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I look down the dark tunnel leading to Engineering. Azmar had been present when I pled to Unach. Had he agreed with me? Had my words moved him, even when his sister had been deaf to them? Or was he simply sympathetic to humans? He hadn’t seemed pleased when Unach brought me home.
I look for Perg, questions dancing across my tongue, but he’s already several paces ahead of me, heading toward his job. I’d hate to make him late.
Mulling over this revelation, I cross to the tunnel, pressing one hand against its cool stonework for support. Minutes later, the light of Engineering engulfs me.
Chapter 6
Cagmar is a precarious city. It hangs from a human-built bridge, wedged between the steep, never-ending walls of a great canyon. As a whole, it is just enough. Just enough space to sleep, just enough space to walk, just enough space to breathe. So when I enter the massive cavity that holds Engineering, I gape at its high roof and wide tables, its breadth and openness. Its shape reflects its name, for a complex network of beams and columns and brick and stone composes ceiling, floor, and walls, all fitting together in a patchwork nearly as fascinating as the night sky.
A sky, I realize, that I have not worshipped for some time. I’ve spent more nights lying out beneath that vast blanket of stars than not, and while I now have a roof over my head, I find myself missing it.
The clinking of hammers and other tools fills the air, though I cannot see where physical workmanship takes place. The cavity is notably warmer, which means fire burns nearby, possibly several fires. The trolls must smelt their own metal. Do they do it in Engineering, or somewhere close by?
I take only two steps inside before the largest troll I’ve ever seen, a stationed guard I hadn’t noticed, turns and growls at me. His gray skin has a blue tinge to it. He appears even better fed than Qequan, and his thick limbs lend tremendously to his size. His nose and lips are enormous, his tusks small. The bony protrusions on his forearms, shoulders, and shins extend long as daggers.
I step back, the ache in my thigh and hip reminding me of my own fragility.
He hefts a wicked-looking hammer and points it at me. “Out, human!”
“Down, Sleet.” Azmar’s coolness pierces through the tension like a pike through an iced-over pond. I dare look away from the massive troll to see Azmar striding toward us from the left. “She’s here to assist me.”
Sleet scowls. “A human to assist you? Ha!”
Azmar gestures for me to follow him.
But Sleet shifts and blocks my path with the shaft of his hammer. “This is your sister’s pet. No humans here.”
Unruffled, Azmar folds his arms, emphasizing his thick muscles and heavy veins. Though he has to tilt his head back to meet Sleet’s gaze, it somehow appears that he looks down on him.
I wait for Azmar to say something sharp, perhaps about Sleet’s caste, but he doesn’t. Merely looks. And Sleet, amazingly, lowers his hammer. Grumbling something under his breath, he stalks away from me and retakes his post.
I am utterly dumbfounded. But Azmar gestures for me to follow, so I do, as quickly as my sore body will allow. We walk past several of the long tables where an array of trolls sit, men and women, gray and green, large and less large. Most don’t notice me, as they’re focused on their own work, hunched over with pencils and charcoal and quills. I glimpse a hallway down to a blacksmith bellows. There is another blacksmith in the trade works, but this one must work only on city construction.
Several high tables, almost like desks, occupy the far side of the room. Azmar stops at the first, then, seeing the second unoccupied, takes the chair from it and sits it at the corner of his own. With a subtle gesture, he beckons me to sit.
The stool seat is nearly five feet off the ground. My injuries protest as I lift myself up, but I don’t ask for help, though Azmar scrutinizes me as though ready to offer it.
Paper and a couple of slates litter his desk, while little tin cups organize his writing utensils. Several rulers, along with two leather books, press against the corner.
“What caste is he?” I whisper, tilting my head toward Sleet.
Azmar doesn’t look over. “Deccor.”
“But he’shuge.”
Azmar meets my eyes, making me feel foolish. I rush to explain. “He would do well in the caste tournament, wouldn’t he? Why is he only a Deccor?”
“His challenge to a higher caste has to be accepted, either by previous agreement or stance of challenge,” he explains. “Wise trollis do not accept challenges they cannot win.”
“What is ‘stance of challenge’?”
He arranges a few of the papers. “When a victor in a battle remains on the field to take on new opponents, to increase their pips.” He touches his shirt, where those small blue stones would be, if he had any.
“So winning two fights in a row gets them a higher caste, and then a higher rank within that caste.”
A brief nod. “How is your geometry?”
Doubt creeps into me. “I can determine the area of a triangle ...”
