Inkling of Violence Read online

  Skylar dragged her nail along the dark wood of the table. It wasn't right what the king was doing. People donated their lives to him because they thought he was chosen by the gods. Worse still, even if Tomys was the one who actually did it, it was the king's fault that Skylar's parents were killed. He had to face justice.

  "The royal family has to be stopped," she said at last.

  "I think we can all agree on that," Absolom said.

  "I'll sneak into the palace. I've done it once before. I'll pretend to be a member of staff and—"

  Absolom shook his head. "That's been tried many times. With people much more talented than you—no offense. You might get away with spitting in their food, but you'll never get to the Crourgum, and with their Traits, you'd never be able to kill the king or the prince."

  Skylar sagged. "Then what do you suggest? It's like you said, we don't have an army to storm the castle with."

  Absolom sighed. If anything he seemed disappointed. What had he expected? That Skylar would have some magic solution that no one in the Chroniclers had thought of for centuries?

  "It's been a long day," Absolom said. "Perhaps we should adjourn."

  "Another wasted afternoon," Clem said.

  Absolom shot him a stern look. "We'll come back tomorrow. And we won't leave until we have a plan, so I would suggest you all spend the evening coming up with solutions."

  Clem grumbled as his assistants helped him out of his wide chair. He then waddled from the room, followed by the rest of the Council. Absolom remained sitting at the head of the table, massaging his temples.

  Remi jumped out of his chair and leaned in close to Skylar's ear. "I am not coming tomorrow. I would rather be scrubbing chamber pots."

  "And me," Emili said, joining Remi.

  "And me," Skylar said as she pushed herself from her chair.

  "Not an option for you I'm afraid," Absolom said without looking up.

  Skylar's stomach clenched. She'd assumed they were too far away and talking too quietly for the old man to hear. Perhaps he had more Traits than he let on as well.

  "The High Truth-sayer wanted to see you," Absolom said. "It's an honor. I'm sure you'll treat it as such."

  Skylar swallowed. "Of course."

  "Good. And after you're finished with him, send in Emili."

  "Me?" Emili said from the door, eyes wide.

  "You've done good work here," Absolom said with the ghost of a smile. "I'm sure the Truth-sayer wants to thank you."

  "I'll go now," Skylar said.

  "At least straighten your shirt before you see him. You look like a dock worker," Absolom said.

  CHAPTER 3

  The stewards closed the doors behind Skylar with a deep and rumbling boom that echoed off the stone walls, undampened by the few paintings. At the other end of the room sat The High Truth-sayer, his face covered in Trait tattoos. Some of them were so faded that Skylar couldn't tell what they were.

  He sat at a desk, surrounded by pieces of paper and books with pages so yellow they looked like they'd been burned. Just behind him, at a slightly smaller desk sat his Notetaker, a single book open in front of her, pen already scribbling. What did the woman have to write about all day? As far as Skylar had seen, the Truth-sayer didn't have many visitors.

  "Skylar! Come. Sit."

  Skylar found her feet doing what he'd said without her brain having any say in the matter. Speech Traits, and a lot of them. Skylar didn't try to resist. Better not to cause a fuss unless she knew there was trouble. Mag—Skylar's Notetaker—trailed behind, her own pen already scratching.

  The Truth-sayer wore a long robe covered in writing so tiny that Skylar couldn't read it even when she sat in the chair on the other side of the desk.

  "It's the first book," the Truth-sayer said, lifting his arm so that the robe flared, revealing more tiny characters wrapping around his sleeve. "The one that tells how the order was founded."

  Skylar could only gape. How long must it have taken someone to sew each of those letters into the fabric? Let alone cover the whole thing. Years. Years of someone's life to make a robe no one would be able to get close enough to read.

  "Don't judge too harshly," the Truth-sayer said, eyes sparkling. "It was a gift, not something I asked for."

  Skylar blinked. She didn't have any reason to distrust the Truth-sayer, but on the other hand she didn't want to let her guard down too much. She'd learned the hard way just recently that trust was a dangerous thing.

  He had deep blue eyes. Some wrinkles spread out from them, but not as many as there should have been. The faded tattoos near his temple were the color of those made a hundred years ago, and yet the man before her didn't look a day over fifty. There was something about his eyes too. They were deep, wise, older than the rest of him.

  He lowered his sleeve. "I know it's taken me two months to say it, but thank you for removing the Protector."

  "It was self-defense."

  "Yes, so I've heard."

  The Notetakers' pens scratched along with his words.

  "Still, many of our order have tried to kill the Protector and failed."

  "His name was Tomys, he was just a man."

  The Truth-sayer grinned. "A good way of looking at the world. I keep telling the staff here that I'm just a man and if I want to have chocolate cake for dinner then I should be able to. But every day they bring me meat and vegetables. It's a crying shame."

  For a moment Skylar sat unmoving, her mind catching up with what he'd said, searching for some hidden meaning. He was smiling at her. She couldn't help but grin back.

  "That's more like it," he said. "I like someone who's not afraid to smile. You know, some people come in here and they're so afraid that they can barely speak, let alone hold a conversation."

  "You are immortal."

  "Ah." He held up his finger. "Not true. I take the lives of others. And if you listen to the council, that won't last for much longer. Not without ink."

  Suspicion curled inside Skylar's stomach. Was that why he'd called her here? To convince her to steal the plant for him?

  "No, no." The Truth-sayer answered her unspoken question. "Honestly, after two-hundred years I'm not afraid of dying. It might even be a nice break. Although I do worry about the fate of the Chroniclers when I'm gone."

  Skylar couldn't help but like the man. She'd expected him to be aloof, rude even, like the royal family. But here he was, sitting at the same table as her and having a normal conversation.

  "You've met the council."

  Skylar nodded.

  The Truth-sayer's mouth quirked. "Ah, I see it in your face. You haven't enjoyed their company?"

  "Nothing like that!"

  The Truth-sayer sat back and gestured at the empty room. "Whatever you say here won't leave this room. At least not until one of us is dead." He pointed at his Notetaker, bent over her book, then at Mag. "It helps with politics you know, to keep the books private until a person dies. Everyone has secrets after all."

  Skylar cleared her throat. "The Council is fine. They just take a very long time to decide anything."

  "Ah yes, that might be partly my fault. I wanted a Council that represented the whole organization, Pits, even the whole kingdom if that were possible. So I chose people with many different perspectives. Unfortunately I may have done too good a job because they can never agree on anything."

  "Can't you just tell them? Instead of wasting all this time."

  He shook his head. "It is not the Truth-sayer's place to make decisions, only to speak truths. I can give the Council all the information I have, but I can't tell them what to do with it."

  "That's a shame."

  "You think I would do a better job than them?"

  "Yes." And Skylar meant it.

  "Well I'm flattered. A shame then that I've wasted two hundred years in this chair."

  "Why did you call me here?" Skylar appreciated the man's company, but she couldn't relax without knowing what he wanted from her.

&nb
sp; "The easy answer to that question is that I wanted to see the woman who killed the Protector. It would be true."

  "But not the whole truth."

  "I'd heard you were perceptive."

  "So?"

  "The other easy and true answer is that I like to meet all new members of our organization, however briefly."

  "Still not the whole truth."

  "Ah, that brings us to the hard answer. I told you that I am not allowed to make decisions, that I rely on the Council."

  "Yes."

  "You've seen it for yourself. Do you think they'll do anything now that the Protector is dead?"

  Skylar thought back to the meeting she'd just left. There'd been a lot of talk, and a lot of argument, but no movement toward a plan. Barely even an idea. "No. Not before…" She trailed off.

  "Not before I'm dead. And by then the king will have chosen and trained a new Protector. Even though the Chroniclers are devoted to the truth, I have discovered over the last two centuries that even truth can be uncertain. My truth is different to yours. It helps to have the Notetakers, but they can't capture the full tone, or hidden signals."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Everyone here has their own truth, their own agenda, including the Council. And including you."

  Skylar didn't argue. She'd found the same thing during her investigations. There was always a secret, a lie, behind the murders.

  "But you're new," the Truth-sayer continued. "I've looked into your history. You might have flaws—who doesn't—but you're honest, and that counts for a lot."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "The Council needs to act. Now is the only time the royal family has been unprotected for decades."

  "What am I supposed to do about it?"

  The Truth-sayer looked away for a moment, shaking his head. "You're so young. If it weren't for the extra memory Traits I've been gifted, I wouldn't even remember being so young."

  Skylar shifted in her chair. She didn't like the Truth-sayer's tone; regretful. That usually meant someone was going to give her bad news, or ask her to do something terrible.

  "You need to make them act," he said.

  Skylar restrained herself from swearing at the old man. "How am I supposed to do that? I'm no one."

  "You defeated the Protector."

  "I told you, that was self-defense."

  "The reason is meaningless, all that matters is that you did it. That's more progress than our organization has made in centuries. That gives you power."

  Skylar snorted.

  "Oh, the Council won't let you see it. Probably don't want you to know. But it's there. Do you think we give everyone their own Notetaker?" He nodded to the woman standing a few paces behind Skylar. "If you demanded that the council do something, they'd do it, within reason."

  "Do you think storming the palace is 'within reason'?"

  "Is that something you're likely to demand?"

  "No. It would be like sending a bunch of… librarians… to war."

  "Exactly. So whatever reasonable thing you do suggest will be listened to." The Truth-sayer folded his hands on the desk.

  "How am I supposed to know what to do? I didn't even know about any of this until a few weeks ago."

  "You don't have to come up with the ideas, I'm sure the Council have had plenty. You just have to pick one and make sure they act on it."

  "You're asking a lot."

  "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you could handle it."

  "We've only just met."

  The Truth-sayer shook his head. "You've only just met me. But I assure you, I know almost all there is to know about you. If anyone can finally lead the Chroniclers to the ultimate truth, it's you."

  "No pressure."

  He chuckled. "No pressure. But I think you'll find it's easier than you imagine. Now, you'd best get going. I'm sure the Council is already in a panic over what we might be discussing."

  Skylar stood.

  "Send your sister in."

  Skylar paused. "Are you going to ask her to change the world too?"

  The Truth-sayer smiled up at her. "I think she already is, in her own way. But no, for her, the easy answer applies; I meet all our new members."

  "She's not…" Skylar fought to think of the right words. It wasn't that Emili was weak, far from it. But she didn't… "She's not like me."

  The Truth-sayer's face turned serious. "I know."

  CHAPTER 4

  Azizi took another tentative bite of the roasted meat that had been laid before him. It was nothing compared to the fresh fish and crabs that he was used to. It tasted… earthy. The drink he'd been given was strange too. Not like the mulled coconut juice they served on First Island. This drink was bitter and made Azizi's eyes water.

  "So you're really from all the way across the ocean?" Gerald said.

  In the few hours that Azizi had been in the village, he had learned that Gerald was treated as the village leader, but really that was only because he ran the inn and so controlled the flow of the bitter drink. "Yes. It is kind of you to give me food and drink."

  The inn was nice enough; set far enough back from the ocean that it was unlikely to flood, but close enough that Azizi could see the waves sparkling in the distance. The clang of pots and pans sounded from the kitchen and a pile of fresh logs lay by the fireplace, no doubt ready for when night came, although Azizi would have preferred it lit now—even in the middle of the day, Big Land was too cold.

  "Only because I wouldn't have been able to live with the guilt if you'd gone and died. You look like you've had a hard time."

  Azizi nodded, trying not to think of Virgo and the others. They'd been good men, but all sailors knew the risks of the sea. At least this time it hadn't been Azizi's fault.

  Gerald took a long drink from his own flagon. How he drank the stuff without wincing, Azizi had no idea. "Your markings are interesting," Gerald said, gesturing to Azizi's face.

  Azizi brushed his fingers along his cheek. "They tell the story of my tribe."

  "Oh, I thought they might be Trait tattoos."

  "Some," Azizi said. He couldn't be certain how the people of Big Land would react to Trait tattoos, so he didn't want to reveal too much.

  "I've got one myself," Gerald said, tapping the inked figure at his temple.

  Azizi paused, a chunk of white vegetable—Gerald called them 'potato'—halfway to his mouth. Surely he had misunderstood. The tattoo was so small and unremarkable. It said nothing about Gerald or the person who had given him the Trait, or even what the Trait was. "You have a tattoo," Azizi said.

  Gerald returned his frown. "A Trait, not just a tattoo."

  Azizi shoved the potato into his mouth to give himself time to think. Wic was the tribal expert when it came to Trait transfer, but he'd spent enough time listening to her to pick up a few things. For a Trait to transfer properly, the markings had to incorporate everyone involved, not to mention the Trait itself. Something like that figure would give terrible efficiency. Probably not even half—the rest wasted. If someone on First Island had done that transfer, they would have been Shunned and sent away.

  "Yep, got me a little extra charisma. Helps with running things, you know?"

  Azizi could only nod.

  "So if you don't mind me saying, where are you going from here? I can't be giving out free meals every day or I'd go broke."

  "I must get to Tarraria." Azizi had locked the name of Big Land's capital—and the location of the king—in his memory.

  Gerald gave a low whistle. "That's a long way from here. Ollie's great grandfather traveled to the capital once—or so he claimed. But I don't know anyone else who traveled so far."

  Azizi pushed away his empty plate. The vegetables had been good, but he'd only finished the meat out of courtesy. It tasted and felt far too much like flesh for him to enjoy. How he missed the baked longfish of First Island.

  "Are you a trader then?" Gerald said.

  Azizi considered lying to the man; a tra
der would have good reason for traveling great distances. But Gerald seemed a good man, despite being a barbarian. "I am on a pilgrimage." That was true enough.

  Gerald's eyebrows rose. "That's a fancy thing."

  Azizi fiddled with his glass. He needed more information about the Seal, about what was happening, but what could this innkeeper know? "Have you noticed anything… strange… lately?"

  Gerald snorted. "You mean aside from you washing up on our beach?"

  "Yes. Anything; has the moon looked red?"

  Gerald frowned. "Is this related to your pilgrimage?"

  "In a way."

  "Well I won't pry into another man's business, but no, the moon is the same color it's always been."

  "Anything else then?"

  Gerald took a long drink from his mug. "The weevils have been especially bad this year. Reckon it might be a new type."

  Azizi hid his frustration. It wasn't Gerald's fault that the people of Big Land hadn't been taught to read the signs.

  "Doesn't matter how many times we kill them all and clear the fields, they come right back the next day," Gerald was saying. "Never seen an infestation like it."

  Azizi paused, eyes snapping from his glass to Gerald's face. "Do they look different?"

  Gerald nodded. "Got these blue veins running over them. Bigger than our usual ones too. They destroyed Old Bansen's field in a single night."

  Crops being destroyed by plagues of new insects was mentioned in the histories. It wasn't something that the Islanders paid much attention to because they didn't keep fields of crops, but here on Big Land it would be noticed. The Seal was still breaking then. For a few brief moments Azizi had allowed himself to hope that because the moon had returned to its usual color, that the Seal had been fixed. But no, perhaps she only glowed red for the Islanders, a special warning made just for them.