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He appears neither disappointed nor surprised. After grabbing some chalk and one of the slates, he begins jotting down equations in handwriting that is becoming more and more legible to me. I’m surprised how small his numbers are, given the size of his hands.
He offers me the slate, followed by a piece of parchment full of dimensional shapes and material weights. “Calculate the tributary area and multiply it by the appropriate weights—the sections should say what material is used. Put the results on the right.”
I marvel at the numbers and letters and compare them to his drawings.
He asks, “Do you understand?”
“Oh yes.” I set the slate down. “I’m just ... It really is rather intriguing.” I grab a pencil and start plugging in the figures. I can feel Azmar’s gaze as I do the first equation, but he soon returns to his own work. My arithmetic skills gradually return to me, and I can’t help but smile. I haven’t had a chance to use them in a long time. The joy of mental work is sweeter than wine.
When Azmar returns his attention to me, I ask, “What is all of this for?”
“Calculating load.” He takes the first page from me and glances over my writing. He appears pleased. “The council wants an extension behind the slayers’ armory, regardless of our insistence that it isn’t wise.”
“Why isn’t it?”
He sets the paper down and picks up another. “Because of the lack of weight distribution along the canyon wall at that point. There’s too much load.”
“The load is what the addition will hold?”
He regards me with those dark-harvest-gold eyes, as though unsure of my question. To clarify, I say, “I’m curious. I ... I love to learn.” Time with my tutors was always my favorite, partially because it meant time away from everyone else. “This all fascinates me.”
He runs a hand back over his corded hair. It’s bound at the nape of his neck and falls to the small of his back. “There is the dead load, which is the weight of the addition itself, the components of the structure—the steel, flooring, façade, piping, everything. The live load is what moves around inside of it: people, furniture, supplies. If not calculated correctly, the addition could crumble, possibly taking pieces of the city with it.” He sighs. “I do not think it wise to add there. It would be better to build outward from the Empyrean Bridge. Make additional connections to the canyon wall.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because the council insists we keep Cagmar as clandestine as possible, despite enemy threats being practically moot.” He looks at me then, and his brows draw together. “What?”
I realize I am smiling at him and quickly school my features. “Nothing. I mean, I’m sorry. That’s frustrating. It’s just ... this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me.”
To my relief, his lip ticks up. “Do not take it personally. Unach was always better with words.”
“Yes, she throws them and twists them and bullies them into doing whatever she wants.” Chuckling, I start on the next set of calculations, but my conversation with Perg rises to the top of my thoughts. “Might I ... ask a question? Not about this?” I wave my hand over the papers.
He glimpses me before continuing his work. “I do not promise to answer.”
“Did you speak on behalf of Colson?”
He’s tracing a line with a ruler when I ask, and his pencil stops. Three heartbeats pass. He finishes the line. “I did.”
“Thank you. Truly.”
He shuffles the papers together. “I would not have done so were you not adamantly against his punishment. I believe you had more say in the matter than anyone else, human or not.”
My whole person feels a little lighter, my injuries far from my mind. “That is very kind of you to say, troll or not.”
“It is fair, not kind.” He straightens, towering over me. “I should also inform you that while I’m sure it’s a term you’ve grown up with, the wordtrollis a derogatory one.”
All my good feelings coalesce and rain cold in my stomach. “I-It is? I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”
He shrugs, unaffected. “We prefertrollis. That’s what we are.”
“Of course you do.” I turn away, embarrassed. I lean hard into my hand to hide my face while I focus on the numbers. My work goes notably slower, my thoughts refusing to be corralled. I finish and sheepishly hand the last of the papers to Azmar. He tucks it in the back of his stack.
“I believe,” he begins softly, “that error, made in ignorance, is forgivable.”
I dare to peek through my fingers at him. “You’re not angry?”
“I never was.” Gathering his papers, he says, “Come.”
