Page 37 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Twenty-Three

Mavery slammed the dictionary shut and threw down her pen.

“Experiencing the joys of research, are we?” Alain asked from across the room. They had traded places for the day: while she worked at his desk, translating Enodus’s treatise on Sensing from Fenutian to Osperlandish, he was stretched out on the sofa with a stack of books at his side.

“Oh, hush.” She rolled her eyes, though her back was turned to him. “There’s a word I don’t recognize. Here’s the full sentence: ‘According to one local folklorist, Sensing is a form of K-T-O-N-I-C magic.’ Do you recognize that ‘k’-word?”

“It’s not Fenutian?”

“Doesn’t look like it, and it’s not in the dictionary.”

“Let me see.”

Alain closed his book, then crossed the room. He cast a shadow over Mavery as he leaned over her shoulder, one hand on the back of her chair while the other reached for her translation.

Four days had passed since his accident. Since then, his eyes had become less sunken from getting more consistent sleep. His face was a bit fuller from eating more substantial meals. He’d even managed to keep his beard neatly trimmed and his hair combed.

Now, as he reviewed her work, Mavery breathed in a heady aroma of ink, bergamot, and a hint of orange blossom that she suspected came from the new soap she’d spotted in the bathroom. It was difficult to focus on anything else.

“ ‘Kay-tonic’?” Alain shook his head. “No, ‘kuh-tone-ick’ seems the more likely pronunciation.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Not a clue. I’ve never seen it before.”

“Then how do you know how it’s pronounced?”

“I…” He looked to her, then returned her smirk with a chuckle. “Point taken. I’ll admit, this word could simply be an error on my part. Given the limited time I had with the spell tome, transcribing the Etherean was my priority; I was less cautious with the Fenutian.”

“Maybe the word is Fenutian, but it’s too archaic for this dictionary,” Mavery said.

“Possibly. The University’s library should have one from Enodus’s time.”

She nodded. “When can we go?”

“Whenever you want. The arcanists here are more lenient than the ones in North Fenutia. Just wear your assistant’s robe, and they’ll grant you access to anything in the library—even the special collections.”

“Wait.” She pivoted in the chair. “You mean I could have gone to campus by myself all this time? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked,” Alain said with a shrug. “Maybe you ought to reread the Covenants.”

Mavery scoffed. “Trust me, they didn’t mention a thing about assistants and libraries. Sounds like you’re the one who needs to reread the Covenants.”

He opened his mouth, but his rebuttal died on his lips as he looked up, blinking. “Gods, when did it get so late?”

According to the clock, it was almost seven. Outside, a pink-orange sunset bled across the cloudy sky. The sun had already sunk below the horizon.

“This is the third time this week you’ve stayed long past your shift,” Alain said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were developing a habit.”

She could argue it was to keep a closer eye on Alain after his accident, but that wouldn’t be the full truth. This apartment was leagues more comfortable than her room at the boarding house. Not to mention, the company here was leagues more enjoyable.

She bowed her head as she tidied up her papers, heat gathering in her cheeks.

She stashed her translation in a drawer, then rose from the chair.

Alain had returned to the sofa, where he now skimmed a book about famous Sensers throughout history.

It was a relatively short volume, and one of only a handful in his library that even mentioned Sensing.

Lying on the sofa, he appeared more comfortable than he was letting on.

Mavery had noticed how often he would rub his chest; in fact, he was doing it now.

The bruise from his injury—a fractured sternum, courtesy of his collision with the tea table—peeked above his collar.

Over the past four days, the livid blotch had paled to a sickly yellow.

He’d been adamant about letting it heal without spells or potions.

He wanted to live with the pain for a bit, as a reminder of his recent mistake.

That was but one of the areas where his stubbornness persisted.

In the hours following his resurrection, he’d returned to his research as though literally dying didn’t entitle him to a day off.

And now he appeared to be settling down for another long, tireless night.

Tomorrow was Finisday—Mavery’s usual day off—and without her around, he was likely to work straight through Onisday without pause.

“There’s a pub two blocks from here,” she said. “I was planning to go there for dinner. Why don’t you join me?”

Not bothering to glance up from his book, he shook his head. “I know the one you’re talking about. The wine is overpriced, and I find the clientèle too crass for my taste.”

She crossed her arms. “I’ll have you know, I’ve become somewhat of a regular there.”

“I fail to see how that refutes my point,” he said flatly, though he neglected to hide his smile.

She snorted. “Do you plan to stop and eat at all this evening?”

“Of course.” He licked his finger, turned a page. “Sometime…eventually.”

She strode forward, plucked the book from his hands, and tossed it on the tea table. Alain gawked at the unceremoniously discarded tome, then frowned at her.

“Mavery, I appreciate your concern, but the presentation is—”

“Two weeks away, as if I could forget. You deserve one night off between now and then.”

They locked eyes—a silent challenge to see who would relent first. This time, Mavery proved victorious when Alain lowered his gaze with a sigh of defeat.

“All right,” he said, “but no pubs.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

He scratched his chin as he gave it some thought. “Have you ever been to the Night Market in the Garden District?”

Mavery shook her head. Though she’d heard of it, anything in the Garden District had always been too rich for her blood.

“It’s held every Siddisday evening. I haven’t been in well over a year, but I remember there was no shortage of food merchants.”

“Fine by me.” Mavery grasped his arm and hoisted him from the sofa before he could change his mind. “Whatever gets you out of this room for a few hours.”

The Garden District was Leyport’s most affluent area, with manors butting against the eastern city walls. As its name implied, the district was home to the famous botanical garden, with its exotic plants and glass-domed roof.

Central to the district was a plaza that boasted the equally famous outdoor market.

Though the days had grown warmer, the night air remained frigid.

The entire plaza was enveloped in a shimmering blue dome that turned the air so warm and comfortable, Alain loosened his scarf, and both he and Mavery unbuttoned their coats.

Many of the market-goers were dressed in their finest, likely passing through on their way to the nearby theaters and opera house.

But plenty had stopped to queue in front of the stalls, where merchants peddled luxuries from all across the continent.

Scattered around the plaza were musicians, jugglers, and magic-wielders, each drawing their own small crowds.

Mavery couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen this many people in a single area.

She and Alain were but two in a crowd of hundreds, perhaps upwards of a thousand.

This fact seemed to have put Alain on edge; he stiffened beside her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Evidently, the Night Market is more popular than it used to be. Not to mention, I’m remembering how most of my colleagues live in this part of the city.”

Mavery doubted any of them would recognize him in this vast crowd, especially without his faculty robe. Dressed in a black peacoat, he looked not like a professor or a wizard, but a completely ordinary man. It was a look she could get used to seeing.

“You’ll be fine.” She took him by the arm. “Come on, I’m starving.”

Following the scent of spiced meat wafting through the magically warmed air, they weaved through the crowd together.

They passed by stalls overflowing with floral arrangements, rare alchemical ingredients, jarred spices in every color of the rainbow.

Each lot of merchandise was more ridiculously priced than the last. A jeweler showcased necklaces that he claimed were enhanced with magic that could ward off everything from Necromancers to the pox, but Mavery couldn’t Sense a single aura.

Alain slowed as he eyed a stall laden with opulent rugs.

“Ah, you are a man who recognizes quality when he sees it!” the merchant cajoled. His gravelly voice was laced with a thick Maroban accent—a little too thick.

“Don’t bother,” Mavery muttered, giving Alain’s arm another tug. “Those rugs are likely as authentic as that accent.”

They continued to the next stall, though the wares were hardly an improvement.

Mavery did nothing to hide her scowl as she briefly met the eye of a grocer who was charging fifty coppers for a single apple.

She tried to ignore the blatant price gouging and instead focused on finding the source of the spiced meat.

It was a cart that sold Zakarzan street foods, the most enticing of which was a flatbread filled with curried lamb. Before she could retrieve her coin purse, Alain stepped forward and paid for both of them.

“I brought my own money, you know,” Mavery said as the vendor began preparing their food.

“But coming here was my idea. Help yourself to anything you want.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Anything?”

“Within reason.” Alain smiled. “Consider it my thanks for persuading me to have more than books for company this evening.”