Part of Your World (Twisted Tales)(38)

“Inked?” Ariel asked curiously. “Are you an artist?”

“An artist of the skin. Argent the Inker, at your service!” She pushed up her sleeves and showed Ariel her arms. They were dark and freckled with even darker spots, scars, and other spots of varying shades without a name or purpose. But in the places where the skin hadn’t aged or stretched or sagged so much were some of the most incredible pictures Ariel had ever seen.

A ship with its sails billowed, a fat-cheeked cloud puffing wind to speed it along. A single wave, curled and cresting with foam flying off, so full of life and movement Ariel almost felt it on her cheeks. A fish caught midjump—honestly, in an unlikely contrapposto of tailfin and lips, but still—seemed to glitter in the light.

Everything was a single shade of dark blue; Ariel’s mind filled in the color without her even realizing it. The fineness of the lines was almost unimaginable from such a mortal creature; all the pictures were as detailed and delicate as scrimshaw.

On skin.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Ariel breathed. Of course sailors drowned, and sometimes their bloated bodies sank to the bottom of the sea before scavengers tore them up. Often they had tattoos: blurry, dark images of anchors and hearts and words like Mom. Nothing that bore any resemblance to what she saw now.

“I was quite famous, before my eyes started to go,” the woman said proudly. “Sailors—captains—people from all over the world would come to see me, them that could afford it. As far away as Kikunari! Oh, I did some amazing things…an entire circus for a girl in Lesser Gaulica…Ah, well. Now I’m selling apples to make ends meet. At least I have my little house and orchard by the sea. And my own teeth. There’s them as have far less.”

“What a fascinating story,” Ariel breathed. She could already hear the song in her head: something about an artist in a shack by the ocean, whose pictures came alive off her arms and kept her company…Porpoises that dove into the waves, gulls that flew off her skin and into the air and…

…and squawked?

Ariel jumped. A real gull had broken her reveries: it had landed on a roof nearby and was flapping its wings and making noises at her. Jona.

“I must go,” she said, throwing the sack of fruit over her shoulder as gracefully as she could. Things in this world were heavy. “But I will see you again.”

“I pray you do,” the woman said softly.

The mermaid smiled to herself as she walked away, wondering when the woman would find the satchel of gems and coins that she had left on the stand where the apples had been.





He gnawed on his quail leg contemplatively, thinking about the strange meeting with the metalworkers, and of misty fantasy mountains, and of how much simpler life would be if he were a sailor, or a metalworker, or a real prince who went out and found dragons.

Suddenly he leapt up and strode out of the room, feeling something akin to panic.

The halls were filled with strange people. He didn’t remember it being like this before…before he was married. Some looked at him—the prince—suspiciously. Men in dark breeches and boots barely gave him a passing glance and whispered behind gloved hands. Representatives from eastern districts walked with broad steps and wore more traditional garb, loose shirts and broad leather belts. These gave the prince a nod at least. Women with waists so tiny and tight it was hard to see how they could breathe minced along in skirts too wide to easily fit through doors.

“Who are all these people?” Eric asked, more confused than ever. “When did they all start showing up in my castle?”

But of course, it all started when everything that was bad had started…

“…the night of my wedding.” He paused, consciously directing his thoughts to that day. He replayed memories that were so dusty and unused they sprang up clear and glossy, unmarred by use or the merciful editing of time. Each moment played like…a play.

There really was a mermaid. And a mer—uh, man? La Sirenetta was all real?

A pair of soldiers walked by, and didn’t even bother to salute the prince.

Am I mad? Eric wondered, feeling like a ghost as real life played on around him.

“Excuse me, I need your signature here, Your Highness.” A stalk-thin man held out a small board with a paper neatly tacked to it, and a quill. He at least sees me, Eric thought dryly. “The dynamite from Druvest. I hate to bother you, but the vendor must get back on the next boat….”

“Dynamite? The…explode-y stuff?” Eric winced at how stupid he sounded. But he couldn’t think of any other way of asking.

“Yes, Your Highness. It’s part of the new munitions order. Much more exciting than the bill for oats from Bretland I signed in your name last week, if I may say so. All new technology! What a world we live in.”

“Yes, what a world,” Eric repeated darkly. “No, I will not sign this now. I need to review our accounts first. No more orders for anything military without my review.”

The man started to protest but saw the look in Eric’s eyes. He chose instead to bow and back away. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Eric sighed. He had read about dynamite, of course, and the idea was exciting—like firecrackers but bigger.

Much, much bigger.

And without the pretty colored sparkles.

When had Eric agreed to such an order?