Ink in the Blood

by Kim Smejkal

  The Divine she loved would never choose someone like Benedict to be Profeta’s leader, so there was something wrong with the Divine she loved or with the institution the followers of the Divine had created. Either way, Lupita’s world crumbled. One moment she was a devoted emissary of the Divine, the next she was confused and doubting, shoulder to shoulder with Celia and Anya.

  And just as trapped.

  For Salome, they’d gotten Lupita, and though they loved Lupita now, it had been a shit trade. Salome had been a sparkle, and Lupita would be the first to admit she was a stain.

  Anya plopped her satchel on the table and flopped into a chair. Before she’d snuck out of the temple, she’d acquired bread, a small hock of salted meat, and a few vegetables from Teresia in the kitchens. Celia got to work on the meal as Anya mustered up the energy to roam the rickety three-story houseboat to find Lupita.

  Since leaving the temple, the former mistico had lived on a liquid diet of absinthe, rum, and the occasional dram of juniper gin, joking that she’d live forever due to pickling. When Celia and Anya began their apprenticeship with her, she’d already been ancient. Ten years later, and she hadn’t aged a day, so maybe her pickling method had merit. Still, they tried to feed her solid food whenever they could.

  “And do I have a treat for you, my lovelies!” Lupita’s withered voice called from somewhere upstairs. “But if I could just have a set of eyes, that would be wonderful.”

  Anya groaned. “She can’t find her pants again.”

  Celia chuckled as she concentrated on slicing potatoes without slicing her fingers, imagining Teresia doing the very same thing at that moment in the temple. Musical howls from a distant dog gave her something to concentrate on besides the hard beat of her heart.

  “I heard that!” Lupita called. “But it’s actually my brassiere I’ve misplaced. These things need to be well tucked in or they’re liable to knock someone out with all their overexcited swinging.”

  Anya laughed as she stood. “Even better.”

  * * *

  Finding the brassiere and tucking in Lupita’s overexcited breasts proved a difficult task, and the stew was already boiling when Anya came down with Lupita on her arm.

  “Smells lovely!” Lupita exclaimed.

  “Ugh, onions.” Anya clutched her stomach and paled to starch white.

  Lupita felt her way to the window, her clawed hands gripping counters and tracing over clutter, and opened it to let out the scented air. Her mutilated eyes swiveled, perpetually bloodshot, one crisp green iris pulled down and out as if it bled. Her gaze never landed on anything, which deeply unnerved most people.

  Since Celia and Anya had been there when she’d gouged out her eyes, they considered the healed version a vast improvement.

  Being a mistico, just like being an inkling, was a lifetime deal. No one walked away from service. The day Lupita bought her freedom, she’d drained an entire bottle of gin in the span of minutes. Then, while drifting in that numb sweet spot just before blacking out, she’d plunged short, blunt knives into her eyes. She hadn’t screamed, but her hiss had sounded very much like Sssssssaaaaloooohh . . .

  She’d passed out before finishing the name, her remorse dying on her tongue. Celia had had to clean and bandage her wounds because Anya was throwing up too violently to help. It still gave Anya nightmares years later, but Celia only remembered thinking, Hope this works.

  It had. Lupita had done no wrong, according to Profeta—​no heresy, no subversion—​so they couldn’t bring forth their chloroform and daggers. Instead, they tossed her to the streets and treated her as if she’d never existed. Acceptably pious, but useless to them as a visual arts tutor.

  On bad days, Celia still managed to be pissed off at her. Not because it had taken her so long to see the horrors of the temple, but for joining them only to leave them behind.

  Jealousy was a strange beast.

  “Hey, can I have this?” Celia had already cleared off the small table so they could sit around it, and she reached across and pressed the small feather she’d found under a caterpillar jar into Lupita’s wrinkled hands.

  “It’s from a scarlet ibis.” Lupita nodded sagely. “Or a phoenix, perhaps. Either way, red and magical and rare. But you may have it because I love you that much.”

  The feather was blue, from a common bluebird. Celia shared a smile with Anya.

  “Well!” Lupita clapped her hands as an exclamation point. “I have giant news.” Her gnarled hands did a little dance in the air. “Let me set the stage, dear ones.”

  They both recognized Lupita-speak for a heavy dose of irrelevant information. The story would get interesting only with the words, All of that is to say . . .

  Feeling better yet? Celia scrawled the words on her arm with her quill, watched them appear on Anya’s; then, instead of severing the link like she had with Fiona and allowing the words to become permanent, she commanded the ink to return to her, as if she’d changed her mind about releasing it. The evidence of her question disappeared, both their arms unmarked.

  Anya answered, A little. Don’t suppose we can walk home?

  How can you live in a city full of water and get seasick?

  Shut—​

  Lupita cleared her throat, yanking the budding smile right off Celia’s face. “You think I can’t hear you scratching into yourselves? I have the ears of a bat.” Lupita’s voice dipped into grave-deep territory. “You’re careful with it, right? No one knows you’ve figured out this loophole?”

  It was heresy to use the Divine’s ink for anything other than Divine tattoos, but loophole made their covert communication sound innocent. Almost positive, like a reward for brave experimentation. If the Divine was omniscient, how could they get away time and time again with manipulating her ink like this? Keeping the secret meant staying alive, so Celia and Anya were very careful. Lupita knew about it now only because they’d told her.

  “Of course no one knows.” Anya tossed a smirk in Celia’s direction. They’d become professionals at using the ink right under the mistico’s noses.

  “Good,” Lupita said. “Because I refuse to mourn you.” After an overdramatic pause, she resumed her rambling story.

  At this rate, they’d never find out Lupita’s news. Their stew got colder and colder as they sipped and poked at it, nerves firing harder the longer they waited. There was a distinct possibility that even if Lupita had found them a way out, they might not like it. Celia wasn’t strong enough to pay for her freedom with her eyes.

  She slashed a quick line down her arm with her quill and gave the ink a mental nudge so it understood her will. The same line rose on Lupita’s blotchy skin, and when she felt the pain, her hand flew to her arm, nearly knocking her bowl off the table. “Fine! Impatient thing.”

  Celia summoned the ink back, point made.

  “All of that is to say . . .” The bells woven into Lupita’s gray hair tinkled merrily as she leaned forward. “There are Rovers in Asura!”

  Celia eyed the level of gin in the bottle, then eyed Lupita, wondering if she’d finally figured out how to ingest her liquor by osmosis. She moved the gin bottle to the floor behind them, out of Lupita’s reach, and stared into her bowl as her throat closed and her eyes misted.

  “Oh, Lupita,” Anya whispered.

  Lupita had delivered the news as if it were a delicious secret, but bands of Rovers came through Asura all the time. Traveling theater-folk who performed the traditional Commedia Follia, Rovers owned a network of fields scattered across the continent, which they used specifically for their shows. Celia and Anya tried to sneak out every time a troupe visited. Entertaining, because that was their thing, but not enough to warrant such unbridled enthusiasm.

  Nothing that meant escape for them.

  Oh, Lupita.

  “The difference,” Lupita continued, as if hearing their crushing disappointment with her bat ears, “is that I know the mother hen of this troupe. We were lovers once upon a time, long before either
of you were born. That’s a terribly exciting story I might tell you one day. Oh, the passion!”

  Celia cursed the true severity of their friend’s drinking habit, her thoughts drifting so far away that she almost missed the point.

  “Well, anyway, Kitty Kay was reluctantly open to accepting new performers into her troupe when I mentioned that I have two talented friends interested in the lifestyle.” Lupita leaned back and heaved out a long, rattling breath. “So. What do you think?”

  The spoon on the way to Celia’s mouth froze in midair, dripping stew into her lap. Anya’s fingers clutched so tight at the table her knuckles paled.

  What did they think?

  Rovers were fiercely tight-knit groups. Impenetrable. Nicknamed Citizens of Everywhere and living apart from regular society, they opened their gates only to sell revelry and illusion. You were born into it, or you stood in the audience—​in-between didn’t exist. Even “guarded reluctance” to accept new members was a miracle.

  Lupita had handed them an opportunity to flee after all, something they’d talked about endlessly, half knowing it would always be a daydream. Aside from inking tattoos, they had no other skills, getting out by ship was impossible because of Anya’s stomach, and traveling on foot would never get them away from Asura fast enough.

  With a band of Rovers, they’d be fed, clothed, and perfectly disguised. Because Rovers were so separate from conventional society, no one would think to look for two deserters in a troupe.

  What did they think?

  Celia’s spoon dropped into her lap.

  She finally let herself meet Anya’s gaze—​ocean blue, familiar, thrilled and shocked and dancing—​then slowly poured a round of juniper gin, her hands shaking as if she’d already had ten shots of the wicked stuff.

  “Dia,” Anya whispered.

  Lupita’s muffled voice pushed through the roar in Celia’s ears. “Kitty Kay’s agreed to meet with you after the premiere to discuss an audition.”

  Silence.

  “When’s the premiere?” Anya managed.

  “Tonight.”

  Anya hadn’t let go of the table; her fingernails pressed indents into the wood.

  This could be it. Maybe inklings can escape the temple. We might not even have to gouge out our eyes to do it.

  All they had to do was convince an impenetrable troupe of artists, led by a passionate hen named Kitty Kay, that they could act, dance, and sing just as well as the people who’d done it their whole lives.

  “Damn.” Celia slammed back the gin in one go, her voice shaking along with her hands. “I wish there was a deity I could pray to.”

  Lupita laughed so hard she toppled out of her chair, the bells in her hair jingling all the way.

  Chapter 4

  Kitty Kay’s group called themselves the Rabble Mob of Minos. Though all Rover troupes performed the stock characters and story lines of the traditional Commedia Follia, Celia thought that naming themselves after a creature of hell hinted at something extraordinary.

  Lupita approached this with the same carefree air she applied to everything now, but her repeated reminders bumped around in Celia’s mind: As soon as you step into their world tonight, you have nothing to do with tattoos, orders, ink, or Profeta. Remember, you’re ordinary orphans looking to escape a perfectly ordinary orphan life.

  Then Lupita added, “Don’t mess this up. You won’t get another chance like this.”

  Right. Celia reminded herself that she’d been acting her whole life. She refused to ruin this for Anya.

  Lupita donned her best outfit: silver-lined umbrella, a bright teal scarf over her mutilated eyes, a tight black body suit with buckles everywhere. “I’ll tuck in every sagging inch if it kills me.”

  And she’d managed it: everything tucked in, Lupita emerged from her bedroom as beautiful as a vicious moth.

  Celia couldn’t compete. As the three of them walked out into the night, she fought to straighten her top hat, her suspenders kept falling down, and one of her boot buckles gave her grief, clanging open as soon as she tightened it up around her calf.

  She was totally going to ruin this for Anya.

  Eventually the few bodies around them turned into many. Native Illinians with their pale, generationally sun-deprived skin; wealthy merchants from Bickland flashing their gold and jeweled teeth that sparkled bright against their tawny beige complexions; robust uniformed sailors from Poclesh, their skin deep-brown and healthy looking, weathered by sun and sea. Everyone soon blended together with a unified lust for entertainment. Shouting, singing, twirling, and bumping along, the bedlam provided good cover.

  It also made Celia’s heart dance.

  Asura’s giant port made it a vital international access point for trade, particularly for inland nations like Bickland and Shieha, but it was far from a thriving capital. She’d seen glimpses of the world near the docks: a spectrum of skin colors, languages, customs, and clothing, but people seemed to come, conduct their business, and then travel on, never staying longer than necessary. Maybe it was the gloomy climate, or more likely Profeta’s tight hold, but something kept people from settling in Illinia permanently.

  Clearly, this Rover troupe didn’t have that repellent something.

  The vibrant crowd bottlenecked as they approached the Rovers’ field. Umbrellas opened when the rain started; from above, the mass of people would look like a painting of jostling dots.

  A massive arch over the gates—​colorfully decorated with oversize masks of Commedia characters—​welcomed them to the field. When Celia first came to a Rover show years before with her mothers, the gate had scared her. So many beady eyes, staring. Then she’d seen the show and had fallen in love with every exaggerated character, and the gate had become one of her favorite parts.

  Welcome back, Celia. Come in.

  And that night, the masks added a conspiratorial whisper of Join us.

  They paid the entry fee to a giant on stilts who had a fiery halo looping a foot above her head. The combination of fire, warm beige skin, and tenor cast a bronze glow over her face, obscuring her features but highlighting the deep blue of her eyes so vividly, Celia gasped.

  Once inside, the people scattered, seeking out the best view. Tall torches fought against the rain, illuminating the sloping field. The main stage dominated, lit by periwinkle blue and plum purple flames.

  A significant number of dignitaries already filled the special section roped off near stage left—​mistico and politicians both, including Ruler Vacilando herself, flanked by her bodyguards—​so Celia and Anya would aim to put the large crowd between them.

  Lupita forged ahead, pushing her way through bodies and down the slope. Anya grabbed her arm to steer her in the right direction.

  A figure jumped in front of Celia, and she shrieked, juggling her umbrella.

  He cocked his head to the side, staring at Celia through the tinted lenses of his mask, which was bone white, with a long, pointy beak and beady, too-round eyes.

  A plague doctor mask. Creepy as hell and not a stock character of the Commedia Follia.

  The darkness of his costume was absolute—​tight black leather, a cape of raven feathers, black hat—​but he shimmered as if he could capture and harness mist. He didn’t look wet, just shiny.

  Celia’s gaze darted to his silver tenor more than once, to reassure herself that he had one. To make absolutely sure he was human.

  “Jumpy tonight?” He cocked his head the other way. His voice rumbled, both playful and menacing: playful probably by nature, menacing by virtue of the sinister mask. “There’s no need for it, I assure you. We’ve all been recently fed. There will be no blood price for admission tonight.”

  He paused dramatically, then tilted his head back and laughed.

  Celia caught the scent of cloves and lemon—​tangy spice and freshness—​as if his beak were actually stuffed with aromatics to protect him from the plague. She pushed out a laugh as her heart settled back in her chest.

/>   Anya scrambled to pull Lupita back, as she’d kept walking, oblivious to the welcome.

  “I apologize for the fright,” the plague doctor said, inclining his head to them in turn. He annunciated each word perfectly, his deep voice drawing the eyes of everyone close. By design. He lived to be watched. He craved spectacle. Celia imagined a tiny megaphone lodged in his throat, booming out his words without effort. “It’s my job to welcome guests who seek the fantastical. But sometimes, I admit, I confess, I get distracted. Carried away. Overexcited. Feverish. Inflamed! When I see such profound beauty . . .” He looked straight at Celia, making her heart unsettle all over again.

  Then, in a flash, he had Lupita’s hand in his and brought it to his smiling lips, the only visible part of his face. Celia flushed wildly at the feint as the onlookers tittered their amusement at her expense.

  “Gorgeous creature.” He pressed a kiss to Lupita’s wrinkled skin. “I see the wisdom of a thousand moons in you.”

  She chuckled, and above her eye scarf, her eyebrows danced up and down.

  The plague doctor stepped back, clapped his hands, spread his arms wide, and smiled with a whole lot of teeth. “Be prepared for a night of wonder. Fantasy will become reality. Reality will become fantasy. Welcome to the Rabble Mob!”

  Everyone scrambled to tuck their umbrellas under their arms, heedless of the rain, so they could clap and cheer. As he bowed, his feathered cape extended outward into two large raven wings beating in a languid rhythm and stirring the damp night air. Then he leaped away into the crowd.

  Celia grabbed Anya’s arm. “There was someone under that mask.”

  Anya looked at Celia as if she were addled.

  Which she was.

  How could she explain it? Every time she’d seen Rovers perform, she’d been caught up in the illusion. They were characters, imagination come to life, not real people. They sold fantasy, and she bought it.

  But this time was different. The image of the plague doctor’s smiling lips—​rising and falling, surging and swelling with his words—​burned in her mind. Someone lived under that costume, surrounded by his own tenor of metallic hues just like everyone else.