I wait for Azmar to say something sharp, perhaps about Sleet’s caste, but he doesn’t. Merely looks. And Sleet, amazingly, lowers his hammer. Grumbling something under his breath, he stalks away from me and retakes his post.
I am utterly dumbfounded. But Azmar gestures for me to follow, so I do, as quickly as my sore body will allow. We walk past several of the long tables where an array of trolls sit, men and women, gray and green, large and less large. Most don’t notice me, as they’re focused on their own work, hunched over with pencils and charcoal and quills. I glimpse a hallway down to a blacksmith bellows. There is another blacksmith in the trade works, but this one must work only on city construction.
Several high tables, almost like desks, occupy the far side of the room. Azmar stops at the first, then, seeing the second unoccupied, takes the chair from it and sits it at the corner of his own. With a subtle gesture, he beckons me to sit.
The stool seat is nearly five feet off the ground. My injuries protest as I lift myself up, but I don’t ask for help, though Azmar scrutinizes me as though ready to offer it.
Paper and a couple of slates litter his desk, while little tin cups organize his writing utensils. Several rulers, along with two leather books, press against the corner.
“What caste is he?” I whisper, tilting my head toward Sleet.
Azmar doesn’t look over. “Deccor.”
“But he’s huge.”
Azmar meets my eyes, making me feel foolish. I rush to explain. “He would do well in the caste tournament, wouldn’t he? Why is he only a Deccor?”
“His challenge to a higher caste has to be accepted, either by previous agreement or stance of challenge,” he explains. “Wise trollis do not accept challenges they cannot win.”
“What is ‘stance of challenge’?”
He arranges a few of the papers. “When a victor in a battle remains on the field to take on new opponents, to increase their pips.” He touches his shirt, where those small blue stones would be, if he had any.
“So winning two fights in a row gets them a higher caste, and then a higher rank within that caste.”
A brief nod. “How is your geometry?”
Doubt creeps into me. “I can determine the area of a triangle . . .”
He appears neither disappointed nor surprised. After grabbing some chalk and one of the slates, he begins jotting down equations in handwriting that is becoming more and more legible to me. I’m surprised how small his numbers are, given the size of his hands.
He offers me the slate, followed by a piece of parchment full of dimensional shapes and material weights. “Calculate the tributary area and multiply it by the appropriate weights—the sections should say what material is used. Put the results on the right.”
I marvel at the numbers and letters and compare them to his drawings.
He asks, “Do you understand?”
“Oh yes.” I set the slate down. “I’m just . . . It really is rather intriguing.” I grab a pencil and start plugging in the figures. I can feel Azmar’s gaze as I do the first equation, but he soon returns to his own work. My arithmetic skills gradually return to me, and I can’t help but smile. I haven’t had a chance to use them in a long time. The joy of mental work is sweeter than wine.
When Azmar returns his attention to me, I ask, “What is all of this for?”
“Calculating load.” He takes the first page from me and glances over my writing. He appears pleased. “The council wants an extension behind the slayers’ armory, regardless of our insistence that it isn’t wise.”
“Why isn’t it?”
He sets the paper down and picks up another. “Because of the lack of weight distribution along the canyon wall at that point. There’s too much load.”
“The load is what the addition will hold?”
He regards me with those dark-harvest-gold eyes, as though unsure of my question. To clarify, I say, “I’m curious. I . . . I love to learn.” Time with my tutors was always my favorite, partially because it meant time away from everyone else. “This all fascinates me.”
He runs a hand back over his corded hair. It’s bound at the nape of his neck and falls to the small of his back. “There is the dead load, which is the weight of the addition itself, the components of the structure—the steel, flooring, fa?ade, piping, everything. The live load is what moves around inside of it: people, furniture, supplies. If not calculated correctly, the addition could crumble, possibly taking pieces of the city with it.” He sighs. “I do not think it wise to add there. It would be better to build outward from the Empyrean Bridge. Make additional connections to the canyon wall.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because the council insists we keep Cagmar as clandestine as possible, despite enemy threats being practically moot.” He looks at me then, and his brows draw together. “What?”
I realize I am smiling at him and quickly school my features. “Nothing. I mean, I’m sorry. That’s frustrating. It’s just . . . this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me.”
To my relief, his lip ticks up. “Do not take it personally. Unach was always better with words.”
“Yes, she throws them and twists them and bullies them into doing whatever she wants.” Chuckling, I start on the next set of calculations, but my conversation with Perg rises to the top of my thoughts. “Might I . . . ask a question? Not about this?” I wave my hand over the papers.
He glimpses me before continuing his work. “I do not promise to answer.”
“Did you speak on behalf of Colson?”
He’s tracing a line with a ruler when I ask, and his pencil stops. Three heartbeats pass. He finishes the line. “I did.”
“Thank you. Truly.”
He shuffles the papers together. “I would not have done so were you not adamantly against his punishment. I believe you had more say in the matter than anyone else, human or not.”
My whole person feels a little lighter, my injuries far from my mind. “That is very kind of you to say, troll or not.”
“It is fair, not kind.” He straightens, towering over me. “I should also inform you that while I’m sure it’s a term you’ve grown up with, the word troll is a derogatory one.”
All my good feelings coalesce and rain cold in my stomach. “I-It is? I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”
He shrugs, unaffected. “We prefer trollis. That’s what we are.”
“Of course you do.” I turn away, embarrassed. I lean hard into my hand to hide my face while I focus on the numbers. My work goes notably slower, my thoughts refusing to be corralled. I finish and sheepishly hand the last of the papers to Azmar. He tucks it in the back of his stack.
“I believe,” he begins softly, “that error, made in ignorance, is forgivable.”
I dare to peek through my fingers at him. “You’re not angry?”
“I never was.” Gathering his papers, he says, “Come.”
He turns from the desk and walks toward the back of Engineering. I follow him, hissing through my teeth when I jump off the stool and jar my leg. Azmar doesn’t comment, only waits for me to catch up.