divide: eight horizontally, eight vertically.”
“Sixty-four squares on each of eight pages. That’s . . .” She closed her eyes to do the calculation in her head. “. . . that’s sixty times eight . . . is four hundred and eighty, plus eight times four . . . is thirty-two . . . so that’s . . .
“It brings us back to eight again.”
“How?”
“Five plus one plus two.”
“Equals eight. Okay. So what’s the big deal about eight?”
“If you turn the number on it’s side, it’s infinitude.”
“Oh, that little squiggly sign. I suppose that is more or less an eight, isn’t it? Where’s this all going?”
“I only have a little piece. But it’s a piece of an infinite thing. So it too is infinite. At least in theory.”
“Your piece of paper. What does it say?”
“Nothing. There are no words in the Abarataraba.”
“Then what’s in it?”
“Squares. Lots of squares, filled with color. And it is in the energy between the pieces that the magic ignites.”
“I want to see it.”
“I’m not sure you should.”
“What? Now you don’t want to show it to me?”
“It’s unpredictable.”
“All right, but we don’t have a lot of time. We agree on that, right?”
“Yes.”
“So unless you—”
“All right, all right,” Zephario said. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. I hope this isn’t more power than you can handle.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope made of coarsely woven cloth, pressing it into her hands. There was a strange fumbling moment between them when it seemed to Candy that, even though her head was telling her hands to take the package, they were refusing to play along.
“The flesh fears it,” Zephario said.
“Why?”
“Because the Abarataraba changes all that it touches.”
“I’m not afraid of change,” Candy said, her voice no longer playing tricks.
“Then take the magic wisely and regret nothing.”
That sounded like good advice, even to Candy’s reluctant hands. They accepted the envelope, and now resigned to the consequences, whatever they might be, they opened it up.
There was a piece of thick paper—perhaps four inches square—inside it. She saw red first, brighter than the hull of any ship she’d seen plying the waters of the Izabella. A blue current had caught it up, and it burst against one of the sides, shattering into blue and green. Not one blue, but a thousand, and green the same, every fleck of paint that the brush deposited a variation on the originating note.
“Be careful,” she heard Zephario say.
She glanced up at him, but her gaze never focused on his face. It slipped over his shoulder, through the crowd of prisoners and up over the fence, slipping through the coils of barbed wire on top of the boundary fence, and out, across the wasteland that lay between the camp and the slopes of Mount Galigali. It ascended in a heartbeat, up the steep slope. Her eyes had no interest in studying the barren heights, however. There was something above the volcano that had claimed their attention.
There was a storm up there, vast and implacable, moving in with the obscene certainty of a blood-hungry army. There was thunder in it, but it wasn’t a natural thunder, rising up to crack the sky then falling away again, muttering its complaint as it retreated. No, this was the churning thunder of an endgame machine; a funeral march played for those about to die. It neither cracked nor complained; it simply grew louder as its source approached.
“Oh, Lordy Lou,” Candy said very softly.
“What can you see?”
“The biggest storm clouds I’ve ever seen. It’s ridiculous how big they are. And that thunder.”
“That’s not thunder,” Gazza said as he climbed down the boulder, the rest of the group following closely behind.
“Who are they?” Zephario quickly demanded.
“They’re fine,” Candy said. “They’re my friends.”
“Nobody’s fine. Not around this much power.”
“Well, it’s too late.”
Gazza was staring at the Abarataraba.
“It’s so beautiful,” he said.
“See?” Zephario told Candy. “What did I tell you? Give me the piece back.”
“Let me look at it,” Gazza demanded.
“Mother . . .” Zehpario whispered.
With those two syllables, Zephario gained everyone’s silent attention. It was Malingo who broke it.
“Are we supposed to trust him?” Malingo said. His nostrils were widening ever so slightly, as he suspiciously inhaled the scent of Carrion the Elder. “I’ve had bad experiences with Carrions.”
“My mother has a lot to answer for,” Zephario said. “And it will be up to you to make sure she doesn’t get to keep her Empire. She’s murdered a lot of innocent people to get it.”
“We can talk about the future once we have it in our hands,” Candy said.
“And how do we do that?” Malingo said.
“A glyph,” Candy said with certainty.
“A glyph? How are we going to keep all these people from asking stupid questions and getting in our way?”
“Why would they get in our way?”
“Because they’ve never made a glyph before and we don’t have time to explain.”
“Just because it’s never been done before doesn’t mean it’s impossible. We just have to spread the word.
Candy looked back at Zephario, who must have sensed her gaze on him because he said: “Go on. You’re doing just fine.”
“Mr. Carrion gave me a piece of magic. And we’re going to use it to spread the gospel of the glyph. It’s either that or waiting for the executioners to arrive.”
“Well, that’s an easy choice,” Gazza said. “Let’s spread the gospel.”
Chapter 60
Abarataraba
ON THE FAR SIDE of the camp, close to the fence that bounded the northern end of the compound, John Slop, whose head was positioned close to the top of Mischief’s left antler, and therefore had the best vantage point of all the brothers, said: “Something’s happening over on the rock.”
“I said we shouldn’t have wandered so far,” John Fillet remarked. “Eddie? Did you hear what Slop said? Wait! Where’s Eddie?”
“It’s spreading . . .” John Slop murmured.
“
“Please,” Serpent said, “there’s no need to make such a song and dance about it. Eddie’s perfectly capable
