“I’ll be down in a second,” Shelby said. “I’m just doing the dishes.”
“Do you want a coffee?”
“No, I’m on a tea kick.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s been going pretty well.”
“Do you want a coffee?”
“I want your unqualified support.”
“You always have that.”
“Thank you. Shit! I hate this detachable spigot. It’s a trap. I always manage to spray myself in the face.”
He leaned against the concrete façade of the Globe, listening to the sound of water on the other end of the line. It was like a New Age CD with intermittent cursing.
“I’m pretty stoked about the lecture this morning,” he said. “Wulf and Eadwacer is one of my favorite Anglo-Saxon poems.”
“It’s cryptic. The students are going to hate it.”
“At first. But then they’ll be intrigued.”
“They won’t.”
“A few might be.”
“Andrew, it’s a service class. None of them want to be there, and we’re forcing them to read a thousand years’ worth of literature. We’ll be lucky if anyone in our sections remembered to bring a textbook.”
“I’ve got handouts.”
Shelby hung up.
A moment later, she emerged from a door next to the restaurant. She’d decided to go with the hat, along with a scarf and skirt with a raven print. He was already sweating in his jeans, but teaching in shorts was one of the few rules that he refused to break. The entire Department of Psychology taught in khaki shorts, and it made them resemble a cult. Plains University had once been a hotspot for psychedelic experiments. They’d done work on LSD in the sixties, and there was still a room on the third floor with carpeted walls. The Department of Literature and Cultural Studies, where he and Shelby both worked as teaching assistants, was more sedate. Aside from a mural featuring winged books, there wasn’t a lot of consciousness-expanding going on.
“The weather’s shifty,” Shelby said. “I’ve brought plenty of layers, and if need be, I’m prepared to enter full Blossom mode.”
“I guess that makes me Six.”
“You both share certain qualities.”
He was drawn back to the buffalo statue. They were plentiful in Saskatchewan before contact. Oscana was the buffalo ossuary of the Plains Cree, and now it was a park, surrounded by a manufactured lake. It was one of the first things he noticed when he arrived here. The park reminded him of playing Myst. He kept trying to press rusty buttons, hoping they’d yield up the Book of Atrus, or at least a mechanical puzzle.
“Did you hear about that guy who was mauled?”
He tore his attention away from the buffalo. “Mauled by what?”
“Coyotes, they think. It was on the morning news. They found his body on the southern edge of the park.”
He frowned. “I thought the last coyote sighting was southeast of Regina. Closer to Richardson. That’s nowhere near the city limits. What would they be doing in the park?”
“I have no idea. Maybe they’re really into ducks.”
“Coyotes hunt pets—not humans.”
“I guess there was a pack of them.”
“There’s a pack of wild coyotes roaming the park, and nobody noticed until today?”
“Maybe the guy was drunk. I don’t know. I was half-listening to the radio while I did the dishes. I only thought about it because animal control is going to be sweeping the area. We’ll have to be careful to avoid them.”
“We don’t usually go that far south.” Andrew shook his head. “Coyotes? I can imagine them killing a child, but a full-grown man?”
“Nature has to be respected. Otherwise, it hunts you where you live.”
They walked to Broad Street. Carl lived above the red awning of Love Selection, which was one of the few spots open past ten in the downtown core. His thoughts returned to the chamberlain. He’d lose his mint status once Andrew sawed through the plastic, but the thought of posing him in the window, next to Willow and Tara, was fairly intoxicating. A fallen Skeksi should make them a triumvirate.
“So—I’m sort of e-mailing someone,” Shelby said. “She responded to my OkCupid profile.”
“What did she say?”
“That I had great taste in movies. But her profile is really sparse. I know that she’s a grad student and she listens to Fleetwood Mac. That’s about it.”
“Have you figured out what department she works in?”
“I’ve narrowed it down to the humanities.”
“Well done. What’s her name?”
“Ingrid.”
“I feel a website search coming on.”
“Don’t you think I tried that? She’s not listed on any of the departmental sites.”
“You could just ask her.”
“It seems forward.”
“Do you see a date on the horizon?”
“I was thinking of asking her to see a movie.”
“Good call. Prometheus is playing.”
“I’m not taking her to an Alien prequel. It should be something fluffy. Something without the possibility of incubation.”
Carl was standing outside when they got there.
“Just a second,” he said. “I’m texting my mom to figure out what time we’re going to Skype tonight. If we stick to audio, I can still play Mass Effect with the sound off.”
“You’re a paragon,” Shelby replied.
“She’s distracted too. I feel like we communicate best in that state.”
They decided to take the university bus, which vibrated with anxiety. Two students across from them were doing something with flash cards. He spotted a few professors reading.
“I hid the knife,” Andrew said quietly.
“Parking.” Shelby gave him a look. “That’s two times in the space of an hour.”
“It isn’t parking if I avoid specifics. I could be talking about any kind of knife.”
“We’ll revisit this at lunch.”
He must work in the Subura. That’s where the basia do business, flanked by street popinae who sell mushrooms and chickpea soup. He could be on this bus right now, any one of these people. They all looked so different outside the park. When he first met Shelby, he thought: She can’t be Morgan. They didn’t trust their reflections. Babieca played the cithara, but Carl didn’t know anything about music. Roldan talked to lares. Andrew could barely talk to Conexus Credit Union when they called.
They arrived at Plains University. Carl went to the Department of History, while Shelby and Andrew made their way to Literature and Cultural Studies. In order to complement the flying books, they’d recently put up images of theorists, magnified to frightening proportions. Michel Foucault regarded them sternly as they passed. Dr. Laclos had already left his office, which meant that they had about five minutes to make it to the lecture hall. He’d begun his PowerPoint presentation by the time they got there, but they were able to slip in beneath the cover of semidarkness. He talked about the opacity of medieval literature, the strange but familiar edges of Anglo-Saxon words that demanded more spit than modern English.
“The poem,” he said, “is about two people separated from each other. A small life comes between them, carried to the darkest part of the woods. What does Wulf deliver that night? It could be a child, a pup, or a giedd. A shared riddle. The vocabulary frustrates us at every turn, refusing to decide even on a species. We’re given only a thicket, rainy weather, the coming of a distant lord. ‘Ungelic is us,’ says Eadwacer. ‘It’s different with us.’ We’ll never know precisely what this means, or why they are.”
“‘Ungelic is us,’” Andrew whispered. It seemed suitable for multiple occasions.
After class, they delivered tutorials. He tried to keep his students distracted with images. In the end, he got sucked into describing a medieval shoe for twenty minutes, and discussion of the poem was rushed. They practiced alliteration, and then he let them go. Afterward, he reunited
with Shelby, who confessed that she let her students talk about dire wolves.
“We were sort of on track. At least they were thinking medieval.” She checked her phone. “Carl is stuck at some kind of wine-and-cheese thing for the History job candidate, and he needs us to rescue him.”
They made their way into the multipurpose room of the History Department. Everyone was gathered in a semihostile circle around the candidate, who was eating Swedish meatballs and looking nervous. Carl hid next to the cucumber slices. He smiled when he saw them. Shelby grabbed him by the arm, and they squeezed through the circle of masticating academics.
The cafeteria had turnstiles, which made them feel like they were walking into a Zellers department store. He and Shelby made for the salad bar, while Carl got a burger from the counter known as the “fixin’s station.” Once they’d paid, they took their customary table near the back.
Andrew stared at his plate. For years, he’d had the same lunch at the cafeteria: potato salad, watercress, sweet pickles, coleslaw (his substitute for fiber), pickled beets, and croutons. He liked orderly things with pleasing textures. Ever since he was a first-year undergrad, he’d come to this cafeteria to talk about ideas. His friends also liked to discuss relationships, but he preferred to talk about words themselves rather than the ways that people misused them.
“Remember our first meal here?” he asked.
“I was sitting at this table, crying,” Shelby replied.
“You’d overextended your credit card at the bookstore.”
“I didn’t have any money left. I couldn’t pay my rent.”
“You were a hot mess.”
“I’d like to think I still am.”
Carl turned to me. “Please eat some protein.”
“There’s protein here.”
“I don’t think you know what protein is, Andrew.” He put half of his burger on my plate. “Here. It will make me feel better if you eat it, or at least part of it.”
“You’ll be hungry.”
“I’ve still got fries coming. They just had to change the oil.”
He took a bite of the burger. “Will you sleep better now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Can we talk about the knife?”
Shelby looked around the cafeteria. “Most of these people are distracted. I guess it’s safe to park here for a bit.”
“Okay—what about that fibula?” Carl asked. “It lit up like an unholy Christmas tree. What do you think it does?”
“There’s no way of knowing,” Andrew replied. “The lares aren’t specific. If we want to find anything out, we’ll have to ask the meretrix.”
“The Subura is big,” Carl said, “and full of dead-end streets that only go somewhere if you know the right people. We can’t visit every basia. It’ll take all day.”
“We only have to visit the best ones. Did you see what he was wearing? He’s obviously high up in the gens.”
“All the more reason for him to avoid contact with us. Some of the houses won’t let you past the front doors without a sizable donation.”
“We could use part of our savings to get in.”
“What savings?” He turned to Shelby. “There are meretrices at the arx. Could you talk to one of them?”
“They won’t tell me anything. People who spend time with the basilissa aren’t in the habit of giving away information.”
“Maybe you’ll run into him.”
“We’d run into him in the Subura,” Andrew said.
Carl shook his head, silent while a cafeteria employee dropped off his fries. When they were alone once more, he said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to wander around, looking for a meretrix that we know nothing about.”
“Well.” Shelby looked at both of them. “There is one person who might know. She’s probably still angry about that whole desertion thing, though.”
“I don’t think so.” Carl waved a fry, as if to emphasize his point. “We’re not going back there. She’ll murder us.”
“Not if you pay her for lost wages.”
“She’s right,” Andrew said. “Domina Pendelia used to brag about visiting the arx. She and the meretrix probably run in the same circles.”
Carl looked miserable. “She’s going to take every last coin. And she might not even tell us anything useful.”
“She likes you,” Andrew reminded him. “Wear something that shows off your arms.”
He returned to playing with his croutons. It was fun to soak them in pickled beet juice until they were purple. Then he could pretend that they were alien food cubes. A flash of something caught his eye. He looked over at the nearest table, just as an empty tray fell off the edge, clattering to the floor. As he watched, the tray seemed to move an inch forward. He squinted. The tray didn’t move again. Not a soul had noticed. It must have been—
“Andrew?” Shelby frowned at him. “Were you listening? I asked what edition of Beowulf you were using.”
“Chickering,” he replied absently, still staring at the tray. “It has a bit less verve than Heaney’s translation, but it’s more accurate.”
“I never thought of Anglo-Saxon verse as being particularly high in verve,” Carl said. “Anything employing a case system is too rich for my blood.”
“Spanish comes from Latin, which has a case system.” Andrew stared at the tray, willing it to move again. “Once you get the hang of how nouns decline, it’s very efficient.”
“I prefer my nouns to stand still. What are you staring at?”
He looked up. “Nothing.”
For a moment, he imagined what would happen if lares took over the cafeteria. The salamanders could certainly help keep the pizza warm. The gnomoi could handle any necessary renovations, and the undinae would enjoy all the excess runoff from the soda dispensers. Andrew was trying to puzzle out what union the creatures would fall under when he realized that everyone was getting ready to leave. He’d barely touched his meal. He speared a purple crouton. A cafeteria worker collected the errant tray, setting it by the garbage.
3
HIS ALLEY WAS THE SAME. THE DEBRIS HAD shifted slightly, but he still recognized everything. He didn’t quite understand the utility of this moment, the crossing, which always left him in the same place. Morgan and Babieca had their own alleys, in different vici. It didn’t make sense that a city ruled by chance would allow this. He guessed that it represented a neutral square, a place to start from. The city held infinite alleys. They’d meet at the clepsydra soon, but this moment was his. The golden moss was incandescent. He smelled fish and smoke. People were shouting, wheels were smacking the cobblestones, but it all seemed far away. The alley was what he’d always wanted. His personal honeycomb, never changing.
Via Dolores was full of traffic. Wagons jammed the curbs, and several litters were jostling for pride of place on the street. This was the time for sending messages and visiting patrons. Chances were good that Domina Pendelia’s front door would be unlocked, in anticipation of morning obeisance. If they could get into the atrium, they had a chance of making her listen. Her minor infatuation with Babieca might prove distracting, and Morgan’s presence would lend a touch of respectability.
When he got to the clepsydra, Morgan was waiting for him. The heat was climbing, so everyone clustered around the fountains. As he stared at the water, he noticed a cracked die, floating. It couldn’t mean anything good.
“He’ll be late,” Morgan said. “It’s his special talent.”
“He also makes us money. We can’t really complain.”
“He’s going to argue. Maybe he won’t come.”
“He always comes.”
“Roldan, why exactly are we doing this?”
He looked surprised. “You defended the idea.”
“Returning the knife is honorable, but it leaves us broke.”
“You still have your stipend.”
“That covers food and bow repair.”
“You can have my emergency boot coin.”
“The money isn’t my only concern. After what happened in that house, I’m not sure it’s in our best interest—”
“Nothing here is in our best interest. Anfractus eats people. Why do you think there are so many furs? They’re small-time hunters, looking for conies like us. That’s all we are to them. If we want to change that, we have to play the game.”
“Returning a knife won’t get you into the Gens of Auditores.”
Roldan bit off his reply when he saw Babieca coming. She was right, of course. Domina Pendelia wasn’t going to be happy to see them. Even if she knew the meretrix, why should she help them? You didn’t become a citizen by giving away secrets for free.
“So?” Morgan looked at Babieca. “What’s your alternative plan?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You weren’t going to suggest that we sell it and split the profits?”
“Nobody would buy such a fine weapon from the likes of us. After dark, maybe, but not while the sun’s out.” He shrugged. “If you and Roldan want to do this, fine. There will be other jobs, but this is the first thing that’s seemed like—I don’t know. A quest?”
Roldan looked at Morgan. He could tell that she’d been thinking the same thing.
“Maybe nothing will happen,” he said. “But nothing is all that’s been happening to us for months, and I wouldn’t mind changing that.”
“That’s not—” She stopped herself from saying something. “I mean, if we’re all in agreement, there’s no sense arguing.”
“You were about to say something.”
“I really wasn’t.”
“I don’t hate change.”
“Roldan—”
Babieca raised his hands. “Let’s just go. We can decide who was right after she chains us all to the hypocaust.”
Pile of Bones Page 4
