royal Bank suddenly dries up.”

  “Damn, I didn’t even think of that,” Rina admitted. “Would he really—”

  “Duchess Veraiin,” a voice called after her.

  She turned to see Kent approaching. She composed herself and lifted her chin. “Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Might I have a word?” Kent turned and looked pointedly at Brasley.

  Brasley bowed to Rina. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll arrange for our driver to bring the carriage around front.” And he left.

  “If you’re leaving town and on your way back to Klaar, there is a certain temple not far out of the way,” Kent said. “The Temple of Mordis. I think you and the high priest there might find it interesting to meet one another. I can give you directions.”

  “I’m not very religious, Lord Chamberlain. And in any case, I was raised in the Temple of Dumo, like most people.”

  “It’s just that I happened to take an interest in your tattoo.” Kent pitched his voice lower. “And I assume you have the Prime inked down you back.”

  Rina’s eyes slowly widened. “On second thought, Lord Chamberlain, yes, I think I would like directions to this temple.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  The fist came up so fast, Alem almost didn’t see it. The flesh on flesh smack spun his head around, knocking him across the table, scattering beer mugs and patrons. And then he was on the floor. Lots of arms grabbing him, pulling him to his feet again. Hoots and jeers. What was happening?

  Oh, yeah. I’m in a fight.

  The arms that had lifted him pushed him back toward the big man who’d hit him, which was actually the last thing Alem wanted.

  The man was barrel chested, with a red, sweaty face and sparse black hair slicked back on a melon head. Five days of stubble on his face and teeth like little yellow pebbles.

  Alem threw a watery punch. The man batted it aside, and stars exploded again in front of Alem’s eyes as he was struck again. The next thing to hit Alem’s face was the floor. Bells rang. How had this started again? Oh, yes. They’d come to the inn to get out of the rain, for food, a room for the night. The drunk had gotten too aggressive with Maurizan, hands going everywhere, not taking no for an answer. Alem had leapt in to defend Maurizan’s honor.

  And how’s that working out for you, thicko?

  Alem tasted blood, spit a red glob onto the floor. He shook his head and looked up.

  Maurizan leapt on the man’s back, and everyone in the common room laughed. Maurizan and the big bruiser twirled a little circle as she pounded on his shoulders with her little fists. The man’s friends called out insults—some to her, some to him.

  Maurizan reached down, nails digging in, and scratched three deep rents across his face. Blood. He screamed.

  The laughter stopped.

  The man roared, reached back and grabbed two handfuls of Maurizan’s red hair. He dragged her off of him and slammed her against the floor, knocking the wind out of her. She writhed there, mouth working, trying to get a lungful of air.

  “Leave her alone.” Alem’s voice sounded weak in his own ears.

  The bruiser loomed over Alem, reached down and grabbed his tunic. Alem flopped, his limbs like lead.

  “First, I’m going to cave your head in, lad,” he said. “Then I’ll show your girl a fine time. After you, she’s probably yearning for a real man who’s got more than peach fuzz on his nuggets.”

  More laughter.

  Alem pawed at the man’s fist, tried to get loose.

  A slim hand appeared on the man’s shoulder.

  He started to turn to see who was behind him, but then he was off his feet, flying through the air, tumbling and rolling and smashing through a wooden chair, his comrades scrambling out of the way.

  Alem looked, blinked his eyes back into focus.

  She stood there like a stab of darkness, back straight, eyes flashing, black armor dripping, hair wet and matted. The eye tattoos added to her sinister appearance. One hand rested on the hilt of her rapier.

  Brasley came in behind her, quickly surveyed the situation. “Typical.”

  The bruiser stumbled to his feet, shaking his head. He focused on Brasley.

  “No, no, not me.” Brasley pointed at Rina. “She’s your problem. Good luck.”

  The man growled, charged forward and swung at her, his fist coming around so hard and fast he might have been trying to knock her head clean off of her body.

  Rina’s hand flashed up, and she caught his fist.

  The room went stone quiet.

  The two of them stood frozen like that a moment. The man stared wide-eyed at her little hand holding his meaty fist. He licked his lips nervously, obviously wondering where things went from here.

  Rina squeezed.

  The crack pop crunch of the man’s fingers and knuckles made Alem wince.

  The lummox screamed and went down, rolling into a fetal position. He cradled his hand as tears welled in his eyes.

  “If any of you people are friends with this man, you might want to get him out of here,” Rina said. “Now.”

  A trio of drinkers came forward to scoop up the man and made a hasty exit, dragging him out.

  Rina walked slowly to Alem, bent, offered a hand to help him up. “Miss me?”

  * * *

  The innkeeper fell over himself getting them rooms, but even though they were all exhausted, they were also restless and so found themselves around a table near the common room’s big stone hearth. The fire was low but warm, and they exchanged stories. Maurizan seemed glum for whatever reason but came out of her sulk to listen intently when Rina described her blue ball gown. Alem tried his best—but failed—to hide his pessimism upon hearing the king would do little to aid Klaar.

  Brasley sucked the last bit of meat from a chicken leg, tossed the bone onto his plate and stood. “I’m going to chase down the barkeep for more wine. Anyone need anything?”

  Rina hunched over a parchment, scribbling with a quill, the chewed stub of a chuma stick smoldering in the corner of her mouth. She held out her mug without looking up. “Beer.”

  “Brave girl.” Brasley took the mug and set out to find the barkeep.

  “What are you writing?” Alem asked Rina.

  “The backup plan,” she said.

  “Care to share it with me?”

  Rina smiled around the chuma stick. “Too risky. You’d talk under torture.”

  “The stink of that chuma stick is torture.”

  Rina took the stub from her mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into his face. She laughed.

  He coughed, waved the smoke away. “You’re hilarious.”

  Brasley returned, set the beer mug next to Rina’s elbow and sat. He drank deeply from his own goblet. “I really love this inn. The beer is warm, and the mead is too sweet. But at least the wine is terrible.”

  “Poor Brasley misses his manor house and his servants.” Rina dipped the quill into the inkwell and continued scribbling. Some chuma ash fell onto the parchment. “Damn it.”

  “We could be there now if you just agreed to be nice to the king’s lousy grand-nephew.” He tilted the goblet back for another big swallow.

  Alem looked up. “Who?”

  “And you could be in Fregga’s loving arms right now, too,” Rina said.

  Brasley choked, some wine dribbling down his chin. “Let’s change the subject. Have you told these two that you’re dragging us off to some death temple?”

  Alem blinked. “What temple?”

  Rina still didn’t look up. She still filled the parchment, coming to the end of her letter. “They’re not coming.”

  “I’m not?” Alem said. “Where am I not coming?”

  “Wonderful,” Bra
dley said. “So you’re just dragging me along?”

  Alem frowned. “You guys can hear me, right?”

  Rina sat straight, lifted the parchment and blew on it to dry the ink. She gulped down a third of her beer, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She turned to Maurizan, face growing serious. “I need your help.”

  Maurizan looked up, startled to be addressed directly. She’d been quietly pushing the food around on her plate with a spoon. “Me?”

  Rina folded the parchment, leaned across the table to hand it to the gypsy.

  A moment’s hesitation, then Maurizan took the letter, unfolded it. She nibbled her bottom lip while she read.

  “I don’t suppose I get to read it next,” Alem said.

  Maurizan looked up, met Rina’s eyes.

  “You understand what I need,” Rina asked.

  Maurizan nodded.

  “You’ll do it?”

  Maurizan nodded again, more slowly this time. “I’ll do it.”

  The gypsy looked around the table at everyone. “Well. It looks like I’m in for an early start tomorrow.” She stood. “I’d better pack. I hope the rain stops by morning.”

  They watched her climb the stairs, faces long.

  Brasley pushed away from the table too. “I’m for bed. See you in the morning.”

  Alem turned to Rina. “You have some horrible errand for me, don’t you?”

  She smiled. Alem was smart. She liked him so much, she didn’t have the heart to tell him about the horrible errand. Not yet. “I’m working up the courage. Give me a minute.”

  “Okay. The horses are still tied up outside. I’ll move them to the stable.”

  Rina puffed the chuma stick and watched him go. Whatever she asked Alem to do, he would do it, and for some reason that made her all the more reluctant. The four of them had only been reunited for a single night, and now they’d have to scatter again.

  She downed her beer, rose from the table, and followed Alem outside.

  The rain came unrelenting and cold. The inn’s front porch had a wide overhang, so the horses tied to the hitching post wouldn’t get drenched. Maurizan’s and Brasley’s horses stood together, ears twitching. Her horse was missing and so was Alem’s gelding. He’d already taken them to the stables. She thought about waiting there for him to come back for the other two horses.