Red Wishes Black Ink

Carina Goldstone, Logician of the 4th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, working remotely

Traveon Twiceblack, Skulker of the 3rd Renown, Soldier's Rest, having a lovely vacation

9 Blossum, 61 AW

Traveling south on the Troldep River

51 days until the next Granting

Carina snarled, flipped the pencil around in her fist, and rubbed the eraser over the newest lines she'd drawn in her sketchbook. It wouldn't work. She had drawn an artery from the repository of arcane energy—this creation, itself, still more theoretical than practical—that she would construct at the heart of Infinzel, which would then run power to the wards that controlled the pyramidal city's network of lifts. She double-checked her math only to realize that if the failsafe wards etched into the lifts triggered—say, because of a broken gear, or too much weight—the ensuing power draw would cause cascading failures throughout the middle tiers. Her numbers were off.

The logician closed her eyes. She remembered sitting on the landing outside her apartments with King Cizco. They had been on somewhat good terms then, feeling each other out. Carina had hung onto the sound of his smug laughter when she told him that she could apply arithmetic to the arcane. She could not let that man be right.

Not for the first time, Carina longed for the notes she had left behind in the pyramidal city. She was sure that she'd already been over some of these problems in her past attempts to reverse engineer Cizco's work. Here she was, forced to retrace her own steps, in more ways than one.

Carina tilted her head back and sighed, the late day sun baking her skin. A breeze tousled her hair and she caught a whiff of the vanilla shampoo she'd started using at Traveon's insistence. It was a rarity from the perfumeries of Merchant's Bay that he had won in a game of cards. There were many indulgences to be had aboard the Lucky Roll and Traveon made sure they relentlessly took advantage of them.

She had much work to do. Time was ticking away, less than two months until the Granting. But, after more than a month in the frozen north, after nearly dying again and again, Carina couldn't deny the allure of Traveon's lifestyle.

"It's softening your mind," Carina muttered to herself, and pinched the inside of her forearm.

A shadow settled over her, blocking the sun.

"Genuinely, I have a sixth sense for this," Traveon said. "You see, when my love begins berating herself, I know it is time to delicately interrupt."

Carina flinched as Traveon set a glass of wine down before her which, combined with the gentle swaying of the boat, had the potential to ruin hours of work. She snapped her sketchbook closed with a huff and slid it safely onto the bench next to her. Only then did she glare up at Traveon.

"Look at how she grips that pencil," Traveon said, smiling innocently at Carina. "If you weren't here with me, madam, I might be on my way to the infirmary."

The woman standing a half-step behind Traveon chuckled at his joke, although she also had the good sense to look somewhat sheepish at Carina's obvious annoyance. With some effort, Carina softened her expression and offered the woman a polite smile. She was in her twenties—probably a few years older than Carina and Traveon—pretty and fit in a country way, blonde-haired, broad-faced, and with the wheat stalk of Ambergran upon her neck. That last bit, at least, was interesting to Carina.

"Allow me to introduce our dinner companion for this evening," Traveon said as he pulled out a chair for the other woman. "Carina Goldstone, this is Mrs. Hannah Goodbody."

"Goodson," Hannah corrected, as she slid into chair.

"Oh? What did I say?" Traveon asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Goodbody."

"How forward of you," Traveon replied, brushing a hand down the front of his silk shirt. "Thank you."

While Carina pinched the bridge of her nose, Hannah chuckled again. She leaned across the table to stage-whisper to Carina.

"Is he always this incorrigible?"

"He's often much worse," Carina replied.

The three of them shared a table on the riverboat's open-air dining deck. The greenery of the down-continent countryside in full bloom rushed by on either side, the Troldep carrying them swiftly south for Noyega, the Lucky Roll's port of origin. The riverboat was responsible for ferrying clients from the river towns down to the gaming houses of the coastal city. It offered stately cabins, generous portions, and games of chance with soft odds meant to make passengers feel flush as they entered Noyega where they would be promptly fleeced. Carina and Traveon had boarded a few days ago in Cruxton. Traveon had made short work of the card and dice games, and then accepted a generous stipend from the captain that paid him not to gamble any further. Since then, he had entertained himself by getting to know their fellow passengers. Every meal they were joined by some new acquaintance who simply couldn't believe the honor that they should be dining with two champions.

"Gods, champions of Infinzel, I can hardly believe it," Hannah said, right on cue. "And the two of you on your honeymoon. Romance before battle. It's like something out of a story book."

Carina gave Traveon a look. "Isn't it?" she replied, and took a sip of wine.

A waiter stopped by their table to freshen their glasses and Traveon placed a dinner order for a bit of everything which would, of course, be compliments of the captain, lest Traveon find himself inclined to return to the tables.

"I had no idea that Infinzel had divided itself," Hannah continued. "Traveon was telling me all about how he changed his Ink."

"Oh?" Carina said. "What did he tell you?"

"It was…?" Hannah squinted at Traveon. "How did you put it, exactly? It was beautiful."

"Strength of character," Traveon said, smirking at Carina. "And purity of purpose."

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"I love that," Hannah said.

"That certainly describes Traveon," Carina said.

The guest Traveon had invited for breakfast—the Lucky Roll's first mate—had been much more interesting than this woman. He had told them that voyages returning upriver from Noyega weren't such pleasant affairs as the ones downriver. They'd had three suicides aboard so far this year, and a half dozen unaccounted for after throwing themselves into the water. Perhaps, given everything she'd endured lately, Carina was simply more interested in the bleak and morbid.

"I was sorry to hear about Ambergran," Carina said. "Terrible what happened."

"Thank you," Hannah replied, punctuating that with a healthy gulp of wine.

"Hannah outran the annihilation," Traveon said, a glimmer in his eye.

"Outran?" Carina tilted her head. "I don't understand."

Hannah leaned across the table and lowered her voice. "When my husband and I heard what would happen, we fled the town as quickly as possible. We got enough distance between us and Ambergran that the gods couldn't touch us."

"I see," Carina replied. She doubted the gods chose which half of Ambergran to annihilate based on proximity, but didn't see any point in disabusing this woman of the notion that her farmer's wagon could outpace the gods. Instead, Carina glanced around the steadily filling dining deck. "Is your husband joining us?"

"Oh, no." Hannah leaned back. "He… well…"

Traveon gently draped his hand on Hannah's shoulder. "Mr. Goodson returned to their farm, toiling in the fields alongside the remains of their neighbors," he explained on Hannah's behalf. "Hannah, on the other hand…"

"I just couldn't go back," she finished for him. "I couldn't go back to living that way, pretending it was ever what I wanted."

Looking into Hannah's teary eyes, Carina felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the woman. "Tell me you aren't relocating to Noyega," Carina said. "That's no place for someone like you."

"Gods, no," Hannah replied. "From Noyega, I'm bound for the south. Like you two, I heard."

"Hannah is moving to Colinie," Traveon said.

Carina pursed her lips at the unfamiliar feeling—a place she had never heard of. "I don't know it."

"It's new," Hannah replied, already rummaging through her satchel.

"Hannah hopes to change her Ink when she gets there," Traveon said. "So they'll accept her."

"Yes," Hannah said eagerly. "Purity of purpose and… oh, what was it?"

After a moment, Hannah smoothed out an oft-folded piece of parchment and handed it across to Carina. The flyer reminded Carina of an advertisement for a circus. 'Join Your Friends in Colinie' declared a beaming, mustachioed man as he spread his arms in welcome, a detailed drawing of a verdant mountain valley spread out below him. On the man's neck was a tattoo of a dashed line leading to an 'X' like the marker on a treasure map in a children's story. 'All Skills Needed!' declared the flyer. 'No Ideology!' 'A Culture of our Own!' 'Utopia Now!'

"He misspelled colony," Carina remarked, handing the flyer back.

"It's a play on…" Hannah scrunched up her nose. "That's Dash Colinwood. The explorer and author?"

Carina glanced at Traveon. "Have you heard of this man?"

"A few of his paperbacks behind the bar for slow nights," Traveon said with a shrug. "Not much poetry to the writing, but plenty of sword-fighting and sex."

"Ah," Carina replied. "I haven't had time for much fiction."

"They aren't fiction, though," Hannah insisted. "He found the last unclaimed land in the deep, deep south. They say the weather is always perfect and anything grows there. He's building something amazing."

Carina glanced at the bench beside her—her sketchbook, her chewed pencil, her mounting frustration. She pushed her half-finished glass of wine away.

"Well," Carina said. "Make sure you set aside enough rounds for the return voyage."

After they finished dinner, Carina went alone to the west side of the boat to watch the sunset. Her eyes unfocused on the stratified oranges and pinks, Carina ran calculations in her mind. One more day to Noyega where they could then book passage to Beacon. Three weeks on the ocean unless they got lucky and there was a boat from the blessed fleet taking passengers. All told, she would have about three weeks in Beacon to test her plans.

A way to power Infinzel that wouldn't require King Cizco to slowly drain his legion of oblivious offspring.

A way to power Infinzel that wouldn't require King Cizco.

It wasn't enough time. Not without her notes. Not with only Traveon as an assistant.

Her [Future Sight] gnawed at her. She could peek, just a little bit. Figure out which boat would get her to Beacon the fastest. Make sure that her old contacts and leases were still in place.

No. Precognition had only gotten her turned around. She needed to trust herself. Leave the future alone until her possibilities were well and truly narrowed.

The work. That was the thing. She just needed to keep working. Keep her mind sharp, no more wine, no more—

"A little rude, weren't you?" Traveon asked as he sidled up beside her at the railing. "I thought you would've had more questions for the fugitive beauty queen of Ambergran."

Carina flicked a look at him. "A poor woman who has seen the violence of our gods and been so rattled as to have fallen under the sway of a charlatan. What questions would I possibly have?"

"Perhaps how an ordinary person was attracted from afar to join in the building of something new and exciting?" Traveon asked with a shrug. "Or is there only room for one utopia in the world?"

"By definition…" Carina trailed off to sneer at him. "Are you comparing me to this—to this author? This bamboozler of the south?"

"Of course not. I just thought it was entertaining. And, as a bartender, I've learned to meet people with friendliness."

"Are you scolding me?"

"I wouldn't dare."

"You aren't a bartender anymore."

"And yet, I still serve."

Traveon put his arm across her back, his fingers settling in the groove of her hip. Carina let him. He slid his lithe body tight alongside her and she leaned against him. Together, they gazed out at the falling sun.

"We made it, didn't we?" Traveon said. "Just like we said we would."

"Hardly," Carina replied.

"Do you ever take a moment to enjoy how far you've come?" he asked. "Or do you just find more ambition to pile atop yourself? Can you never climb up high enough to enjoy a view?"

Carina closed her eyes. Much as she wished he could, Traveon would never understand. None of what she'd done in the last year—and the years before—none of it would matter if she didn't finish. If she didn't win. Increments were meaningless.

And yet, when his fingers danced lower, she almost let him keep going. Instead, she grasped his hand and held it tight—tight and away from her.

"I have to work tonight, Traveon," she said. "I'm behind."

"All night?"

"Until I'm too tired to do anything else."

"Fine," he said, and leaned his mouth down to her ear, so she could smell the grapes on his breath. "But, if you find yourself lacking for inspiration, I'm right next door."

At least Carina had the foresight to book her and Traveon separate cabins.

She had allowed herself some weakness in those first days of their voyage south. She had nearly been killed by a rat-faced Salvado that she now had to make nice with. She had her most shameful secrets laid out by an assassin. She had appealed to the gentle heart of the hammer master for what she knew must be the last time. She had, once again, been driven away from the pyramidal city that she pined for more than any lover. As the weather got warmer, a period of what felt like mourning ensued. Of course she had relied on Traveon. He reminded her of those younger days, when her plans had still been more shining talk than grim action.

But, yet again, Carina needed to set all that aside.

She spread her papers across the table in her cabin. Columns of calculations parted for her fingers. She sucked on a kaffete leaf to dull the fuzziness left behind by the wine. Slowly, Carina found her rhythm, entering a state where her mind and hands worked in perfect unison, where every notation fit together neatly with the next, the inspiration dripping from her.

Traveon gave her less than an hour, the bastard nuisance. He knocked and entered without waiting, and Carina let rip an animalistic groan, slamming her pencil down with enough force that it snapped.

"Gods, Traveon, I told you—"

The skulker's face was wet with tears. Strands of his black hair stuck to his cheeks, the kohl that he lined his eyes with clotted in the corners. He looked shrunken, like he was a boy again, and had come stumbling to Carina's room in the tavern after catching a beating from his father.

"Traveon?" Carina stood up. "What's—?"

"He's dead," Traveon said. "Bel's dead."

Carina's throat felt gripped by an icy hand and she tilted her head back to avoid it, to avoid these words. "What? No, he's not. That's not—"

"He's dead, Carina," Traveon said, his whole body vibrating as he held back a sob. "He's…"

"How do you—?"

Traveon extended his shaky hands, then, and Carina's eyes went blurry with her own tears.

He held out the golden inkwell of a Quill.

"What am I…?" Traveon mumbled dazedly. "What am I supposed to do with this?"