“She’s right over there.”
“The one with the Roch Voisine button on her knapsack?”
“Not her. The girl next to her—the cute one with short hair.”
“Oh.” He studied her for a moment. “I thought you were more into femme girls.”
“I’m into people who might be into me. It’s a philosophy that tends to get me laid once a year, so I stick with it.”
Carl returned with a tower of books. “Why are we hiding in the shadows?”
“Shelby just spotted her online crush,” Andrew explained. “She’s sitting—”
“God, don’t point!” She grabbed his arm. “Okay. Let’s come at this logically. What are my options?”
Carl shook his head. “You’re overthinking it. Just go over there and ask her out.”
“That would never work.”
“It works for me.”
“You have an imaginary journal and a buttload of confidence. The rest of us are just tiny fish, totally at your mercy in the dating pool.”
“Don’t be a wimp. You’re brilliant and sexy. All you have to do is walk over there, lean in close, and invite her to a poetry reading, or the animal shelter—wherever queer girls go when they’re on a date.”
“I think Erin Mouré’s launching her new chapbook,” Andrew said. “That could be your in. She has this routine with a suitcase and gloves that’s always a hit.”
“No. I’ll freeze up. One of you has to do it.”
Carl stared at her. “How will that work?”
“I don’t know. One of you could start a conversation with her, and just kind of steer her into queer waters, to see what her type is. Then at least I’d know if I stood a chance. I swear, this girl has almost no information on her profile. Her messages are practically in cipher.”
“If I do that,” Carl replied, “she’ll think I’m trying to hit on her.”
“Then tone it down. Or—you know—tone it up instead. Act queer.”
“If I knew how to do that, my dating pool would be a lot wider.” He looked thoughtful. “Andrew could pull it off, though.”
He glared at Carl. “What are you suggesting?”
“You’ve got—okay, how can I put this gently?” He smiled, which was distracting. “You’ve got a very academic vibe.”
“So do you.”
“That’s not what I mean. When you talk to people, you seem genuinely interested in what they’re saying. You listen. It doesn’t feel like you’re trying to pick them up.”
“You’re saying I’m that guy.” He sighed. “The friend-zone guy. I’ve got all the sex appeal of a cuddly Lorax.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, buddy. You’re at least as sexy as Yertle the Turtle.”
“I’m not really liking either of you right now.”
“Please, Andrew.” Shelby hugged him. “You’re funny, and creative, and if you do this for me, I’ll buy you coffee for a month.”
“Coffee and a cruller, Monday to Friday.”
“Done.”
He stepped back. “Fine. Don’t blame me if I return empty-handed, though. You might as well send a code monkey into a cage match.”
Andrew walked over to the bank of computers. He took a seat by the machine next to Ingrid, which made distressed noises as it booted up. Introductions were his Kryptonite. He never knew how to break the ice with someone. He lacked a group instinct; at parties, while everyone else was colliding with each other, he would stand silently with his back to the wall. Shelby and Carl were both patient with his silences. They knew that talking to him required a certain amount of fishing with brightly colored lures. Most people were in a hurry, though. He hated the pressure of being concise. If he was going to talk, he needed to editorialize a bit, to slide adjectives like tiles until he found the best configuration.
He also resisted looking people in the eye. If he knew someone well, trusted them, he could maintain eye contact. But it felt intimate—sensual, even—not something to be practiced casually with strangers. As a result, he’d developed highly effective peripheral vision. While appearing to stare at the progress bar on his monitor, he could also see that Ingrid was looking up articles on the ProQuest Education database. That didn’t bode well for starting up a conversation. He studied Anglo-Saxon poetry—what did he know about K–12 education? Maybe she was a research assistant, though. Her field might be entirely different.
She clicked on an article titled “Teaching Young-Adult Fantasy Fiction.”
Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he turned to her. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’ve read that article by Kearnes, and…it’s not great.”
She looked at him with interest. “Really? My supervisor recommended it.”
“It’s full of holes. The introduction’s okay, but then she goes off on this tangent about wizardry schools and doesn’t even mention Ursula Le Guin.”
“Well—the Earthsea books aren’t strictly considered young-adult literature.”
“You don’t think Tombs of Atuan is a girl’s coming-of-age story?”
“She spends most of her time being chased through catacombs by a chubby eunuch. I’m not sure that most North American girls can relate to that.”
“True, but isn’t it also about finding her voice? Sure, there’s the weird sexual tension between her and Sparrowhawk—who’s seriously into the prince, anyway—but in the end, it’s just Arha alone, a Kargish girl on the edge of the void. She refuses her fate and finds her true name, the one word in all the world that belongs to her. And she does it without a spellbook, or a sidekick, or archery expertise. She walks out of the dark and into a brand-new life.”
“Do you study the genre?”
“No. I study old poetry. But I’ve been reading fantasy forever. I used to skip gym class and read The Prydain Chronicles in the parking lot of my middle school. I’d crouch behind the cars and wish that I had an oracular pig of my very own.”
She smiled. “I can relate to that.”
“I’m Andrew.”
“Ingrid.”
She extended her hand. He tried to shake it firmly, even though touching a stranger’s hand made him slightly uncomfortable. He met her eyes, counted two beats silently in his head, then looked back at her monitor.
“You can also try CBCA Education,” he said. “Depending on what you’re researching.”
“It’s for my thesis. I’m writing on gender in YA texts.”
“There’s no shortage of cross-dressing knights.”
“I know, right?”
He felt himself hitting a conversational wall. Carl would know what to do. He’d ask something mildly inappropriate, but his smile would soften the implication. He looked over at Shelby, who was still half-hidden behind the pillar. She gave him a thumbs-up. She had no idea that they’d been talking about Ursula Le Guin the whole time.
“So—” he began unsteadily. “Have you seen Farscape?”
“What’s that?”
He resisted his desire to explain the history of the Sebacean Empire. “It’s a science-fiction show about an astronaut who gets shot through a wormhole.”
“I don’t watch a lot of television. Except for Dinosaur Train.”
Andrew had no idea how to respond to that. “Well, there’s this character named Aeryn Sun, who’s powerful, but fragile. And there’s another character, named Zhaan, who’s blue and bald, and she can have mind-sex.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“Anyways—they’re both attractive in their own way, but Aeryn has some serious female masculinity going on, while Zhaan’s more conventionally—”
“Why are you explaining this to me?”
He blinked. “I—have no idea. I should let you work on your thesis.”
“Yeah. It was nice to meet you, though.”
“You too. Good luck with those databases.”
“Thanks.”
He walked back over to the pillar.
“I’m impresse
d,” Shelby said. “You talked to her for a while.”
“That’s true. And even if I don’t have any useful information, that shouldn’t stop you from buying me coffee on Mondays and Wednesdays. I’ll forfeit the cruller.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“Databases. Then fantasy novels. Then Farscape.” He stared at the carpet. “I may have tried to ascertain her sexual type by describing characters from the show.”
“That’s…not extremely weird.”
“Did she have a thing for tiny emperors in floating chairs?” Carl asked. “That could be a difficult fetish to satisfy, outside of the Uncharted Territories.”
“I found out that she’s in the Department of Education,” Andrew said. “That’s something. If you want to stalk her, you at least know where to hide. Also, she studies young-adult fantasy fiction and watches something called Dinosaur Train. What is that?”
Shelby frowned. “It’s a children’s show.”
“Maybe it’s part of her thesis,” Carl said. “You never know.”
“You promised there’d be no blame,” Andrew reminded her. “If you’d gone over there yourself, the results would have been very different.”
“I would have either peed my pants or gone mute. Possibly both.”
“I can teach you how to talk to girls,” Carl offered.
“Right. I don’t think inviting her to look at my Lego castles will work.”
“I’ve never done that.” He sighed. “Okay. Maybe once. But she seemed really into my description of the miniature trebuchet.”
“Trust me—she wasn’t.” Shelby turned to Andrew. “Thank you. The outcome wasn’t ideal, but we know a bit more about her. It’s a start.”
“A start would be asking her out,” Carl said.
“We have very different rule books. Let’s just go.”
They walked to the Arts building, which housed their departments. Carl persuaded them to let him use the printer in the LCS computer lab. Andrew and Shelby checked their TA mailboxes, which were both empty. As they walked back to the south entrance, Shelby lingered outside the library. Carl and Andrew both took her by the hand, leading her forward.
The night was warm. They followed the path lights that led them through Wascana Park. Everyone was avoiding the south side, where police had set up caution tape and posted signs about the coyotes. The north end seemed empty, but when Andrew looked closely, he saw small groups milling together. They spoke in low voices, trying not to attract attention. He couldn’t tell if they were companies planning their latest quest or just students getting high and complaining about their majors. From what he could tell, everyone had a separate entry point, a piece of the park that resonated for him or her. If you spent enough time in a group, you’d eventually find a single spot that worked for all of you. Their spot was in a copse of trees next to the gazebo, just within sight of the lamppost that always reminded him of Narnia. No Mr. Tumnus in the true park, though. Only the silenoi, whose cloven feet struck the rocks as they hunted you.
They waited until the shadows had thickened. Then they undressed, stowing their clothes in plastic bags, which they stuffed into trees. A wind came off the water, licking at them. Andrew shivered. Carl put one arm around him, the other around Shelby.
“Ready?”
They nodded. The air changed. The darkness attained a pitch that they could feel, that their blood remembered. They stepped forward. As he unraveled, Andrew’s last thought was of a girl running through catacombs, in search of a broken ring.
Then the park closed its jaws.
5
RAIN WAS RARE IN ANFRACTUS, LIKE AN eclipse, or a winning streak. It sang against the stones, drenching the moss until it resembled a wet yellow pelt. Steam rose from the ground as febrile clouds spread across the sky, stuttering thunder. Roldan stood in his alley, naked and grinning. The rain covered him in a mixed blessing, which was his favorite kind. He felt the water streaming through his hair, down his chest, pooling warmly between his toes. It reminded him of a dream where he’d been floating through seaweed, eyes closed, trusting the lazy current. When he looked into the water, he could see anemones with familiar faces. He stood for a few moments more, then pulled the loose bricks out of the wall. His boots, tunica, and smallclothes were as he’d left them, along with his coin purse (mostly empty) and the knife, wrapped in musty silk.
He dressed and pulled the cowl over his head, which blocked out the rain’s touch but not its sound. He liked the chorus of whispers. If he listened closely, he could hear the muffled calls of the undinae, carried by the raindrops. Their liquid messages were mostly unintelligible, but he could pick out a few words. Pearl. Patience. Need.
When he’d first arrived in Anfractus, the voices were all indistinct. Murmuring laughter, the occasional snort, empty morphemes that tickled him like bug bites. Finding himself naked in an alley, it was an easy leap to assume that he’d gone insane. As his fear increased, the voices grew louder, more insistent. He wandered the city wrapped in a stolen bedsheet while sinister plosives made a racket around his feet. They padded after him, shadowed him, until he found himself back in the alley. Pushed to the wall, shivering, he closed his eyes and listened. The words began to move along obscure chains, adhering to each other, forming liaisons. Then he heard the question, stinking of sulfur and sun-baked rust:
Lost?
Over time, he’d learned to both isolate and suppress the voices. He could numb his ears by concentrating on other senses—the tongues of the cobblestones that wanted to cut his boots, the reek of night soil and unwashed bodies, the taste of rain and iron. The lares always grew more strident when they could tell that he was ignoring them, but like a sore throat or dirty thought, he could push them away if he concentrated. Eventually, they’d grow bored and whisper to someone else. Why did they even talk to him? What could a nemo possibly have to offer? Maybe they just liked the sound of his voice.
You have a dangerous talent. The salamander had whispered it, flicking her tongue in the gnomo’s ear. But what had she meant? If his talent was so dangerous, why was he wearing patched boots and a soiled tunica? Nobody saw him as dangerous. Yet the salamander had remembered him. Lares didn’t usually do that.
He met them at the clepsydra. Morgan was not impressed by the rain. Her dark hair was wilting. Babieca stuck his tongue out to catch the drops.
“I can’t carry a bow in this weather,” she said miserably. “I had to leave it in the alley. I feel naked without it.”
“You’ve got your hunting knife,” Babieca replied. “I’ve got my short sword, and Roldan has the lupo’s dagger. We’ll be fine.”
“He’s not a lupo,” Roldan said. “He’s a meretrix.”
“They both mean whore, don’t they?”
Morgan gave him an odd look. “I hardly think you can take the moral high ground. You’re a trovador without a gens. A meretrix commands respect.”
“You can’t fuck your way to respectability.”
“You’re no stranger to the basia. If you have no respect for the people who work there, why do you go?”
“It passes the time.”
“You’re being irrational,” Roldan said.
Babieca turned to him. “Why?”
“You share a side. The meretrices belong to the night gens, and you belong to the day. Same side, different dice. If you ever decide to roll the night die—”
“I’d rather be a fur.”
“Even so, it’s more likely that you’ll—”
“Don’t bother,” Morgan interjected. “He’s getting sulky. Let’s just go.”
“Where? We’ve got hours to kill before we can visit the basia.” Roldan could feel the weight of the knife. He wanted to be rid of it. “I suppose we could visit the Seven Sages and try to win back some of our lost money.”
“I have a better idea,” Babieca said. “Let’s try a different caupona.”
The Brass Gear was on the edge of the Subura, although still technic
ally in Vici Secreta. It was one of the few cauponae in the scholars’ quarter, save for the infamous undercroft of the lyceum, whose existence had never wholly been confirmed. The lyceum itself was a grand building, fronted in pale blue marble, whose cupola reflected the sun like a brass helmet. Roldan would have given anything to wander among the tabularia, sampling scrolls and books with freshly pumiced covers, but only spadones and artifices had access to the building, along with a few other high-ranking citizens.
The Gens of Spadones controlled the circulation of documents in Anfractus, while the artifices spent most of their time repairing old machinae. They also looked after the fountains, the aqueduct, and the great cloaca, which required constant maintenance. Although few liked to admit it, the city functioned only because of the work of eunuchs and builders. Without them, Anfractus would crumble into piles of rusty cogs and mildewed parchment.
They entered the caupona, whose doors were studded with spare parts. It was surprisingly bright on the inside—dozens of lamps hung next to polished brass discs, which scattered a warm glow over everything. There were also plenty of glass lenses connected to smaller lamps, which provided enough light to read by. Many of the customers barely paid attention to their drinks. Instead, they tinkered with machinae of every sort. There were cabinets on wheels, made of embossed ivory, with compartments that slid open and closed. Miniature fountains with preening doves attached to cylinders. Wheels of Fortuna that shrieked as they spun endlessly on golden pins. The artifices squinted through their lamp-lit lenses, consulting wax tablets covered in spidery formulae. Occasionally, they would take a bite of cold sausage, a sip of warm ale, then return to their calculations. Roldan had never seen so many silent souls in a caupona. It would have resembled a workshop entirely, if not for the smell of wine and smoke.
Roldan knew very little about the Gens of Artifices. Long ago, or so it was said, Anfractus had been full of wondrous machinae: speaking tablets, perpetual torches, iron mice that carried secret missives. Now only a few of the true machinae remained, kept safely within the Arx of Violets. The power that made them no longer existed. The machinae that now filled the caupona with their sparks and peculiar breathing were no more than toys, designed to mimic the shadow of life. They could dance in circles or rock back and forth, but that was it. The only true machina that Roldan had laid eyes on was the great clepsydra, nearly as old as the city itself. The artifices knew how to maintain it, but the secret of its construction eluded them. None of their toys, currently on display before him, would attract the green fire of a salamander. Not like the fibula. It had been different.
Pile of Bones Page 8
