“Gods help me, another stupid University prank,” said the watchman, frowning.
“I hope there are no hard feelings,” said Rafe. “Boys will be boys, you know!”
“But my window,” said the butcher.
“Oh, the ink will wash right off,” said Rafe. “It was in need of a good scrubbing anyway—look at all these streaks! Come, Micah”—he grasped Micah’s arm firmly above the elbow—“let’s get back to the University. The lads are waiting!” And without another word, he dragged him past the watchman and the butcher, who stood dumbly aside, and then through the crowd, which parted for them amicably, with grins and chuckles, even a few hearty thumps on the back that caused Rafe to wince, knowing how distressing such contact could be for Micah.
“Cheeky lads!”
“Well done, Micah!”
Micah bore up surprisingly well, only pulling out of Rafe’s grasp once they were in the clear and had hustled down the busy street, away from the crowd they had drawn. “What club, Rafe?”
“There is no club,” Rafe said, glancing at him as they walked on. “Sorry about that—I had to come up with something to get us away.”
“Good,” said Micah. “I wouldn’t want to belong to a club like that. It’s mean to make people do embarrassing things in public.”
“Very mean,” he said. “Look, Micah, about those calculations—”
Micah thrust the bulging sack at Rafe. “Here, hold this!”
Rafe took the sack and peeked inside. “Are these turnips?”
“Yes,” said Micah, and looked up from the papers he’d been sorting through. “My uncle’s turnips. You promised to take them to Tremontaine House! This is the fifteenth time I’ve reminded you.”
“I’ll take them next time for sure,” he said. “But the calculations—”
“The port!” cried Micah. “We’ve got to shut it down, Rafe!”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you see the numbers?”
“They were a bit runny,” Rafe said.
“It’s a sphere.”
“Excuse me?”
“The world. It’s a sphere. Not an egg shape. Kaab and the Kinwiinik are wrong.” Micah shook a handful of papers at Rafe. “That’s why I couldn’t get the tables to come out right! That’s why the star charts are off.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“I did the calculations.”
“On a shop window.”
“It doesn’t matter where. Numbers don’t lie.”
“I see,” said Rafe, and he felt his mind click abruptly into a higher gear. He stopped walking. “Land’s sakes.”
“What?” said Micah, who had also stopped.
“Your results indirectly prove my theory.” He felt a stirring of pride, of confidence, that had been sorely lacking these last hours and days.
“Yes, of course. That’s obvious.”
“It’s just a question of working out the math.”
“Obviously,” Micah said, rolling his eyes. “But that’s not important.”
“Not important?” cried Rafe. “Not important? Micah, it’s only the single most important thing in the world!”
“No, it’s not. What’s important is the port.”
Rafe blinked. “What are you on about?”
“The port,” he said. “Every Kinwiinik ship is in terrible danger. Their whole system of navigation is based on a”—he visibly groped for the words—“faulty premise. That’s why we have to shut it down. We have to save those poor sailors—Kaab’s people!”
“Oh great god,” Rafe groaned. He recalled how Kaab had told them all those weeks ago at the Inkpot of the star charts used by her people. If those charts were wrong, as he now knew them to be . . . “You’re right! We have to get down to the docks!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Micah said crossly.
“But hang on a minute,” said Rafe, feeling the gears of his mind shift again.
“We don’t have a minute!”
“The Kinwiinik make the crossing regularly.”
“Yes, they’ve been very lucky!”
“Have they?” Rafe asked. Luck was a matter of math too, and he wasn’t sure anyone was that lucky.
“What do you mean?”
“Where did you get those star charts again, Micah?”
“From Tess.”
He nodded. “Tess the forger.”
“Well, really from Kaab.”
“Who is sleeping with Tess. And who told us that the world was an ellipsoid. Oh sodding hell.” Rafe felt sick. The star charts were forgeries, intentionally misleading fakes. Obviously. He stopped, leaning against a lamppost as black-robed students streamed around him, intent on their next class.
“What is it?” asked Micah. “Are you all right? We have to get to the docks!”
“No,” he said. “We don’t.”
“But I just explained—”
“Kaab knows about the sphere,” he interrupted. “The Kinwiinik know.”
“They do? Who told them?”
“They’ve always known.” Rafe sighed. “Don’t you see it, Micah? Their knowledge of these things is ahead of ours, and they want to keep it that way. Their economy, their security depend upon it. Once this gets out . . . it will change everything.”
Micah looked stricken. “So . . . Kaab lied to me?”
“Yes, I’m afraid she did,” he said bitterly. “To both of us.” He was a fool not to have seen it sooner, he thought. Perhaps he would have seen it, if not for his preoccupation with a certain delicious duke. . . . But now he had new information to bring him, a discovery that would change everything in the heavens and upon the earth. What a splendid gift to lay at a lover’s feet!
“Friends don’t lie to friends,” Micah said.
Something in Micah’s voice cut through Rafe’s reflections. The boy was upset, near tears. “Look, Micah, she had to lie,” he explained gently. “She was protecting her family, her people. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“I love my family,” Micah answered without hesitation.
“Same with Kaab.”
The boy considered this for a moment. “Sometimes you have to lie to protect the ones you love,” he said, as if stating the conclusion to a difficult mathematical problem.
“That’s right.”
“So Kaab is still our friend.”
“Yes, she is,” said Rafe. “But she can’t know that we know.”
“Why not?”
Rafe shuddered to think of what the Balam family would do to protect this secret. The fact that he and Micah and Kaab were friends wouldn’t matter. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to protect them. Not with the stakes so high. “It’s complicated. But trust me. It’s better that Kaab doesn’t know. You do trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Micah said. “Well, mostly.”
Rafe ignored this. “Right now, you and I are the only ones in the City who know the truth. The first thing you have to do is write down the proof. And not on a window this time. On paper.”
“I don’t have any quills. Or ink.”
“You can get them at the Inkpot. It’s closer than home. You can work there, all right?”
“Good. I’m hungry. But what if Kaab is there?”
“Oh sodding hell,” Rafe said. “Look, if we see her, we have to pretend that everything is normal. Can you do that?”
Micah frowned. “I’ll try.”
“If there’s any talking to be done, I’ll do it, understand? I’m better at that sort of thing.”
“Yes, you are,” Micah agreed. “Just like I’m better at math.”
“Er, right,” Rafe said.
“We all have our special talents. That’s what Aunt Judith says.”
“A very wise woman. Now let’s go.” Rafe pushed off from the lamppost and strode down the sidewalk.
“Rafe!” He turned to see Micah holding up the sack of turnips.
“You forgot these.”
; Rafe grimly retraced his steps and took the sack, which he hoisted over one shoulder. “Can we go now?”
“Go where?” came the last voice he wanted to hear just then. “Can I come too?”
He turned, heart sinking into his boots. It was Kaab.
As she worked in the shell of the ruined building where she and Applethorpe practiced, every inch of Kaab’s flesh sang with joy, and there was a shining at the heart of her that made her want to close her eyes and bask in its melty glow whenever she wasn’t with Tess. When Tess was near, well, she didn’t want to stop looking at her for even an instant; she begrudged every blink. Was there a more beautiful, more perfect, more delightful creature in all creation? And to think that she, Ixkaab Balam, had won the love of this treasure among women! The scent of her strawberry hair, the smooth softness of her creamy skin, the heat of her kisses, the thrilling touch of her forger’s fingers, so skilled, so delicate, so wicked, and so wise . . .
The flat of Applethorpe’s training blade smacked against the side of Kaab’s head, hard enough to leave her seeing stars and send her own blade spinning into the dirt of the weedy yard that served as their practice ground.
“Really?” he said in a disgusted tone. “That’s it. We’re done for today.”
“But we just started,” Kaab protested, gingerly probing her scalp to see if there was any blood. There wasn’t. Applethorpe didn’t draw blood unless he meant to do so; she knew that well enough by now.
“No, we’ve just finished,” he repeated. “Bad enough that you show up late for our lesson—”
“I overslept!” she said. “I told you!”
“Overslept.” He snorted. “Is that what you call it? Over-something, that’s for sure. Forget it, Kaab. You’re in no shape for training.”
“I am in the best shape,” she protested, stooping to pick up her blade and assuming a garde position.
“Physically, yes. But mentally?” He shook his head. “Mentally you’re still in bed with our Tess.”
She rushed to deny it, because she knew Applethorpe was right. “Try again and see where I am.”
“No. Love and swords make a dangerous combination, Kaab.”
“You think I do not know this?”
“You know it up here.” Applethorpe touched the edge of his training blade lightly to the side of his head, then brought the fist that held the blade down to his heart. “But not down here.” He grinned. “Or perhaps the confusion lies farther south.”
Kaab still had trouble differentiating the cardinal points used by the Xanamwiinik, but Applethorpe’s meaning was crystal clear. The realization that she was blushing only made that blush intensify. But she didn’t lower her blade an inch. Or her gaze.
Applethorpe matched it. “I’ve seen plenty of fine swordsmen lose their lives because they were dreaming of a lover’s kiss or a whore’s embrace when they should have been concentrating on sticking the other guy with the pointy end of a blade. When you draw your sword, you have to cut through everything that binds you to your life, Kaab. Love, hate, every emotion. Nothing else can exist but the moment, the sword in your hand, your opponent, and his sword. Do you understand me? Everything else is just a distraction. And distractions are what get you killed.”
She sighed and let the point of her sword fall. If only he knew how close to home his words had cut! “I know. I cannot help it.”
“Poor thing,” he said with a smirk that belied the sympathy. “Well, no harm done. I don’t suppose you’re likely to be fighting for your life anytime soon. But I’ve got better things to do on a beautiful afternoon than smack around a lovesick girl who doesn’t have sense enough to know when to quit. You won’t improve, and my arm will just get tired. We’re taking some time off, as of now. Keep practicing your forms for at least an hour every day.”
“But when will we spar again?”
“We’ll see,” he said.
“I cannot stop being in love,” she said. “It does not work that way. I would not wish it even if I could.”
“I’ve been in love myself a time or two, believe it or not. I know what it’s like.”
“Is that why you left the City? A love affair gone bad?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, and winked. “Now, get out of here.”
Normally such cavalier treatment from Applethorpe, or anyone else, would have filled Kaab with seething resentment, but now she merely laughed, put up her training blade, buckled on her own sword, and went her merry way.
Applethorpe had been right about the afternoon: It was beautiful, even by the stingy standards of this too-cold land. The air held an actual promise of heat, if not the thing itself, and the trees lining the streets were in their full greenery at last, with flowers blooming in window boxes and the songs of birds trilling out amid the racket of horses and carts clattering over cobblestones. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself in one of the plazas of Binkiinha; all that was missing was the chattering of monkeys and the chanting of Ixchel’s priestesses on the temple stairs. She felt a pang, a keen awareness of how far away that familiar and loved world was, yet the sadness normally connected to all she’d left there was less than it had been, and she knew that she had changed in her time here, and would no doubt go on changing, and there was something wonderful in that knowledge—yet sad, too, all mixed up together.
She supposed she should go home, but she knew her aunt and uncle would only put her to work at some boring task or other, and she didn’t have the heart for it. Not today. She considered going back to surprise Tess, but Tess had her own work to do.
In the end, she decided to visit Rafe. She hadn’t seen him since he’d taken his exam, or Micah, either, and she liked to keep regular tabs on the girl’s progress with her calculations, or her lack thereof. But she hadn’t gone far when she saw the two of them huddled beside a lamppost. Rafe’s back was to her, but she would have recognized that lanky form anywhere, even behind the sack he carried slung over one shoulder, while Micah stood out like an inky thumb, her face smudged with dark streaks. Kaab felt a surge of affection for these quirky, wonderful people whom the gods had placed in her path, and she hurried over, eager to share this gift of a perfect afternoon.
“Can we go now?” she heard Rafe say.
“Go where?” she asked. “Can I come too?”
He turned in surprise, and the look on his face—though he immediately disguised it with a grin—told her that something was wrong. A glance at Micah confirmed it; the girl was blushing fiercely, gaze fixed on the dirty sidewalk. The fact that she clutched an armful of loose papers among which Kaab recognized Tess’s star charts deepened her unease.
“We’re just heading to the Inkpot,” said Rafe. “Of course you can come—that is, if you don’t have anything more important to do.”
Two can play this game, she thought. “What could be more important than congratulating you on your good news? You are a Master now. How does it feel?”
“Oh, you know,” Rafe said airily as they began to walk down the pavement. “It’s a burden, of course, but one does one’s best not to forget the little people who helped one to greatness.”
Kaab knew a diversion when she saw it. “Speaking of burdens, what’s in that sack? Books?”
“Turnips.” He sighed. “Don’t ask.”
“And what about you, Micah?” she continued brightly, leaning around Rafe, who, she noted, had been careful to place himself between them. “How did you get so dirty? Did you fall into an inkpot?”
Micah kept her eyes on her feet. “I’m not supposed to talk.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because Rafe is better at it than me. But I’m better at math.”
Rafe broke in with a brittle laugh. “Micah, you take things so literally!” He turned to Kaab. “He is better at math, but sometimes one doesn’t enjoy being reminded of it quite so often. After all, I am a Master now.”
Micah raised her head, a confused expression on her face. “But
you said—”
“Ah!” Rafe interjected with obvious relief. “Here we are!”
He ushered them into the Inkpot, looking about the noisy, smoke-filled room as if in search of a group they might join, but he didn’t appear to know anyone present, for he led them to an empty table. He sat, stowing the sack of turnips at his feet. Micah perched on the bench beside him as nervously as a bird, letting the papers in her arms fall onto the tabletop.
“I will buy the drinks,” Kaab offered in a cheery voice. “Will you have beer?”
Micah shook her head, gaze glued to the papers, which she had begun to arrange into some kind of order that wasn’t immediately obvious to Kaab. “Cider for me. And a tomato pie. And ink and quills.”
“Ink and quills?” Kaab looked at Micah, narrowing her eyes. “Micah, we are here to celebrate, not work.”
“You know Micah,” said Rafe. “That brain of his—always churning.”
“And how is the work?” Kaab asked. “Any progress?”
“None at all,” said Rafe as Micah continued sorting the papers. “Isn’t that right, Micah?”
“Yes,” said Micah, and then glanced up at Kaab with an expression of almost frightening intensity. “I love my family.”
“Well, I hope so,” said Kaab, taken aback. “They seem like good people to me.”
Rafe laughed that brittle laugh again. “He’s a bit homesick is all. Nothing a slice or two of tomato pie won’t cure!”
While Kaab was placing her order at the counter, she took the opportunity to observe Micah and Rafe in the mirrors behind the bar. They sat with their heads close together in low, urgent conversation. Actually, Rafe was talking. Micah sat quietly, still as a statue. Rafe glanced up at Kaab, gauging her attention, and, seeing her back to him, took a handful of papers from the table and slipped them into the sack of turnips.
By now, Kaab was certain that something dire had occurred. And she had a sickening feeling that it had to do with navigation. Could it be that despite her efforts to set Micah down the wrong path, the clever girl had found her way to the truth? Kaab groaned inwardly, seeing the happy life she’d begun to build for herself here in the City snatched away—and Tess with it—all because of one stupid slip of the tongue . . . and one girl’s obstinate genius.
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 39
