The Giant's Almanac by Andrew Zurcher (black female authors .txt) 📕

himself, forcing the breath steady in his ribs, nadir. And then at last the lines began to give way, and as he dodged the humming cudgels, pivoting and diving beneath last and desperate sallies as the fight broke up, Fitz for the first time felt certain, in the pit of his stomach, that the Heresy was for him no refuge, but a trap.

Algorithm. Albatross.

Albatross.

From somewhere, Russ had reappeared, breathless and triumphant, and now he flung his arms round Fitz’s and Navy’s shoulders, binding them. To the north and west, where the high stone walls defended the last lawns from the river meadows beyond, Fitz could see climbers leaping and bounding over the perimeter with unlikely agility. To the south, others had launched on to the river in flat rafts and barges, and were with light rods and poles pushing themselves out of range. Only one figure, alone in the centre of the lawn, seemed willing now to stand his ground, and to him Arwan had turned his attention and his intimidating pier-like bulk. They all broke into a run. As Fitz ran up with the others, the first thing he noticed was the handle of the man’s long cane, which he had raised and squared to his chest, ready to meet his opponent.

You.

Sassani was tougher, older, and more imposing than Fitz had remembered. Grizzled, a little haggard, nonetheless he looked like a man with sinew. Even Arwan was weighing him carefully, and eyeing his cane with distrust as he approached him. But there was no need. The moment Sassani saw Fitz, he abandoned the fight. Straightening, he turned towards the Prents. He laughed to himself, and with a flourish planted his cane in the turf.

‘They haven’t told you,’ he called to Fitz across the lawn, through air imminent with rain. ‘They haven’t told you who you really are. Who you could be.’

With a sickening thud, Arwan’s staff on a wide swing crashed into Professor Sassani’s ribs. He didn’t double over. His body simply folded, fell and lay still on the grass. Arwan gathered it up, slung him over his shoulder and set off back to the Heresy.

‘Put him in the thresher,’ said the Rack, as the Jack passed him. ‘I’ll get the chaff out of him tomorrow.’ Fingal smiled.

The lawns were clear.

‘Go back to your rooms and get to sleep,’ said the Master to the six of them. Only Payne and Padge weren’t there. For a moment Fitz hesitated; the Master looked at him, narrowing his eyes.

Navy dragged at his arm, and he turned. And that’s when he saw it.

The Commissar, staff in hand, was walking beside the Sweeper down towards the riverbank. She was wearing over her blue felt coat an unmistakable red cloak.

The train. That night. She was driving the train. The one that tried to kill us. She was smiling. Those eyes.

The Master saw him stop on the grass, and followed his gaze.

‘I said I’d keep you safe,’ he said. ‘And I will. Come to my study the day after tomorrow, after you are finished with the Jack. Bring Dina.’

Navy drew on Fitz’s arm, and as a shower of rain began to fall they ran for shelter, leaving the Master alone on the wide lawns.

11

Nightwalking

The next morning, Fitz stopped Dina outside the hall before porridge, and told her what the Master had said. It was the first time he’d seen even the slightest flicker of surprise in her level, distant eyes.

‘He wants us to come to the Mastery? For a lesson?’

She pursed her lips, and went into the hall without a word.

By the time they began their lessons at nine bells, Dina had regained her composure. Fitz slipped easily into the warmth and focus of stack, the happy hours painting in the Keep and studying in the Registry, and then, as easily, into the waking camaraderie of lunch. Whatever anxiety Dina had raised in him, the morning’s efforts had dispelled, and he found himself hungry for both food and conversation as never before. Russ passed the whole meal pressing Payne for information about a complex series of calculations she had worked out on the Model, which described the propagation of a virus according to certain constraints and variables that only they understood. Over their heads, Dolly, Navy and Fitz compared notes on a book of poems from which the Keeper had read aloud, in their individual lessons, to all three of them. Fitz had never heard such beautiful language, sonorous and patterned, but had no idea what the poems meant. Much to Navy’s feigned disgust, Dolly agreed with him. Only Navy had had ears for the hidden connections, interpretations and arguments that the poems presented, and she marshalled them methodically to howls of dismissive protest from her friends.

‘But, Navy,’ said Dolly, ‘it’s so obvious. Even if the poems do mean those – those complicated things you’re saying, whatever they are – we’re never going to know anything about it. They’re so much fun just to hear, it’s as if the poet didn’t want us to press any further.’

‘You need to go easy on the stack, Doll,’ answered Navy. ‘It’s possible to enjoy something and understand it at the same time.’

‘Like you did,’ said Fitz, grinning.

‘Yes, like I did,’ answered Navy, pretending to frown at his sarcasm.

‘I don’t think you enjoyed the poems at all,’ riposted Dolly. ‘I think you enjoyed your own feeling of cleverness.’

‘So?’ Navy protested. ‘Fitz, back me up. My pleasure in understanding is also part of the poem. Surely.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Fitz. ‘Naturally. You are in everything, Navy. All art and music is just a series of pictures of you, and the way you think and feel.’

Navy threw some bread at him. Fitz looked up sharply, even before it hit him, knowing that Dina would have words. But she wasn’t there.

‘Where did Dina go?’ he asked, of everyone and no one.

But no one had seen