They shoo Milo out after breakfast. It was porridge again, but this time Wahid included two round pastries stuffed with dates for later. Milo also received strict instructions from Rahima to stay away from the hospital, but what else is he going to do? He doesn’t know anyone except for Hallon and the people at the Standing Goat.

He stands in front of the inn thinking about breaking both sets of instructions. The probabilities are—if he eats the pastries, he’ll be forced to spend money on lunch. If he goes to the hospital, Rahima will break their deal. He’s 93.55 percent sure of that. He sighs and takes his hands out of his pockets. The pastries are safe for now and so is the deal with the innkeeper-doctor. He’s wondering what to do when the door opens behind him.

“Hello, sweetie,” Noor says, moving past him.

The cart’s wheels squeak as she slides down the ramp. They need to be lubricated, and Milo runs after to let her know. Noor laughs when he explains about the additional improvements possible for the cart. A number of ideas come to him—a suspension system for a smoother ride, enclosures to protect the wheels from dirt, and a motor so that she doesn’t have to pull herself along.

Noor pats her cart. “Thank you, sweetie, but I don’t think so. This thing has seen me through many a time. It’ll do as it is, just like me.” She smiles. “And who knows, maybe one day I’ll be able to afford a wheelchair.”

“Are they expensive?” Milo asks.

Noor laughs. “No, sweetie, not really. It’s the dice that are expensive.” She winks, and the equations around her eyes crinkle. “I have something of a gambling habit. It comes from knowing I can see the past; fools me into believing I can see the future too. Speaking of which—”

A woman runs up to Noor, harried numbers streaming behind her. “Noor, I’m glad I caught you. Abbas was out again last night. Said it was work, but he left smelling too nice, and I found this hair on his shirt after.”

The hair in question is eight inches long and silken. Very different from this woman’s short coarse hair.

Noor takes the hair, gives it a lick, and rubs it between her fingers. Her eyes close, and when they open again, she says, “I’m sorry, love, but it’s bad news. The hair belongs to a girl from the joy house on Carter’s Road. He said he’d go in for tea and had a jot more than that.”

The woman’s equations go cold. “I”ll kill him. I’ll skin Abbas’s hide and dump him into a barrel of salt. I’ll cut off his manhood and hang it from the window for the neighbors to see. Just wait until he gets home.” She puts some coins in Noor’s hands and runs off.

“W-who was that?” Milo asks. “Will she really do all those horrible things?”

“Lydia. And how should I know? I can’t see the future, remember?”

“But shouldn’t we tell someone? Just in case.”

“Milo, sweetie, that’s kind of you, but who would we tell? The only law in No Town belongs to people like Marid, and you’ve already had too much business with him. You could go to the Scholar for a judgment, but Lydia hasn’t done anything yet.” Noor pats his hand. “Don’t worry. I don’t believe she’ll actually kill Abbas, although he’ll probably wish he was dead.”

And that, apparently, is that.

Noor gazes up at him. “You’re feeling a bit lost, aren’t you? Well, come on. I’ll take you to the market. There’s always something to see or do there.”

Milo doesn’t have anything better to do, so he follows after her. The morning is still early and cool. Later in the day, the heat will be overwhelming, but for now the walk is pleasant. Everyone seems to know Noor, and they greet her as they pass, nodding politely to Milo walking alongside. He recognizes several landmarks from the circles he made with the General yesterday.

The No Town market is lively and loud, bustling with merchants hawking their wares and shoppers haggling over prices. The equations are all tinged red from the scarlet cloth that stretches from the roof of the building at the market’s center to the surrounding buildings.

“My spot’s this way,” Noor says, leading Milo between the stalls.

There’s an area set aside for fortune tellers and card readers. A rug and cushions are already set up for Noor, and the woman in the neighboring stall waves. She wears a veil and has dark whorls painted around her eyes. “Noor, you have someone waiting.”

“Thanks, love. Appreciate your help as always.” Noor settles onto a cushion and turns to Milo. “Thanks for the company, but I’m open for business now. I’ll check in on you tomorrow though.”

“Oh, okay,” Milo says. “Thank you for the walk.”

A man waits for Noor, shifting from foot to foot, his equations anxious for Noor’s attention. He pounces as soon as Milo steps away. His hands move in a signed language, and Noor responds in kind. Milo wonders if one of her signs means “sweetie.” The probability is high—84.23 percent.

Milo walks the aisles, row by row. He resists the calls of the merchants, no matter how intriguing their wares, even the one selling a wind-up lion that walks and jumps. The gears in its little body turn quite finely. The merchant offers it to him for two dinars, but Milo shakes his head and hurries off.

At ten after noon, he eats the pastries Wahid gave him, but he’s still hungry and buys a flat bread wrapped around grilled tomatoes, onions, and a tangy yogurt sauce. There are stools nearby, and Milo watches the people walk past as he eats.

He’s struck by the similarity between people in crowds and the motion of gas molecules. The way they bump and bounce off each other. It’s not the first time he’s had that thought, and he traces the lines of the patterns, wondering what equations will form and if they’ll be similar to the ones from Boston. It’s a small distraction, while the more important calculations churn and turn.

“You’ve been sitting for thirty minutes,” someone says. “The cook’s going to ask you to leave if you’re not going to buy anything else.”

Milo turns to see who’s talking. Cobalt eyes look back at him.

“I know you’re mad at me,” Karam says, “but I couldn’t do anything. Not against Marid. I just didn’t figure you’d have rethak. I mean, where’d it come from? No, don’t answer. I don’t want to know.” He sighs. “I was your guide, and I messed up bad. I’m sorry for that and tried to make it as right as I could. That’s all I came to say.” He stands up to leave.

Milo rouses enough to replay the words and register them. “No, wait! The General explained. I—I’m not mad. In fact, I wanted to thank you for the deal you made with Rahima Rugaam. It’ll keep Hallon safe until she recovers.”

The numbers around Karam soften. “Is she all right? I checked in on her, but I’m… busy, and couldn’t stay long.” He must see something from Milo’s expression. “That bad, huh?”

“Everyone thinks she’s just lucky to be alive,” Milo says.

“That’s true,” Karam says. “Nothing in the world can stop a Blessed Red. Maybe one of the Blessed Hidden, but you never see them above ground.”

“You mean not all giants—all Reds are like that?”

“They’re all big, that’s true, but most have problems with their bones and guts and die young. Not Sab though. He’s over fifty and faster and stronger than anything or anyone. They call him Twice-Blessed.” Karam looks at Milo sideways. “You don’t plan on doing anything stupid, are you?”

“I generally try not to,” Milo says. “Why do you ask?”

“About Sab, I mean. I worry about you trying to take him on.”

Milo snorts. The idea is ridiculous. People like Sab are forces of nature. All you can do is to weather them as best as you can. “No,” he says, “I wouldn’t think of it.”

“Good,” Karam says. “People get funny ideas when their loved ones get hurt.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me,” Milo says. “I’m not funny at all.”

Karam laughs. “Okay, if you say so.”

Milo’s models are hungry for information. They press him to ask, “And the Hidden—what are they?”

“People usually don’t talk about the Hidden—it’s not a rule or anything, just impolite. They’re the Gloop most affected by the Taint and show null when taking the test. People outside No Town call them Horrors.” Karam finds a seat and sits down. “In the old days, there was a law saying they should be killed as babies, and so people hid them away underground. They’re not killed anymore, at least not in the city. But they still go underground. Most No Town families have one or two Hidden in them and stay connected through the sanctuaries—you’ll see them, little round buildings tucked away here and there. People leave charity, messages, things like that.”

“Oh, I saw one when I was walking with the General. There was a mural inside.”

“That’d be Saket,” Karam says. “He was Gloop, died about forty years ago. Preached about Gloop rights and everyone--Tainted and Untainted-- getting along,” Karam says.

“What happened?”

“He was shot,” Karam says. “Nobody talks about that stuff anymore. They just try to survive.”

Milo doesn’t know what to say next, but Karam doesn’t seem to mind. They sit and watch the crowd together, at least until it’s time for Karam to go.

“I’m due to run some errands for the Scholar,” Karam says, “but I’ll catch up with you at the Goat. I want to introduce you to a dealer I know.”

“About that.” Milo explains about being evicted, leaving out the part about not being Untainted.

“That’s strange. I’ve never known Dr. Rugaam to go back on a deal. She does have a reputation for going her own way though.” Karam’s eyes widen. “Hey! That means she owes me a refund.”

“I’m sure she’ll pay you back.”

Karam nods. “Me too. She’s more honest than is probably good for her. What about you? What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m just waiting until I can see Hallon next.”

Karam rubs the fur on top of his head. “It can’t be helped. I made a mistake, and need to make up for it. You can stay at my place.”

“What about your errands for the Scholar?” Milo asks. “My observations tell me that he’s an important man.”

“He is,” Karam says. “The most important person in No Town. But you can wait while I meet with him.”

Milo isn’t sure how he feels about that. His equations are in such a jumble. After all, the Scholar is the one who made the Rules that resulted in Hallon getting hurt.

Karam must be reading his face again, because he says: “The Scholar does a lot of good. No Town needs him and his Rules, or else things would be so much worse. Don’t blame him for what happened--it was my fault for not being a better guide. I’ll make it up to you, though, I promise. Now, come along, and I’ll show you around afterward. Deal?”

Milo nods. “Deal.”

###

The Scholar’s residence is the building in the middle of No Town’s market plaza. Two Reds stand guard at the entrance—a pair of double doors twice as tall as Milo and covered in a thin layer of silver. A series of whorls was tapped into the silver, dot by dot, to create a scene reminiscent of two rivers flowing. The guards open the doors before Milo can examine them more closely.

Inside is a small atrium with a burbling fountain at its center. High windows let in just enough air and light to be comfortable, and together the fountain and windows help the atrium stay cool. Paintings cover the walls, showing fantasy versions of Dawrtaine. In them, the city is gleaming and prosperous. Machines fly in the air, nothing like the biplanes and dirigibles back home. These craft are larger, sleeker, resembling dolphins in the sky.

A secretary standing beside the fountain directs them towards a corridor at the back of the atrium. They walk past a series of closed doors to the Scholar’s reception area. Scarlet cloth stretches across the ceiling and drapes down the walls. People sit and chat on rugs and cushions, while a lone, ornate chair waits empty.

The art here is technical: statues of cube-shaped machines suspended by thin wires. An older man with a green tattoo approaches before Milo can take a closer look.

“Karam, you brought a friend.”

“This is Milo,” Karam says. “Milo, this is Slaeman. He helps the Scholar run things.”

Slaeman bows slightly to Milo, and the equations describe the motion as gracious. To Karam, he is more stern. “He is waiting for you.”

“Hells. All right, I better go,” Karam says. “Can Milo wait for me here?”

“But of course,” Slaeman says. “All are welcome in the Scholar’s House.”

“Thanks,” Karam says. He moves aside a length of scarlet to reveal a door. “I’ll be back.”

Slaeman motions for Milo to take a seat, but the statues are too interesting to ignore. They look like they’re made from building blocks, with protrusions and indentations that fit them together. One of the larger cubes is assembled from nine smaller ones. Most surprising of all—they’re not suspended from wires after all. Somehow they hover in the air on their own.

Milo moves in for a closer look. There's the faintest scent of lilacs and a hum at the tip of his nose. Electricity runs through the little machines, even though he hasn’t seen any transmission towers since arriving in Dawrtaine. All the electricity in the city comes from underground cables. Where could the machine be drawing power from?

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Slaeman gestures. “This piece is almost three hundred years old, from just before the signing of the Accords.”

The people here were using electricity three hundred years ago? Milo is surprised. That doesn’t fit any of his models. “What does it do?”

“No one knows,” Slaeman says. “No one living, that is. The study of pre-war technology is strictly forbidden. We’re not even supposed to have these, except that this is No Town, and we play by our own rules.” He winks at Milo.

“Can I examine it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Slaeman says. “For one, the machine is still alive, even after all these years, and would give you a shock. Then also, the Scholar would have to cut off your hands for daring to touch one of his precious possessions.”

Milo puts his hands in his pockets. “I’ll just look then.”

Slaeman nods. “That would be wise.”

Milo goes back to studying the cube-machines. There are eight in all, and each appears to be still functioning. More importantly, he can’t shake the feeling that they’re all connected—part of a larger mechanism, one that’s currently working. The equations around them won’t stay still.

Karam snaps his fingers in front of Milo’s eyes. “Hello, Milo. Hello.”

“Oh, sorry. I was thinking.” Milo checks his internal clock and realizes that twenty minutes have passed.

Another older man stands beside Karam. He’s of the same generation as Slaeman, but without a tattoo. Instead there is a crisscross of scars across his forehead. His hair is thinning and gray at the roots. His eyes are sharp, the numbers like pins.

“This is the Scholar,” Karam says. “When I told him you were here, he said he wanted to meet you.”

“I apologize for the rough welcome you received the other night,” the Scholar says, “but rules are rules for a reason.”

“Then maybe you should put up a sign explaining what they are,” Milo says.

The Scholar finds the suggestion funny, and laughs. “I like your friend, Karam. He has a sense of humor. There are others who could learn from him.” His attention turns to one of the cubes hovering above its pedestal. “And he likes my machines.”

Milo adjusts his spectacles. “They’re interesting. They’re connected somehow, I’m sure of it. The patterns match up, but I can’t deduce what they do.”

The smile doesn’t leave the Scholar’s face, but the equations around his eyes turn watchful. Milo’s seen it before in people who have to lie as part of their profession. In his experience, that’s usually been spies and university professors.

“That is a thought I’ve had myself,” the Scholar says. “That the machines are modular; their function changeable depending on how they’re organized.”

“So you assembled these?”

“Oh, no.” The Scholar laughs again. “We may flaunt the government’s laws, but in the end, we are still their servants. To trespass on the Peace Accords would bring instant and utter ruin. This technology, no matter its potential to revolutionize our lives, must remain untouched. For the good of all.”

“If it were me and they were mine, I don’t know that I could resist,” Milo says.

“Then it’s a good thing they are mine and not yours, eh?” The smile never leaves the Scholar’s face. “Karam did not mention it, where are you from?”

“Tahoe,” Milo says, “but it’s quite far. My friend and I sort of misplaced ourselves, and now we’re traveling until we can manage a way back home.”

The Scholar frowns for the first time. “I’ve never heard of this Tahoe.”

“It’s a small place,” Milo says. “Nothing special.”

“Is that what you did there?” the Scholar asks. “Nothing special?”

“No.” Milo smiles. “I come from a family of machinists and inventors.”

“Ah, thus the interest in these beautiful creations,” the Scholar says. “Show me something you’ve made.”

Milo doesn’t have anything on him, except for his watch, so he takes it out. The case is silver and engraved with a rabbit standing on two legs in the middle of a compass rose. The numbers inside are represented by rabbits dancing alone or in pairs. Popping open the back, he shows off the gearing.

The Scholar bends for a closer look. “This is very fine. You made it?”

“My parents, but I’ve studied it and repaired two of the smaller wheels.”

“I see,” the Scholar says. “The metal is off-color.”

“Replacements.”

“Where did you find ones so exact?” the Scholar asks. “There is no room for error.”

“I machined them myself,” Milo says. “Nothing else would work.”

“I see.” The Scholar straightens. “Karam, what were you planning to do with our friend here?”

“I was going to introduce him to Harout,” Karam says.

The Scholar nods. “Harout does good work, but I’ll do him better. Take our friend to Groud’s Factory. They have an opening for a machinist. Tell Groud I sent you.”

There’s a hesitation in Karam’s numbers. “That’s wonderful, but—”

“No need to look so sour,” the Scholar says. “I won’t take more than Harout’s normal commission.”

“Really?” Karam says. “I mean, thank you!”

“Excuse me,” Milo says, “but does this mean I have a job?”

“Yes, you do, the Scholar says. “And you’d better do well in it, or it will be my name that’s spoiled. Do you understand?”

“I think I do.”

“And I expect a good turn from you now that we’re aligned,” the Scholar says, “but we can talk of that another time. Now off with you both. I have work of my own to do.” He waves to Slaeman to escort them out.

Karam doesn’t say anything until they’re outside, but once they’re clear of the residence, he whoops, startling Milo. “This is amazing! You don’t know how lucky you are. The Scholar is the best dealer in No Town, in all of Dawrtaine, and you got him for Harout’s rate. What a deal!”

“Karam, Karam. Please stop jumping around. I don’t understand. What’s Harout’s rate? Who is Groud? What will I be doing?”

“All right, all right. I’ll explain. Dealers like Harout get a cut of your first year’s wages in exchange for finding you a job. Usually, almost always, you pay up front, but Harout owes me a favor and would’ve taken it monthly. His cut is twenty-five percent, which is a good deal because he does good work.” Karam’s grin broadens. “The Scholar now—he’s the best and normally gets a ninety percent cut of the first year. And he doesn’t take just anybody. He only deals for people that interest him.”

“But twenty-five percent is still a lot.”

“Yeah, it is,” Karams says, “but we have the money that Dr. Rugaam now owes me plus what I have stashed away. I can take out a loan on the rest or exchange work for it. The Scholar always has jobs for me.”

“Karam, are you sure?”

“Don’t worry—a job at Groud’s Factory is worth it. You’ll do well there. I know you will.” Karam shakes his head. “I can’t believe your luck, Milo. Things really turned around for you.”

“I hope so,” Milo says, but somehow he doubts it.