No good.
Tahki glanced at his design and noticed that when he’d modified the temple, he hadn’t recalculated the weight the water would add to the gutter, nor had he subtracted the support he’d lost from the reconstructed wall. That’s why the temple had collapsed. It was such an amateur mistake.
When he looked up, the stranger had vanished. He searched the crowd but couldn’t locate him.
“No prototype?” a voice said.
Tahki startled. The judge stood to his left, her eyes impatient.
“I’m sorry?” Tahki said. He sat up straighter, aware of how his nails dug into his arm.
“Do you have a prototype?” the judge repeated. Her voice was raspy, like she’d inhaled too much smoke. It surprised him when she spoke. She hadn’t spoken to anyone else.
Tahki glanced around. Everyone had some kind of paper or wood model to accompany their drawings. “I didn’t know I needed one.” He hated the petulance of his own voice.
The judge pursed her thin lips. She moved on to the redhead’s designs without looking back. She had spent thirty seconds at his table. One minute and thirty seconds shorter than she’d spent with anyone else. What did that mean? Did not having a prototype automatically disqualify him? Or had she only needed a quick glance to see the creativity of his designs?
Ten anxiety-filled minutes ticked by before the judge completed her rounds and submitted the results. Tahki tried to conjure the same excitement he’d felt before, but a cloud of doubt settled over him.
“Thank you all so much for your wonderful contributions.” The squeaky-voiced lady again. She gave a short speech about how the entries would be used to advance the world. She said something about ingenuity. About courage. About intelligence. Tahki only half listened. He tasted metal in his mouth and realized he’d bitten his tongue.
“And now… the results!”
One of the panel judges, a stout man with a trimmed mustache, announced the winners.
“Third place goes to Esmin Tosla!”
Tahki held his breath.
“Second place, Og’Kor Vasten.”
The room spun. He hadn’t won third or second. But first? Had he won first? He must have. The judge had been looking at him since the man had started to announce the winners. He’d won. He’d taken the grand prize. It had to be him. Tahki shoved his hand in his pocket and grasped his mother’s pencil for luck.
“First place….”
The man paused and pretended to shuffle his papers. Tourists laughed. The contestants did not.
“First place goes to…. Penki Toth!”
Women, men, and children clapped. The redhead next to him grabbed her cheeks, jumped up, and trotted to the stage to collect her first-place trophy. Tahki stared at the happy winners.
“Penki,” the squeaky woman told them, “is the youngest contestant to ever win first place! And also the only contestant from the lower city to place! What a remarkable accomplishment!”
Not only had the girl won, but she’d been from the slums of Vatolokít. She was younger than Tahki and had grown up in far worse conditions than he had. He’d lost to a slum child.
Tears swelled in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. Instead, he hastily gathered his bag. He didn’t even feel like visiting the other exhibits. He wanted to leave. There was no place for him here. He was defeated. A fraud.
No good.
On the way out the door, he shoved all his designs into a trash box.
ONCE OUTSIDE, Tahki walked to the edge of the citadel. The scent of flowers from the rose garden below wafted up as a breeze swept off the sea. He stopped at the side of the pathway and put his hands on the stone rail. The ocean crashed on the rocks below. White birds screeched and swooped down to collect bits of dropped food. He took a deep breath.
Maybe losing was for the best. It made life easier. He would return home now, live a quiet life working alongside his father. He had enough inheritance money to live comfortably in the palace. Maybe he’d even take over his father’s work as an ambassador.
The thought sickened him. If he went home, he would look like his brother on the outside and act like his father on the inside. What did that leave for him to call his own?
“You bolted fast enough,” a raspy voice said.
Tahki swiveled. The judge stood behind him, sash removed, staring at him with a piercing gaze.
“I’m sorry,” Tahki said. “I thought the competition was over. Was there something else I needed to do? Did I need to sign out or something?”
“You’re a little high-strung, aren’t you?” she said. “Trust me when I say that level of anxiety only makes you age faster.”
Tahki had no idea how to reply.
The judge shuffled over to him and rolled her shoulders. A loud crack sounded, like one of her bones had broken. She sighed, “That’s better.” She looked at him. “Tell me something, Tahki—it is pronounced Taw-kee, isn’t it? Why do you suppose I didn’t choose your designs?”
It felt like a trick question, like she was digging for reasons to ridicule him. But he answered, “I didn’t have a prototype.”
“I didn’t pick you,” she said, “because your designs had no place in the city.”
Tahki felt his mouth start to form a defensive reply, but he shut it quickly. What was the point in arguing?
“These competitions are all about practicality.” She rested her arms against the rail. “A judge looks for functionality over creativity. Creativity is nice, but how many people really want a waterfall in their kitchen? Or a vertical, movable room that can take a person up or down on a rail system? Or a roof you can open and close with a lever?”
At least he knew she really had looked at his designs. He couldn’t accuse her of not understanding them. He thought his vertical railway system would have impressed her. “I thought these competitions were about ingenuity,” Tahki said.
The judge grunted. “These competitions are
