Kaavl Conspiracy (26 page)

“That man!” Methusal wanted to grind her teeth in frustration. “Doesn’t he care about catching the thief? Or Renn’s murderer?”

Deccia continued to weep, and didn’t seem to hear.

Methusal and Behran soon escorted Deccia home, and then Behran walked Methusal to her door.

“So, Renn was investigating the thefts.”

Methusal’s hand pressed lightly on the latch to her compartment. “Maybe he found something incriminating. Maybe that’s why he was killed. And maybe it’s about more than thefts. The thief could be hiding a bigger secret.” What, though, she could not guess.

“A bigger secret…” Behran fell silent, apparently contemplating
that idea.

“I’d better go.”

“Oh…yes.”

They stared at each other for a moment. For the first time ever, she realized they were actually on the same side
about something. The feeling was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

“Goodnight, Behran.”

“Goodnight, Thusa.” His voice was soft, and it followed her as she stepped inside. “Remember, I’ll help out when you talk to Kitran tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Behran.”

Seventhday

Methusal slept in later
than she’d planned the next morning. When she entered the corridor, throngs of people wandered toward the dining hall, ready for breakfast. Usually she got up early to beat the rush, but she’d stayed awake late into the night, thinking. Finally, she had figured out how to best use Renn’s list to persuade Petr of her innocence. Hopefully it would work, and she’d regain her freedom. After breakfast, she’d talk to Sims and convince him to help her.

The crowd thickened as she approached the dining entrance. People clustered together, standing in line for food. Methusal edged her way to the right, and stepped down the stairs of the Grand Staircase, trying to find the end of the line.

A hard elbow jabbed into her back and shoved her forward.
With a gasp, she wobbled, teetering on the step.

Horror stabbed her.
She was going to fall.

She screamed.

A rough hand grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop. “Whoa, there.” Barak’s strong, meaty hand gripped Methusal’s arm so hard that bruises would probably show up later. But she was grateful. So grateful.

“Thank you!” she gasped. Tears burned her eyes. Her heart thundered. “I was about to… Someone pushed me…”

Barak’s heavy brows knit together. “Someone pushed you?”

“It was an accident… I’m sure.” Shaking, she scanned the wall of people above her. All of them were people she’d known her entire life. Surely none of them had pushed her. Aali’s immigrant list sprang to mind. Was anyone on that list nearby?

No. But a short distance away she did glimpse a few… Petr, Verdnt, Pogul, Goric, Behran, and even Liem, who was not an immigrant. But none of them were near enough to have pushed her. Surely it had been an accident.

Her pounding heart gradually quieted. Still trembling, though, she made sure her feet were firmly planted on the stairs before gently tugging her arm free. Barak’s bruising grip released her at once.

“Thanks, Barak,” she said again. Her voice wavered a little.
“I’m so glad you were here.”

He nodded, but his frown remained. “Be careful.”

She felt safe, and glad Barak stood behind her as she waited for breakfast. Surely no one had tried to push her down the stairs. But if they had, they wouldn’t try again with Barak close by.

By the time she’d scooped breakfast onto her plate, Methusal felt considerably better, and had convinced herself that the shove had been accidental. Probably someone had pushed his way into line. Rude, but not malicious.

Behran sat at the Maahr table, and she greeted him cautiously. Their newfound truce still felt awkward and unfamiliar.

He shoveled a sticky clump of cereal into his mouth and
glanced over at the Storst table. Swallowing hard, he muttered,
“I don’t see her.”

Methusal glanced at the Storst table, too. Anger kindled in her heart when she saw Petr laughing with a neighbor and swigging back a mug of tagma juice. Aalicaa sat beside him, hunched over her plate. A quick survey proved her sister was not in the dining room, and Methusal glanced back at the Storst table. Aalicaa now sat alone, poking at her food.

“I’ll be back.” She jumped up and zigzagged over.

“Hi, Aali.” She sat beside her.

“Mmph.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

“Where’s Deccia?”

The child sniffled loudly. “At home. Father’s making her stay home all day.” Her wide eyes beseeched Methusal. “But what happened was all
my
fault!”

“Of course it wasn’t!” Methusal gave her a quick, comforting hug. She tried to control a flare of anger. Petr was too much! Couldn’t he see that his daughters were only trying to help Rolban? She was surprised he hadn’t banished Aali to her room, too. But maybe Deccia’s punishment made Aali feel guilty, which was punishment enough.

“Father said he looked in the garment room later, just to prove we were wrong to spy. Nothing was stolen!” Aalicaa blurted. “So why did that man sneak in?”

“You probably scared him off.”

“That’s what Deccia thinks, too.”

“Do you think I could talk to her?”

Aalicaa glanced at her father, who now strode out of the dining hall. “
He
would be mad. She’s not supposed to have visitors.”

“Just one minute.”

“Okay.” Aalicaa defiantly tossed her head and snatched up her bowl. “It’s safest if we go now.
He’s
going to inspect the fields.”

Methusal followed her cousin down the passageways to the Storst compartment.

“I’ll check inside to make sure it’s safe.” Aalicaa disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared, waving her hand urgently. “Be quick,” she hissed, peering down the hall.

Methusal found Deccia sitting on the bed pallet in her room, knees drawn up to her chin. A writing utensil listlessly drooped from her fingers. A page of half-completed lesson plans lay in the middle of the floor, as if tossed there in a fit of frustration.

“What am I going to do, Thusa?” Her voice sounded dull. “Father says I can’t see Timaeus again. Not until he says so.”

Methusal rolled her eyes. “He’s being ridiculous, as usual. Are you really going to listen to him?”

“I have to. He’s my father. I have to respect and obey him, no matter how much I might disagree with him.”

Methusal remembered her night in jail. “I understand. But it’s still not fair. He wants you with Verdnt, not Timaeus. This is his excuse to keep you and Timaeus apart. How can you stand it? Doesn’t it make you mad, for goodness sakes?”

“Of course!” Finally, a bit of anger broke through.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Deccia closed her eyes. “It’s simple. I want Father to respect me, and I want to be a good role model for Aali. Who knows how she’d behave if she thought she could act any way she pleased. And I want to be a teacher, and eventually go out with Timaeus—with Father’s approval. The only way to do all of those things is to obey Father now.”

“I’m sorry, Decc, but I just don’t get it. Can’t you see that he wants to control you? He won’t let you think for yourself. And he punishes you if you don’t think and behave exactly like he wants. Look at poor Aali. He won’t let her practice kaavl. In fact, he won’t let either of you be your own person!”

Deccia remained silent. A frown pulled at her brows.

“You know I’m right. I agree that you should respect him, but he has to give a little, too, and listen to you. We’re adults now—we’re eighteen! You have to stand up for yourself.”

“Hurry!” Aalicaa hissed from the doorway.

Methusal loved her sister, but sometimes she frustrated her a little. “See you tomorrow.” Deccia did not respond. Methusal slipped quietly into the hall. “Thanks, Aali.”

A cold bowl of cereal greeted her in the dining room. Behran had vanished. She ate alone, and tried but failed to understand Petr Storst’s cold, narrow-minded ways, and why Deccia was afraid to speak her mind to her father.

Right now, though, she had plenty of problems of her own. Hopefully Sims would help her solve one of them this morning.

* * * * *

“Good morning, Sims,” Methusal let herself into the supply room. Across the room, Old Sims stacked blank parchment sheets into a pile.

“Good, you’re here,” he smiled. “Today I want you to copy the inventory list onto clean parchment. My old eyes can hardly read the old one anymore. It’s been marked out and changed too often.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” she agreed. But first things first. “Sims, remember the list I found yesterday? The one Renn wrote?”

Sims scrunched his eyes, and then his expression cleared. “Oh yes, of course.”

“I need to show Renn’s handwriting to Petr. Would you come with me this morning, and tell him the list is in Renn’s writing?”

“Let me see it again.” Methusal took it from her pocket and Sims examined it. “Surely it is Renn’s writing,” he said at last. “And you say this is important?”

She nodded. “It could help catch Renn’s murderer.”

“All right, then. Let’s go now. The inventory can wait for a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Sims!”

* * * * *

Nerves attacked Methusal as soon as she and Sims stepped into Petr’s office. In her heart, she was afraid Petr wouldn’t listen to reason, no matter what she said.

“Sit down, Sims. Methusal.” Petr shot her a disgruntled look. He wasn’t pleased to see her, that was for sure.

Sims spoke. “Young Methusal found some evidence. It might help catch Renn’s killer.”

“Oh?” Petr’s brows rose. “And what evidence might that be?” Clearly, he was already preparing to doubt whatever she might say.

Frustration simmered, but she tried to ignore it. Better yet, maybe she should use that emotional intensity to clearly lay out her case. Kitran would be proud.

“I found a list Renn wrote. Sims verifies that it is Renn’s handwriting.”

“Why is that important?”

“The handwriting on the list and the writing on that note you found in my room are different. The notes were written by two different people.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I’ll show you the list. Compare the writing of each one, side by side.”

“All right.” Petr rose to his feet with the air of someone embarking on a fool’s journey. He fetched the note, and Methusal lay the list beside it on the desk. To her relief, the difference between the two samples was just as different as she remembered. The writing was small and cramped in the note, and tall and angular in the list.

Sims leaned forward and peered at them, too. He traced the letters on one parchment, and then the other. “No question. The writing on the note isn’t Renn’s. He always put a slash through his zeroes, too.”

Methusal was glad Sims had mentioned the zeroes.

Petr frowned. Then he leaned back in his chair, his face impassive. “Writing samples prove nothing. We all write differently when we’re happy, sad…” he looked at Methusal. “Fearful. Small writing doesn’t prove anything.”

Her worst suspicions were coming true. Petr would not listen. Struggling to tamp down her rising frustration, Methusal took a different tack. “Have you checked Renn’s room? Surely he wrote other notes. Do any of them match the small writing in that note?”

Petr’s brow lowered. “Are you trying to tell me how to run my investigation?”

“I’m trying to clear my name!” she snapped.

“You’re walking the cliff’s edge, Methusal.
I
will decide whether this information will help the investigation—or just help you. Thank you for coming, Sims. Methusal, you are dismissed.”

Fury scalded her. Would Petr never listen to reason? Or was he being deliberately obtuse?

“Do you
want
to find the real murderer?” she challenged. “Or is it just easier to accuse me?”

“Methusal Maahr!” His voice rose in warning. Ignoring it, she turned her back and followed Sims out the door. She slammed it behind her for good measure.

“Methusal. My girl,” Sims said. “Was that wise?”

“Nothing I do matters. Petr has already made up his mind. I’m guilty. Period.”

Sims led the way back to the supply room. His faded blue eyes regarded her. “I’m sorry Petr and Liem think you killed Renn.”

“I didn’t!”

“I believe you. You wouldn’t harm a hair of an apte, would you, girl?”

“I try to help them.”

“I thought as much.” His gnarled hand rested on her shoulder for a moment. “It’ll all work out, don’t you worry.”

“How do you know?” Methusal felt despondent.

“Have faith in The One who sees all. Justice will be served.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Mahre did. Haven’t you read the first lines in the
Book of Kaavl
?”

“Yes. …I didn’t know you knew kaavl.”

He smiled. “I know a great deal, and I’ve seen more places and people than you’ve ever dreamed, Methusal. Perhaps one day you will, too.” He turned and said, as if to himself, “And I’ve seen the Prophet.”

“The Prophet?” As a child, Methusal had heard talk of the Prophet. “You’ve met him?”

Sims smiled. “Oh, but surely. The One sends him to all true seekers.”

“Is he alive now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard of him in years. But he could be. He’s about my age.”

Methusal had never known anyone who’d spoken to the Prophet before. The very idea intrigued her. She’d love to meet a real Prophet; someone who talked to The One. Could the Prophet answer her questions about life and death? About where Renn was right now? And could he tell her if her disturbing dream might be prophetic?

Her mind returned to something else Sims had said. “Who is a true seeker?”

“The ancient writings say those who seek The One will find him. If they seek him with all their heart, and with all their soul. The Prophet helped me along that path.” Sims smiled. “Now, if I’ve answered all of your questions, it’s time for work.”

* * * * *

After lunch Methusal found Behran, and together they headed for Kitran’s office to speak to him about Goric. After her confrontation with Petr that morning, Methusal felt apprehensive about the meeting with Kitran. After all, she planned to accuse Goric of cheating, and she had no solid proof. Would Kitran judge it to be slander? Would he demote her back to the Quint-level?

If so, right now the risk seemed worth it.

“Yes?” Kitran looked up when Behran rapped on his open door. His eyelids flickered when he took in the two of them, standing together. “Well.” He leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his neck. “To what do I owe this pleasure? The adversaries have joined forces?”

Methusal glanced at Behran. “I want to talk about the Tri-Level Game. Behran wants to report what he saw, too.”

“It’s about Goric.” Kitran guessed, his black gaze unreadable. “Go on, then. Behran, you first.”