Sparkers (17 page)

M
elchior cracks open the door, peering into the gloom. When he beckons us, Azariah and I slither into the corridor and press ourselves against the wall. A rumble of laughter reaches us from somewhere nearby.

“It reeks of Xanite saltweed,” Azariah mutters. “Have you been smoking down here?”

Melchior ignores him, concentrating on casting a new spell on the storeroom lock. Then he leads us through a black passageway to a staircase that rises in the shadows. I follow Azariah so closely my nose almost touches his muddied coat. Halfway up the steps, we hear a muffled crash from somewhere in the basement. Melchior curses.

“If I don't get back there soon, they'll destroy the place or come marching upstairs and spoil everything for you. Shimon's half drunk.”

“You've got to be joking,” says Azariah.

“What do you expect? There's no school.” Melchior stops near the top of the stairs. “Wait here.”

I hear a prolonged squeak, and then a shaft of light chases away the darkness. Melchior slips out of the stairwell, leaving us in blackness again. His footsteps move away and then return. When he peeks in and nods, Azariah and I pass into a narrow hallway I've never seen before. There are four closed doors ahead, two on either side. Melchior opens the nearest one on the left and waves Azariah and me inside. Before he shuts us in, I glimpse the silhouettes of brooms and the gleaming edge of a bucket. The closet smells of soap.

I hold my breath, listening to the tap of Melchior's shoes. He knocks on the door diagonally across from the broom closet.

“Channah? It's Melchior.”

She answers the door, and I can just follow their exchange. Melchior passes on Sarah's request, and Channah demurs. But when Melchior pleads with her, she abruptly consents. The next instant, her door closes with a crack.

Both sets of footsteps start off toward the other end of the house, but a moment later Melchior's heavier ones turn back and pass us by, headed for the staircase to the basement. Then all is quiet in the servants' hallway.

“He's gone to control his friends,” Azariah whispers. “Let's hurry.”

We step out of the broom closet and cross the hall to Channah's room. Azariah reaches his hand out tentatively.

“Her door's unprotected,” he murmurs.

“She couldn't have cast a spell in front of Melchior,” I point out.

We enter her room. It's not very big; Azariah's study is more spacious. Just across the threshold, I almost bump into the foot of the bed. The other furniture is plain: a desk and chair against the far wall, a dresser in one corner, a bookcase in the other. The closet door hangs ajar.

Azariah's Hagramet text and my grammar, along with our notebooks and lists, are fanned out on the rumpled bedspread. I gather them up as Azariah seizes the lumpy bag lying on the desk. He plunges his hand into it and holds up the black eggs for me to see. I rush over and peer into the bag while he touches each of the other items: the packet of dried cub's foot, the loose tubers, the flask of perilla oil, and the jar of cardamom.

Azariah and I glance up at each other.

“The heavenly tea's missing,” I say.

He runs his hand down the front of his coat. “It was in my breast pocket, by itself.”

The surface of the desk is empty now. I turn toward the bookcase, but except for three or four small volumes, it's bare. Azariah checks the desk drawers, to no avail. I begin to wonder, a sick feeling intensifying in my stomach, if the tea is on Channah's person.

“Take these,” I say, pushing the books in my arms on Azariah. “Take the ingredients too and go. I'll meet you at the road when I've found the tea.”

“What? I'm not leaving you here.”

“Go,” I insist, starting on the top drawer of the dresser. I don't feel the slightest qualm digging through Channah's stockings. “And find some food if you can, I'm starving. Go, Azariah! Better for her to catch one of us than both of us!”

He leaves, finally, though his face is distorted with clashing impulses. When he's gone, I rifle through Channah's shirts. Nothing. The dresser has three more drawers. This is taking too long.

I try to imagine what Channah would've done with the pouch of heavenly tea. Would she really have hidden it in her dresser while leaving everything else in plain sight on her desk?

Then I notice the closet door again. I pull it open so violently a puff of air rushes past my face. Her winter coat is hanging right in front of me. I slide my hand into one of the pockets, and my fingers brush leather. I grab the little bag, my knees weakening at the sight of the bright red cord securing it.

Stuffing the heavenly tea into my cloak, I flee Channah's room without checking whether the coast is clear. No one's around, though. I tiptoe down the hall, praying I'll recognize where I am in the Rashid mansion once I'm out of the servants' quarters. I turn down a carpeted corridor, stopping at a doorway that opens on my left. Peeking in, I realize it's the living room. I can get to the front entrance from here.

I start to creep across the living room, heading for the opposite doorway and feeling terribly exposed in the wide spaces between the furniture. I'm halfway across when Channah walks into the room from the other side. I freeze, my muscles taut with terror. Channah recovers first and is upon me at once, her hand squeezing the flesh of my upper arm so tightly I let out a gasp.

“How did you get out?” she says, a tremor in her voice. “Where's Azariah?”

I clamp my lips together.

Her eyes widen. “The ingredients.” She starts to drag me toward the servants' quarters, but I dig my heels into the carpet.

“Please,” I cry, “I just want someone, anyone, to make the cure! Otherwise my brother is going to die!”

Channah's grip loosens. Her resolve seems to waver, and I notice the dark circles under her eyes and the sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.

“The Assembly wants to make the cure,” she says mechanically. She swallows, avoiding my gaze.

“But we were going to. Why are you hindering us?”

“Because I have no choice,” she says bleakly. “It's too late—I can't—” Her expression fills with anguish. She looks at me, and I get a strange feeling. For weeks, I believed she was a halan, until I learned the truth last night. But right now, she doesn't seem like a kasir. I feel like we are both halani again, like before.

“Marah, just leave. I won't follow you.”

“What?” I'm sure I've misheard.

“Go. Hide someplace the Assembly won't find you. Now, Marah!”

I step free of her grasp, dazed by my victory. What happened? Is it a trap?

Channah's jaw tightens, accentuating the skeletal look of her face. “Leave, for God's sake!”

I sprint past her, out of the living room, and down the hall to the front door. The cold hits me as I stumble out of the mansion. And there's Azariah, hunched against the wind and swirling snow, hiding behind the gatepost at the end of the driveway. When I reach him, I fling my arms around him.

“Marah!” he cries, half flummoxed, half relieved. “Do you have the tea?”

“Yes!” I pull away. “God of the Maitaf, I was so scared.”

“Me too,” he says, his cheeks pink.

I'm still shaking. “Azariah, she let us go.”

“What?”

“Channah . . . She let me escape. She told me to hide.”

Azariah looks nonplussed. “That doesn't make any sense. Why would she let us go?”

“I don't know. It was like she changed her mind.”

He shakes his head. “I don't trust her. We'd better leave.”

“Did you have time to find any food?” I ask.

He passes me a bag of dried sweet potatoes. I take a handful and bite into a chewy strip.

We pass through the open gates onto the birch-lined road and trudge toward the city. The snow falls thickly, obliterating hoofprints and tire tracks, muffling and purifying the world. It rises above our ankles, slowing our brisk pace. The air is a soft, sleepy gray, tinged pink by an invisible sunset.

Once in the city proper, I lead the way to my apartment. When we go by Leah's street, walking in exhausted silence, my throat tightens. It feels like an eternity since I last saw her, yet it was only yesterday.

At last we reach the landing outside my apartment. The floorboards creak under us, and I hear footsteps.

Mother looks out into the hall, her face stiff and ashen. I lurch toward her, and she draws me into the kitchen, squeezing my hands, practically cracking the bones.

“Marah Levi,” she says in a strangled voice. “Where have you been?” Her words pulse with relief and fury.

“I meant to come home,” I say, swallowing hard. I try to apologize but start to cry instead.

Mother pulls me to her, and I rest my forehead on her shoulder. I make an effort to hold in my tears, but I only feel myself unraveling further.

Somehow Azariah is still standing forlornly on the landing. I'm dimly aware of Mother inviting him in and telling him where he can wash up, and then she and I are floating down the hall. We enter her bedroom and sink onto the edge of the bed.

“Marah,” she murmurs. “Marah.” She tries to lift my chin, but I just sob into her chest.

She strokes my hair for a few minutes as we huddle together in the chilly room. Her wardrobe looms in the shadows. I used to crawl inside as a child and press my cheeks against her dresses, breathing in the scent of cedar. I remember feeling so safe. I want to feel that way again.

“There, Marah,” Mother says. “We'll talk about it in the morning. You and your friend must be hungry, and you're covered in mud.”

She coaxes me to my feet. In the bathroom, I run some water in the tub. As usual, the hot water comes only in fits and starts, but I wash most of the grime off myself. After changing into clean clothes, I join Azariah at the table, too tired to feel embarrassed about the tearstains on my cheeks. He's washed his face and hands, but we don't have any men's clothes to lend him. Mother says she'll borrow something from the neighbors in the morning. We fight to stay awake as she feeds us bread and soup.

After our hasty meal, I show Azariah to my bedroom. In the lamplight, I can see Caleb cocooned in blankets.

“You'll have to sleep on the floor, but there's a mattress,” I tell Azariah. “I'm going to sleep in Mother's room.”

He nods, lowering the sack of ingredients. I jump at the sound of clinking glass, but Caleb doesn't stir. We bid each other good night, and then I follow Mother to her bedroom.

• • •

I
WAKE
IN
the night, disturbed by the touch of small hands on my arm. Blinking sleep away, I push the blankets off and start to sit up. Caleb hovers over me, his whole body trembling. I swing my legs out of Mother's bed and wrap my arms around him.

Caleb starts to cough. On the other side of the bed, Mother snores softly. Anxious not to disturb her, I hurry my brother out of her room. Keeping one arm around his shoulders, I feel my way down the hall.

In our bedroom, Azariah is awake, a dark shadow hunched on the mattress.

“Marah?” he says. “Your brother woke up and . . .”

“Can you light the lamp?” I ask.

I hear him fumbling for it in the dark. He mutters a word, and the flame appears. Caleb wrests himself from my embrace.

You have to go away
, he signs.

I ignore this.
You need to get back in bed
.

No
. His hair sticks to his forehead, and his black eyes are wide.
You have to leave the apartment or something bad will happen
.

A chill reaches deep into my bones.
Can we wait until morning?
I sign.

No
, Caleb signs frantically.
You have to leave now
.

Azariah is standing rigidly near the radiator, staring at us.

“Caleb says we have to go,” I whisper. “Now.”

Azariah's shoulders sag. “How can he know that?”

“The intuition.” I tuck my brother in again, then kick the mattress under the bed to hide any signs of someone else having slept here.

My thanks
, I sign to Caleb, whose dark eyes are still fixed on me.
Tell Mother . . .
My heart is breaking.
Tell her not to worry
.

Our departure is a blur, but time slows out in the night, where the freezing darkness eats away at hope. We trudge in silent misery through the rising carpet of snow.

After ages and ages of staggering forward and stumbling against each other, we stop. We're somewhere in the northeastern part of Ashara.

“That house there, does it look abandoned?” Azariah whispers.

I nod. A ragged piece of paper nailed to the door flaps in the icy breeze. We go inside, grateful for the relief from the biting wind. The house is silent except for our breathing. Azariah runs his hand over the staircase banister.

“Dust,” he says. “Let's go up.”

The first room we find upstairs is empty but for a heap of quilts. The eerie desolation of the house makes my skin crawl, but Azariah just rips into the dark hill of blankets. Without another word, we both collapse onto the floor, wrapping ourselves in things we can't even see.

I
n the morning, the room is awash in sunlight. I rub my eyes and sit up. Azariah is already awake, kneeling over the Hagramet text and the translation notebook, packets of ingredients laid out all around him.

I shake off the faded quilts and, taking care not to step on anything, move toward the window. The snow has muted the tracks we made last night. I strain to read the sign on the corner townhouse.

“We're on the Street of the Weavery,” I say. “Gishal District.”

Azariah nods. “We're going to have to go out. I took a look around the house while you were still sleeping. There's almost nothing useful here besides a few more blankets, and as far as I can tell, the gas is shut off. And we have nothing to eat, of course.”

“We need more ingredients too,” I say. “How are we going to buy everything we need?”

Azariah produces his coin purse from inside his coat. “I still have money.”

I brighten. “I thought Channah had taken everything.”

“No, she was quite a scrupulous thief,” he says bitterly.

I consider what day of the week it is. After these tumultuous last nights, it takes me a moment to figure out it's Thirdday.

“The Ikhad's open today,” I say. “We're lucky. We can find the rest of the ingredients, and some food.”

“We need a stove,” Azariah says. “Not just to cook, but to make the cure. So that means fuel, and some lanterns would be handy too . . . It's going to be awkward trying to carry all this back here without attracting attention.”

I rub my cold hands together. “Maybe if we had someone to help us . . .”

Azariah ponders this for a second. “Melchior.”

I don't answer right away.

“Marah, he's the only one. Our parents will ask too many questions, and mine are in enough trouble already.”

“You're right,” I say. “But how are we going to get in touch with him?”

“I wonder if he might go looking for me at your apartment,” Azariah muses.

“That's it!” I pick my cloak up off the floor and throw it on.

“Where are you going?”

“The Maitafi Graveyard.”

“What?”

“My mother works there. She can send a message to Melchior for us.”

“I'll come with you,” Azariah says, rising.

“No. Go to the Ikhad. Buy the rest of the ingredients, if you can, and anything else you can easily bring back. Food.”

He nods. “Be careful, Marah.”

“You too.”

• • •

T
HE
M
AITAFI
G
RAVEYARD
lies at the edge of Gishal District, near the city limits. When I reach its wrought-iron gates, I follow a tamped-down path to a low building just inside the cemetery walls. To my right is a desert of blindingly white snow, concealing hundreds of graves. I can distinguish a few scattered trees, and in the distance, a clump of dark-clad men. Grave diggers.

Inside, the administrative building is like a cave. I press myself against the stone wall, blinking as my eyes adjust. Then I hear her voice.

“—Fourthday, yes. Which fane?”

Several men converse in low voices, huddled together at the counter along the far wall. I glimpse Mother between their heads. She's bent over a black book, writing.

At last, she says, “It's taken care of. I'm sorry I can't spare the litter bearers until—”

“The fane has its own,” one of the men interrupts. “But we have no mourning cloth left, and the congregation has no funds . . . We're trying to buy medicine, help a member who was fired by the kasiri . . .”

“Wait here a moment,” Mother says. “Another fane left me a new bolt of cloth.”

She disappears through a doorway and returns with a length of blue linen, which she spreads out on the countertop. “Will this be enough?”

“It's too much,” one of the men says. “He was five years old . . .”

His voice breaks, and Mother stiffens. “Please take it all,” she says, folding the cloth.

The men exit in silence, throwing me curious glances as they pass. When the door closes, Mother covers her face with her hands.

“Mother!” I rush to the counter.

She turns, gripping the edge of the countertop. “Marah.”

“Mother, I—”

“Two policemen came to the apartment before daybreak,” she says, opening a hinged gate in the counter. She draws me into the back room, where a bolt of blue linen lies partly unrolled on a table, a pair of heavy scissors nearby.

“What happened?” I ask.

“They searched the place for you and Azariah. When they questioned me, I told them I hadn't seen you since Firstday. They left in a fury.”

Abruptly, she embraces me. The words I mean to say are stuck in my throat.

“That's not all,” she says, her voice muffled. “After sunrise, someone else came. Melchior Rashid. He was looking for his brother.”

I pull away. “What did you tell him?” I ask urgently.

“I didn't know what to say. He said he'd return in the evening.”

“When he does, tell him where we are.” I give her the address of the abandoned house. “But you mustn't come. Tell Melchior to.”

“Why mustn't I come?” Mother says, clutching my shoulders. “Tell me what's going on, Marah!”

Mustering the steadiest voice I can, I say, “There is a cure for the dark eyes.”

“The books you and Azariah have been studying?” Mother asks. “The rare herbs Tsipporah went with you to buy?”

I nod.

“I don't understand. Why have you kept this cure a secret, when all of Ashara needs it? Where do the police come in?”

I tell her everything, leaving out only what would just alarm her further, like the dinner with the Seventh Councilor and Channah catching me in the Rashids' living room. Mother looks shocked enough as it is.

“Do you believe me?” I ask when I reach the end.

“After this morning, how can I not believe you?” Mother says. “But I don't understand the Assembly's intentions in all this.”

“Neither do we,” I say. “That's why we're going to hide until we've made the cure. How . . . how is Caleb?”

“The same. The downstairs neighbor is watching him today.” She strokes my cheek. “How can I let you go?”

I squeeze her hand. “We have to do this.”

Mother hunches her shoulders against some invisible tempest. “I'm making a mistake, Marah. Keep me from making this mistake. If your father were here, he would not let me let you go.”

There's a sharp pain lodged in my heart. “You're not making a mistake. I'm doing this for Caleb.”

She gazes at the shimmering blue cloth pooled on the weather-beaten tabletop. I wonder if she's looking into the past, remembering the last time Caleb was gravely ill. Or how empty the apartment felt after Father died.

There's a noise outside, and we glance up. The grave diggers pass by the window, their shovels swinging, too dirt-caked to glint in the sun.

“I have to go now,” I say. “Soon I'll bring Caleb the cure.”

“I'll wait for you,” Mother says. “At home. I'll arrange for the grave diggers and the litter bearers to take care of everything here while I'm gone. . . .”

“My thanks. And send Melchior. Please.”

She holds my gaze for a moment before saying, “I will.”

• • •

A
ZAR
IAH
RETURNS
TO
the abandoned house shortly after I do, bearing a sack of provisions and ingredients. To eat, he's bought a loaf of bread, a huge wedge of cheese, some hard sausage, and an abundance of dried fruit. For the cure, there are more herbs and spices.

“I didn't get the yellownut oil,” he says. “The vendor at the Ikhad was out. I can try a shop tomorrow.”

“Or maybe Melchior can get it for us,” I say. I tell him about seeing Mother at the Maitafi Graveyard.

After indulging in a filling lunch, we spend the afternoon reading and rereading the translated instructions, practically committing them to memory. I study which ingredients are separated, the order in which they are combined, and the different temperatures at which the potion must be kept for various intervals of time.

Azariah focuses on the spells he must cast, practicing the incantations separately from the hand shapes. After about an hour, he switches to trying to recreate the neutralizing spell again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him bending his fingers into intricate arrangements. A sharp scent permeates the bedroom as he casts an initial spell. Then he mumbles an incantation over and over, modulating through different sounds.

“I've got to be close,” he bursts out at one point. “I think the hand shapes are right because
something's
moving. The magic is like sludge though.”

We take a break to compose a list of additional items we need from the outside world. As dusk falls, we pace the bedroom to ward off the numbing cold. I wish I had my violin with me. I haven't touched an instrument in almost two days, and after all those weeks of intense practicing, it feels like a part of me is missing.

The thump downstairs comes after nightfall. Crouched in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, I almost choke on one of the last sweet potato strips.

“It's him,” I say, coughing.

Azariah goes down to investigate. The creak of the steps announces his return with someone else. Then the bedroom door swings open, and Melchior sets a flickering lantern on the floor.

“
This
is where you're living?” he says.

“We could use some help,” Azariah says, following him in.

“You'd better tell me what you're up to,” says Melchior, his face dark with worry. When we remain mute, he tosses a damp newspaper onto the floor.

“What's that?” says Azariah.

“Take a look.”

I crawl out of my blanket and seize the paper. My eyes are drawn to the black numerals on the front page.

DEATH COUNT: 398

Feeling dizzy, I turn the page.

CITIZENS!

ANYONE WITH INFORMATION CONCERNING THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE KNOWN SUBVERSIVES

MARAH CHAVAH LEVI

AND

AZARIAH JALAL RASHID

SHOULD IMMEDIATELY CONTACT A GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL.

THOSE WITHHOLDING INFORMATION OR AIDING THE INDIVIDUALS NAMED ABOVE SHALL BE ARRESTED AND IMPRISONED.

I gasp, and Azariah leaps to my side, stooping to read the notice. The wavering light makes the shadows play wildly on his face, striping the horror there.

“The police came to our house last night,” Melchior says. “They wanted you and Marah, and they wouldn't say why.”

“What did Channah do?” I ask.

“Channah's disappeared,” Melchior says. “She was gone by the time the police arrived.”

“She went to the Assembly,” says Azariah.

“Are you sure?” I say. “She let us escape with the ingredients for the cure. Isn't that aiding us?”

“Well, clearly she's a practiced liar,” Azariah snarls.

“But why would she go back to the Assembly after—?”

Melchior clears his throat pointedly. “This cure. What is it? And why is the Assembly after you? Surely it can't be because you've found a cure.”

“We haven't made it yet,” I say. “It looks like the Assembly wants to silence us and take absolute control over the cure, but we don't know why.”

Melchior looks between me and his brother, still unsatisfied. Sighing, Azariah invites him to sit and offers him a handful of dried apples, which he refuses. Then Azariah tells him the story from the beginning.

When he's done, Melchior is silent for a long time. Eventually, he says, “It's a lot to take in.”

Azariah hands him our list. “Do you think you could bring us these things? The stove is especially important.”

Melchior's hand closes around the page ripped from the notebook. “I'll bring you what you need.”

“My thanks,” Azariah says.

“Then I could stay and help you,” Melchior begins, but Azariah shakes his head.

“Please, I'd rather you stayed with Mother and Father and Sarah. The government mustn't become suspicious of you too.”

“I'm good at being unremarkable,” Melchior says with a bitter smile. “But Azariah, that's another thing. Mother and Father are at the breaking point. First you go and disappear on them, then the next thing they know, the government wants your hide.”

Azariah's face is pale and stretched. “Tell them I'm all right. But nothing else.”

After Melchior leaves, something new occurs to me. “He could be arrested for helping us.”

“He'll be all right,” Azariah says with conviction. “Melchior can take care of himself.”

• • •

D
URING
THE
NIGHT
,
another snowfall blankets the city. Melchior returns late in the morning, a sack flung over his shoulder and a big jug under his arm. The frozen breath of winter howls into the house after him.

In our bedroom workshop, he first takes out new provisions: dates, jars of vegetable soup, wizened apples, bread, cured meat, and a bag of hard candy. There are also two mismatched tea glasses and a small tea tin.

“That's water,” Melchior says, pointing at the jug. “The ingredients you need are in the bag. And I brought you a stove, a thermometer, and matches.” His brow furrows as he sits down on the floor. “There was an article in this morning's paper assuring everyone the Assembly's still making good progress on the cure.”

“I think they're lying,” I say. “If they're pursuing us and trying to keep our discovery quiet, I seriously doubt they're developing a cure themselves.”

“Do you mean they never even tried to find a cure?” asks Melchior.