Page 19 of The Book That Wouldn't Burn

After a painfully long pause the girl started to stammer out her answer. “Six thousand... and...”

“A difficult one.” Master Yute came to Serra Leetar’s rescue. “But young...” He circled his hand as if trying to draw forth a memory.

“Livira,” Livira said.

“But young Livira didn’t learn thirty-six two hundred and elevens by rote.” Master Yute had clearly followed Livira and the princess in within moments of their admission to watch her assessment. “Wouldn’t the laboratory benefit from someone with such arithmetics spilling from her tongue?” He turned towards the bald man, Botan, who had asked the number questions.

Botan shrugged heavily. “There’s a baker’s son in Quell Quarter who can spit out prime numbers all day long. Can’t dress himself though. Such things are the side effects of broken minds. And that’s the last thing we want amid vats of corrosive and barrels of detonator.”

“She’s bold.” Yute returned his attention to Algar. “And she’s survived an encounter with a sabber warrior—her pronunciation could only have been learned first-hand. Wouldn’t she be an asset in the embassy service, my lord? Or the missions, at the very least?”

Algar brushed at the sleeves of his jacket as if he imagined that even talking about Livira might sully them. “She’s a blunt instrument. We require finesse in the diplomatic service. She’s a parrot. We require the clear sight of eagles.” His dark eye flickered towards Serra Leetar in her green and gold. “Besides, you know the king’s views on... these people.”

“The university could make a marvel of her.” Yute looked towards the two women occupying the middle tables, one with her books and the other with her curios. He spread a hand towards the man at the last table, inviting his thoughts. “This diamond in the rough!” He gestured expansively towards Livira.

“You know that won’t fly, Yute.” The book woman’s refusal carried the slightest edge of apology. “Even if she survived the students... how long would their fathers and mothers tolerate it?”

“And with good reason!” The other woman raised her voice. “Rejected.”

The last man, small and bearded, shook his head.

“Rejected,” Lord Algar repeated with a thin smile. “Why are you wasting our time with this, Yute? Upsetting quality candidates.” He flicked another glance towards Serra Leetar, who scowled, clearly unhappy at her failure being singled out. “You think you can make a house reader out of a child that doesn’t even know her letters at allocation? I’d wager ten golden royals you can’t get her placed.”

Master Yute shook his head as if humouring the man. “I don’t gamble, Algar.”

Botan, the numbers man, flapped his fingers at Livira in a shooing motion. The book woman rolled her scroll back up with an air of finality. And the guard, taking hold of Livira’s other shoulder, steered her around until she was facing the long corridor down which she had first come. He released her, not ungently, and the pressure of so many eyes, combined with a growing wave of children’s laughter, set her walking.

The guard followed. He opened the door to the outside world, and she stepped out to find the old white-robe waiting. He offered her a commiserating look. “I’m sorry. Sometimes Master Yute’s experiments can be a bit harsh. Go down to the third door and tell the woman there that Hendron sent you.” With that he turned to greet a boy with shining hair and a jacket of silver and scarlet whose buttons looked like bits of midnight.

Seething with conflicting emotions, and acutely aware of the scrutiny from the scores gathered at the bottom step, Livira stalked back towards the place where Malar had been standing. She could see that the soldier was no longer there. She hoped he was long gone, out of range of Lord Algar’s spite.

“Wait!” someone called after her.

Livira walked with her arms stiff at her sides, rigid fingers spread wide, and kept her eyes resolutely on her destination, refusing even the chance of meeting someone else’s gaze.

“Slow down.” Someone strode after her. Master Yute, spinning his strange cane in a vertical circle about its curved handle.

Livira kept walking until he finally drew level, at which point she turned on him sharply. She knew her anger should be directed at her own failure but was unable to stop it flooding out even so. “I’m so sorry,” she snarled, “that I failed your tests.”

Yute smiled for the first time, his pink eyes suddenly no longer sinister. “My dear child, I wasn’t testing you—I was testing them. You had me at t’loth.”

Livira found herself smiling back uncertainly. Something about a grin on such a serious face demanded an echo. “What... what did I say?”

“T’loth criis’tyla loddotis,” Yute growled. “You told Hendron that all of this”—he waved his arm at the building—“was yours now and that you would accept his surrender.”

Livira frowned thoughtfully. “Well, I gave them the chance. They should have taken it.” She turned and started to climb towards the third door.

“Where are you going?” Yute asked.

“Allocation.”

“I can’t allow that,” he called after her.

Livira spun back around, fists balled, tired of being told what to do.

Yute shrugged. “The system’s broken. Always has been. I get my recruits direct. Come on.” And he turned and started down the steps.

“Come on where?” Livira didn’t hide her suspicion. For all she knew the man wanted her for that sewer-work Malar had warned her about.

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