The Secret Key of Pythagorum

by Michele Angello

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Fiona. I’ll move along.”

  He finished the job on Fiona and went to find Henry for the rest of his tasks for the day. That evening Henry showed him the way to the kitchens for the evening meal. As they walked through the muddy courtyard behind the stable, Savaric looked up at the dark, tall building looming before him. Gaping at the largest building he had ever seen, he stumbled and nearly fell.

  “Watch yourself, waif.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just such a tall house. I’ve never seen such before.”

  Henry smirked a bit. “Ah, that explains it.”

  “Who is our master?”

  “That’ll be the sheriff, the sheriff of Deva, though he sees to things for the king for miles around.”

  They stepped into the kitchen, which was warm and filled with the smells of baking bread and simmering meat. Savaric’s mouth watered. It had been days since he had had a hot meal.

  “Henry, what have you got now? Something else you dragged in from the street?” a woman said.

  “Avice. This is the new stable boy. What’s your name again, waif?” Henry replied.

  “Tristan,” Savaric said hesitantly.

  “And where are your people, child?” the woman asked.

  “I’m an orphan, ma’am. My people are all gone.”

  “O, by the saints, child. Come sit down and let me feed you.”

  Savaric sat down at a bench pulled up to a roughly made worn wooden table. He looked around at the kitchen, which loomed twice the size of their center room at home, which included the kitchen and their seating area and table. The walls were a mottled yellow color, stained from many years of use. Avice brought him a bowl of meat and vegetable stew and a hunk of fresh bread. She loosened the strings on her gray apron and sat next to him. Other servants filed into the room from other parts of the house and stared at the newcomer. Savaric glanced up from his bowl nervously as they went to the stove to fetch their dinners.

  “Don’t worry about them, lamb,” Avice said kindly. “They won’t harm you.”

  Savaric nodded and kept shoveling in the stew while keeping one eye on the door.

  That night he lay on his cot in the back of the stable. With all the doors and windows closed, it was a somewhat pleasant place. All the animals kept things warm with their body heat, and the place was kept quite clean for a stable. Savaric nestled under his cloak and blanket and relished the chance to sleep safely in warmth with a full stomach again. Just as he almost drifted into a contented sleep, the thought of Elias popped into his head. What if he was a prisoner nearby? How could he find him? How was he going to stay hidden from the sheriff? Thoughts worried through his head for ages before he finally drifted off to sleep.

  The next day, Henry kept Savaric busy with various tasks in the stable. Things had been neglected for a fortnight without a stable boy, and they moved at a double pace making up for lost time. The work was not that different from working on the farm at home, and with three meals to fuel him he had no trouble keeping up.

  As he moved in and around the stable, he took a few moments to look at the other buildings in the compound. The sheriff’s house was the largest and actually faced the next street over from the one the stable faced. Two long low structures between the stable and the house formed the edges of the courtyard. On his way to the evening meal, Savaric took a wide looping route across the courtyard and glanced into the open window of one of the buildings. It just served as storage, a jumbled mix of small wooden kegs of beer and sacks of grain mixed in with scythes and old furniture.

  After the meal, Savaric went back to the stable and sat on an empty keg near his cot. What was he going to do next? He had drifted off trying to come up with a plan when suddenly he jerked back to reality as a shout came from the doors of the stable.

  “BOY. Get my horse,” the huge voice bellowed, its bass sounds rumbling through the stable. “NOW.”

  Savaric leaped up and ran toward the sound of the voice, though the monstrous bellow made everything in his body want to run in the other direction.

  “Sir, which horse?” he called out as he ran the length of the stable. The tall man stood in the doorway of the stable, dressed all in black, with a light metal breastplate covering his chest. He turned his head toward Savaric slowly. His eyes flicked over him, appraising the boy before him. “Fiona,” he said, and turned away again.

  “Yes, sir.” Savaric rushed to pull the bridle, blanket, and saddle off the shelf near Fiona’s stall, then edged open her stall door and went inside. Fiona knew she was set to go out, and she stepped lightly around the stall, hopping a bit in excitement. Savaric wheeled her around to take her out when the great voice rumbled, “Who are you?”

  “Tristan. Stable boy, sir.”

  “Come here.”

  Savaric walked over to him and stopped. He prayed with every fiber of his being that the tall man couldn’t tell he was shaking. Fiona snorted and pawed the ground impatiently. The man, who had to be the sheriff, grabbed his face with rough hands and turned it toward the light. “Where are you from, waif?”

  Savaric swallowed. “Willuge,” he sputtered through clenched cheeks.

  “And your people?” He said slowly.

  “Urfan.”

  “What?”

  “Urfan,” Savaric repeated.

  The sheriff released his grip and said again, “What?”

  “Orphan.”

  The sheriff stood staring at him with piercing black eyes for what seemed like an hour, tapping his gloves against his hand. Savaric cowered next to Fiona, wishing he could scramble to the ground and hide away from those penetrating eyes. Even the ground under Fiona’s stomping hooves would be better than this. Finally the sheriff growled, “It’s always Fiona, unless I say different.”

  Savaric stood stock still, frozen, and watched as the sheriff swung onto Fiona’s back in one powerful movement and cantered out of the stable. A few minutes later Savaric bent over at the waist and took in big wheezing breaths. He had walked into the lion’s den.

  There would be no more thoughts of rescues tonight. Savaric retreated to his cot and wrapped his cloak around himself tighter. When the sheriff returned in the middle of the night, he stayed in his corner until he heard the sheriff leave the stable. Then he went to wipe down the sweating Fiona.

  The next morning, Savaric was enjoying a hearty breakfast when one of the kitchen maids turned to him and said, “You. Take this to the lockup. I don’t know where the houseboys are yet, and these porridges is almost as cold as a winter’s stone.”

  “Me?” Savaric said, looking around.

  “Yes, you. Get on with ya.”

  “But what is the lockup? I’ve never been in the house. Where—”

  “Just find the stairs and keep going down. You can’t miss it. Now go on!”

  Savaric took the two bowls of porridge and walked through the open door from the kitchen into the house. The kitchen lay at the end of a hall, and there was only one way to turn. Taking a breath, he walked down the hall. At the far end of the hall, a large staircase stretched up and a smaller stone staircase led down. Savaric walked quietly toward the smaller one looking straight ahead, and suddenly sensed an openness on his left.

  The opening to a large hall stood there. He stopped and gaped at the room. A large wooden table sat surrounded by long benches. Tall walls hung with woven tapestries showed lords and ladies dancing in a garden. The ceiling stretched high, the tallest he had ever seen. At the far end of the table sat the sheriff, eating his breakfast. As soon as Savaric saw him, he quietly moved toward the safety of the remaining part of the hallway. He breathed a small sigh of relief that no great bellow summoned him back. He carefully made his way down the stone stairs so as not to spill a drop. No use bringing about any more yelling or face pinching.

  At the bottom of the rough stone stairs, a low-ceilinged, arched passage stretched ahead. A weak torch sputtered on the wall. The air felt damp and smelled foul. Water leaked from t
he house above, a steady drip echoing through the space like a cave under a river. What a horrid place, Savaric thought, as he picked his way down the hall. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out three short iron doors at the far end of the hall. He stood in the middle of the doors and looked around. Finally, he kicked at one door, waiting for a response. A muffled sound came from within. He bent over and opened the trap door at the base of the door, and shoved the porridge in. He waited a moment and watched the hand that reached for the porridge. It was spotted with age and had wiry tufts of white hair on it. Definitely not Elias, he thought. He closed and locked the trap.

  He turned to the next door and kicked it. No sounds. At the next door, his kick was rewarded with a grunt. The hand showing through the trap door this time looked much younger.

  Savaric took a breath and said, “Elias?”

  “Yes, you bastard. That is what I’ve been telling you my name is—not Savaric,” the prisoner yelled back.

  “Right. Simmer down there,” Savaric said, making his voice deep. He had to put his hand in his mouth and bite it to prevent saying more. He turned and walked quickly down the hall and out of the darkness.

  Savaric felt terrible. Elias lay trapped in that horrible place—and it was all his fault.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Is this not the fast which I choose, To loosen the bonds of wickedness, To undo the bands of the yoke, And to let the oppressed go free And break every yoke?

  Isaiah 58:6

  The porridge dripped from the spoon and splashed back into the bowl. Savaric plunged his spoon in again and watched the cold mess drip off when an angry voice interrupted his grave thoughts.

  “Touch that spoon again and it’ll be the last time ye eat in this kitchen, ye ungrateful whelp. Now get on to ya work.” The cook glared at him with her arms folded. Savaric dropped the spoon and ran out of the kitchen.

  He didn’t stop running until he reached the stables. When he got there, he realized that tears were streaming down his face. Angrily, he reached up and wiped them away. He couldn’t believe that someone had to suffer in that horrifying lockup because of him. What could anyone do that would deserve such a punishment? For that matter, what did he do that was so terrible? How could anyone have figured out that he did anything when he had always used his invisibility trick?

  He didn’t understand a lot of things, but something he knew for sure was that he had to get Elias out of there. Breathing a bit hard, more from being angry than the short run across the courtyard, Savaric leaned against the inside wall of the stable, careful not to let anyone see him. He’d have to be even more careful from now on. He pushed away from the wall and got to work in the horse stalls.

  All day he looked for evidence of the houseboys going about their work. In the past days, he had seen them come through the stable on their way to run an errand for the housekeeper or the cook. No one came through the stable—only he and Henry worked all day long.

  At dinnertime, both he and Henry went into the kitchen for their supper at the same time. Savaric waited a few minutes into the meal and then asked, “Will you be needing me to take food down to the lockup, Cook?”

  Henry glanced over with a puzzled look. “Since when do you go down there, Tristan?”

  “Since this morning when those houseboys didn’t show up,” Cook replied. “And, yes, take these down as soon as I finish with them.”

  Savaric picked up the two tin plates and started down the hall. This time he stopped and peeked around the corner before walking across the expanse exposed to the great hall. No one was sitting at the table or walking across the room, so he walked on through the hall to the stone stairway. The dampness and smell of the lockup wafted up the stairs as soon as he got halfway down the block stone steps.

  Walking down the hall toward the cells, he slowed down and observed everything. Through the dim light he took even more time than he had that morning to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. There was only one entrance, the one he had just come through. Only one torch stood in its sconce on the wall, but there were two sconces, one on each end of the hall. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all made from stone. It looked like there was no way out but the way he had just come. Savaric eyed the torch, looked at his hands holding the two plates, and then made his way down the hall carefully. He opened the trap door of each of the cells and shoved the food in. He quickly ran back down the hall to grab the torch and brought it back to the area next to the cells. Swinging the torch from side to side, he looked closely at the walls. Suddenly he saw what he had hoped for—a rusty ring set into the wall, and hanging from it a ring of keys. There may only be one way out of this hole, but he now knew what it was.

  Savaric spent his evenings dreaming up his plan. It took a while to think through the possibilities since he had never broken anyone out of a lockup before. He did his best to observe the comings and goings of the house as he worked, as well as the sheriff’s staff and their habits.

  The thing that worried him was that at night the house stayed very quiet with only the sheriff living there, and he knew that any noise would be noticed immediately. Something noisy had to happen for him to get into and out of the house; after all, the invisibility needles only helped shield sight, not sound. Every night he pulled the needles out of their hiding place and checked the water levels in their crocks. The needles now showed signs of yellowing, signaling the end of their life. He looked at the needles grimly.

  “I haven’t even gotten past Deva, and I’m already running out of time,” he said aloud.

  Suddenly he realized that he hadn’t done anything to decipher the map. “Idiot!” he said, slapping his head. With all his worry about Elias, he had forgotten everything else he had set out to do.

  The next day he hurried to finish all his tasks. In the late afternoon, he approached Henry.

  “Sir, I’ve finished my work. Might I go out to see the market?”

  “What, all of it?”

  Savaric nodded.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting your pay too.”

  Savaric nodded again.

  “I don’t have all of it now. But here’s enough for the market.”

  Henry dropped more coin into his hands than he had ever seen at one time.

  “Thank ye, sir,” Savaric said. And with that he eagerly ran out of the stable.

  He slowed down as he got closer to the market and began looking for a scribe. Nana had told him that a scribe was a man with quills, and he would be sitting at a small table in the market with parchment on the table before him.

  Savaric strolled through the market, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells. Chickens tethered by their legs to a post hammered into the ground pecked at his feet for the grain that still stuck to his shoes. Vegetable hawkers called out to passersby as they waved their greens in the air, “Get your turnips here. Fresh from the ground this week.” A sharp hiss rang through the air as a blacksmith plunged a hot metal scythe into a trough of water.

  With so much to see, it was hard to focus and really see anything. Feeling a tug on his sleeve, Savaric looked down at a tiny girl, no more than two or three years old, looking up at him. Her face was streaked with dirt, and her clothes were not much more than rags, but a bright pink bow lit up her white-blonde hair.

  “Bray,” she said sweetly and pointed. Savaric turned to see what she was pointing at and saw a baker’s stand. A woman waved him over urgently.

  Shaking his head, he said, “No, I don’t need…”

  She waved him over even more urgently. A few minutes later, Savaric was walking farther into the market with a warm, sweet apple pasty cupped in his hand. Biting into the lovely pasty as it oozed onto his cheek, Savaric stood to the side of the main crush of people and looked around the area he was in. Ah, he thought. There’s one over there. He stayed standing in the spot and watched the scribe, trying to determine if the man was a thief or an honest man. Which was, of course, almost impossible to tell from across the cr
owded market. A woman walked up to the man’s table and handed him a piece of parchment. The two talked for a few minutes, and the woman walked away, smiling.

  Savaric moved down the market stalls a bit, slowly strolling and looking at all the goods for sale. When he was closer, he stopped and turned to watch the scribe again. After a while another old man walked up to the scribe and set down a scroll in front of him. As he watched, the scribe read aloud to the man from the scroll. The old man listened to him intently, nodding his head. The scribe finished reading, and the old man handed over a few coins and shuffled away.

  Savaric stood across the market for a few moments, thinking through what he had just seen. Both of them seemed to have no argument with the scribe. The scribe looked decent enough, though he did look a bit scruffy and tousled, like he had slept in his clothes in the open for many days. Savaric took a deep breath and strode over casually to the wooden desk of the scribe, really just some old rough pieces of wooden fence nailed together.

  “Sir, can you read this page for me?”

  “Aye, what is it?”

  “It looks like a bit of an old map, but I’m not sure.”

  “Aye, I can read it for two bits.”

  Savaric nodded. “What does it say?”

  “It’s just a map of Maxima Caesariensis. This is the Wall of Aelian,” the scribe said, pointing to the squiggly line across the center.

  “Where is the Wall of Aelian?”

  “It lies far to the north of Deva many days away.”

  “And what about this word, what does that say?”

  The scribe squinted at the scrap and said slowly, “That is a Greek letter of some sort. I recognize it as Greek, but I don’t know which letter it is.”