The Hanging City (30)

“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.

We near the hallway leading to the blacksmith. “If it isn’t too much to ask,” I try, limping a little more now, “I would love to know anything else. Anything I’m saying wrong, greetings I should or shouldn’t be using—”

“You’re faring well.”

“But not just that,” I insist as we turn down the hallway. The heat increases to a pleasant, summery temperature. I step behind Azmar to show deference to a troll—trollis—coming the opposite way, then hobble after Azmar. “All of it. How your society works. The city. Engineering. The canyon, the food and where it comes from. The farms. I want to learn everything.”

He pauses halfway between the blacksmith and a sizable lift. Looks down at me. He’s a full foot and a half taller than I am, yet his looming isn’t intimidating in the slightest. Not as it had been with Sleet or Grodd.

“You don’t plan to request leave, then?”

“I can do that?”

“I’m not sure.” Azmar rolls the papers in his hands. If he discards any of them, I’ll snatch them up so I can make copies of Wiln’s almanacs in the unused spaces. “Most humans who come here do so in desperation. But given recent events . . .” He glances at the bruised side of my face.

I shake my head. “In truth, there’s nowhere else I’d want to go.”

He nods, finding the weak explanation perfectly acceptable. “I’ll see what I can do.”

And like that, hope reignites, just as the blacksmith’s bellows light their coals.

We start for the lift. “Where does this lead?”

“Down.” The large lift appears less used and has a grating in front of it that Azmar pulls aside. “This will take us near the south dock. I want to survey the area again. I don’t trust these measurements.”

He steps onto the lift. I follow and lean against its far wall. The lift’s ropes are thicker than others I’ve seen. When Azmar begins pulling them, the lift moves slowly. His arms bulge with the weight of it, and tension settles into his jaw. How heavy is the lift?

“Do you want help?”

He shakes his head. “Almost there.”

The lift touches down a moment later. Azmar shakes out his arms before stepping out. We walk a short way before I recognize where we are. We’re just under the south dock. I usually pass overhead to go to my shift.

A wisp of fresh, mildew-scented air tousles my hair. The light of the distant, setting sun reflects off stone. I breathe deeply and waver as nostalgia strikes me, yearning for an open sky and all its stars, the chirp of hidden crickets, the smell of dry earth.

Azmar walks nearly to the edge of the floor, where a ladder descends even lower. I carefully follow down after him, testing the strength in each of my legs. When I reach the bottom floor, I’m technically below Cagmar, standing on a ledge of the canyon wall itself. It’s about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long. Not too dissimilar from a viewing point.