Unconscious Arithmetic by grey_gazania

Unconscious Arithmetic

Read Unconscious Arithmetic

 

I wake just before the mingling, as usual.  It's one of the few times the house is quiet, the only sounds being Amme's soft tread in the kitchen and Makalaurë's snores; he'll be dead to the world till noon. After dressing and tugging my hair into a braid, I check my pockets for loose change. I can buy a roll on my way in and lunch in the square; I don't want to vex Amme further by getting underfoot.  She's still cross with me. I can feel it itching under my skin, too deep for a proper scratch.

 

I didn't mean to black Angarato's eye – or at least didn't mean to until my fist was already in motion, which is close enough.  But his thoughts tumble down like stones and thump my sore places, and some days I will do anything to shut him up.

 

I examine myself in the mirror as I clean my teeth, but luckily the bruises he gave me in turn are well-hidden under my shirt, so there will be no teasing from my coworkers. (Not my friends; I don't have friends.)  Amme is kneading dough, the steady thud muffled through the walls, so I hurry to the door and pull on my shoes.  If I'm quick, she'll be too busy to notice me.

 

It's still pleasantly cool out, and I'm early enough that I don't need to rush.  I enjoy the walk; Tirion is quiet at this hour, only just beginning to stir.  The office is empty when I arrive, save Aicórë, who's likely been there all night.   She takes a sip from a steaming mug of tea and snaps her fingers at me.  "Carnistir.  I need you to go to the archive and copy out these records.  No mistakes, mind," she says, passing me a sheet of paper.  "Now go fetch."

 

"Woof," I say, giving a half-hearted glower.  But it's just for appearances' sake, and we both know I don't mean it. I actually like Aicórë; she can be funny, and she's nowhere near as nosy as the other two head accountants.  And it is my happy task as apprentice to make the copies.  But the archive means more itching; they think I'm difficult, always needing the original of this and the copy from such-and-such year of that.  Too bad for them. That's how audits work.

 

It's early, but there's a girl behind the counter when I get there.  Her hair is tucked neatly under a scarf like most of the other workers, but she's unfamiliar.  Another apprentice, likely; she looks younger than me – the top of the counter is nearly level with her bust – and the prickle in my stomach says she's nervous.

 

She flushes and clears her throat before asking, "May I help you?"

 

"I need to copy these files." Bracing myself, I slide the paper to her, but when she reads it no irritation comes – just a shy smile and something cool and soothing flowing over me like water.  It's not even five minutes before she's back and passing a neat stack over to me.

 

"This one's written with the sarati," she says, indicating the top paper.  "Do you need a copy with the tengwar?"

 

I shake my head.  "It's fine.  I'll bring them back up when I finish."

 

It's probably the most boring part of the work, copies – nothing interesting or challenging, just double- and triple-checking that what you've written out is accurate.  But I work steadily and carefully until near lunchtime, those hours when Laurelin is hottest and we all retreat to fountains or the shade.  I tap my quill absently on the table as I give the pages a final read. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap tap. Tap-tap tap-tap tap.

 

There's an answering click on the counter behind me, eight taps, and when I turn around and see the same girl, I can't hide a smile.  She blushes and ducks her head before disappearing into the stacks, and when I return the files the desk is staffed by one of the familiar itchy harridans.

 

But after I've handed the work to Aicórë, when I'm settled with my meal on the edge of one of the fountains in the square, I see the little archivist again, and I surprise myself when I shift and say, "Here, sit; there's room.  What's your name?"

 

"Maryacúnë," she says, sitting and sliding off her sandals to dip her toes in the water.  "What's yours?"

 

"Carnistir. I work across the square."  Being the mediocre child sometimes has benefits; she doesn't show so much as a flicker of recognition.    "You're new, aren't you?" I continue.  "I never saw you till this week."

 

She nods and flushes, radiating a warm tingle of happiness.  "They only just took me as an apprentice this month, but I already love it.  What are you studying?"

 

"Accounting. Something to do until I make my earth-shaking mathematical breakthrough. You know, unless someone else gets there first." Atar, most likely.  Not that he'll mean it maliciously, but after he sat down to ponder Telerin determiners and stood up with the solution to Formatar's formerly-unsolvable theorem, I stopped pretending I could predict him.

 

She pulls off her scarf, revealing dark hair braided and pinned, and shakes off the dust before folding it and tucking it away.  "A zoologist, an engineer, and a mathematician are having lunch," she says.  "Across the street, they see two people walk into a house. After a few minutes, three people leave the house.  So the zoologist says, 'They must have reproduced.'  The engineer says, 'Our initial count must have been incorrect.' And the mathematician says, 'Now, if one person walks back in, the house will be completely empty!'"

 

I can't help it; I nearly choke laughing, and she joins in with more than a little mischief.

 

I don't have friends. But maybe, just maybe, I could.