A Pact Between Peers

Theon stared down at the scattered parchment and smiled.  If it weren’t for the chores and the channeling, Theon might actually have been able to appreciate the White Tower.  The bookwork – all of the recantations, the histories, the laws, the logic – all of that was so insignificant as to be almost negligible.  Ten minutes into a Test that was supposed to last long into Second Low, he’d blotted his parchment, sanded it and gently blew over the dried lettering.  Once he’d handed it in, Laraia Sedai regarded it with her pinched face.

Pinched was an appropriate description of Laraia Sedai.  She was always looking at everything with a disdainful air, as if she’d suddenly detected an extraordinarily unpleasant smell.  He’d met other Aes Sedai who displayed similar characteristics, but Laraia displayed hers, most notably, around men.  Theon supposed it should have been strange, because she was of the White Ajah, and when it came to hostilities toward men it seemed to him that the Whites offered the least.

Well, them and the Reds, anyway.  Theon could scarcely hold back his shock when – not once, but twice! – he’d received a nod of approval from a Red after he made a courtly leg, and the second came with a reassuring smile.

Not so Laraia Sedai.

“What is this, child?” She asked, her voice hushed.

“. . . it is the test, Laraia Sedai.”  Said Theon.  “All of the answers to your arithmetical equations are on the sheet, just as requested.”

She sniffed.  So many women sniffed in the Tower, Theon found it rather strange.  The trait was most prevalent among angry, ancient Aes Sedai, but it was frequently adopted by many of the seemingly younger ones.  And, of course, most of the Accepted.

“Yes, I can very well see that.”  She quipped.  “You will take this . . .  this answer sheet into the common room, and you will explain your work.  All of it!  And be certain, child, that if I am in any way dissatisfied, I will take you over the knee myself.”

Theon moved to return to his seat, and something pinched him.  He jumped, nearly tripped, then turned to regard the Aes Sedai coolly.

“Yes, Aes Sedai?”

”You will take this test alone, child.”  She declared.  “In the back room.”

Theon did not argue.  He simply dropped another bow, flourishing with his leg to the best of his ability, and scuttled away, his belongings in tow.

He returned ten minutes later, and Laraia Sedai was hardly pleased.  She assigned him fifty more equations to do on his own time – and to be sure he showed his work – and dismissed him off-handedly, clearly at odds with his apparent lack of frustration.  He gave her another leg — his legs were getting much better — and found a common room near the novice galleries.

Twenty minutes later, somewhere near problem number fourty-seven, the Sea Folk walked in.

“Can I help you?”  Asked Theon, never once stopping his furious scribbling.

He watched as the black man set down two peculiar clothbound books beside his own, thick tome, dryly titled Arithmetical Applications in the Practical World. Around him, loose-leaf parchments with dozens upon dozens of mathematical equations – all of them problems derived from some peculiar yet surprisingly effortless numerical practice known as long division, or of its exact opposite, long multiplication.  He finished up forty-eight, and decided to sand and blot the rest, scarcely paying attention to the man with the flush on his face.

“I was sent to you to be tutored,” He said gruffly.  “In reading.”

“I see.” Theon replied, scooting backward and pushing out the nearest chair.  “Well, you certainly don’t seem to have the Dark One’s own luck.”

The jest did not amuse him.  Theon couldn’t help but think that very few things amused Akadias, which was, in part, why he so thoroughly enjoyed teasing the man.

“Should we start now, then?”  Asked Theon.

The man fidgeted, looking back to the door.

“If you have the time.”  He said warily.

“I can make the time.”  Said Theon, pushing aside the freshly blotted and sanded parchment atop one of the first to have dried.

Theon looked over the first of the books that Akadias dropped atop the table and immediately recognized it to be a primer of some sort.  It was a loathsome thing, all long strings of sentences with pictures to show what they meant.  Had he been a man such as Jaryion or Akadias, ignorant of his letters, it would have confused him greatly.  A picture of a brown fox ‘zipping over a white fence’ beside the string of strange letters would only have served to aggravate his confusion.

He tossed it aside, letting the clothbound primer slap against the sandalwood desk.

Much more interesting was Akadias’ own book, which was a flimsier contraption, also bound by cloth.  Something he suspected that the Tower either produced quickly or bought in great bulk.  Within it were hastily scrawled copies of some strange series of pictograms, under which were the letters on the primer.  The scrawl was smudged and poor, written as if by someone holding someone else’s hand.

A quick glance at Akadias’ ink smudged hand – his left hand – explained why.

“Were you a swordsman before you came to the Tower?”  Asked Theon.

Akadias nodded.

“And you wielded a blade with both hands, as most swordsman do?”

He nodded again.

“If you were forced to choose a hand in which to wield a blade, which one would it be?”

The man arched his eyebrow and looked down at Theon.

“What has that got to do with this?” Asked Akadias.

“Who sent you to me?”  Asked Theon.

“Accepted Ar––rghwyn.”  He replied, not even bothering to keep the contempt from his voice.  “But she said it was Candance Sedai’s suggestion.”

He flinched.  Arwen again.  Why did that woman haunt him so?

“Likely she thought we’d make a fine pair.”  He said grumpily.  “Anyway, it’s Candance Sedai who matters.  So, just answer the question.”

“I’m backhanded, novice Theon.”  The reply was almost a growl.  “I would use what shore lappers call my shield-arm.”

“And I suspect that it advantageous to you in swordplay.”  Said Theon, as if he had not heard the flustered reply.  “Here, it will be the opposite.”

He twisted in his chair and turned the man’s clothbound journal to the last page, pointing at the top left corner of the sheet.

“Most people do everything with one hand, but everyone writes from left to right.”  He slid his fingers along the terribly scrawled lines as if in an example.

“If Arwen uses her other hand.”  He held up his right hand.  “Her sword-hand, let’s call it, then she is teaching you to write as she would write, and therein lies your greatest problem.”

The man looked as if he were stifling a sigh, and cast a glance back toward the door.

“Listen, man.”  Said Theon, his voice strained.  “We didn’t get off to a good start, but there’s not much to be done about that now that we’re well past the pier.  If you have an issue, take it up with Candance Sedai.  Otherwise, hear me out.”

He drew himself up, his face somewhat dark.  Obviously Akadias cared little for Theon’s words, but neither did he have any desire to pick a fight.  At least, not here.  Not yet.  The Tairen could not help but feel a strange sense of distrust for the Sea Folk.  Of dislike.  The feelings, as he understood them, were mutual.

“This book is useless.”  Said Theon, flipping it over.  “Spend no more of your thoughts on this refuse.  Before a man can work the rigging, he needs to know his knots.  This book would have you raising the masts without a care or thought to the difference between boom and forestay.”

He found it strangely comforting that the otherwise foreign analogy was something that the Sea Folk man intuitively understood.  Still, this did not make them friends.

“The bell will soon ring.”  Said Akadias.

“Forget the bell.”  Said Theon.  “Why don’t we make a deal?  A bargain, we’ll call it.”

He arched his eyebrow.

“Under what terms?”  Asked Akadias.

Theon took his quill and hastily dipped the nib into a jar of alcohol, wiping it easily away on a scrap.  Afterward, he took the very same scrap and began to write out the basic letters, each in capital and lowercase form.  He spaced them carefully about and drew them almost in exactly the same proportions, creating seven rows in four columns.  Every letter he wrote was almost precise enough as to be inhuman.  In another life, Theon could have made quite a living, working as a scribe.  The last row left two columns vacant.

“This is what you need.”  Said Theon.  “Keep all thoughts of that primer from your mind, and use this instead as your guide.”

He frowned.

“You’re probably aware that these symbols are the whole of our lettering system.”  Said Theon.  “This is what I will ask of you; follow my instructions and forget all that Arwen has taught you, and in return I will do your work for her class.  Every day, before your class with Arwen begins, come to me with the work I have given you.  If it is done, I will do all of the work that Arwen has planned in her primer, and I will do it in your hand.  You need only pretend to write for her.”

Theon smiled smugly as the man’s face became a conglomeration of unreadable emotions.  Mostly, he appeared suspicious, as if he were raking his mind for the downside.  He took the seat, pouring over the sheet of paper studiously.

“Just this?”  He asked incredulously.  “One time a day?”

“For now.”  Said Theon.  “To begin with.”

“And then?” Akadias asked quickly, as if he’d spotted the catch.

“After ten days, I will see which letters you have the most trouble with, and I will give you a different sheet, which you will also do once a day.  When you are comfortable writing the letters, we will write them on cards, and you will spend no less than an hour every day in my rooms, memorizing their name and purpose.”

“I see . . .” Said Akadias, mulling it over.

“Is it not better than working with Arwen?”  Asked Theon.

“I suppose.”

Theon sighed.

“When this is done, only then will you understand the importance of this . . . thing.”  Said Theon, tapping the primer as if in distaste.  “But by then, this will be easy and insignificant.”

That got the man’s attention, although he looked as if he were weighing out his options.  Theon knew that Akadias would have little enough of those, and would come around sooner or later.  The deal that he offered was nearly impossible to refuse.

“I give you my word, under the Light, that these sentences over which you now struggle will be as bilge stones to a deckmaster.”  Said Theon.  “Annoying, perhaps, but not in any way complex.”

After a pause, Akadias nodded.

“Very well.”  He said, extending his hand.  “I accept.”

Theon pursed his lips, nodding in approval, and shook his hand.

“Good.”  Said Theon.  “When is your next class with Arwen?”

“Tomorrow.”  He replied.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”  Said Theon, taking the primer.  As if in an afterthought, he blotted and sanded Akadias’ journal.  “At breakfast.  Take this, and leave it to dry on your desk.  Copy the sheet by the end of the night.”

The man grimaced, but nodded, and though he reclaimed his journal with delicate care, there was little in the way of interest on his face.  He walked out quickly, and Theon suspected the man was thankful to be away.

That was just as well.  He’d been ordered to teach – nobody said either of them had to like it.