Sparkers (20 page)

I
n the evening, while slurping lukewarm vegetable soup with Azariah, I consider what to print in the newspaper. My gaze strays to the crumpled
Journal
tucked behind the stove. We haven't looked at our wanted notice since Melchior brought it. It occurs to me now that whatever we print tonight will not only be our way of making the truth known but our response to the government's public charge of subversion.

I rip a sheet out of one of the notebooks, reach for a pencil, and scribble
Citizens!
across the top of the page. Azariah watches me as I ponder what to write. The message must be clear, succinct, and above all, true.

The dark eyes is caused by harmful magic.

It can be cured with an herbal potion prepared with spells.

We have brewed the cure and know it is effective.

The Assembly wishes to keep the cure a secret

in order to give it to the kasiri

but deny it to the halani.

Join us in stopping this evil.

Marah Levi

Azariah Rashid

I sign our names with a grim flourish and hand Azariah my scrawled draft. “How's this?”

He reads it. “Next we should tell them the Assembly's poisoning their water.”

“It's not believable?”

“No, it's fine. The councilors will be hard-pressed to contain the uproar after this.” He hesitates. “Are you sure about printing our names?”

“Yes,” I say at once. “We might as well stand up to the Assembly.”

Azariah's jaw tenses. “You're right. We'll show we're not afraid to accuse them.”

I am afraid
, I almost say, but I push that thought away.

• • •

L
ATE
AT
NIGHT
,
we set out for the newspaper office. We found the address in the paper Melchior left us: Seven Mirala Street. Azariah remembers passing Mirala Street on some Firem excursion, so he leads the way with a lantern.

I slip my hands into my pockets to warm my fingers and feel the cold glass of a flask there. It holds Leah's dose of the cure. I realize I forgot to pour it back into the pot before we gave it to Mother.

Eventually we emerge from a small street into an imposing square. The cobbles give way to huge flagstones. Across from us, a massive brick façade rises above two arches wide enough for autos to pass through. The First Councilor's official residence.

I recoil into the shadows. “You didn't say we were going to Yehodu Square!”

“Mirala Street's right off it,” Azariah says, peeking around the butcher's shop on the corner. “The newspaper office is pretty close to the Magnificent Apartments.”

I survey the square again. Thankfully, all the windows of the Magnificent Apartments are dark. It's chilling to think the man who lives there wouldn't mind if I were dead.

“Let's go,” says Azariah.

We advance along the edge of the square until he indicates a dark chasm between two storefronts. We turn onto Mirala Street. Halfway down the block, there's a lit doorway. We approach the lamp like a pair of moths and find a plain door with a brass plaque in its center.

Azariah glides up to the dark window. I catch my breath. For all we know, five kasiri are standing guard behind the door.

“It's all right,” he says. “There's only one man. He's sleeping, and he's not a kasir.”

“Are you sure?”

“He certainly doesn't look like one.”

Before I can protest, he opens the door. The hinges are mercifully well-oiled, and we slip inside. Azariah fiddles with the knob, whispering an incantation over his bent hands.

The room is cramped due to all the newsprint stacked along the baseboard. The First Councilor gazes out from his portrait on the wall, his still face betraying nothing. In the middle of the room, a grizzled man snores in a chair, a flat cap over his eyes, his patched coat brushing the floor. An oil lamp burns on the table.

Azariah gestures at another doorway, and I follow him into the next room. Huge machines loom before us like monsters. We advance together between two rows of equipment and find thousands of copies of tomorrow's newspaper piled at the back of the room.

“They're done for the night,” I say. “Only the guard is here.”

Azariah bends to read the headlines. “‘Gavriel Daniel Chosen Next Firem Assistant Headmaster.' Oh, look, it says he's First Councilor Yiftach David's nephew. I'm sure he got the job completely on his own merits—”

“Azariah, it's past midnight,” I say, agitated. “The distributors sell newspapers early. They could be here by six to collect—”

“Which gives us five, maybe six hours to print an insert and slide it into as many of these as we can,” he says, nudging a stack of newspapers with his foot.

“But how?” I say.

Azariah turns back to the machines, his lantern swinging. I approach the closest one, trying to guess how it works, but I can't make anything of its awkward design.

“I think you'd better wake the guard,” I say at last. “With any luck, he actually works here and knows what to do. Try to persuade him to help us. I'll keep looking around.”

Azariah leaves the lantern with me and threads his way back through the rows of machinery. I return to investigate the back of the room more closely. Behind all the stacks of newspapers, there is a counter against the wall. I raise the lantern. Ghostly light bobs over dozens of compartments filled with metal letters and labeled with spidery handwriting. This must be the type, but nothing suggests how to assemble a proper message so it can be printed.

A muffled exclamation reaches my ears from the front room, making me jump. I hear Azariah hastening to reassure the guard and then introducing himself. This elicits another cry of surprise; the night watchman recognizes Azariah's name.

Shuddering, I perch on the typesetter's stool and reach into a compartment. The metal pieces are cool on my sweaty hands and streak my skin with ink. I can hear Azariah speaking earnestly again, but in Xanite.

A minute or two later, he emerges from the eerie forest of machinery with the night watchman shuffling behind.

“It's all right, Marah,” he says. “This is Faraj. He's Xanite too. Faraj, Marah.”

“Hello,” I say, attempting to smile at the guard.

Faraj's gaze is wary under the brim of his cap. Gray stubble spreads across his hollow cheeks.

“He can work the machines and everything,” Azariah says.

I reach into my cloak for the folded piece of notebook paper. Turning to the guard, I ask hesitantly, “Will you print our notice?”

“Be glad to,” he says. “Only, what do you expect me to do afterward?”

“Afterward?” I say blankly.

“When my superiors find out I helped you,” Faraj says matter-of-factly.

Azariah and I share worried looks. We can't protect Faraj. If he helps us, he might have to flee too. At the very least, he'll lose his job. How can we ask that of him?

“If we make it look like we forced you . . .” Azariah begins.

“We could tie you up,” I say to Faraj, embarrassed to be suggesting such a thing.

“Tying up wouldn't be enough,” Azariah says. Not quite meeting Faraj's eyes, he adds, “I could cast binding spells.”

“If it's all right with you,” I say quickly to the night watchman.

Faraj reflects for a moment. At last he says, “You can use spells, so long as you tell me what they do.”

“My thanks,” I say with relief, smoothing out the piece of paper with our text and offering it to Faraj.

He limps to the nearest machine and sits down at it. “This is a linotype machine.”

In front of him is something like a typewriter keyboard. He peruses my scribbles and begins to type. To his left, little blocks of metal engraved with letters begin to form lines of text.

“Matrices,” he explains.

A line of matrices gets carried away into the machine. Then a bar of metal falls into a tray with a clatter.

“Slug,” Faraj says.

When they're ready, he collects all the slugs and takes them to a worktable. There he arranges them in a metal tray the size of a newspaper page.

“Wait here while I make the stereotype,” he says, hobbling away with the tray.

A few minutes later, a loud sound shatters the quiet. I stifle a shriek.

“God of the Maitaf, Marah,” Azariah says, though his voice is frayed with fear.

A machine groans to life nearby. I follow Azariah into a third room, where Faraj is standing next to another mysterious machine. Newsprint from a roll on top passes under a round cylinder with our text on it and appears at the bottom, perfectly readable.

“Rotary press,” Faraj says. “Prints three thousand copies an hour.”

I stare at the night watchman, then at Azariah. We both smile.

S
omeone rouses me, whispering about distributors. I stir, wincing at my muscles' protest. Azariah's head rests on my shoulder, and we're both wedged in the corner of the printing room. Faraj stands nearby, and I realize it was his voice that woke me.

I shrug. “Azariah.”

He raises his head, squints at me, and stands up. “What time—?”

“I think the distributors are coming.” I seize Azariah's proffered hand and struggle to my feet.

The worst part of the night came after Faraj printed several thousand copies of our notice. Fifty thousand papers had already been trussed for the distributors. We didn't have time to print enough notices or to insert a new page into every newspaper. We did all we could, but it was slow work.

To fight off drowsiness, Faraj sang in Xanite. His voice was unexpectedly warm, and the tunes sweet, but they were more lulling than energizing. Azariah hummed along when he knew a melody, and together they taught me a little nursery rhyme and laughed at my pronunciation. When Azariah told the night watchman I was a violinist headed for Ashara's Xanite music school, he grunted in admiration. I was too sleepy to explain I hadn't been admitted yet.

Faraj told us to rest, finally, but now it feels like I've slept only a few minutes.

I hear voices through the door that opens onto the alley. Faraj lifts a bundle of newspapers, and Azariah and I follow suit, staggering after him. The alley is still dark. I can just make out a crowd of boys and older men, with a few women scattered here and there.

“Where's Yechezkel?” Faraj calls. “And Afdal? Naomi? If you usually sell out, come forward.”

“Is there a special edition?” someone asks.

“Just sell them.” Faraj thrusts his bundle into a girl's arms. Somebody relieves me of my burden, and I stumble inside to fetch more.

Time blurs. In, newspapers; out, distributors. Shuttling back and forth, again and again. No newspapers left. I find Azariah in the front room.

“Let's go,” I say blearily.

“Where's Faraj?” he says.

The night watchman shuffles through the doorway. He fishes a ring of ancient keys from his trousers pocket, lets them drop to the floorboards with a clatter, and looks at us.

“Faraj, my thanks,” I say. “We owe you a great deal.”

“Yes, my thanks,” Azariah says. “I'm sorry we have to—I mean, if there's anything—”

Faraj holds up one callused hand. “I've done my part. Now bind me.”

He sits down in the chair he was sleeping in when we arrived. Azariah steps forward nervously. “The first spell will paralyze your arms and legs,” he tells Faraj. “Is that all right?”

The guard nods.

Azariah positions his hands. When he pronounces the incantation, orange light pulses at his fingertips. Faraj is utterly motionless, and if the spell was cast well, he won't move until the kasir newspaper staff arrives in a few hours.

“Can you move your limbs?” Azariah asks.

“No,” says Faraj.

“Now I'm going to do a muting spell,” Azariah says. “To show you couldn't call for help. You won't be able to speak until someone uncasts it.”

The night watchman nods. Azariah performs his spell. Afterward, the only sound in the newspaper office is our breath.

• • •

B
ACK
AT
OUR
hideout, I sleep all day and wake up at sunset. In my quilted cocoon, I feel warm and exultant. We pulled off our mission to the newspaper office without coming to any harm. Feeling Azariah's gaze on me, I roll onto my side. He's sitting under the window, the Hagramet text in his lap.

“What do you think's happened?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I have no idea.”

We hear a knock downstairs.

“It's got to be Melchior,” he says in a strangled voice, bounding out before I can untangle myself from the blankets.

The stairs creak, and I hear Melchior and Azariah arguing in Xanite. When the brothers appear, Melchior throws me an appealing look and says, “My parents want Azariah to come home now. You too.”

“Me?” I say, scrambling to my feet.

“We can't,” Azariah says.

“You must,” Melchior says. “They've seen the newspaper. Everyone has. The time for hiding is over. Mother and Father are ready to take on the Assembly.” Melchior's iron gaze flickers for a moment. “Word of the cure has spread like wildfire. People believe it's out there already.”

According to him, people are mobbing the District Halls in both kasir and halan districts, demanding the cure. Mothers come carrying their sick children bundled up in blankets. The waiting rooms are overflowing with people who refuse to budge, while latecomers camp in the streets outside.

Picturing the desperate throngs storming the District Halls, I go cold. Will there be another slaughter like the steelworkers' massacre because of us?

“Fine,” says Azariah. “I'll come home.”

Melchior lets out his breath. “Father has the auto two blocks away.”

Azariah gapes at him, then swears in Xanite. “What if I'd refused?”

“I wasn't leaving until you agreed,” Melchior says.

After packing up our belongings, we leave the bare room for the last time and trudge downstairs. Melchior leads us to his father and the automobile I've only ever seen Channah drive. Thinking of her, a star of confusion and pain flashes in my heart.

By the light of the headlamps, Banar Rashid looks haggard as he nods to me. Azariah accepts his restrained embrace before we all get into the auto.

At the Rashids' house, Gadi Faysal welcomes us, her face as smooth as glass. Her hair is twisted into a knot and adorned with a copper ornament. The realization that the copper is for Sarah makes my stomach lurch. Gadi Faysal kisses Azariah's forehead and then takes my hand in hers.

“It's good to see you, Marah.”

She shows me to the guest bedroom. I wash first, in deliciously warm water. Afterward, I put on the skirt and blouse Gadi Faysal has found for me. They fit even less well than that velvet dress, but they're better than my own filthy clothes.

The spare bedroom is no less sumptuous than the rest of Azariah's house. The four-poster bed has three pillows and heavy curtains that can be drawn closed. There's also a desk and a bookshelf displaying bronze figurines from Xana, Laishidi masks, and a curious flute made of a gourd with three pipes sticking out of it. I study it for a few minutes, wondering what it sounds like and whether I dare touch it. Deciding I'd better not, I flop onto the bed and promptly doze off.

Only a moment later, it seems, someone knocks on the door. “Marah? It's me.”

“Coming!” I slide off the bed and rush to the door, tucking my hair behind my ears.

Azariah flushes when I burst into the corridor. His hair is damp, his skin scrubbed clean.

“I told Mother and Father everything while you were resting,” he says as we walk to the dining room. “They were stunned, but they believed me.”

I feel a rush of relief. The grown-ups will handle everything now.

Melchior, his face brooding and sad, is already in the dining room. The Rashid parents sit at either end of the table, which looks too long without Sarah. Only Melchior can swallow more than a few mouthfuls of the meal.

When the dishes have been cleared, Banar Rashid faces Azariah and me.

“The Assembly has been dealt a serious blow,” he begins. “Now that you've exposed the councilors' abhorrent design . . .”

“Ashara will not stand for it,” Gadi Faysal says. “They've gone too far.”

“There are pressing matters to which we must attend,” Banar Rashid continues. “The government must initiate mass production of the cure, along with a fair and efficient system for distributing it. Study of the neutralizing spells must commence immediately with a view toward their reinstatement in the very near future.”

“How are we going to make those things happen?” I ask impatiently.

“We go to the Assembly Hall tomorrow,” Gadi Faysal says, setting her fist on the tablecloth.

“But tomorrow's Eighthday,” Azariah says. “The Assembly doesn't meet on the weekend.”

“They'll be there,” Banar Rashid says grimly. “They were this afternoon. This is a crisis. We'll force a public hearing.”

“Who's we?” I say.

Azariah's parents look gravely at each other.

“We are willing to spearhead these efforts,” Gadi Faysal says, “but we do not expect to be alone tomorrow. The notice you and Azariah published has provoked outrage among kasiri and halani alike. The Assembly's power appears to be broken.”

After our council, everyone retires. Azariah and Melchior accompany me down the corridor to the guest bedroom. I step inside, expecting them to leave, but Melchior leans in the doorway.

“I think Mother and Father are being too optimistic,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows. Optimistic isn't quite how I'd describe his grief-stricken parents.

“They believe the Assembly's lost its grip on power,” Melchior clarifies. “I'm not so sure.”

“What are you trying to say?” Azariah asks him.

“Just that we should be careful.”

I look between the brothers. “Careful how?”

“Maybe I should stay out of it,” Melchior says. “I'm the Rashid the Assembly has taken the least notice of. It might be better for everyone if it stayed that way.”

Azariah looks struck. “That's a good idea. Marah and I will go to the Assembly tomorrow with Mother and—”

“We will?” I say, alarmed.

“
I
want to,” he says. “But if Melchior's right that this isn't over, he should stay away until we're certain the Assembly's going to distribute the cure to everyone.”

“In case you need me,” Melchior says.

“That's the plan?” I say, underwhelmed.

Melchior shrugs. “It'll have to do.” He straightens from the door frame. “Now let's get some sleep.”

Azariah bids me goodnight and follows his brother out. I pad over to the window. The curtains are drawn, and the moonlight reflected off the snow outside bathes me in a silvery glow. I'm alone in the unfamiliar guestroom, far from my family.

Someone has set out a nightgown for me. I change into it and slide into bed, but I can't sleep. I miss having Azariah near. The stiff coverlet and the heavy canopy of the four-poster bed feel oppressive. With the bronze statuettes and the gourd flute gleaming on the shelf, I feel like I'm staying in a museum. Forcing my eyes shut, I remind myself how close we are to saving Ashara and try to hang on.

• • •

A
ZARIAH
AND
I
emerge at the same time for breakfast and find Melchior and his parents in the dining room. Gadi Faysal offers us bread, honey, and pickled melon. Azariah joins Melchior at the far end of the table. Every so often they exchange a few inaudible words. I drink a glass of piping-hot tea, wishing it would burn away my anxiety and restlessness.

When the door knocker clatters in the entrance hall, Banar Rashid leaps up to answer. Gadi Faysal remains in her chair, stiff as marble. Azariah and I share a panicked look, then he nudges his brother. The next instant, Melchior is gone, through the kitchen.

Banar Rashid returns a moment later, flanked by two kasir police officers. A third follows close behind, his diamond-shaped insignia glaring.

“Chanoch Asa, First Councilor's Corps,” he says, tapping his badge.

“I know what you are,” snaps Gadi Faysal.

“Your charm has withered since we were in school, Nasim,” Asa says, smiling. Then he looks at the rest of us. “I didn't anticipate such luck. Your son Azariah seems to have reappeared. And this must be the famous Marah Levi.”

I force myself to meet his gaze even though my hands are shaking in my lap.

“You've all been summoned to the Assembly Hall,” Asa continues. “The automobiles are waiting. Jalal, Nasim, may I request the pleasure of your company? The children can ride in the other auto.”

I look to Azariah's parents, hoping for some hint they'd expected this, but there's only a horrified silence. Finally, Banar Rashid and Gadi Faysal follow Asa out of the room. Azariah and I hasten after them, with the two silent officers bringing up the rear.

Outside, the autos' polished black armor reflects the distant sun. I feel a curious lack of terror as Azariah and I climb into one of the vehicles. At least we're together.

The autos roll into the city and down the wide boulevard that cuts across the northwestern districts of Ashara. As we near the city center, the streets fill with people, all walking in the direction of the Assembly Hall and engaged in fierce discussion. Halani and kasiri brush shoulders as the street grows clogged, and some of them even speak to each other.

Our driver has to slow the automobile to a walking pace as the people on foot overtake the street. When he sounds the horn, the halani shrink away, but the kasiri stare hard at the two autos easing past them.

Wild hope lifts my spirits as I gaze out at the throngs. If all these people are descending upon the Assembly Hall for answers, the crowd will be even thicker there. The Assembly can't harm us in front of so many witnesses, especially if kasiri and halani are united.

A few minutes later, the auto comes to a complete halt and then lurches forward again. Azariah and I peer through the windshield in time to see a uniformed officer of the First Councilor's Corps waving us through a police blockade. On either side of us, Ashari are packed together so tightly they form a solid wall outside the auto windows. People are shaking their fists and shouting to be let past, but the officers' hands are poised to cast spells. The threat of deadly magic keeps the mob at bay even as our auto glides through.

Beyond the line of police, the street is deserted. I realize with a sick feeling how isolated we are now.