Inker and Crown

Chapter 7

7

Adrial

“How the lot of us do our work is not up to you.” Natalia’s voice carried through Adrial’s door.

“It’s how things need to be done,” Travers growled in response.

Adrial sighed, placing his thick mug back down onto the tiny table in the corner of his workroom. He hadn’t even gotten to take a sip of his tea before they’d started in on each other.

Longingly, he looked to the page on the tilted section of his desk.

A Royal History of Ilbrea to Honor Princess Illia Willoc.

The intricate script adorned the center of the parchment. A delicate swirl looped along the bottom of the page in map maker green. The side borders were a woven pattern of purple birds flying up toward the sky. But the top of the page was still left blank, waiting for Ena to bring the new batch of blue.

“He’s not your apprentice,” Natalia half-shouted.

Adrial rubbed the knot of tension between his eyes and opened the door to the front office.

Five of his scribes sat with their heads down, studiously ignoring Natalia and Travers, who stood on opposite sides of the shop, glaring at each other, while poor Taddy cowered in the middle, clutching a sheaf of parchment.

“Taddy,” Adrial said, “I need you to run to the library and fetch more parchment for the vellum.”

“Yes, Head Scribe.” Taddy tore out the front door without stopping to set down the stack of parchment already in his hands and was out of sight before the chime stopped ringing.

“What seems to be the problem?” Adrial asked.

Natalia and Travers didn’t bother to stop glaring at one another long enough to look at Adrial.

“Scribe Gend seems to think his primary duty is to issue orders to Apprentice Baiton.” Color crept up into Natalia’s tan cheeks as her voice shook in poorly concealed anger.

“Scribe Tammin thinks coddling the apprentice is the way to teach him to be a proper scribe.” Travers looked like an angry bear as his lips curled in a sanctimonious smile.

Adrial took a deep breath, letting Lord Gareth’s words fill his mind.

It doesn’t matter if the scribes under your authority are younger than you or older. I chose you as the Head Scribe of Ilara. You are my heir. To doubt your ability to do the job is to doubt my wisdom.

The Lord Scribe’s eyes had twinkled as he spoke. As though he knew how terrified Adrial was of failing his mentor and his Guild.

“Scribe Gend, Apprentice Baiton is not your personal apprentice or servant,” Adrial said to Travers.

Travers clenched his jaw, the ridges on his neck displaying themselves as he nodded curtly.

“Good.” Adrial looked toward Natalia. “And Scribe Tammin, you can’t coddle the boy. I know he’s young, but he needs to learn being a scribe isn’t just an easy life of playing with pens and papers. He’ll never be Guilded if he doesn’t improve. I want to inspect his work myself every evening from now on.”

“Yes, Head Scribe.” Natalia gave a little bow.

“I want all of you to take it in turns to teach Apprentice Baiton.” Adrial addressed the other scribes. “It’s all of our responsibility to ensure he’s ready to take his mark. I know we all like Taddy, but liking the boy won’t be enough to get him through. If anyone has any questions on how to instruct him, I would be happy to advise.”

Not waiting for questions, Adrial turned and strode back to his workroom, hiding his limp as best he could.

He didn’t breathe until he’d shut the door behind him.

He was used to things not being easy. His appointment as head scribe and Lord Gareth’s heir hadn’t been popular. There were scribes twenty years older than Adrial who longed for the Lordship. Travers Gend desperately wanted the position and took every opportunity to show as much. Though posturing and muscle were hardly things Lord Gareth had looked for when choosing an heir.

Lord Gareth wanted young blood. New eyes for the Guilds Council. Someone who had absolutely no interest in power or politics. As a prodigy who rarely noticed anything outside his work, Adrial fit the mold Lord Gareth wished to fill.

Adrial turned back to his tea, trying to rid his mind of all imaginings of how different his life might be if only he had the power to pluck out a few moments of his past and erase them entirely.

A quick tap sounded on the door before it opened.

“Hello, scribe.” Ena breezed into his workroom, teal basket in hand.

“You’re here.” Adrial’s heart stopped as she turned to face him.

A fiery red streak had been added to the front of her hair.

“Good morning to you, too.” Ena smiled as he stared silently at her. “Is that tea?” She lifted the mug right out of his hand and held it to her nose. “They give you Guilded fancy tea.” She took a sip, closing her eyes with a sigh. “And you don’t make it too sweet, either.”

“I’m not fond of sugar.” Adrial blinked, trying to figure out what in his surroundings he might be misunderstanding. Perhaps he’d developed a fever. Or maybe he hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. He dug his nails into his palms to try and right his senses, but Ena still sauntered to his worktable, his tea still clutched in her hand.

“You’ve actually done some work. And it’s good.” Ena glanced over her shoulder. “You weren’t lying when you said you were brilliant.”

“I never said I was brilliant.” Adrial joined her at the table. “It still needs more work. I want to add more depth to the birds. Maybe some of that red.”

The image of the colors in his head was perfect. Birds with fire in their wings soaring over Ilbrea.

“You can’t do that,” Ena laughed. “An orange red with a purple won’t come out the way you think. Honestly, scribe, the things you don’t know about your craft could fill more books than you could ever stuff into that handsome head of yours.”

Heat rose in Adrial’s cheeks. “Are you saying I can’t layer the inks?”

“No.” Ena poked him in the chest. “I’m saying it was a lucky day for you when I decided I was desperate enough to take Guild coin. You’ll have to have a blue-based red for the birds to look the way you want. But, as you look desolate at having to wait, I suppose I can be a kind girl and help.”

The jars of ink she’d brought the day before sat on one side of the table, arranged by color.

“Do the Guilds demand all their scribes keep everything in strict order?”

“Your coin.” Adrial pointed to the small pouch next to the jars.

Ena lifted the pouch, weighing it in her hand before tucking it into her pocket. “I’ll have to be very kind to you if you keep paying like that.”

Adrial blushed.

Ena laughed again. “You really do make it too easy, scribe.”

She set the mug on the table, and Adrial snatched it the moment it touched the desk. “Not on there. Please don’t set it on the work desk.” The words came out harsher than he’d meant. “It might…it might spill.”

“Very well, scribe.” Ena laid a hand over her heart. “I won’t set stolen tea on your worktable.”

“Thank you,” Adrial mumbled as he carried the tea back to the tiny tray. His roll sat untouched, and his tea was half-drunk by a mad woman with ink.

“It should be a simple enough thing,” Ena said. “Just a dash of blue, and it should fit perfectly with the purple.”

Ena knelt next to the table, dipping her finger into the tub of blue ink.

A shock shook Adrial’s spine at the sight of the color on her hand. She moved deftly over to the jar of red, letting two blue drops fall from her finger.

“That should do it.” She replaced the tops of both jars before giving the red a shake.

Squinting, she held the jar up to the light.

The color had deepened. The fire inside of it hadn’t disappeared but had darkened to an ember.

“It’s exquisite,” Adrial whispered.

“I know. But don’t try mixing the inks on your own. It’s not just the colors, but what they’re made of that makes that sort of thing work.”

Adrial nodded, not trusting himself to say something intelligent.

“Now look at the match.” Ena pulled off the top of the red and dipped in a clean finger, swiping the color onto the back of her pale hand before doing the same with the purple.

Adrial forced his jaw to unclench so he could speak. “Do you have to do that?”

“Do what?” Ena looked from Adrial to her hand.

“I do have regular parchment,” Adrial said. “And I could…I could find you pens.”

“Does it bother you? Me having ink on my skin.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Does it make you nervous, scribe? Should I put some on your hand?”

“Please don’t.” Adrial shook his head, fighting the childish temptation to hide his hands behind his back. “Scribes’ hands are always supposed to be clean.”

“You work with ink, but you shouldn’t touch it?”

“Perfection, not correction,” Adrial repeated the phrase that had been pounded into his head as an apprentice. “The ink should never spot nor spatter.”

“And they make you wear white to prove you haven’t made a bad stroke of the pen?”

“It’s a symbol of purity of word and truth of speech…”

Ena turned back to her basket and began pulling out new jars of ink.

“Come, scribe. I think we should get your robes a bit dirty. You can pay me as much for this batch as you did the last.” Her basket empty, she strode to the door. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Coming where?” Adrial asked like a child lost in the market.

You are the heir to the Scribes Guild, not a pitiful child, Adrial Ayres.

“I told you I needed your help for an errand, scribe. Did you think I was joking?” The corners of Ena’s mouth curved up in a smirk.

“Yes.”

“Well, now you’ll know for next time. Come on.” Ena flung open the workroom door with a bang. “I’ve work to do, you’ve history to write. Time is coin, scribe.”

“Right.” Adrial squared his shoulders, ignoring the ache of pain in his right side.

“Head Scribe.” Natalia stood the moment he entered the outer office. “Is everything all right?”

“He’s fine,” Ena answered. “Just helping me with an errand.”

Natalia’s eyes widened. “If she needs assistance, perhaps she can wait for Taddy.”

“That dear little pudgy boy?” Ena laughed. “I’m afraid he can’t help.”

“I would be happy to assist.” Travers stood up behind his desk. “I’m sure the head scribe would be better suited to stay in his office.”

“You weren’t here yesterday.” Ena slunk over to Travers’s desk.

“No.” Travers gave a winning smile. “But I’m sure I can assist you in any way you need. If it involves traveling outside”―he looked to Adrial, staring at his bad leg while he spoke―“I’m sure I would be better suited to the task.”

Ena planted her elbows on the top of Travers’s tilted desk and leaned closer to him.

Travers’s gaze slid down to Ena’s chest.

“Did you drink a little too much frie on Winter’s End?” Ena whispered loudly enough for the whole room to hear. “Or maybe you don’t drink the strong stuff. Maybe it’s too much for you to handle. Did you get sick on chamb? Is that why you weren’t here?”

Travers’s face turned to stone.

“Come, scribe.” Ena swept to the front door. “Poor weak-stomach might still be recovering. I’d hate to make noise that might hurt his precious little head.” Ena held the door open, waiting for Adrial to follow.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Adrial said, carefully keeping his gait even as he walked outside.

It wasn’t until the chimes sounded as the door closed behind him that a touch of panic set in. He’d followed a mad woman onto the streets, disregarding the monumental work that had been left in his care.

“Are you all right, scribe?” Ena asked after a long moment.

“Fine,” Adrial answered a bit too loudly. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” Ena threaded her arm through his. “I wasn’t sure if you looked pale because you aren’t used to the sunlight, or if you were going to be sick on your shoes in terror of going outside.”

She set an easy pace down the busy street.

The scribes’ shop sat on the border between the Guilds’ section of the city and the merchants’ rows. Guilded in colorful robes mixed with merchants in fine brocades and richly patterned clothes. Even with the bustle on the street, Ena still drew stares from the people she passed.

The men gaped at her like they wanted to devour her. The women, like they were jealous of whatever magic had created a creature of such perfect beauty.

A beautiful girl in a rainbow of colors on the arm of a crippled scribe.

Adrial kept his eyes to the ground, avoiding the questioning glances of the passersby.

“How bad is that leg of yours?” Ena asked as she led him down a side street and east toward the towering cliffs that blocked Ilara from the inland of Ilbrea.

“How do you mean?” Adrial asked. The ache in his leg was getting worse by the minute. Hiding his limp was painful and never quite worked.

“Can you walk a distance, or should I have brought that weak-stomached letch who likes to leer?”

“My leg is fine for distances.” Adrial turned his face away from Ena, fixing his gaze on the windows of the fine dress shops they passed. “It’s speed I’m lacking.”

“Good.” Ena knocked him in the stomach with her basket. “That other scribe would have stared at my breasts while plotting to lift my skirt. Just imagine the trouble I’d get in for gutting a Guilded scribe.”

The buildings grew higher as they weaved through the rows of fine houses where wealthy merchants lived alongside the lower-ranked members of the Guilds.

Smooth stone fronts and wide windows graced every home. Shrubs and stalks where flowers would soon bloom took up the orderly patches of dirt in front of the houses. Lampposts dotted the street, ready to ward off the darkness come evening.

“You don’t have to hide your limp, you know,” Ena said. “You’re sweating just from trying.”

Adrial reached instinctively to his brow. Beads of sweat had indeed formed from the effort.

Shame curled in his stomach, but there was no point trying to disguise what she’d already noticed. With a sigh, he let his good leg take more of the weight of his stride. His gait wasn’t as even, but the pain lessened.

Ena trailed her fingers along a low bush that had just begun to show signs of life. “Does it always hurt?”

Adrial opened his mouth to say no. “Yes.”

“I thought so.” Ena stepped in front of him, taking his face in her hands. “That explains why you don’t smile very much.”

“How do you know if I smile?”

Her hands were soft on his cheeks. Her skin smelled of something sweet and fresh. “You’ve got sad eyes.” She ran her fingers along his temples. “And you’ve no lines from laughing.”

“I’m not old enough for wrinkles.” Adrial took her hands in his. Only the width of her basket separated them.

“It’s not a matter of age,” Ena said. “It’s a matter of what your face is used to.”

She stayed that way for a moment, her hands beneath his as she stared into his eyes.

“Come on. We’ve work to do,” she said as if she hadn’t done anything strange. She slipped her hands out from beneath Adrial’s and tugged on his sleeve, making him follow her.

“Do you often tell people things about themselves?” Adrial asked.

“Is that what I did?” Ena said with a hint of humor in her voice.

It wasn’t until they’d passed the last of the tall stone houses and moved on to the shorter, less manicured homes that lived in the shadow of the cliff that Ena spoke again. “Not all of us have the privilege of being protected by a Guild, scribe. I survive on my own in Ilara, by warehouses and docks, no less. If I weren’t good at reading people, I wouldn’t know who wanted to hurt me, who wanted to roll me, and who only fancied a chat.”

“Is it that bad by the docks?” He’d only ever been to that part of the city to see off journeys for the Map Makers Guild or to visit Kai when he was in Ilara. But it had never seemed a frightening place.

A different sort of people spent their time down that way. The smell of the sea and the stench of fish were stronger, the voices were louder, and the chaos of commerce wasn’t hidden behind thick stone walls. The mood of the place seemed joyous and free, not dark and dangerous.

“It’s that bad everywhere, scribe. Some of us are just forced to stare straight at the shadows.” Ena stopped between two close-set houses.

The homes weren’t as well maintained as those around them. Proximity to the cliffs made sunlight a scant commodity in this corner of the city, and a musty odor permeated the air.

“Are you up to giving a girl a boost?” Ena eyed Adrial.

“A boost?”

“Well, I could try and lift you, but I don’t think you’d know what to do once you were up there.” Ena pointed five feet overhead.

A layer of black had crusted the side of the building, filling in the tiny cracks between stones, and hiding the gray of the house.

“You want to go up there?” Adrial asked, hoping perhaps he’d misunderstood.

“What looks like filth to you looks like things I need for ink to me.” Ena took Adrial’s hands, stacking them one on top of the other to make a sort of step. “I could run all the way out to the woods in the east to gather the grime I need, but you’d run out of black before I could make it back with more. So if you want to keep working, give me a boost.”

She reached down and, with a flick of her wrist, pulled a knife from her boot.

“Do you always walk around with a weapon in your shoe?” Adrial glanced down the alley. There was no one in view. And he had no chance of outrunning the mad inker.

I’m going to be assassinated, and no one will know why I was here.

“I’ve just told you I live by the docks.” Ena placed her non-knife hand on Adrial’s shoulder. “Don’t drop me, or who knows which of us the sharp bit of the knife might stab?”

Gritting his teeth against the effort, Adrial took Ena’s weight as she stepped up onto his hands. “Couldn’t you just climb the wall?”

The scrape of metal on rock pulled Adrial’s gaze up.

“Careful now,” Ena warned as he swayed. The movement only disrupted her work for a moment. “I can’t climb a thing that has nothing to hold on to, scribe.” She shoved her knife into a c***k between stones, prying free a chunk of black and dropping it into the basket that waited below.

“Of course.” Adrial’s bad shoulder seized, sending pain shooting through his neck all the way into his ear.

“There we are.” With a clang, Ena dropped her knife onto the cobblestone street.

Adrial stumbled forward as she leapt out of his hands, landing so their faces were nearly touching.

“That wasn’t bad, now was it?” Ena didn’t step away from him.

“No.” Adrial searched desperately for more eloquent words. “It wasn’t.”

“It hurt your shoulder, though.” Ena laid a hand on his shoulder, like she could see the pain radiating off it.

“A bit.”

“You’d think the sorcerers and healers might try and help someone who’s going to be a Guild Lord.” Ena turned away, sticking her knife back into the top of her boot and folding the bits of black she had tossed into her basket in a white square of fabric.

“It was decided the attempt would be ill-advised.” The familiar taste of bitter disappointment flooded Adrial’s mouth as he recited the words. It had been years since the healers sent the note denying him any aid, but he still hated the memory of that morning. Hated the little boy he had been for crying too hard on Allora’s shoulder.

“You’ve got a bit of filth on you.” Ena pointed to the front of Adrial’s robes.

Black spots of the stuff Ena had pried loose flecked the white chest of his robe, and dirt had stirred up from the street, coating his hem in brown.

Adrial’s heart twisted for a moment as a terrible vision of Lord Gareth rounding the corner with scorn etched on his face flew through his mind.

“You should have worn something fit for being out of your perfect, plain little world.” Ena winked. “I assume you can find your way home?”

“Of course.” Adrial brushed the black off his chest.

“Good. You wouldn’t want to follow me on the next errand.” Ena strode down the street far more quickly than she’d walked with Adrial.

“When are you bringing more ink?” Adrial called after her.

“Why, scribe? Afraid you might miss me?” Ena turned the corner and was out of sight.

Adrial’s breath caught in his chest as her laughter drifted behind her.