27. An Intuition of Trouble (Patreon)

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Hallon’s visit to the Scholar’s House proves unremarkable. She’d seen its spirit barrier when she still had her powers, but her investigation doesn’t reveal its source. The interiors are lovely, yes, and the rugs and textiles finely woven, but there’s no magician nor any sign that one once lived there—no runes, magical inscriptions, sacred geometries, or artifacts. The place resembles a community hall and trade center more than a magician’s abode.

As for the Scholar himself, he is absent that day. Not that Hallon expected to meet him. She is someone who was severely punished by him after all, and a potential threat to his safety. Apparently, her skill fighting made an impression.

Hallon’s friendship with Milo is enough to get her an appointment with Slaeman, the Scholar’s Assistant, and he is blunt with his refusal to let her anywhere near the great man. He does, however, confirm that the Scholar doesn’t have a spiritual advisor among his staff.

The news is disappointing, terribly so. Hallon’s hope for an ally—maybe even someone who can help reconnect her to Eratosthenes—withers.

To cheer her up, Noor, her guide for the day, pulls her along to the fortune tellers’ section of the marketplace. There’s a lull in business, and none of the fortune tellers complain when Noor rounds them up to introduce Hallon.

They sit on cushions, someone brings out a plate of round sesame cookies, a pot of tea mysteriously appears, and that’s all it takes to encourage the fortune tellers’ lively chatter on the vagaries of their practices—palms, cards, bones, and stars mostly. Hallon perks up in spite of herself, her curiosity roused.

The most talkative is Zayna, a young woman with dark whorls painted around her eyes. An azure veil frames her face and covers her mouth, draping across her shoulders. The material is thin and finely made, almost like gossamer.

“Where did you get it?” Hallon asks.

“There’s a Green with a deft hand for weaving in Little Boxcar,” Zayna says. “The House’s name is Amliss. I did a favor for them, a reading to pick the date of their favored daughter’s wedding, and the veil was their gift in return.”

Hallon nods, making a note of the weaver’s name.

“You can’t stop there,” a fortune teller named Isam says. He is a slight man, with thin strands of hair combed over his bald spot. “Finish the story properly. What did the cards tell you?”

“That the House should call the wedding off,” Zayna said, laughing.

The fortune tellers laughed with her, Isam included. “And what did you tell them?”

“That every day that year was inauspicious. That they should wait until the next.”

“Oh, well played,” Hallon said. “Did it work?”

“It did,” Zayna said, pleased with herself. “Before the year was done, the husband-to-be killed a man over a business deal, and earned the Scholar’s judgement. He was ruined.”

The fortune tellers clapped, and Zayna took a seated bow, her eyes crinkling in pleasure.

“Is your sight always so accurate?” Hallon asks.

Zayna’s smile turns wry. “No, but I can usually tell when I have the thread of it. And I did then. The way the cards fell—there was a foreboding in the future they told.”

“None of us are like Noor,” Isam says. “She is the only one who is always right.”

Noor waves off the compliment. “The past is the past, but the future is the future. One we can’t do anything about, while the other we can.”

“You always deal yourself short,” Zayna says. “The past is the past, yes, but the past is also the future. The two are connected, and where one points, the other goes.”

Noor snorts. “Now you’re just saying nice words and putting them in a nice order.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Zayna says, scowling. “I mean my words. There’s nothing Untainted about them.”

“That’s enough now.” Isam smiles and passes the cookie tray around again. “Noor is famous for not accepting compliments gracefully. Let’s just let her be until the day comes when she can. Though none of us can see it.”

Noor makes a rude gesture. “You’re a donkey’s ass, Isam.”

“Since the day I was born,” he says, smirking.

“What about the future then?” Hallon asks, hope rising again. “Have you, any of you, noticed anything different or unusual?”

The smiles around the circle fade. The fortune tellers look at each other until Zayna volunteers to speak up. “Nothing good. The cards have been terrible for the past two-three weeks.”

The others nod in agreement.

“What’s surprising is that it’s also true for my Untainted clients,” Zayna says. “They come from Brickside, because they see me as exotic, and even their cards were grim. Whatever the future holds, it’s not just for No Town.”

###

Milo is at work inside the Lion, but he’s having a hard time focusing. His lessons in the Way of the Soft Fist will begin tomorrow, and he’s anxious about not embarrassing himself in front of Hallon. He wants to be able to repeat the sequences exactly as he’s seen her perform them, so he’s set aside a part of his mind to review the equations.

Normally, that’s not an issue—he can easily run multiple sets of calculations in parallel—but Abdullah has a new pair of shoes. Their silver tassels glint as he walks to the supply closet. The bells jingle as he walks back to his station. He walks back and forth enough times to give Milo a headache and put a scowl on Rania’s face. She wasn’t in a good mood to begin with, but now there’s a 30.12 percent chance she’s going to say something rude. Milo’s headache gets worse.

Abdullah starts to hum and the equations around Rania’s scowl darken. The odds that there’ll be an argument tick up by 10.53 percent. Milo had better intervene. He sighs and puts the Soft Fist’s calculations aside for now.

“I’m done here,” Milo says. “Ah, Abdullah, can you help me out?”

“Sure, Boss. I’ll be right there.” The silver tassels jangle as he walks towards the Lion. They jingle as he helps Milo unstrap and step out from inside.

“You’re in a good mood,” Milo says. “Did something happen?”

Abdullah stops humming. “Happen? No, yes. My uncle sent more gifts.”

“Oh, I thought you were happy about the Lion, about the progress we’ve made.” Milo considers the situation. Maybe it would help to hint that the team’s work is almost finished. He’s sure that it would make them feel better. “The Lion’s almost complete, you know. Our goal is in sight.”

Abdullah blinks, surprised. “Is that true? I thought it’d take another two or three years to improve the battery.”

Milo smiles awkwardly. “I—ah—have some ideas. Not ready to share yet, but there’ll be progress soon. Less than a year. Yes, I’m sure of it.”

Rania drops a wrench, the metal ringing on the concrete. Her model updates with a 67.71 percent chance that she’ll say something rude, but that doesn’t make sense. She should be happy that their work together is nearing completion. This is the news she’s been waiting for. Instead, her numbers burn with a dull red color.

Is it not Abdullah’s shoes that are the problem? The equations in Rania’s model flash, leaving an imprint in Milo’s vision. The insight causes him to gasp a little. Rania is jealous. Of the shoes? Of the rich uncle? No, neither fit her model. The attention from the team boss? Maybe. Possibly. Likely. Lately, Milo has been asking Abdullah to machine the various parts needed for the Lion’s antenna system. It has meant huddling with him over a number of days.

The shift whistle blows, and the team gathers around the Lion as usual. Rania grabs a hold of one Milo’s hands, while Abdullah, already standing beside him, takes the other.

They all yell out, “Good night, our Lion!”

As everyone readies to go home, Milo wonders if the insight is correct. There’s only one way to know, and that’s to test it. “Rania, can you stay behind to help me straighten?”

The probability of an incident plummets to 15.01 percent. Something is still bothering Rania, but the worst has passed. The team member’s must’ve felt the tension easing, because some of them smile.

“I’d be happy to,” Rania says.

“I can help too, Boss,” Abdullah says.

And the odds shoot back up to 87.68 percent. The team recognizes it too. Miriam groans and Wael slaps his forehead, their numbers a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. For what and whom will take more analysis.

Milo sighs. Between work, his research, visiting the Goat, and running his calculations, he’s down to two hours of sleep a night. That’s not unusual when he’s inventing, but it’s not a good strategy long term. Still, losing another hour tonight won’t kill him, and it’ll be important to unravel the mystery. He wants these people to be happy. Along with his friends at the Standing Goat, they’ve become his second family. It’s strange to think that it took coming to another world for Milo to find a measure of happiness—a place where he fits in—but that’s exactly what’s happened.

Abdullah chatters as he works, as they wait for the guard to change outside the security door, as they walk out the factory gate.

Rania blurts out, “Why don’t you go home already!”

Milo is startled but quickly realizes that she isn’t yelling at him.

“What? What’s wrong?” Abdullah says.

Rania’s face turns an astonishing shade of red, turning to look at Milo then Abdullah and then back to Milo again. “Oh! Ooh! Oh! I’m going home!” She storms off.

“What’s with her?” Abdullah says.

Milo lifts his spectacles to rub his eyes. “Abdullah, sometimes you just don’t know how to read a situation.”

“I was just being friendly,” he says.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Milo says. “It’s me that didn’t do anything right.”

“I don’t understand,” Abdullah says.

“I know,” Milo says, “but let’s talk about it tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”

The numbers around Abdullah shiver with worry. “I’m not in trouble?”

“Not at all. Say hello to Em for me.”

“Oh, all right then,” Abdullah says. “I will. Good night.” His shoes jingle jangle as he walks away.

At least Old Man Hussam doesn’t need anything from Milo, just money for his atayef. He’s waiting at his usual spot, and Milo buys two for himself. A third is wrapped away in his coat for Hallon.

A familiar figure appears as Milo licks his fingers. Of course. What else does the day need except a visit from his hallucination. Still, it’s not surprising—Eratosthenes’s visits have become increasingly common. And desperate.

The situation’s getting worse and worse, and Hallon needs to hear about it. Please, Milo. You have to talk to her about me. You have to. I’m begging you.

Tomorrow—tomorrow Milo starts training with Hallon. The Soft Fist’s calculations begin again. He sighs as he reviews them. No sleep—there definitely won’t be any sleep tonight.

Meanwhile, his madness paces alongside, eyes grim.

###

The Standing Goat is warm with the murmur of voices and the smell of onions and sumac. Mr. Karsh sits on a cushion on stage with a qanun of polished walnut across his lap. The room quiets when he begins to play, his fingers plucking the strings in an intricate rhythm. Safi listens with half an ear while he waits for his guests to finish ordering. A young couple—they can’t decide between the m’sakhan or the magloube. A guest sitting nearby waves, asking for more wine, and Safi nods to show that he’ll be there soon.

The General and Noor are out tonight—taking Hallon to sightsee No Town. The three of them have been spending a lot of time together, and Safi can’t help feeling jealous. It hasn’t interfered with his training, but the General’s been absent a lot lately.

A scream outside distracts the young couple. Mr. Karsh doesn’t miss a note and plucks harder to lift the music up and over the noise. Safi apologizes to his guests before heading to the window. A woman sways in the street, pulling at her hair. The tattoo on her forehead is yellow—it could be anything.

Niaz from next door is helping with the dinner service tonight. She joins Safi at the window. “I’ll go see what it is.”

Safi shakes his head. He’s responsible for the inn while his mother is away. “I’ll go,” he says.

“I’ll play you for it,” Niaz says, her eyes twinkling.

Safi laughs. “All right.”

On the count of three, they play Rock-Pick-Gloop. Pick beats rock, and Safi flashes Niaz a grin before heading outside. From across the street, Mrs. Sanass also comes out to investigate. She brings one of her sons—the Green one, Sammy. Behind them her other son Taric peeks from their doorway. He waves to Safi.

Passersby slow down to watch the scene in the middle of the street. The cause of the commotion is on her knees sobbing.

“Here now, love,” Mrs. Sanass says. “Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad, can it?”

Sammy’s missing a leg, but he’s handy with a crutch. “Everything all right, Missus?”

Safi hangs back. The residents of the Haughty Maiden have known each other for generations. They tolerate the Standing Goat with a certain fondness, but that’s as far as it goes. The Rugaams will forever be outsiders.

“Gone,” the wailing woman says. “They took him right out of bed with only his shirt on. They wouldn’t even let him get dressed first.”

“Who’s gone?” Sammy asks.

“My Elias. They took him. The Ministry come and took him.”

Mrs. Sanass and Sammy exchange worried looks. There’s only one ministry of importance in No Town, the Ministry of Civil Order.

The woman cries out. “What am I going to do? Oh, my Elias. My poor Elias.”

“It’s surely a mistake,” Mrs. Sanass says. Her voice is cheerful, but her eyes are full of pity. “Your man’s harmless. They’ll realize it soon enough and let him go.”

“They’ll kill him,” the woman says. “Or take him to the mines, and that’ll kill him all the same.”

“You don’t know that.” Mrs. Sanass helps the woman to stand. “Come, let’s go inside for a cup of tea. It’ll warm you up and make you feel better.” Safi offers to help, but she says, “No, sweetie. I’ll just take her inside and get her calmed down. You’ll be wanted back at the Goat.”

The ruckus brings out Mr. Calloun, the neighborhood’s head man. He has a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. A young girl darts out of an alley to whisper in his ear before running off to spread the news, whatever it may be.

Mr. Calloun frowns, not liking what he heard. He walks over to Safi. “Is the doctor inside?”

“My mothers with Mrs. Amit,” Safi says. “Her second baby is due tonight. What’s going on?”

“Twelve others got picked up by Civil Order.” Mr. Calloun raises his voice to address the street. “Go home. The Scholar’s already aware, and he’ll do what he can. In the meantime, get inside and be thankful you weren’t caught up in the bad news.”

Mr. Calloun pulls the quilt tighter around his shoulders and heads back home. Others follow his example, except for Safi. He stands in the middle of the street, his fists clenched. Worry gnaws at his heart. His mother is out there. She’s Untainted, so she should be safe even in her wheelchair, but he’s learned—they’ve all learned—that should’s aren’t always are’s. He’s tempted to run to Mrs. Amit’s to make sure. He even takes a step in that direction before stopping himself.

If she’s safe, she’s safe. If not, then there’s nothing he can do to make her so. Not against Civil Order.

The Rugaams have made a life for themselves in No Town. They follow the Rules and made deals to protect themselves as much as possible. He has to trust that’s enough. Otherwise, the worry will eat him alive.

Inside the inn, Mr. Karsh stops playing, while everyone looks at Safi in the doorway.

“Civil Order came into No Town and snatched some folks looking for—well, what they usually look for.”

The silence drags a moment before the musician plucks at his instrument once more.