An Elegant Solution(107)

“And cousins, too,” I said, “who’ve been friends before.”

“And aren’t now. Brutus won that match. But he can’t win this one. Watch, Leonhard. The committees he’s put together so carefully, he can only use to nominate me. He’s forced into it.”

“Then when you’re nominated, you’ll be sure it’s your scheming. Oh, Daniel. I think the only man caught in your nets is yourself.”

He laughed. “Then you’ll believe it when the lot is cast.”

“If you win the Chair, will you take it?” Nicolaus asked.

“What? Why wouldn’t I?”

“Something better might come.”

Daniel laughed again. “That would be a trick. What card might Brutus pull from his sleeve? I’ll accept he’s clever enough at the game that he might.”

At that I left.



I crossed the Barefoot Square, to the Barefoot Church, and sat in the back corner I preferred. I even took off my shoes; it seemed right to do so. At times the light through the windows was straight as taut string, which reminded me of the weight of the whole city which the church held up. Where the light struck was lit, and where it did not, was not.

But other times, and this was one, the light was diffuse. It reflected and spread, seeping and merging until every spot was some mixture of glow and shadow. When I would see this, I wondered whether there was light and dark, or only lighter and darker.

Shod, and in the Square, I stopped at the Coal Arch. The rubble was cleared all away, and the good, formed stones of the old arch were piled to be repaired and replaced. I lifted one. They were all the same, the same size and the same shape, a proper trapezoid front to back, and square on the sides where the stones rested against each other. The stone in my hands was almost as much as I could lift. A good arch would stand by just friction. There’d been mortar between these stones, but not enough to hold the arch from falling. I wondered who’d finish the stonework. Then I wondered who would make a stone for Lithicus.



Tuesday evening I felt an odd chill in my room where I was writing. It was penetrating enough that I set down my quill, and once I had, my line of thought was broken.

To find it I stepped out of my house. It was twilight. As I seemed to always do in these recent weeks, I walked toward the Barefoot Square, and there, took a place in the door of the church. But the chill just wrapped me more and I shivered. I heard horses and wheels. The clatter seemed more real than the actual appearance of the coach from Freiberg. Rupert the driver, always grinning, brought the carriage to a hard stop at the door of the inn, almost against it, blocking it from my view. But I was hearing, not seeing, and I heard the coach door open and I heard black robes and black boots pass through the brief air into the inn.

Faint as it was, I even heard the fires’ greetings inside.



From the Barefoot Square I went on further. The chill was gone, replaced by a heat in the air like a fever. I followed through evening streets beneath the stars and past closed windows with lights like stars. In a while it led me to a garden beneath trees and a door that was closed but hospitable anyway. I knocked. It was soon answered.

“I’m sorry for the late call,” I said. “Might I speak with Magistrate Faulkner?”

“Come in,” I was requested, and I did. I didn’t wait long. I’d been in the room a few other times. Even in a great man’s house, in Basel the rooms are quiet and simple. But there were portraits on the wall and upholstered chairs and flowers.

“Leonhard?” Faulkner smiled and greeted me. He was in his black coat and breeches, as I was. But his black was the purest in Basel.

“Good evening, sir. When we met on the Wall, some days ago, you had asked me to come.”

“It’s Tuesday night, isn’t it.” His voice was like black ink on white paper. “Did you speak to him?”

“I only heard him get off the coach. I knew it was him. I didn’t see him.”

“I don’t doubt you.”

“Do you know why he is here, sir?” I asked.

“Yes, I do. Were you born in Basel, Leonhard?”

“Yes, sir. Though my father took me to Riehen soon after.”

“I remember when your father left the city. I hope someday he would return.”

“I don’t know if he ever will. He visits, of course.”

“Yes, he’s close. But outside. Basel is separate from Riehen and from everywhere else.” He was musing, and I’d never before known him to be indirect or to wander. “But the outside is very close. Riehen is close, and the Empire is close, and France is close.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and stood. He opened the door for me.