32. The Quiet Rebellion #2
“Yes,” I say. “I think we do have proof.” I look at Riss. “The radio messages that have been coming in from a Rhavnan frequency. They were for his ears, and his ears alone. That’s why we struggled to understand them.”
We go down a deck to Intelligence. Riss claps her hands at the intelligence analysts who are still working.
“Take a ten-minute break, everyone.” When they look at her confused, she barks, “I said, take a break. Or do you all want OTIs?”
They quickly drop pens, remove their radio bands and scarper from the room.
“Nicely done,” Ephraine says, gruffly.
Once everyone is out of the door, I approach the chalkboard, where the uncracked code still reads:
If the guests are ready, I am happy to serve dinner. Signed, Mother.
I pick up the piece of chalk tucked in the board. Start scribbling underneath the message.
I step backwards. Admire my work.
If the welcomed ones are ready, I am happy to open the cloche. Signed, the Queen.
“Cloche?” Riss asks. “Like, a dish with a lid?”
“I don’t see how this is evidence of anything,” Ephraine snarls. “You’ve hardly changed the message at all. I’m starting to believe you’re wasting my time—”
“Just wait,” Riss urges. “Let her explain.”
I turn to the board. “The message doesn’t look much different, yes.
But its meaning has changed. The original message was spoken in Hevallan.
But it was clearly translated from Rhavnan.
” I pause, stretching out my wrists. “Rhavnan doesn’t translate well into the Hevallan language.
Our words mean very specific things – like, ‘the earth we tread on’, rather than just ‘earth’.
And we have so many words – about twenty just for different types of love, for example. ”
I turn back to the board. Underline the original message.
“When you take this sentence and convert it back into Rhavnan, it starts meaning different things. Like the word ‘guest.’ In Rhavna, guest translated is ‘someone you have welcomed.’ Guests are welcomed ones. Integrated ones.”
“The FIs,” Riss says, fully transfixed on the board.
“I believe so. And then, ‘serve dinner’.” I point to that part of the sentence.
“We have lots of ways you can say that in Rhavnan. And one of those ways – probably the most common way – is to say you’re about to open the cloche.
In fact, Riss, do you still have my letter I was writing for my family? ”
She produces it from my Integration book.
I unfold it. Point to the exact sentence where I’d asked my brother if he was doing everything I asked.
“I’ve written this in Rhavnan. I’ve said planning every dinner to serve. But word for word, I’ve actually written every cloche to open. And traditionally, what shape is a cloche?”
“Okay, you’ve said the word cloche too many times now,” Riss says. “It’s hurting my head.”
“Yes,” Ephraine mutters. “And we’re still no wiser to how this gibberish proves Dezeeves is a traitor.”
“Answer the question,” I press. “What shape is a cloche?”
“A bell shape.”
“A dome shape.”
Riss’ mouth goes slack. “She’s telling Dezeeves she’s ready to open the dome? The dome over the Palace?”
“She’s waiting for him, and the FIs. And remember her next message. The dinner – the cloche, or, the dome – is getting cold... Getting cold, which literally means, losing its heat. Losing its—”
“Magic,” Riss guesses.
I fling the chalk down.
Look straight at Ephraine. “Do you believe us now?”
Riss nods at him, smiling. “Cloche.”
Very calmly, as if we’ve just told him not about treason but about a leak in the ceiling, Ephraine tells us he will sort it and leaves.
“He never said how,” I realise.
Riss doesn’t seem concerned. “Ephraine knows The Accords backwards. He’ll do things by the book.” She pops her mouth. “Although, there is one thing bothering me.”
“What’s that?”
“Why did Dezeeves let you go at all? Did he not realise you would go and tell someone all of his secrets?”
I’ve already thought about that. “He’s complacent. His own brother thinks that’s how he might get himself killed one day.”
He probably thinks I’m alone in the world. Would never tell anyone what I know. Doesn’t know I have Riss, who would convince me to do something as insane as trusting Ephraine.
Since we can do nothing else now, we pick up my new uniform, which I change into in the nearest lavatory. I also freshen myself up. I feel so disgusting. Grimy. And I don’t think it’s from sweat.
In the same uniform as everyone else, I decide I look like more like a traitor than I did in the prisoner one.
“Welcome to the crew,” Riss says, grinning, when I emerge.
After, we continue my training.
I’m getting good. I can now block half of her attacks and flip her successfully almost every time. She also teaches me how to disarm someone – it’s the same rapid, hard swing Ephraine used on Cosmer in The Bridge, before proceeding to practically choke him while wrestling him to the ground.
The memory instantly makes me nauseous.
Riss stops mid-block, perking up, and my fist flies into her jaw.
“Sorry—”
I trail off, because her face has crumpled.
“The trial,” she whispers, pulling me into a hug. “Cosmer’s trial.”