.
the knowledge of how they worked was lost for a time. But we have a chance to regain it.’
‘Only at great danger. Chade, may I point out that our trip to the beach ended with Dutiful and me underwater? It could have been much worse. Imagine if one of the exit pillars was face down on the ground. Or shattered. What happens to the user then?’
Chade looked only mildly flustered as he said, ‘Well, then I assumed you would see the way was blocked and come right back.’
‘My assumption is that I would be expelled from the pillar into solid stone. It isn’t like a doorway where you can halt and look out. It dumps you out, as if you’d stepped through a trapdoor.’
‘Ah. I see. Well, then their use will have to be investigated much more carefully. But as we read the Skill-scrolls, we may be able to decipher what each rune means and at least establish where each “gate” originally opened. And thus, eventually, determine which ones are safe to use. And perhaps right or repair the others. What other Skill-users did in the past, we can reclaim.’
‘Chade. I am not at all certain that those pillars were the work of Skill-users. Perhaps some have used them, but each time I’ve passed through one, the disorientation and the …’ I groped for words. ‘Foreignness,’ I hazarded at last. ‘The foreignness makes me wonder if Skill-users are the ones who built them. If they were built by humans at all.’
‘Elderlings?’ he had suggested after a moment.
‘I don’t know,’ I had replied.
The conversation echoed through my mind as I gazed at the racked scrolls and the locked chests in the Skill-tower. The answers might be here, waiting for me.
I selected three scrolls from the rack from among the ones that looked most recent. I’d start with the ones in letters and languages that I knew well. I found none by Solicity, which struck me as odd. Certainly, our last Skillmistress must have committed something of her wisdom to paper; it was generally assumed that one who achieved Master status would have something unique to pass on to their followers. But if Solicity had ever written anything, it was not amongst these scrolls. The three I finally chose were by someone named Treeknee, and were labelled as a translation of an older manuscript by Skillmaster Oklef. The translations had been done at the behest of Skillmaster Barley. I had never heard of any of them. I tucked the three scrolls under my arm and departed by way of the false panel in the hearth mantel.
I intended to leave the scrolls in Chade’s tower room. They did not belong in Tom Badgerlock’s chamber. But before I went there, I made a brief detour through the hidden corridors until I reached an irregular crack in the wall. I approached it silently and peeped through it. Civil Bresinga’s chamber was empty. This confirmed what Chade had told me last night, that young Civil would ride out with a party accompanying the Prince and his intended. Good. Perhaps I’d have the opportunity for a quick tour of his rooms, not that I expected it would yield much. Other than his clothes and the small daily possessions of a man, he kept nothing there. In the evenings, his chamber was either empty or he was alone in it. When he was there, his most common diversion was playing a small pipe, badly, or indulging in Smoke and staring out of the window. In all the spying I’d ever done, Civil was the most boring subject I’d ever had.
I headed up to Chade’s tower room, but paused before triggering the hidden catch, to listen and then peep into the room. I heard a soft-mouthed muttering, the thud of firewood being unloaded. I nearly turned aside, thinking I could leave the scrolls in the corridor until later. Then I decided there were too many laters in my life, and that I was leaving too much up to Chade. Only I could do this, really. I took a slow and calming breath, focused myself, and then eased my walls down.
Please don’t be startled. I’m coming into the room.
It didn’t help. Almost as soon as I got through the door, the wave hit me. Don’t see me, stink dog! Don’t hurt me! Go away!
But my walls were up and I was braced.
‘Stop that, Thick. By now you should know that it doesn’t work on me, and that I have no intention of hurting you. Why are you so afraid of me?’ I set the scrolls down on the worktable.
Thick had stood to meet me. At his feet was a hod of firewood. Half had been loaded into the box by the hearth. He squinted his sleepy-looking eyes at me. ‘Not afraid. I just don’t like you.’
There was an oddness to his voice, not a lisp, but an unfinished edge to his words, as if a very young child spoke them. Afterwards, he stood glaring at me, the end of his tongue resting on his lower lip. I decided that despite his short stature and childish voice and ways, he was not a child. I would not speak to him as one.
‘Really? I try to know people before I decide I don’t like them. I don’t think I’ve given you any reason to dislike me.’
He scowled at me, his brow furrowing. Then he gestured around the room. ‘Lots of reasons. You make more work. Water for baths. Bring up the food, take away the dishes. A lot more work than the old man only.’
‘Well, I can’t deny that.’ I hesitated, then asked, ‘What would make it fair?’
‘Fair?’ He squinted at me suspiciously. Very cautiously, I lowered my guard and tried to sense what he was feeling. I needn’t have bothered. It was obvious. All his life, he had been mocked and teased. He was sure this was more of it.
‘I could give you money for the things you do for me.’
‘Money?’
‘Coins.’ I had a few loose in my pouch. I lifted it and jingled it at him.
‘NO. No coins. I don’t want coins. He hit Thick, take the coins. Hit Thick, take the coins.’ As he repeated himself, he mimed the motion, swinging a meaty fist on his short arm.
‘Who does?’
He narrowed his eyes at me, then shook his head stubbornly. ‘Someone. You don’t know. I didn’t tell no one. Hit Thick, take the coins.’ He swung again, obviously caught up in remembered anger. His breath was beginning to come more quickly.
I tried to cut through it. ‘Thick. Who hits you?’
‘Hit Thick, take the coins.’ He swung again, tongue and lower lip out now, eyes squinted nearly shut. I let the punch spend itself on the empty air, then stepped in. I set my hands on his shoulders, intending to calm him so I could speak to him. Instead he yelled loud, a wild wordless cry and sprang back from me. At the same moment, DON’T SEE ME! DON’T HURT ME!
I winced from the impact and recoiled. ‘Thick. Don’t hurt me!’ I retorted. Then, catching my breath, I added, ‘That doesn’t always work, does it? Some people don’t feel you push them away with that. But there are other ways, ways that I could stop them.’
So. Some of his fellow servants were either completely immune to his Skill-touch, or sensed it only enough to be angered by it. Interesting. As strongly Skilled as he was, I would have thought he could impose his will on almost anyone. I should tell Chade about this. I set the thought aside for later. His blow on top of the Skill-headache from earlier made me feel as if blood were running down the backs of my eyes. I forced my words past a slamming red pain in my skull. ‘I can make them stop, Thick. I will make them stop.’
‘What? Stop what?’ he demanded suspiciously. ‘Stop Thick?’
‘No. The others. I will make them stop hitting Thick and taking his coins.’
‘Humph.’ He blew out his breath in a disbelieving snort. ‘He said, “get a sweet”. But then he took the coins. Hit Thick, take the coin.’
‘Thick.’ It was hard to break in past his fixation. ‘Listen to me. If I make them stop hitting you, if I make them not take your sweets, will you stop hating me?’
He stood, saying nothing, but scowling. I decided that the two ideas were not connecting. I made it simpler. ‘Thick. I can make them stop bothering you.’
He made his