de Bertel’s gravelly one, “to hear such wibber-wash as yon fool prateth!”
All noise ceased at once, and it was not without satisfaction that Rafe noted every eye in the room on him.
De Bertel, for his part, had gone quite still. “You know, Fenton,” he said casually, “I find myself recalling your perplexity a few days ago in the matter of—was it Chesney? Yes, I believe it was. You said you were utterly incapable of determining, after reading Observations on the Nature of Heaviness and Lightness, whether he was actually insane or simply a cow of dubious intelligence.” He looked so pleased with himself that he had to be preparing a lightning bolt of no ordinary proportions. “Allow me to suggest that you should be the last among us to be perplexed by the question, since you have in fact shown yourself to be both.” The class laughed but Rafe felt the air in the room grow more charged.
“You have to admit, pigeon, that wasn’t bad.” Joshua sounded apologetic.
Rafe looked at the ceiling again. “He does have his moments. But then, so do I. And I’ve read more poetry than he has.” He recited:
The cowherd told his talking bull, “The day
Thou best my wit, I die by mine own hand.”
“Then live,” the bull replied, “thy wits unmatch’d.
Debate thyself, whilst I attend thy wife.”
De Bertel acknowledged the sally with a very slight bow. “Your wit, Fenton, admits of no equal.” He assumed the air of a man who has just remembered something of mild interest. “You have your examination still to sit, don’t you?”
“Indeed, sir, and never has a prisoner eyed his jailer’s key ring with greater fervor.”
“I have the honor of informing you that the Board of Governors met this morning and, piqued by the ill-advised and bombastic gathering last week, decided to vote on their proposal immediately.”
“What?” Rafe stood so fast he almost fell, swayed, and threw his hand onto Joshua’s shoulder for balance.
“Needless to say, it passed, by what I am given to understand was an overwhelming majority. And, now that it occurs to me, I realize I’ve been remiss in my duty to you and to the University. I’ll have to make sure I’m one of your examiners. After the enlightening time we’ve spent together in my lectures, I shall enjoy testing your mettle to discover whether you’re qualified to become a master.”
“My school—!” The color had vanished from Rafe’s face. His hands were trembling.
“Oh, pigeon,” whispered Joshua.
“I’m sure, Fenton,” continued de Bertel pleasantly, “that you’ll have no trouble whatsoever convincing each and every examiner of your qualifications.”
Rafe finally found a response. “As fascinating as this lecture is, professor,” he said, his voice shaking only very slightly, “you’ll understand if I decline to stay for the rest of it. I have a great deal of true scholarship still to make mock of, and I must go take the bull by the horns, lest I continue to be bested by intelligent bovines.” He turned and, over his classmates’ laughter—for they respected grace in defeat—left the room.
Disaster, calamity, ruin—language didn’t contain the word that described this. His eyes brimmed. His school, the dream he’d cherished for years, his reason for being here, his reason for living. Gone. Forever out of his reach. Tears spilled over his lids and ran freely down his face as he careened out of the building into the light, headache be damned, walking, speeding up, running, heedless, over the flagstones and down the steps, right into the Duke Tremontaine.
This man was the last thing he needed. “Oh, for the land’s sake,” he spat. “Out of the frying pan, into the imbecile.”
“Now, now,” said the duke, placing his hands on Rafe’s shoulders. “And after you saved my life last week and then told me you wanted never to see me again.”
“Get out of my way.” Rafe’s stomach clenched; he couldn’t think.
“Or what?”
“I don’t know! Or I’ll hit you!” He hadn’t hit anyone since his little sister broke his toy galleon.
“Won’t that be fun!” Rafe looked for mockery but the smile on Tremontaine’s face was genuine. “Please, I insist.” The duke stepped back and offered his face, all privilege and cream. Rafe shrugged off Tremontaine’s hands and shoved past him.
He didn’t get very far before he stopped in his tracks and turned around, his anger stopping the flow of his tears. “If you knew what you and your damned Board of Governors have just done,” he cried, his voice hot and tight, “you wouldn’t be issuing that invitation with quite so cavalier an air.”
“Oh, you mean the examination committee decision?”
“You know damn well I mean the examination committee decision. Which way did you vote?”
“Why on earth should it matter?”
“Which way?”
“Come take chocolate with me and I’ll tell you,” said Tremontaine, and immediately looked startled, as if he’d said something completely different from what he’d expected to say.
Finally the duke made a gesture and spoke. “My carriage is this way.” He paused. “If, that is, you’re willing to enter it.”
“I’d consider it,” said Rafe savagely, and stalked toward the carriage.
• • •
Oh, Holy Ixchel, not the baby again.
As Kaab entered the room, Chuleb was once more on the floor, enraptured by the offspring of whatever cousin or aunt or sister the infant had come from. “Yes, widdle baby . . . where’s the wattle now?”
Kaab smoothed the wide cotton belt she wore over her blouse, embroidered with the double eagle pattern—Ixmoe’s favorite—and thanked Xamanek that, if she had to face this scene, at least she could do so in civilized clothing.
“Where is it? Where’s the wattle?” The creature’s eyes widened as it began to search for the acacia-wood toy that Chuleb, chuckling, had moved just west of its line of sight. Making stupid faces, waving its fat little arms, it looked like nothing so much as a party guest playing Blinded Hunter. An ugly party guest. “Is it east? Southwest? Where’s the wattle?”
Kaab looked up to the alcove in the red south wall at the goddess Ixchel, jade inlaid with cinnabar and feathered with gold, and repeated under her breath the blessing carved in intricate glyphs on the statue’s forehead: Protect us, Ixchel, from the spear by day and the jaguar by night. And, she added, babies. She had no idea what mystical power they had to transform adults around them into drooling idiots, but she, for one, was relieved to be immune to it. Chuleb looked ridiculous.
Well, at least Auntie Saabim, at her dark cedar desk, a single xukul nicte flower over her east-facing ear, reading trading records with the eye of a matriarch reviewing a treaty, seemed far enough away not to have succumbed.
The door to the room opened too forcefully
