door to hear.
‘So they do. Let’s begin again.’ Adam drew another shape on the floor. ‘Shack-nuth.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’ Farid stood, using his height as a form of protest.
Adam smiled. Farid could tell he was less than a threat to the man. ‘It is a Name. Shack-nuth.’
‘I won’t remember it.’
‘I see.’ Adam put down his chalk. ‘How many fruits did you have to sell on the day of the attack?’
Farid remembered exactly. It was something he had always been able to do. ‘I started with fifty-two oranges and thirty-six pomegranates,’ he said, ‘twelve mangoes and just ten apples. I sold twenty apples the day before.’
Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘How much money did you make, then? Don’t check your pockets.’
‘I sold ten oranges at two bits a piece. Five pomegranates – I haggled a bit and got five bits for two of them. Three bits for the others. The mangoes were getting soft – I knocked them down to half a bit and sold five that way. Muad stole an apple – I count that as a loss of two-and-a-half bits. I sold four more for a total of four copper nine bits. But I have more than that in my pocket.’
‘Because of the apple.’
‘Right – but of course now all my fruit is lost because of you.’
‘And you can’t remember this?’ Adam drew on the floor with his chalk. Farid recognised it:
Hiss-nick
. But he shrugged.
Adam nodded to his men, who came into the room and picked up Farid by his elbows. ‘You may go to your room. Let us know when you are ready to begin again.’
*
That night Farid tossed and turned on his pallet. The Mogyrks had put him in an airless closet. For obvious reasons they offered him no windows or outside doors, and yet he could still hear a baby crying in the house next door. As soon as the child quieted and Farid’s eyes began to close, it started up wailing again. It was no good. He had prayed to Keleb for the air to cool, for the baby to quiet and for the Mogyrks to let him go, but nothing had any effect. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Hey,’ he called out to the guard he knew stood on the other side of the door, ‘is there any water?’
He heard the man’s boots, then a silence that stretched until his sweat felt cold upon his skin. Then the door swung open and two hands laid a pitcher on the stained wood floor.
‘Let me go,’ he said, but the man only placed a lit candle next to the pitcher and closed the door.
Farid held the pitcher to his lips, but he found it dry. Reaching inside, his fingers touched upon crumpled paper. ‘Mogyrk filth,’ he muttered, smoothing it open. A pattern had been drawn there, each shape flowing into the next, the web of lines suspending rather than connecting them. He frowned, turning it this way and that in his hands, trying to remember what he had seen in the marketplace. If he ever got free, the Blue Shields would want to know what these patterns looked like.
In the light of the candle he could now see another pattern scratched into the wall. He stood to look, but soon realised great spaces had been left empty, as if the carver had been interrupted. He held the paper up to it: these shapes formed a different spell. The finished one drew his eye, the lines having found their natural ends, the shapes having reached a pleasing balance.
Before she grew too old for such things, Farid’s sister usedto take their father’s twine and wind it between her hands, her fingers spinning a complicated web. He would tease her by pulling on the lines, watching the empty spaces shrink and expand at his will, creating tension in her fingers until at last she cursed him and pulled free, leaving the twine a slack pile upon the floor. He ran his fingertips along the ink, remembering the feel of the rough string.
Adam had shown him some of these characters:
shack-nuth, hiss-nick
. Nonsense.
And yet, this design spoke of water to him. It waited somewhere in this collection of shapes and
‘So they do. Let’s begin again.’ Adam drew another shape on the floor. ‘Shack-nuth.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’ Farid stood, using his height as a form of protest.
Adam smiled. Farid could tell he was less than a threat to the man. ‘It is a Name. Shack-nuth.’
‘I won’t remember it.’
‘I see.’ Adam put down his chalk. ‘How many fruits did you have to sell on the day of the attack?’
Farid remembered exactly. It was something he had always been able to do. ‘I started with fifty-two oranges and thirty-six pomegranates,’ he said, ‘twelve mangoes and just ten apples. I sold twenty apples the day before.’
Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘How much money did you make, then? Don’t check your pockets.’
‘I sold ten oranges at two bits a piece. Five pomegranates – I haggled a bit and got five bits for two of them. Three bits for the others. The mangoes were getting soft – I knocked them down to half a bit and sold five that way. Muad stole an apple – I count that as a loss of two-and-a-half bits. I sold four more for a total of four copper nine bits. But I have more than that in my pocket.’
‘Because of the apple.’
‘Right – but of course now all my fruit is lost because of you.’
‘And you can’t remember this?’ Adam drew on the floor with his chalk. Farid recognised it:
Hiss-nick
. But he shrugged.
Adam nodded to his men, who came into the room and picked up Farid by his elbows. ‘You may go to your room. Let us know when you are ready to begin again.’
*
That night Farid tossed and turned on his pallet. The Mogyrks had put him in an airless closet. For obvious reasons they offered him no windows or outside doors, and yet he could still hear a baby crying in the house next door. As soon as the child quieted and Farid’s eyes began to close, it started up wailing again. It was no good. He had prayed to Keleb for the air to cool, for the baby to quiet and for the Mogyrks to let him go, but nothing had any effect. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Hey,’ he called out to the guard he knew stood on the other side of the door, ‘is there any water?’
He heard the man’s boots, then a silence that stretched until his sweat felt cold upon his skin. Then the door swung open and two hands laid a pitcher on the stained wood floor.
‘Let me go,’ he said, but the man only placed a lit candle next to the pitcher and closed the door.
Farid held the pitcher to his lips, but he found it dry. Reaching inside, his fingers touched upon crumpled paper. ‘Mogyrk filth,’ he muttered, smoothing it open. A pattern had been drawn there, each shape flowing into the next, the web of lines suspending rather than connecting them. He frowned, turning it this way and that in his hands, trying to remember what he had seen in the marketplace. If he ever got free, the Blue Shields would want to know what these patterns looked like.
In the light of the candle he could now see another pattern scratched into the wall. He stood to look, but soon realised great spaces had been left empty, as if the carver had been interrupted. He held the paper up to it: these shapes formed a different spell. The finished one drew his eye, the lines having found their natural ends, the shapes having reached a pleasing balance.
Before she grew too old for such things, Farid’s sister usedto take their father’s twine and wind it between her hands, her fingers spinning a complicated web. He would tease her by pulling on the lines, watching the empty spaces shrink and expand at his will, creating tension in her fingers until at last she cursed him and pulled free, leaving the twine a slack pile upon the floor. He ran his fingertips along the ink, remembering the feel of the rough string.
Adam had shown him some of these characters:
shack-nuth, hiss-nick
. Nonsense.
And yet, this design spoke of water to him. It waited somewhere in this collection of shapes and
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