After she reached the main room and gently closed the bookshelf behind her, she made her way up to the library. She heard the turning of a page as she approached the second floor. Rattle was reading, and had placed Petre near itself. Rattle kept looking between the foggy sphere and the open book. It took Skate a moment to realize that Rattle wasn’t the one reading; Petre, having no hands to speak of, needed someone to turn the pages for him. She cleared her throat and got their attention.
“I’m going back to my nap now,” she said, feigning a yawn—or trying to, as the attempt turned into a genuine example. “Try not to get too crazy in here, okay?” Rattle looked at the blue sphere and shrugged, then clicked at her to let her know they’d heard her. The flying eyeball bat returned its attention to the open book, and Petre must have done the same, because Rattle very soon turned the page.
Chapter 16
In which graffiti is discussed, a trap is sprung, and cake is nibbled.
Skate awoke several hours later. She had not actually meant to fall asleep, but only to rest her tired eyes. Her body had betrayed her, though, and she had slept. She had dreamt, too, and it had been a good dream: she brought the robes, the statue, and the gemstones to Boss Marshall, and Twitch was with her. She was laughing; Twitch, the Boss, Haman, and even Kite were there laughing; and the three things turned into a pile of gold coins, the scepter of King Rajian stamped on each one. It was a growing mountain of gold, and Belamy was suddenly there, seated in the corner reading a book. He lifted his hands and more gold flowed out, a fountain of coins from each of his loose-hanging, red-and-gold sleeves. He was wearing the robes somehow, and he, too, was laughing. He said something, but she couldn’t remember it now. The rest of the dream was fading, and the more she tried to remember of it, the more it dissipated. She shook her head and tried to forget it. Real life was calling, and she had no time for dreams.
Skate looked out the window to see the sun much closer to the horizon than its zenith. It had done its work fairly well for the day, making the snow piles smaller and the puddles of water larger. These would freeze overnight and melt again tomorrow, unless the warm breezes stopped, which was bound to happen soon. Winter was less than half over, and more snow was sure to come to shut everyone in once more.
Through the door, the ruffling sound of a page turning told her that Rattle and Petre were likely right where she’d left them.
Skate put her bare feet on the floor and walked over to her desk. She pulled out her slate and began mindlessly running through her letters, writing small enough to fit all twenty-six on the smooth black surface. After her third erasure using her discarded old rags, she decided it was time to get Ossertine’s book back to her.
Skate put the slate and chalk nub back in the drawer of the desk and stopped. The letters in the back corner of the drawer caught her attention again. This time, she could read them. It was two large letters together. “AB,” she muttered, saying the names of the individual letters.” Is “ab” a word? She thought about it and decided that if it was, it was a stupid one. She’d never heard of any such thing, so she guessed it to be letters carved into the wood as some sort of sign or mark, not a word.
She closed the drawer and went to the library. “What’s AB?” she asked, standing right behind Rattle and Petre. The bat thing turned, but Petre’s prison remained smoky. She assumed he’d turned toward her, but couldn’t be sure; she’d found that he couldn’t make himself seen at all until his home was held, and could only make himself heard with great effort if he wasn’t in your hand. She walked over to him and picked him up, and his eyes came into view.
“What?” he asked, confusion plain on his face. “They’re the first two letters of the alphabet. I thought Barrison said she was an expert with the letters by now.” He looked at Rattle for confirmation, but the flapping creature only clicked once and stared at her.
She rolled her eyes. “I know that. I mean, is it a word?”
“Is ‘ab’ a word?” Petre repeated, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “No, I don’t think so. Well, it is in the language of the dwarves. It means ‘and.’ Have you been trying to read some bizarre translation where they kept the original word in place by spelling it out in a different alphabet?”
“No, nothing like that. There’s some letters carved into the drawer of my desk. It just says ‘AB.’ Capital letters, kinda jagged, up in the corner.”
Petre and Rattle shared another look, this one heavy with meaning. Petre retreated into his smoke while Rattle looked back at her.
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Skate. Just some graffiti. Surely you’ve got more important things to worry about, right?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Best get to it, then, eh? Deliver your book, and all that?”
“You’re acting weird.”
“No idea what you mean. Off with you, now.”
Skate put him back on his perch. Rattle looked between the pair of them, then slowly turned back to the book. “I’ll just ask Mr. Belamy about it when he gets back.” She had a finger on the glass, so she’d be able to hear what Petre said.
“You do that,” he said, feigning disinterest. She took her hand away and walked down the stairs.
Ossertine’s book was right where Skate had left it that morning. Her plan for returning it was straightforward: bang on the door as loudly as she could, drop the book on the stoop, and haul tail to a nearby alley where she could watch and confirm that the haughty woman had found the package. It was a much easier proposition than getting the book out had been.
Skate pulled on her boots and wrapped her fur-lined coat around her to brace against the chill outside; while it wasn’t unbearable, there was still a bite to the air when not in direct sun. She put the book and burlap in her pack, then put the pack over her shoulder and went out into the street. Maybe Rattle would have dinner ready by the time she got back.
The streets were busy, but few were stopping to chat or dawdle. Carts and wagons and carriages trundled down the streets, and the pedestrians of Caribol swarmed around one another in tightly gripped cloaks and coats, scarves and hats twitching in the comforting warm breeze that occasionally died out entirely, leaving everyone to attempt to wrap up tighter still. Ossertine lived much closer than the other marks had, so the shivering crowds were not a notable concern. The walk to her home was uneventful, and Skate found it as she’d left it, nestled tight in a row of homes just like it. Some of the stoops had been cleared of snow, while others had kept a slathering of the stuff at their doorstep, their owners too busy or unconcerned to bother pushing it away. Ossertine was among the latter, though a warm bouncing light through the window told Skate the woman was home and had lit her fireplace.
Skate walked to the doorway with a practiced ease, a deliberate way of moving that neither invited suspicion nor tried to deflect it; in a sense, she walked as others did, as if she were doing whatever normal people went about doing—visiting a relative, perhaps, or delivering something to a friend. The window was iced over, since it had not received any appreciable sunlight.
Skate pulled the burlap sack out of her pack and set it down gently. She banged on the door twice as hard as she could, then turned to flee into the shelter of the alley across the narrow cobbled road. An unexpected problem arose, however: upon turning to flee, she found herself unable to take another step. Indeed, she could move not at all. Her arms, still out to her sides, bent slightly with the turn. She could not put them down. She could not speak.