Sparkers (7 page)

T
wo days after the medsha concert, Aradi Lamech brings us starfish to dissect. Leah will be so envious; much as she loves animals, she has no qualms about slicing open a specimen to study it. Since she's sick, I partner with Miriam. We claim a spot at one of the long counters at the back of the classroom and cover our work surface with old newspapers from the stack by the sink. Aradi Lamech passes out the starfish on metal trays.

“This dark eyes illness . . .” Miriam begins after our teacher has moved off.

“What about it?” I say brusquely.

“My father says it's caused fifty deaths since last Seventhday. Kasiri and halani.”

“So many!” Each day another school desk is empty, and our mathematics teacher is ill too.

“There's talk of plague,” Miriam says.

Her words frighten me. I stare at the flabby starfish, wishing it didn't look so lifeless.

“I'm surprised kasiri are dying too,” I say. “Their doctors use healing magic on top of medicines.” I wonder if Sarah's family has been affected by the illness. Every time I look at her drawing on my bedroom door, I marvel again that she dragged her tutor all the way back to Horiel to see me.

“My father says healing spells aren't effective against the dark eyes. They relieve symptoms but don't cure the disease.”

I glance up from our specimen. “How does he know that?”

“He works for the post, remember? He delivered a package to a kasir pharmacy near Firem and overhead a doctor talking to the pharmacist. Apparently the doctor and his colleagues don't know what to make of the dark eyes, and the Assembly's just telling everyone to keep calm while they investigate.”

“Of course,” I say bitterly.

“The strange thing,” Miriam pursues, “is that the grown-ups who've gotten sick have died within days of their eyes turning black, but—”

“Miriam, could we please not—”

“—not a single child has died.”

I pause. If she's right, there's hope for Leah.

“My father . . .” Miriam hesitates. “He's been talking about leaving Ashara.”

I look at her in astonishment. “Where would you go?”

“One of the other city-states, I guess.” Miriam takes up a knife and prods the starfish's shortest arm. “Atsan, maybe. I don't know.”

“It's not easy,” I say. “Remember when Shaul's family tried to emigrate? Their passport petition never got approved.” Leaving Ashara requires obtaining the proper documents, and it's rare for the government to issue them to halani.

“I know,” Miriam says. “You have to know someone, and we don't.”

“Quiet in the back!” shouts Aradi Lamech. “Are you following your charts?”

We peer down at ours. The first step is splattered with ink.

The day trickles by. At half past three, we troop into the history classroom for our last period. To our surprise, Aradi Mattan is hovering near the back row of desks, and a stranger stands on the teacher's dais. When I take my seat, I realize with a start that it's the District Hall official who knocked on our apartment door just over a week ago.

“Good afternoon,” the kasir official says once the class has fallen into a wary silence. “I've come today from the District Hall to talk about what lies ahead for you as Final students, insofar as it concerns the district.

“As I am sure you are aware, you will become adults in the eyes of the district when you graduate. I understand approximately half of you sat for the SSE. Whether you go on to secondary school or whether you seek employment right away, you must complete the appropriate procedures at the District Hall. We maintain education and employment records for all Horiel residents . . .”

Listening with only one ear, I gaze out the window at the grimy snow lining the street. This is even more excruciating than one of Aradi Mattan's history lessons. Somehow, the kasir manages to stretch his explanations over half an hour, but finally he runs out of forms to describe. “Do you have any questions?” he asks.

When Shaul's hand shoots up, half the class tenses while the other half perks up. The official calls on him, and Shaul stands.

“Is the Assembly going to find a cure for the dark eyes?” he asks.

The question takes the District Hall representative off guard. “That is not strictly relevant,” he says nervously. “I cannot speak in any official capacity, but yes, I am sure the Assembly will find a cure, most likely in the form of new healing spells.”

“These healing spells,” Shaul says. “How do they work, exactly?”

“Excuse me?” says the kasir, nonplussed.

“I want to know how magic works.”

“Sit down, Shaul!” says Aradi Mattan.

“No, no,” the kasir official says, “it's a harmless question. That is, if you really do not know . . .”

He looks out across the classroom as though beginning to suspect we're all playing a practical joke on him. Doesn't he know the Assembly prohibits sparker schools from teaching about magic?

“Well,” the kasir says cautiously, “magic works through spells. Each spell comprises two essential components: the hand shape and the incantation.”

Some of my classmates nod. It's not like we've never seen a magician cast a spell. At the back of the room, Aradi Mattan looks alarmed. Halan students are not supposed to receive this kind of instruction. On the other hand, he doesn't dare contradict the District Hall official.

Heartened by our interest, the kasir continues. “Spells are useless when magic isn't plentiful in the environment, however. Ashara was founded on the banks of the Davgir, between the Sohadir and the Shatarai Rivers, precisely because magic is dense here.

“Magic has certain effects when it flows along a certain course. Each hand shape corresponds to a desired effect. Uttering the right syllables causes the magic to move along the contours of the hands.”

Aradi Imael once explained magic in a way I understood better. We were laughing because Reuven's music stand kept buzzing when he played his open D string. Aradi Imael said it was because the frequency of that note matched the music stand's natural frequency, producing sympathetic vibrations.

She told us magic worked in a similar way. Instead of finding the right note to make the music stand vibrate, magicians form the music stand with their hands in order to capture the right note among all those already present. To Aradi Imael, magic is one great unending chord, an inaudible symphony all around us.

“When magic is drawn into a spell, it produces secondary substances which are magical derivatives, by-products,” the kasir is saying. “Some of these are useful, strengthening the spell. Others are of no use and merely dissipate. While most spells deal with the elements, some can influence men: making them invisible, putting them to sleep . . .”

Now we're all alert, waiting for him to take this point to its inevitable end. But he doesn't. Shaul does.

“Or killing them?” he says, eyes narrowed.

“Shaul!” Aradi Mattan explodes.

The kasir looks ill at ease. “The healing spells you originally asked about can do things like purify the blood, suppress or stimulate various physiological—”

“But sir,” Shaul interrupts, “even if the Assembly discovers new spells to cure the dark eyes, how will that help halani? We can't afford healing spells.”

Some of my classmates gasp. The District Hall representative stands frozen on the dais with his mouth open.

“Class dismissed!” shouts Aradi Mattan. Everyone starts talking at once, and I make my exit, glad to escape. Deep down, though, I admire Shaul's boldness. New healing spells
won't
be of any use to Leah if her family can't pay for them.

It's Thirdday, so while some of my classmates stream down the hall, I go upstairs to meet Aradi Imael as planned. As soon as I walk through the door, she hands me a Qirakh application and an audition pamphlet. On the front of the pamphlet is a Xanite flag. Inside, fragments of text jump out at me: dates, procedures, the required number of octaves for different scales. Solos and sight-reading. I fold it back up, feeling queasy.

“We should choose a solo today,” says Aradi Imael. “Why don't you take out your instrument?”

While I tune, she fetches her own violin and plunks a pile of scores onto the conductor's stand. The possibilities seem infinite: countless sonatas by the great Atsani masters, works by more obscure composers like Toviah Adam, and even some modern compositions.

In the end, I select a piece by the philosopher Shevem.

“It's an unusual choice,” Aradi Imael says. “Shevem's music tends to get forgotten, what with everything else he did. It's sure to surprise your judges.”

She probably hopes that will work in my favor, since the other students will doubtless be performing famous concertos beyond my ability.

Before I leave, she has me attempt a few tricky sections under tempo. She listens and watches, sometimes playing along with me until the notes begin to feel familiar. At the end of the lesson, in addition to the music for the Shevem, she hands me another book,
Medsha Excerpts for Violin: Volume I
.

“Practice sight-reading out of that, but focus on your solo,” she says with an encouraging smile. “See if you can learn the notes this week. Let's meet again after school next Fourthday. In the meantime, mail in your application to reserve an audition time.”

“I will,” I say, clutching my new music. I'm determined not to mess up my one chance of getting into secondary school this year. “My thanks, Aradi. For everything.”

E
arly the next morning, Caleb is stewing squash and I'm dashing off the conclusion to an essay that's due today when a thumping at the apartment door makes us both jump. Answering it, I come face to face with Sarah's willowy tutor. She is bareheaded, her brown hair parted severely and smoothed back into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Channah?” I say, astonished. “I mean, Gadi . . .”

“Hadar,” she finishes. “Good morning.”

I invite her in, but she doesn't want to leave the landing.

“I'm in this part of the city on personal business this morning, so Sarah asked me to deliver this,” she says, passing me an envelope.

I unseal it and unfold a note written in an elegant hand.

Dear Marah,

Sarah has asked me to invite you to our home for dinner this evening. I apologize for her fancies and urge you not to feel obligated to accept her invitation. We would, however, be delighted to have you.

Nasim Faysal (Sarah's mother)

Nasim Faysal. A Xanite name. So Sarah's Xanite? I wouldn't have guessed, but it's not easy to distinguish Xanites from Ashari.

“If you accept the invitation,” Channah says, “I'll come back at five o'clock to take you to dinner.”

She knows as well as I do that kasiri and halani hardly ever socialize. The rare friendships that do spring up tend to be between well-off halani and kasiri of modest means, generally in the same profession. Before he died, Gadi Yared's husband was a draper who occasionally took tea with the kasir owner of a small cloth shop. But even that was unusual.

“The Rashids are liberal-minded,” Channah says, guessing my thoughts. Her expression is unreadable.

Despite my misgivings, I soften when I think of Sarah. And I am curious to see the inside of a kasir home. This is probably the only chance I'll ever have.

“I'll come,” I tell Channah.

“Very good,” she says. “I'll see you this evening.” She turns on her heel.

Caleb gapes at me from the stove. Grinning, I sign him a brief explanation and then head for the study. Mother is gathering papers at her desk, about to leave for the District Hall.

“Mother? Can I go somewhere for dinner?” I explain how I know Sarah.

“Well, I can't see any reason why you shouldn't go,” Mother says. “It might even be impolite to turn down such an invitation. I'm surprised, though, that you're so attached to an eight-year-old kasir girl you've hardly known two weeks.”

I hesitate. “It was the way she treated Caleb. You know how everyone acts like he doesn't exist once they realize he's deaf? Sarah wasn't like that.”

Mother smiles tiredly. “Don't stay out too late, Marah.”

• • •

A
FEW
MINUTES
before five o'clock, a sleek automobile turns onto our street, and I run downstairs. Snow dusts the auto's flat roof and gathers in the wheels' metal spokes. Channah motions for me to sit in front. Just before I climb in, I notice one of our neighbors standing on the doorstep of the apartment building opposite ours. He stares openmouthed at me and the automobile. Wincing inwardly, I duck inside, and Channah speeds down the street.

We rumble westward, leaving the city's crowded districts behind. We pass courtyards full of dormant potted plants wrapped in burlap and twine. Curlicued wrought-iron gates guard the homes. Another auto rolls past us, headed into the city, and a little later, we overtake a carriage. Still farther down the road, the fashionable suburbs give way to open country dotted with austere mansions.

Channah eases the auto around a curve. Birch trees, their white bark standing out starkly in the bluish evening, line the gravel road and part to reveal a huge house on a rise. The driveway's open gates glint in the headlamps' light. We glide through, fresh snow crunching under our wheels. After Channah parks the automobile in an outbuilding, I follow her across the driveway to the mansion's least imposing entrance. We stamp the snow from our shoes and go inside.

“This way, through the kitchen,” Channah says, unwinding her scarf. I take off my cloak as we step into a room filled with clanging and sizzling. I smell roasting meat, herbs, butter, mushrooms. The cook, stirring something on the stove, looks me over curiously.

Apprehensive, I follow Channah down a corridor. In a mansion like this, I'd expect electric lights, but we're too far out for that. Only kasir buildings in the center of Ashara have electricity. Here, two gasoliers with gold branches hang from the ceiling, their flames throwing shadows onto the wallpaper. A door swings open, and Sarah races down the hall to grab my hand.

“Marah, you're here!” she cries. “Come meet Azariah.”

I can't help smiling at her clear voice and bright face. She drags me into the room she burst from. It's a study, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A carved wooden music stand and a chair occupy one corner of the room. Opposite the door, a tall window framed by velvet curtains looks out onto the snow-blanketed lawn. I can distinguish the dark edge of the forest on the western horizon. Facing this view is a glossy wooden desk with lion's feet and pewter drawer knobs.

A lanky boy rises from the desk to greet me. I'd guess he's in Final too. He has short black hair that curls a bit, deep-set dark eyes, and a sharp chin. He doesn't seem to realize his crisp white shirt has come partly untucked from his trousers.

“Azariah, this is my new friend I told you about,” Sarah says.

The boy nods. “Hello.”

“I'm Marah Levi,” I say.

“It's nice to meet you,” he replies.

An awkward silence stretches between us. I've never spoken to a kasir my own age before, and it occurs to me Azariah may never have spoken with a halan his age either.

“Is Cha—I mean, Gadi Hadar, your tutor too?” I venture at last.

Azariah looks taken aback. I must've asked a stupid question.

“No, I go to Firem,” he says, gesturing toward his desk chair. A black jacket lies draped over the back. Sewn onto the lapel is the badge of the elite kasir school. “Sarah had a bit of a bad time of it in Preparatory, so Mother and Father pulled her out of school and hired a tutor for her.”

Sarah tugs on her brother's sleeve. “I wanted Marah to help you with your books.”

“My thanks, Sarah,” he says with a little smile, his eyes resting doubtfully on me. I return his gaze coolly.

“She's eating with us first,” Sarah says, clapping her hands. “With Melchior home from boarding school, it's almost like a party!”

Azariah grimaces as the door creaks open behind us. An older boy, maybe seventeen, sticks his head in and peers at me. He resembles Azariah but for his stocky build.

Sarah flits up to him and slides her hand in his. “This is Marah, Melchior.”

“So
you're
Marah.” Melchior smoothes Sarah's hair and walks into the room. His faintly suspicious gaze makes me self-conscious, so I don't meet his eyes, staring instead at the Firem Secondary pin fastened to his jacket.

“Why do you always barge into my study without knocking?” Azariah complains.

“Try a lock spell next time,” Melchior says, already on his way out. Azariah rolls his eyes.

Sarah, Azariah, and I soon join the rest of the family for supper. The Rashids' dining room is twice the size of our kitchen, with a soaring ceiling that makes me feel small. Ornate gas light fixtures are evenly spaced along the walls, and the furniture is all made of dark wood.

When we come in, Melchior is speaking to a man with a graying beard at the head of the table. “Yes, I realize Azariah's grades are astronomically better than mine, but I—”

He breaks off at the sight of us. The man, whom I take to be Sarah's father, welcomes me and introduces himself as Jalal Rashid. Then he presents his wife, Nasim, a dazzling woman with sleek black hair. I learn that they both work for the government, he in the Foreign Commerce Department and she at the Education Bureau.

“Sit by me, Marah!” Sarah says, bouncing in her seat. Gadi Faysal flashes a reproving look at her daughter. Then she reaches out her hand, murmuring a word, and flames dance on a silver candelabrum on the table.

I sit down beside Sarah and wait, now wishing I'd stayed home to eat squash with Mother and Caleb. Sarah may be endearing, but the Rashids are kasiri, and I feel totally out of place.

A maid appears bearing a silver tray of crystal glasses into which drinks have already been poured: wine for Sarah's parents, water for her brothers and me, and juice for Sarah.

“My thanks,” I tell her when she sets down my glass.

Without replying, the maid glides out of the dining room and returns with porcelain bowls of some kind of herb-infused broth.

“I hope you like it, Marah,” Gadi Faysal says warmly. “Tell us, how old are you?”

“Fourteen,” I say. I taste the broth; it's bitter and soothing at the same time.

“The same age as Azariah, then. Where do you go to school?”

“Horiel Primary.”

Gadi Faysal's cordiality only throws me more off-balance. When she asks me to tell them a little more about myself, I don't know what to say. I rack my brains while the maid serves mushroom soup and roast duck. At last I remember medsha.

“Music? Splendid,” Sarah's father says. “Azariah plays the violin too.”

“Marah also tells stories,” Sarah pipes up. “She told me one in the auto about—”

There's a blinding burst of light, like a photographer's flash, and the sound of breaking glass. I blink away the black spots floating in my vision to see the shards of Sarah's tumbler glinting on the table and the deep red juice, cherry or pomegranate, soaking into the cream tablecloth.

Sarah gives a cry of surprise and turns red. A smoky smell permeates the dining room, as intense as if a wood fire were burning under the table.

“It's all right,” Gadi Faysal says at once, extending her hand, palm down, toward the spreading stain. Across from me, Azariah curls his fingers around empty air and looks intently at the jagged pieces of glass. For a second, I can't understand how Sarah's grip could have shattered crystal, and then I remember she wasn't even holding her glass.

Gadi Faysal and Azariah utter incantations. The crimson stain shrinks with breathtaking speed, leaving unblemished cloth in its wake until all evidence of the spill is gone. At the same time, the crystal fragments leap together as though by a magnetic force, and the glass stands whole on the table once more.

“Show-off,” Melchior says to Azariah.

“You weren't about to do it,” Azariah retorts, examining the repaired tumbler for cracks.

“I'm sorry!” Sarah squeaks, ducking down in her chair.

“It's all right,” her mother repeats. “You couldn't help it.”

“That was nothing,” Melchior reassures her. He leans across the table as if to share a secret. “When Azariah was your age, he exploded a stuffed pheasant.”

Azariah glares at him, but Sarah giggles, and without thinking, I say, “The taxidermy kind or the edible kind?”

Melchior looks at me as though seeing me for the first time and bursts out laughing.

Azariah finally grins. “The edible kind,” he says ruefully. “Don't think I don't remember when you were growing into your power, Melchior.”

“Did you see, Marah?” Sarah turns to me, her cheeks still pink. “It means I have magic.”

Now that she's certain no one is angry with her, Sarah's proud of having shattered a glass with her nascent powers. I feel a small pang, knowing she's not just a little girl but a little magician.

The Rashids settle into the rest of their meal, and I feel awkward again. Banar Rashid and Gadi Faysal launch into a discussion of Xanite politics. The maid serves buttery vegetables and date confections, and I eat mechanically. The next thing I know, Sarah is towing me back to Azariah's study.

The room is frigid, and snow is falling outside. After following us into the study, Azariah pauses, his expression thoughtful. Then he turns toward the door, holds out his hand in a strange shape, and pronounces a word. A purple spark floats between his fingers. I catch a whiff of something acrid and wrinkle my nose. It's not as strong as the wood smoke smell at dinner, but it's less pleasant.

Sarah says something in Xanite, but Azariah nods at me. “Speak Ashari, Sarah. And no, I doubt Melchior could break that.” He smiles fleetingly. “Even I don't know the theory behind lock spells, and I'm sorry, but Melchior's practically flunking out.”

I stand uncomfortably on the luxuriant carpet until Sarah drags up a chair for me.

“Will you help Azariah now?” she says.

I shift uneasily in my seat. “What exactly do you need?” I ask her brother. “It's getting late.”

“Sarah said something about you and languages. It was her idea. Now that you're here, I might as well see if . . .” He trails off, looking embarrassed.

“Show her the books,” Sarah says.

He crosses to the shelves covering the wall. The sight of so many books fills me with excitement and envy. Azariah chooses four or five volumes and hands them to me one by one.

“The university was cleaning out its library,” he explains, “and I fished these out of the discard boxes. They're all in languages I don't recognize. That's probably why they were thrown out, actually: they're in languages too obscure to matter to the librarians, or else nobody can read them.”

“Firem's librarians are
throwing away
books just because they're not interested in them?” I say, aghast.

“I know.” Azariah looks pained. “That's why I rescued these. I haven't gotten around to asking my teachers about them. They don't have much patience for this sort of thing. If it's not in Ashari or Old Monarchic . . . We're lucky the university library even has a Xanite collection. Anyway, I haven't gotten anywhere with these books yet, but Sarah's convinced you might know something.”