Amicus: 18 Years Old

The golden-haired girl had been sick for a long time.

Normally, the new master would’ve sent someone like her to one of his clinics. There, the people he’d sponsor through the Academy—healers, physicians, and pharmacists—would’ve taken care of her.

Strangely, though, instead of sending her away, he’d told the Amicus that the girl would be staying here. Not just staying here, but staying in the Amicus’s room and in her bed.

It was baffling, but the Amicus didn’t object, sleeping on the floor until a cot was found and an extra bed ordered.

The Amicus watched over the girl, day and night, for weeks. She used a rocking chair that had appeared without her asking and ignored the cot. For the first week, the only sound was the constant creak of the chair moving back and forth. Back and forth.

When the girl hadn’t improved much by the first week, Ma’Shite came to the room himself, peeking in to check progress.

“You could try reading to her.”

At first, the Amicus stared at him blankly when he’d suggested that. But it was not a foreign concept, so after a half-second of thinking it over, she finally nodded, turning away and missing the warmth that spread across his eyes.

She had never thought that she’d do this for someone else. And turning a source of aggravation into an act of service made her feel… useful. More alive than she’d felt since, well, since waking up here.

Page after page, rustling through whatever books she pulled off of Ma’Shite’s shelves. Only once did she notice that they were often strategically placed to catch her eye first, but otherwise Ma’Shite made no special effort to force her into picking anything.

Another week and the patient was sitting up.

The girl had yet to tell the Amicus her name. Of course she hadn’t. Being a mute, she didn’t seem able communicate. She simply sat and listened, hands in her lap and head bowed.

At first, the Amicus wasnt even sure the girl understood. There were few reasons for her to react to the words, and she had no way to express her thoughts.

Then one day, a storybook appeared on Ma’Shite’s desk, along with an encyclopedia and lesson manual for a hand language. Both were brand new, their pages crisp and smelling of fresh ink.

That was the first and only time the Amicus recognized Ma’Shite’s quiet meddling. 

Despite the obviousness of the effort, she took both books and returned to the sick bed, where the patient finally came alive.

Instead of staring at her hands, she stared at the Amicus as the scarified woman read through the storybook. They were adventures based on real events, from escapades in guerrilla battle to the exploits of the masked vigilante to courtroom warfare. Brave men and women who changed difficult circumstances and fates with courageous action.

The patient even smiled, rolled forward in silent laughfer, or clapped her hands in response.

She also voluntarily began looking at the Encyclopedia, revealing that she had a basic understanding of reading and writing. Nothing like what the Amicus displayed during her first month, because the girl obviously struggled. She’d clench her teeth, furrow her brow, and, out of frustration, occasionally turn the book around and point at an unfamiliar word she couldn’t silently pronounce.

When the infection that had made her so sick was beaten nearly four weeks into treatment, she finally wrote her name.

It was an awkward, ugly scrawl on the page of the Amicus’s notebook, and the Amicus had to ask Ma’Shite for help with the pronunciation because it looked strange to her. But she felt an unfamiliar warmth in her gut when she returned and said it confidently aloud to the other girl.

“Chloe. Your name is Chloe.”

***

Present: 20 Years Old

After four days of preparations, she was ready.

Breathing slowly, the Amicus stood in an alleyway, facing her target and watching the building’s lights shine in bright defiance to the darkness outside.

When she finally stirred, it was to pull out a little mirror from her stolen pouch and a gray ribbon that didn’t match her gaudy and revealing dress. Tying the ribbon around her wrist, she stepped out of the alley and into the light of a lamp, where she could check her final appearance one more time. 

Unlike when she went to meet the flirtatious Eblin, she’d been careful while molding this face. There was no choice. She had to be extra careful. Since she wasn’t just covering up the raised scarification that dotted her cheek, she had to ensure that nothing about it pointed to her, changing the shape of everything from her forehead slope to her nostril flares.

And unlike her real face, this face was gorgeous.

She’d spent a couple of days staking out some of the fanciest brothels, figuring out what features were the most attractive on the most popular women. When she was sure she had a good grasp on the task, she’d modeled her new face after them, careful not to copy any of them exactly.

Her face would now be the coin that got her into the target.

Nodding to herself, she tucked the mirror away. 

The house was still awake, the host and his servants shooing away partygoers. Many of them were drunk. Even the women in their fancy dresses staggered out of the building with cheerful calls that were too loud, often leaning on the arm of a partner, but sometimes led by a servant instead and gently handed into a carriage.

The Amicus dryly wondered how ugly this man was.

Even though he had a houseful of innerbriated women who, no doubt, couldn’t tell the difference between a handsome man and a donkey, he couldn’t find a partner who simply wanted to spend a night with him. No. Instead, he had to put in an order at a brothel.

Maybe he just didn't want a scandal among his peers.

Whether that was the case or not, the Amicus was lucky. If she hadn’t heard the brothel women complain so much about him during her night walks in the shadows, she wouldn’t have known where to start.

The guard at the back gate was cautious. He carefully examined the summons she'd stolen, identifying the seal with such attention that she was glad she hadn't tried counterfeiting it. Convincing the brothel had been easy with a counterfeit, but here it would have gotten her caught.

And was she crazy or just immune to stress?

Anyone else she knew would have been getting nervous and squirming under the pressure of this examination. Instead, she calmly watched the man turn the seal back and forth, looking for any flaw that would give her away.

“You're clear,” the man finally grunted, handing the summons back. “You'll have to wait, the master is still busy. Arin, take her to the fourth sitting room.”

“Pretty,” she heard the other guard mutter to his friend. 

“She probably costs more than a month’s pension,” the first one agreed.

They went on to talk more crudely, but the Amicus left hearing range as she followed a young boy across the delivery dock and through a back door.

Inside, servants bustled about. Many shot her admiring, even disbelieving, glances.

Out of all the unusual things she was doing tonight, this kind of attention was what made her most uncomfortable. It would have been better had they shuffled away and avoided eye contact. She was used to that. Or even just glanced at her and kept going, like they’d done when she was with Eblin.

Instead, men whistled and women rolled their eyes in contempt or envy.

It took an effort to keep her shoulders back and chin up.

However, there was no hiding her natural gait. It had been so hard imitating the brothel women's walk, awkwardly watching herself in the mirror whenever she had the room to herself, that she’d finally just given up.

Her face would have to be enough to convince the onlookers.

Unfortunately, she didn’t realize how intimidating her gaze was. Every time she met someone’s eye, they would flinch in surprise, then hurriedly turn away and rush onto whatever task they were supposed to be doing. Then they’d follow her with their eyes once she was past, whispering to each other.

Finally, she was left alone in the sitting room, which happened to be on the same floor as the master’s bedroom. Her guide helpfully pointed out the door as useful information to her. It was, indeed, useful, but she needed the owner to be present, so she sat down to wait. 

The clock on the mantle ticked relentlessly, filling the silence. 

Ma’Shite hadn’t sent her on many errands, so she wasn’t sure what most parlours were like. But compared to the few she’d been in, including the rooms in Ma’Shite’s home, she could see that this one was decorated to impress.

Purples, deep blues, elaborate patterns in the hanging, and expensive vases filled with out-of-season flowers.

She snorted and shook her head.

What a contrast to other rooms she had waited in. Her memories were vague, a little confused by her second phase torture, but she remembered rooms that were bare of furniture. The floors were made up of cold stone or wood. Back then, she knew she’d be walking out into an arena, greeted by the cheers and jeers of a huge crowd…

While the details were scattered in her ruined memories, she did clearly remember one thing. Despite the two vastly different types of rooms, the tension was the same. 

Anticipation in her stomach, her shoulders tightening and readying for movement. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It was a whole two hours before she was informed that the master was ready for her. By then, she was more than a little pissed and struggled to keep it from her face. She had to keep her chin down and constantly remind her shoulders, so as to droop to hide most of her hostility.

She was led straight into the mansion owner’s bedroom.

Just as she suspected, this room was as elaborate as his waiting parlour. Maybe more so. Except for the gallery Chloe once dragged her to, she’d never seen so many paintings stuffed onto four walls. The four-poster bed was especially elaborate. The curtains were a deep maroon, and the bedspread a forest green, every inch of which was covered in a raised pattern.

What was that called again? Matelassé?

Wait, she shouldn’t be looking at the decorations. She took a deep breath and reached out with her senses, finding the piece of magitech that she’d heard rumors of. It had been an especially aggravating topic to the women she’d listened in on.

It was running. Good.

“Your madam outdid herself this time.”

The Amicus turned her gaze to the man pouring wine into two glasses. Unlike his guests earlier, he didn’t seem drunk at all. Had he waited until now for drinking?

Afraid she’d give herself away, the Amicus didn’t raise her chin as she accepted the wine cup he offered. However, she couldn’t help stiffening when he, instead of picking up his own glass, undid the tie on her cloak.

She didn’t stop it from falling in a wave around her, watching him intently through her eyelashes. He looked her costume over with a pleased smile, making her want to cover up and slap him. Still, she didn’t move, letting him do as he liked.

For now.

“Yes,” the man breathed, his voice excited enough to get a cringe out of her, “your madam did very well this time. What’s your name, sweet one?”

The Amicus almost laughed. Unlike Nark, given to her flippantly as the annoyance of the pitts, she’d spent a long time on this one. She’d even risked involving Chloe, who didn’t understand her odd questions but was more than willing to help with definitions and playing word games.

“Arrears,” she said sweetly, raising the glass to her lips.

“Areers,” he repeated, with only a slightly wrinkled brow as he briefly touched her cheek. Then he turned away.

She only took one small sip, just enough to taste it, as she watched the man deliberately cross the room to the one remaining light—a lamp on the nightstand—and dimmed it until she could barely see her glass and had to rely on the movement of shadows for the rest.

She put the glass down next to his on the table.

“Is it not to your liking, darling? Should I call for another bottle?”

“Unless you want more, I was going to suggest getting to business.”