the shapes of clouds. Their conversation was a little forced, and Liv wasn’t at all sorry when it drifted away, and for a while they sat in silence.
“You’ll have to a buy a gun,” Agatha said quite suddenly.
Liv turned to her, rather shocked, to see that Agatha was smiling mischievously.
“You’ll have to buy a gun, and learn to ride a horse.”
Liv smiled. “I shall come back quite battle-scarred.”
“With terrible stories.”
“I shall never speak of them.”
“Except when drunk, when you’ll tell us all stories of the time you fought off a dozen wild Hillfolk bandits.”
“Two dozen! Why not?”
“No student will ever dare defy you again.”
“I shall walk with a limp, like an old soldier.”
“You will—” Agatha fell silent.
She reached into her bag and took out a small red pocket-sized pamphlet, which she handed solemnly to Liv.
According to its cover, it was A Child’s History of the West, and it had been published in somewhere called Morgan Town, in the year 1856.
Its pages were yellow and crumbling—hardly surprising, given that it was several years older than Liv herself. Its frontispiece was a black-and-white etching of a severe-looking gentleman in military uniform, with dark features, a neat white beard, a nose that could chop wood, and eyes that were somehow at once fierce and sad. He was apparently General Orlan Enver, First Soldier of the Red Valley Republic and the author of the Child’s History. Liv had never heard of him.
“I’m afraid it’s the only book I could find that says anything about where you’re going at all,” Agatha said.
“This is from the library.”
Agatha shrugged. “Steal it.”
“Agatha!”
“Really, Liv, it’s hardly the time for you to worry about that sort of thing. Take it! It may be useful. Anyway, we can’t send you off with nothing but that horribly ugly watch.”
Agatha stood. “Be safe,” she said.
“I will.”
Agatha turned quickly and walked off.
Grunting, Maggfrid heaved up Liv’s heavy cases onto the back of the coach. The horses snorted in the cold morning air and stamped the gravel of August Hall’s yard. The Faculty was still sleeping——apart from the coach and the horses and a few curious peacocks, the grounds were empty. Liv and Agatha embraced as the coachman stood by, smoking. Liv hardly noticed herself boarding the vehicle—she’d taken four drops of her nerve tonic to ensure that fear would not sway her resolve, and she was therefore somewhat distant and numb.
The coachman cracked the whip and the horses were away. The die was cast. Liv’s heart pounded. Balanced on her lap were the Child’s History of the West, the ugly golden watch, and a copy of the most recent edition of the Royal Maessenburg Journal of Psychology. She found all three of them rather comforting. Maggfrid sat beside her with a frozen smile on his face. Gravel crunched, the lindens went rushing past, the Faculty’s tall iron gates loomed like a mountain. Agatha gathered up her skirts and ran a little way after the coach, and Liv waved and in doing so managed to drop her copy of the Journal, which fluttered away behind her down the path. The coachman offered to stop, but she told him keep going, keep going!
CHAPTER 2
A GENTLEMAN OF LEISURE
Riverboat, due south from Humboldt, through night and red rushes, through neutral territories. Long-legged herons stalked the banks. The riverboat came as a roaring invader into their silent muddy world: its vast dark weight and the golden light and swirling thumping piano music pouring from its windows sent the birds panicking into flight like shots had been fired. . . .
But it was only a gambling boat, a private enterprise chartered out of the Baronies of the Delta, three decks of music and drinking and whores and con men and business travelers and suckers. It carried no cannon. Its great paddle wheel clattered and splashed. (The Folk who turned it were discreetly locked away below.) It was painted scarlet and blue, rimmed with brass, flying a variety of flags; it was quite pretty in the torchlight. A young man in pinstripes vomited over the side while his girlfriend picked his pocket. Six blond and prosperous farmers staggered out of the bar arm in arm, singing a song about fighting. The floor of the bar was bright with spilt whiskey and broken glass, and the pitch and yaw of the boat sent a constant whirl of men and women around and around in drunken circles about the roulette wheel and the dice tables and the knots of men clutching tightly to