Sparkers (11 page)

I
t's been a week since Leah confided in me, and thankfully she's said nothing more about her intuition. Some days, as I play at her sickbed, I even think she looks stronger, her gestures quicker and her cheeks less flushed.

I visit Aradi Imael twice more to work on my solo. She has a way of coaxing miracles from my fingers by describing the feel of a phrase: this one is like the flight of a swallow, that one has the cadence of a halting question. I discover myself capable of a velvety tone in one place, of icy, slashing bow strokes in another. Still, my scales are too slow and my sight-reading of challenging excerpts spotty at best. I feel anxious whenever I think of my audition, now only three weeks away.

When I'm not at Leah's, I stay home to keep Caleb company and help him cook meals. With Mother unemployed, we have to make sure not a scrap goes to waste.

On Tenthday afternoon, after fruitlessly trying to bring my minor scales up to the required tempo, I drift into the kitchen just as Caleb comes in from one of his walks. He tosses a newspaper onto the table.

I scan the front page. In a box at the bottom, I notice
DEATH
COUNT
in block letters, and underneath, the number 237. A chill like ice water washes over my skin.

Caleb taps my arm and hands me an envelope.
It's for you. It was in our mailbox downstairs.

The envelope is made of fine white paper and bears my name and address in blue ink. I break the seal and unfold a sheet of yellow stationery.

Dear Marah,

Would it be convenient for you to come to our house every Thirdday to continue our work? I have spoken to my parents of our common interest in studying languages, and they have no objection to such an arrangement. If you agree, there is no need to reply. Channah will pick you up at five o'clock every Thirdday, starting next week.

Azariah Rashid

I read it again, indignant at his kasir arrogance.
No need to reply
indeed.

Caleb peers at my letter, and I don't hide it from him.

It's from that kasir?
he signs.

I nod. Azariah's lucky I'm so curious what else is in his book.

• • •

O
N
T
HIRDDAY
,
THE
Rashids' gleaming auto rolls up at nightfall. A few men returning from work glower at me as I come out of our building. I pretend to ignore them. If I were them, I'd disapprove too.

During the drive, Channah is unusually cheerful.

“You're visiting Azariah more than Sarah now, aren't you?” she says.

“I guess.” I wonder how she feels about having to chauffeur me, a fellow halan, to and from the city so I can spend the evening with her kasir employers' children.

Channah keeps asking questions. What sort of dinner conversations do I have with the Rashids? What do Azariah and I talk about in his study? Bewildered by her inquisitiveness, I give short, vague replies.

When we drive up to the Rashids' outbuilding, I notice another auto parked near the house. Channah breathes in sharply and swears.

“What is it?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

I stumble out of the auto, my shoes crunching on the snow. At the front door, Azariah lets me in, a wide-eyed Sarah at his side.

“Follow me,” he whispers. The three of us hurry to his study, and he shuts the door behind us.

“What's going on?” I demand.

“We have dinner guests,” Azariah says darkly.

“The Seventh Councilor of the Assembly,” Sarah says, her voice hushed with awe.

“And her personal secretary,” says Azariah.

“What?” I say, aghast. “I can't have dinner with the Seventh Councilor.” I take a step toward the door. “I should go.”

“No.” He makes as if to hold me back. “My parents want you to stay. You were invited. The Seventh Councilor wasn't.”

“She wasn't
invited
?”

“No.” Azariah stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets. “I'm sure she's snooping for Yiftach David. Mother's furious.”

I can't think straight. Shouldn't the Rashids be honored by this visit? Azariah's parents must work high up in the government hierarchy if they can afford a mansion like this one. Then I recall what Azariah let slip last time about the Second Councilor.

My confusion must show on my face because Azariah says, “The Assembly doesn't trust us.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, we're Xanite, but mostly it's because of Mother and Father's radical views. They believe in halan representation in the government. And Mother's argued for integrated schools for years.”

I stare at him. I didn't think there were any kasiri who supported halan representation or integrated schools. I wonder what Shaul and his pharmacy friends would make of this.

“It means the councilors always pass them over for promotions,” Azariah adds, “but Mother and Father came from rich families in Xana and don't need to rely on the Assembly's good favor.” He pauses. “At least they don't think they do.”

I glance at Sarah, who looks sad and scared perched on Azariah's desk chair. “Isn't this all the more reason for me to leave? A halan guest will make it look like—”

“That's why the Seventh Councilor can't find out you're not a kasir,” Azariah says.

I gape at him. “What, you want me to pretend?”

“Yes.” Azariah turns to Sarah. “Hear that? For tonight, Marah's a kasir.”

She nods gravely.

“You can't be serious,” I say. “Look at my clothes. It'll never work.”

Azariah's gaze moves reluctantly over my plain skirt and scratchy wool sweater. I should've known a boy wouldn't notice that kind of thing.

“It's true,” Sarah says. “She doesn't look like a kasir.”

“We'll have to find you something else,” he says.

“This is insane,” I begin, but then Sarah leaps up.

“Let's look in Mother's wardrobe!”

“Your mother's taller than me,” I say.

“Yes, but Hala and Isra's things are in there,” Sarah says with a gleeful smile.

“Whose things?”

“Our cousins from Atsan,” Azariah explains. “They visited a while ago, and some of their clothes are still around. Come on, let's see what we can find.”

Azariah cracks open the study door, and Sarah slips through and darts down the hall. Her brother and I follow her into a vast bedroom. Azariah lights the gas lamp overhead with a spell.

Sarah walks around her parents' massive bed, throws open the doors of a rosewood armoire, and starts rooting through the richly colored wools and silks of her mother's dresses. I'm still wondering how many clothes their Atsani cousins must own in order to think nothing of leaving some in Ashara when Sarah pulls out a dress.

“You should wear this!” she says, running her fingers through the folds of dark blue velvet.

“I'm not sure—”

“At least try it on,” Azariah pleads.

Sarah shows me into an adjoining dressing room and leaves me with the dress. I change into it and study my reflection in the oval mirror above the dressing-table. The gown fits all right, though I'm not as filled out as the girl it was made for. The sleeves end in snug cuffs at my elbows. I'm unaccustomed to the way the skirt reaches my ankles and the neckline exposes my collarbones, but it's the kasir style. I almost don't recognize myself.

Sarah peeks into the dressing room, then grins and bounds up to me. Before I know what's happening, she has climbed onto the dressing-table stool and untied the cord securing my braid.

“Sarah, what—?” Then I understand. A kasir girl wouldn't be caught dead wearing a single braid down her back. Sarah combs her fingers through my hair, smoothing out the kinks, and arranges it around my shoulders as elegantly as she can.

“There,” she says, beaming at our reflection. “You look so pretty!”

When I emerge from Gadi Faysal's dressing room, Azariah's eyes widen.

“I feel like an impostor,” I say. “I
am
an impostor.”

“Don't think like that,” he says. “You look perfect.”

I highly doubt that.

The three of us are the last to enter the dining room. Seven porcelain plates are laid out on a shimmering tablecloth. Gadi Faysal and Banar Rashid sit at the head and foot of the table, and when they see me walk in wearing a velvet dress that clearly isn't mine, they both stare. Luckily, their astonishment goes unnoticed by the two strangers present. The first, a woman in a dark red dress, must be Ketsiah Betsalel, the Seventh Councilor. She's young, even for the most junior member of the Assembly. Her olive skin is smooth, her black hair cut short in a daring new style. Her gawky secretary, dressed in a white shirt and a black jacket with silk lapels, sits beside her.

Azariah nudges me forward, and I move to the spot next to Sarah, keeping my back as straight as possible. To my dismay, I find myself directly opposite the Seventh Councilor.

“Good evening, children,” she says with a condescending smile.

“Good evening, Gadi Betsalel,” Azariah says.

“What are your names?” she asks.

“I'm Azariah,” he says. “And this is my friend Marah.”

The Seventh Councilor looks at me. My instinct is to shrink in my chair, but instead I pull my shoulders back, lift my chin, and respectfully meet her gaze. “Good evening, Gadi Betsalel.”

While Sarah introduces herself, I watch Gadi Faysal whisper to the maid at her end of the table. Then Azariah kicks me in the ankle, and I realize the Seventh Councilor has just asked me where I go to school.

My mind goes blank for a moment. Recovering, I affect an offhand tone and say, “I go to Firem with Azariah.”

I catch Banar Rashid's sharp glance, but there's not much he can do now. I'm counting on Azariah to buttress my lies.

“The first course is served,” Gadi Faysal announces, smiling with flawless grace as the maid sets bowls of soup in front of us. “A Xanite delicacy, made from a rare desert plant.”

I watch Azariah's mother, picking up the same spoon she does and imitating the way she sips the soup. Garnished with sprigs of a spiny herb, it's almost unbearably bitter.

“Ah, the flavors of your native Xana,” Gadi Betsalel says, her face smooth. She smiles at her secretary. “Delicious, isn't it, Lavan?”

“I asked the cook to prepare it the moment I heard you were coming,” Gadi Faysal says, feigning modesty. Councilor Betsalel's secretary grimaces as he swallows another spoonful.

Soon after the maid serves barley and roasted hare, the Seventh Councilor brings up the subject of immigrating Xanite kasiri. Lavan, her secretary, brightens and forgets all about his dinner.

“Xanite kasiri tend to arrive unaccustomed to our institutions' traditions,” Gadi Betsalel says as I swallow a forkful of meat. “Despite their accomplishments, they are outsiders until they adapt to our practices and our theory of magic.”

Banar Rashid clears his throat. “Keep in mind that Xanite immigrants have made significant contributions to the modern craft of Ashari magic.”

“But it was Ashari magicians who refined those contributions and extended their applications,” Lavan pipes up. “You'll notice none of the Assembly councilors is Xanite.”

Gadi Faysal lowers her silverware. “Perhaps if the councilors were elected, it would be different,” she says dryly.

“If Xanites don't like Ashara,” Lavan says, “they can go back to their country.”

“The civil war there has been raging for thirty years, as you well know,” Gadi Faysal says, her cheeks bloodless. “And must I remind you that the people who settled the north lands and founded the Erezai monarchy came from Xana?”

“That's ancient history,” Lavan retorts.

“That will do, Lavan,” says the Seventh Councilor, a smile playing on her lips. “You'll find Gadi Faysal difficult to sway.”

“Do taste this fish, Ketsiah,” Banar Rashid says as another course arrives. I expect him to steer the conversation into less treacherous waters, but then he says, “What can you tell my family about the outbreak of the dark eyes?”

I don't know if I can handle talk of the illness. But maybe the Seventh Councilor can tell us something no one outside the Assembly knows.

“We are devoting considerable time and funds to the study of the illness, Jalal,” she tells Banar Rashid. “Yiftach David himself examines each progress report submitted by the physicians' committee.”

“Shouldn't these reports be available to the public?” says Gadi Faysal.

“What do you mean?” the councilor asks.

“The committee's work is shrouded in secrecy, and we've seen no evidence of progress in treating the disease. The Assembly has still not identified the illness, nor can any doctor explain the darkening of the irises.”

“You are the first person I've encountered who is not satisfied with our swift response to the outbreak and our energetic pursuit of a cure,” the Seventh Councilor says.

Gadi Faysal's eyes flash. “Am I the only person who is paying attention?”

Banar Rashid straightens, alarmed. “Nasim, I believe the children may be excused.”

The Seventh Councilor protests, but Banar Rashid is firm. Sarah, Azariah, and I file out.

Sarah slips off by herself, and Azariah and I walk down the carpeted hallway. When we reach the safety of his study, he sinks into his desk chair, his whole body sagging.

“Can I take off this wretched dress?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Better wait until we're sure Councilor Betsalel's gone.”

Resigned, I pull the other chair up beside him. He opens the Hagramet book. “Remember the words I copied out of your dictionary?” he says. “‘Spell' and so on? This is a section where they appear a lot close together.”