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Even thinking about that curse made Baxil feel sick. He looked down at his sack of tools. If he weren’t such a coward, would he–maybe–be able to convince the mistress to see him as something more than just hired muscle?
If the Prime Kadasix could provide, he thought, it would be very nice if I could know the right thing to do. Thank you.
The mistress returned, hair somewhat disheveled. She held out a hand. “Padded mallet, Baxil. There’s a full statue back there.”
He responded, pulling the mallet out of the sack and handing it to her.
“Perhaps I should get myself a Shardblade,” she said absently, putting the tool up on her shoulder. “But that might make this too easy.”
“I wouldn’t mind if it were too easy, mistress,” Baxil noted.
She sniffed, walking back down the hallway. Soon she began to pound on a statue at the far end, breaking off its arms. Baxil winced. “Someone’s going to hear that.”
“Yeah,” Av said. “Probably why she waited to do it last.”
At least the pounding was muffled by the padding. They had to be the only thieves who sneaked into the homes of rich men without taking anything.
“Why does she do this, Av?” Baxil found himself asking.
“Don’t know. Maybe you should ask her.”
“I thought you said I should never do that!”
“Depends,” Av said. “How attached to your limbs are you?”
“Rather attached.”
“Well, if you ever want that changed, start asking the mistress prying questions. Until then, shut up.”
Baxil said nothing further. The Old Magic, he thought. It could change me. I will go looking for it.
Knowing his luck, though, he wouldn’t be able to find it. He sighed, resting back against the wall as muted thuds continued to come from the mistress’s direction.
“I’m thinking of changing my Calling,” Ashir said from behind.
Geranid nodded absently as she worked on her equations. The small stone room smelled sharply of spices. Ashir was trying another new experiment. It involved some kind of curry powder and a rare Shin fruit that he’d caramelized. Something like that. She could hear it sizzling on his new fabrial hotplate.
“I’m tired of cooking,” Ashir continued. He had a soft, kindly voice. She loved him for that. Partially because he liked to talk–and if you were going to have someone talk while you were attempting to think, they might as well have a soft, kindly voice.
“I don’t have passion for it as I once did,” he continued. “Besides, what good will a cook be in the Spiritual Realm?”
“Heralds need food,” she said absently, scratching out a line on her writing board, then scribbling another line of numbers beneath it.
“Do they?” Ashir asked. “I’ve never been convinced. Oh, I’ve read the speculations, but it just doesn’t seem rational to me. The body must be fed in the Physical Realm, but the spirit exists in a completely different state.”
“A state of ideals,” she replied. “So, you could create ideal foods, perhaps.”
“Hmm…What would be the fun in that? No experimentation.”
“I could do without,” she said, leaning forward to inspect the room’s hearth, where two flamespren danced on the logs’ fire. “If it meant never again having to eat something like that green soup you made last month.”
“Ah,” he said, sounding wistful. “That was something, wasn’t it? Completely revolting, yet made entirely from appetizing ingredients.” He seemed to consider it a personal triumph. “I wonder if they eat in the Cognitive Realm. Is a food there what it sees itself as being? I’ll have to read and see if anyone has ever eaten while visiting Shadesmar.”
Geranid responded with a noncommittal grunt, getting out her calipers and leaning closer to the heat to measure the flamespren. She frowned, then made another notation.
“Here, love,” Ashir said, walking over, then knelt beside her and offered a small bowl. “Give this a try. I think you’ll like it.”
She eyed the contents. Bits of bread covered with a red sauce. It was men’s food, but they were both ardents, so that didn’t matter.
From outside came the sounds of waves gently lapping against the rocks. They were on a tiny Reshi island, technically sent to provide for the religious needs of any Vorin visitors. Some travelers did come to them for that, occasionally even some of the Reshi. But really, this was a way of getting away and focusing on their experiments. Geranid with her spren studies. Ashir with his chemistry–through cooking, of course, as it allowed him to eat the results.
The portly man smiled affably, head shaven, grey beard neatly squared off. They both kept to the rules of their stations, despite their seclusion. One did not write the ending of a lifetime of faith with a sloppy last chapter.
“No green,” she noted, taking the bowl. “That’s a good sign.”
“Hmmm,” he said, leaning down and adjusting his spectacles to inspect her notations. “Yes. It really was fascinating the way that Shin vegetable caramelized. I’m so pleased that Gom brought it to me. You’ll have to go over my notes. I think I got the figures right, but I could be wrong.” He wasn’t as strong at mathematics as he was at theory. Conveniently, Geranid was just the opposite.
She took a spoon and tried the food. She didn’t wear a sleeve on her safehand–another one of the advantages of being an ardent. The food was actually quite good. “Did you try this, Ashir?”
“Nope,” he said, still looking over her figures. “You’re the brave one, my dear.”
She sniffed. “It’s terrible.”
“I can see that from how you’re taking another large bite at this moment.”
“Yes, but you’d hate it. No fruit. Is this fish you added?”
“A dried handful of the little minnows I caught outside this morning. Still don’t know what species they are. Tasty, though.” He hesitated, then looked up at the hearth and its spren. “Geranid, what is this?”
“I think I’ve had a breakthrough,” she said softly.
“But the figures,” he said, tapping the writing board. “You said they were erratic, and they still are.”
“Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the flamespren. “But I can predict when they will be erratic and when they won’t be.”
He looked at her, frowning.
“The spren change when I measure them, Ashir,” she said. “Before I measure, they dance and vary in size, luminosity, and shape. But when I make a notation, they immediately freeze in their current state. Then they remain that way permanently, so far as I can tell.”
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me. I have the figures. You’ve got the imagination, dear one.”
He scratched at his beard, sitting back, and produced a bowl and spoon for himself. He’d sprinkled dried fruit over his portion; Geranid was half convinced he’d joined the ardentia because of his sweet tooth. “What happens if you erase the figures?” he asked.
“The spren go back to being variable,” she said. “Length, shape, luminosity.”
