Chapter 26 Butter
You have to stop moping,” Anaya declared, slamming down a clay jug on the table by Rolan’s head.
He startled awake, his eyes crusty. “I was sleeping!”
“It’s nearly noon,” Anaya said. “You were moping.”
Groaning, Rolan reached for the jug.
“I wouldn’t,” said Anaya.
“I’m thirsty,” he rasped, still hazy from his nap. He lifted the jug to his lips—
And spluttered the vile liquid all down his shirtfront. His tongue burned, and he rushed about frantically in search of water.
Anaya regarded him pitilessly. “Told you.”
“What was that?” Rolan gasped out, settling for a glass jar with daisies inside it. Tossing the flowers, he downed the water they’d been resting in. “It tasted like horse pee!”
“That’s because it was horse pee.”
Rolan looked at her, horrified.
After a moment, Anaya sighed. “All right, it’s just vinegar. Though you deserve horse pee. Maybe it would shock you out of your mope.”
“I am not moping.”
“It’s been eight days, Rolan. You’ve done nothing but sleep and lie around sighing.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m a prisoner!” He waved his hands around, indicating the small kitchen. “Evaine won’t let me leave the house!”
Of course, if he really wanted to leave, he could have, at any time. A few months ago he’d have done just that—slipping out a window or door the moment Evaine’s back was turned.
Nobody had ever told him what to do. Why should he let them now?
Well. He knew why.
It was because a pitiful part of him—a part he still didn’t fully understand—wanted to prove himself to Luc.
He’d gotten used to taking orders in the Arcanist’s house.
With plenty of complaining and backtalk, of course, but still.
It was only when he’d begun to listen that he’d begun to learn.
Reading, writing, meditating on the Hollow Path, slinging knives into trees forty paces away…
there had been some benefits to doing as Luc bid him.
Luc’s last order had been for Rolan to wait, here in the apothecary, until Luc sent for him. So he was waiting, miserably and, fine, yes, moping.
But Luc hadn’t sent for him, had he?
Would he?
Rolan was beginning to have doubts.
“You’re a prisoner for your own good.” Anaya chewed her lip. “Rolan, things are nasty out there. There’s talk of arresting Luc. If they knew his apprentice was in the city… they might come for you too.”
Rolan slumped back into his chair. “There has to be something we can do. Where are you going?”
“To trade this vinegar for butter, at the little stall on the corner.”
“Let me come!” A distant part of Rolan wondered at the joy he felt at the idea of trading vinegar for butter. After days trapped in one small room though, just strolling down the alley and back sounded like a grand adventure.
“Well…” Anaya looked doubtfully at the door. “Evaine is gone for the afternoon, delivering remedies.”
The apothecary was busier than ever. Each morning more and more people turned up with wounds inflicted by Cryptics. Small ones, nothing bigger than a Rank One from what Rolan could tell, but still. They were dangerous when cornered, and they seemed to be more numerous than usual.
“Yes!” he said. “Let’s go get that butter!”
“We can’t go far,” Anaya said firmly. “And you have to cover your face—”
But Rolan was already moving, grabbing one of Evaine’s spare cloaks. The hood was deep and roomy, hanging nearly to his nose. “Ready!”
Anaya looked like she might be having second thoughts, which would not do at all. So Rolan grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door before she could change her mind.
Rolan couldn’t deny how relieving it was to walk outside and smell the comfortable, familiar scents of emptied chamber pots, burnt suppers, burning garbage, and sweaty armpits.
It was infinitely more refreshing than clear skies, fresh grass, and damp forest. Sure, everywhere you went, there were eyes watching you, but at least these eyes weren’t attached to things with teeth and claws that might rip out your heart. Most of them, anyway.
It was even nice to see the bulky outline of city guards lumbering about, particularly since Hoff was no longer a problem. With his hood drawn up, Rolan felt invisible.
On the corner, the dairy stall was busy with other customers. Rolan was familiar with the spot; he’d stolen milk from that stall before. It would probably be best to let Anaya handle the business side of things, just in case he was recognized.
Hanging back, he took the opportunity to savor the soothing hum of activity around him.
There went Flaps, the old man whose soles were always peeling off his shoes, so he flap flap flapped when he walked, like a duck.
And here came the grumpy butcher with a cart of meat to be carved up—not to be confused with the grouchy butcher on the east side, either one of whom would be thrilled to carve up Rolan given half a chance.
He’d pinched sausages from each. He didn’t recognize every face that passed, but he knew many of them.
If not by name then by their habits, their quirks of appearance, their general mood.
A silent, masked Listener walked by, handing out sheets of paper reminding people of the importance of confessing. He thrust one at Rolan, who took it automatically—only to freeze when he saw the cuffs of the man’s robe.
Bad stitching over a tear on the left sleeve.
He knew that sleeve. He knew those long, pointed fingernails.
Feeling nauseated, Rolan let the flyer drop. It fluttered to the ground as he hurried away, shrinking into a narrow alley.
It was him.
That Listener was the man whose secret Rolan had learned, the day Luc had made him kill his first Cryptic. He’d seen those sleeves and hands in the vision, as if they were his own.
Which meant that Listener was a murderer. Rolan had seen him abandon a beggar to drown in the river, too concerned with keeping his clothes dry to offer a helping hand.
“Rolan?” Anaya stood at the mouth of the alley, her eyebrows raised in alarm. “Are you okay?”
“That man, he—” Rolan cut himself short, choking back the words.
An Arcanist never reveals the secrets he knows.
“Rolan?” Her voice pitching upward, Anaya walked to him, shifting the crate of butter in her hands so she could touch his forehead. “No fever, but you look ill.”
“I… must have swallowed more vinegar than I thought.”
He hadn’t yet taken the Arcane oaths, of course. He’d never sworn to keep any secrets. And he knew that Listener was no better than a killer. What if Rolan was the only one who could bring him to justice?
Were these the kind of thoughts Luc had when he learned a particularly awful secret? Rolan wished the Arcanist were here to ask.
“Let’s go home,” Anaya said. “Maybe you do need more sleep. Who knows what you might have picked up out in the forest. Worms, probably.”
He forced a grin. “Oh, definitely worms. Lots of worms. I pulled one out of my nose yesterday, in fact, and it—”
“Stop!” Anaya cried. “You are so…”
Her voice faded into a frown, as they both turned at the sound of shouting.
A crowd was growing around the stall, people shoving one another and screaming at the terrified-looking man selling his milk and butter.
“It says so right here!” a woman roared, waving a paper over her head. “You’ve been selling us milk from cows with fainting sickness! You’re poisoning our children!”
“I-I never meant—” the farmer stammered.
“You dog!” cried another woman, and behind her, a man pushed forward to kick over the farmer’s stall.
Butter and milk spilled across the cobblestones, and the farmer scrambled to get away but the people converged around him, yelling and grabbing at his clothes.
His three large sons, all broad shouldered and bearded, began pushing back and roaring like bears.
“It’s the Arcanist’s doing!” someone yelled. “No secret is safe!”
It was turning into a proper riot.
“We need to get out of here,” Rolan said.
Anaya nodded, tossing her butter to the ground with a disgusted expression.
They tried to slip quietly around the crowd, only to find themselves trapped when a troop of guards came rushing toward the commotion.
“Go back!” Anaya cried, but it was too late.
The crowd closed around them like crazed cattle, everyone seething and punching and shoving. Rolan gripped Anaya’s hand just as an elbow slammed into his temple. He blinked hard, seeing stars, his heart pounding.
Then he felt Anaya’s hand slip from his.
She went down with a cry of panic, lost beneath the crush of bodies.
“Anaya!” Rolan squeezed between a guard and one of the farmer’s sons, the pair locked in a tussle. Spotting a flash of curly hair, he dove desperately.
A boot kicked him in the stomach. Someone tripped over him and cursed, their heavy body crushing his until he wriggled free, gasping for air.
“Anaya!”
He finally found her, curled into a ball with her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from the stampeding crowd. He tried to reach her, but the press of the bodies around him pushed him back. Desperation clawed at his chest. She would be crushed, her head stomped in—
Rolan gripped the hilt of his dagger and slammed his eyes shut, reaching for the Hollow Path.
Bodies collided with him, knocking him about and breaking his concentration, but he refused to open his eyes until he found that truthforsaken apple hanging in the dark.
When he did, out of desperation or sheer stubbornness, he breathed in just a tiny thread of Arcana, the last of the power the blade had absorbed from his first Cryptic kill.
It surged through him in a silent roar, and he pushed forward again.
This time, the people around him parted like lambs, his arms shoving aside adults three times his size with ease.
“Anaya!”
Grabbing her, Rolan heaved her up and pushed her ahead of him, darting for an opening.
Only to feel a hand wrap around his neck.
“It’s him!” One of the farmer’s sons had Rolan collared, and shook him roughly. “It’s that monster’s apprentice!”
Angry glares turned Rolan’s way. He struggled, but the strength he’d drawn from his dagger was already fading.
“His eyes!” someone else shouted. “Look at his eyes! He’s half Cryptic too!”
The farmer’s son began to squeeze Rolan’s neck tighter, but then Anaya jumped in front of them and bit the man on the arm. He cried out, more surprised than hurt, but he let go of Rolan.
“Come on!” Anaya cried, grabbing his hand and yanking him along. The farmer’s son tried to give chase, but a guard clobbered him with the hilt of his sword, drawing his attention away.
Rolan and Anaya burst out of the melee and down the street, panting and bruised.
“Are you okay?” Rolan asked.
“Just keep running!”
They stumbled onward until the sound of the riot faded behind them and the apothecary was in sight. After spilling inside, Anaya locked the door. Then she sagged against it, pushing back her sweaty curls.
“That was close!” Rolan gasped out.
“Thanks for saving me,” Anaya said.
“Thanks for saving me. You bit that guy!”
“I did!” She giggled, though her hands were shaking. She glanced at him, the smile slipping away. “Rolan, your eyes…”
He blinked rapidly, turning his face away. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not. It happened before, during the fire. What is it?”
“I’m not supposed to…” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I can’t talk about it, Anaya. I’m sorry.”
She watched him for a long moment, and he hated the way the ground seemed to stretch between them, as if a vast distance had pushed them apart.
He knew if she pressed him, he would tell her the truth.
Anything she wanted to know, all the things he’d learned in the Arcane Histories, he would tell her. If she pressed him.
But then Anaya pushed off the door, saying nothing more about it.
“Evaine’s going to be mad about the butter,” she sighed.
“Butter!” Rolan choked out. He followed her into the kitchen, glancing into the polished kettle on the stove. His eyes were beginning to fade, but the faint blue illumination in his pupils made him shiver. “People are rioting in the streets and you’re worried about butter?”
“Well, the only other butter seller in the city is on the east side. That’s nearly an hour’s walk, and I’m the one who has to fetch it.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe they’re blaming Luc.”
“And you,” she pointed out. “It’s getting worse out there, Rolan.
There are more Cryptics about than I’ve ever heard of, because no one trusts the Listeners anymore either.
They’re keeping their secrets to themselves, and there are monsters popping up all over the place.
” She gazed at him, her eyes as afraid as he’d ever seen them.
“People are scared, and when they’re scared, they lash out. What if they come for you?”
“No one knows where I’m staying,” he replied. “Don’t worry. Luc will fix things.”
“How?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. He didn’t have an answer.
Anaya gave him a sad smile. “Come on. Let’s make some dinner. Evaine will be back soon.”
He helped Anaya chop and peel vegetables for dinner, a chore he actually enjoyed because he got to use his knives.
He chopped angrily, thinking about the murderous Listener, the dishonest dairy farmer, the city in turmoil.
The people turning against Luc, their fear sharpening into anger and violence.
What if they attacked the Arcanist again?
What if they did worse than shoot blazing arrows at his house?
All while Rolan sat around like a useless toad.
“Whoa, easy there!” Anaya said. “You trying to lose a finger?”
Rolan looked down and realized he’d sped up his chopping so much that he nearly had begun to dice his own finger.
“Nothing else to do until Evaine gets back,” Anaya said. “She’ll bring sausage for the stew.”
Nothing to do but wait.
As if that wasn’t all Rolan had done for eight days. Wait for Luc to change his mind, to decide he needed his apprentice after all.
A bitter shock went through Rolan as he realized he was falling back into the same old, stupid pattern: waiting for someone to come claim him. Waiting to be wanted.
While there were crowds rioting and Cryptics lurking.
He was the Arcanist’s apprentice. He wasn’t a useless street kid anymore, stealing bread and lamps, trying to impress his pa.
He had to do something.
Calmly, he wiped his knife clean and sheathed it in his belt.