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

‘Then how can anyone discover its location?’

‘Trickery. Torture. Ingenuity. Indirection. Means fair. Means foul. Hook and crook!’ cried the Commissar, and now she did look at her minion, and her minion grovelled.

Navy had sat up. The expression on her face was anything but merry.

‘Did you really hear the Commissar say this?’

Russ’s face dropped out of character, and he turned to the others where they sat watching from the bed.

‘Not exactly in those words, but that’s more or less the gist of it.’

While Padge got up from the floor, pulling the pillows from his shirt, and Russ unwound the thick, red blanket and put it back on the bed, a heated argument started between the six of them, over which of the Officers stood the best chance of beating, worming or beguiling the secret out of the Riddler; and, therefore, which of them was most likely to prevail as Heresiarch. Dolly, who was terrified of the Rack, thought for sure he had already put the screws on the fool, and was now only holding back for the most opportune moment in which to reveal himself. Padge favoured the Jack, whom he admired before any of the other Officers, and Navy reckoned that it was bound to be the Sweeper. ‘It’s always, always, always the one everyone is ignoring,’ she said, and held her finger to her nose.

All the while, Russ tried to intervene, but got nowhere, so heated had the others become in advancing conspiracies, motives, theories, evidence and deductions. Fitz watched him with intense interest, knowing that when the conversation finally receded enough for him to make himself heard, he was going to resolve everything.

Suddenly Russ stood up on the bed, knocking Dolly into Payne and shocking the rest into silence.

‘It’s none of them,’ he hissed, with a face screwed up with exasperation. Everyone looked at him, and he suddenly realized how silly he must seem, towering over the lumpy huddle of his friends in the middle of a dark room, whispering. He sank to a crouch and wrapped his arms round his knees. ‘The last thing I heard the Sweeper say last night – to the Commissar, I mean – was, “Is there any way we can stop her?” And then the Jack grabbed me from behind, with one of those grips you don’t argue with, and sent me to bed.’

‘The Keeper!’ said Navy. Her eyes were boggling almost out of her head.

‘Dark horse,’ offered Padge.

‘Well, Dolly,’ said Payne, ‘you’ve got it made.’

Dolly snorted. ‘If the Keeper becomes Heresiarch, the first thing she’s likely to do is send me home. I must be the worst painter in the history of the Heresy.’

‘Yes, you are,’ said Dina. She was standing in the doorway. No one had seen or heard her come in, yet there she was. ‘But you’re not bad with that crossbow. Now, Rabble, you have about half a minute to get to your rooms. I don’t know where the Offs have been, but they must be on their way back – I’ve just seen about twenty Serfs leave the kitchens with firewood, heading off in different directions. Ten to one they’re laying fires to warm up the Officers’ rooms. So, scram. And Russ, put out that lamp and take that stupid blanket out of the window. It’s not fooling anybody.’

Before they could react, she was gone.

‘That girl is a lot faster than a cat,’ said Dolly.

‘And sneakier,’ said Padge.

‘And meaner,’ said Russ.

‘Happy birthday, Russ,’ said Fitz.

Chastened and silent, they said their goodbyes at the foot of Russ’s stairs with nothing more than a wave, and vanished into the darkness on their separate ways: Navy with Dolly, Padge at a run, and Payne, by her own offer, leading Fitz.

‘Put your feet where mine go, and you won’t make a sound,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll get you back all right.’

She was as good as her word. Five minutes later, Fitz was climbing the blind turns of the Mastery tower, shuffling out of his clothes, and falling asleep – just before his head hit the pillow.

The next afternoon at five bells, his thoughts heavy with a long day of study, Fitz made his way, as instructed, to the Master’s tower. To his afternoon lesson with the Jack he had gone alone; the Jack had told him that Dina had long before exhausted all that he could teach her, and when she did condescend to join him at the Jackery, her contributions were generally either enigmatic or idle.

But Fitz had told her about their appointment with the Master, and while he was used to her absences, he had never known her to be late. Today she was late; what is more, the door to the tower was locked. Fitz stood outside in the sharp wind and kicked the ground. When it began to rain, he crossed the court and went up to his room.

It was the same at Feeding a few hours later. Dina arrived ten or fifteen minutes after they had begun, swirling her black gown with an aggressive flick before sliding her feet over the bench to claim her usual seat. She was barely in time for Third Feeding, but managed, before the Serfs came to clear, to eat more than the rest of the table combined. The Master was nowhere to be seen. Fitz thought to ask about his absence, but Dina’s manner stopped him – as it did the rest of the Prents. If they talked at all – Fitz hardly noticed – it was by hushes and hand signals, among themselves.

Fitz was the last to leave the hall that night, the last to hang up his gown, and the last to slip out of the Porch door and make his way back to his room. The night lay still and quiet over the courts; even the bats, who still sometimes haunted the warm autumn evenings, had retired. For no reason at all, Fitz turned left when he ought to have turned right, and made