The Last Page Read Free Page A

Tongue deconstruct reality; form new realities—whatever realities the mathematician desires. “In reality,” claimed the holomorphs of Desdae, “there is none.”
    But Caliph knew that underneath their departmental propaganda, not everything was possible. And despite his natural aptitude for the discipline he distrusted it on a visceral level. To him, the Unknown Tongue was a struggling science propped on the intellectual framework of backward-gazing scholars.
    Metholinate burners, chemiostatic cells, ydellium tubing that polarized itself against the weather and somehow generated power out of nothing—practically. Those were the only things that made holomorphy worth studying. Those and the kinds of mischievous legerdemains he had selected for this meeting tonight.
    He had learned about holomorphy from his uncle before coming to Desdae: lessons he did not like to think about here, alone in the library. Instead, he examined his oozing fingertip, making the tiny cut open and close like a little red mouth.
    “Early, aren’t you?”
    Caliph spun to see a shape step out from the staircase. He had been expectinga knock. A clumsy tug at the bolted portals. Instead there had been a vacuum of sound, not even the scratch of picks in the lock, something that would have amplified across the library’s taut funerary silence.
    “You like surprising people.” He said it like a palmist giving a reading, trying to sound cool even though his heart was racing.
    “Practicing Introductory Psych?” she asked. “Let me try. You’re agnostic. Wait, that was too easy . . .”
    Caliph grinned. “I’m not agnostic. I just don’t like Prefect Eaton. Something about him being chancellor-slash-resident priest causes me cognitive dissonance.”
    Sena laughed softly. “So you used the handbook’s loophole clause? You actually filed a form?”
    Caliph shrugged. “Got me out of vespers.” He took out his pocket watch. “I’m not sure we can make it into town before the play starts.”
    “Sooo . . . you have other plans for us?” She walked toward him like a gunslinger.
    “Not really. I don’t like people who show up late.”
    She stopped, visibly stunned. “I’m not late.”
    Caliph took advantage of the moment.
    His voice yanked at the air. His wounded hand cut a black shape against the huge moon-drenched pane of glass. The spread of his fingers drew darkness over her eyes and oxygen off her brain.
    It was too late for her to whisper a counter.
    He was on her, protracting, suboccipital subtraction, siphoning a strand of memory. The suction was mechanical and precise. If he succeeded it would be gone.
    Sena cursed and tackled him. They grappled. Caliph’s arm caught for the railing. Over thirty feet of empty air separated them from the tiles of the first floor; Caliph felt the antique balustrade give slightly under the pressure of their combined weight.
    Sena punched him hard and the formula died in his mouth. Breathless vulgarities struggled from both their lips. A loud crack sounded in one of the worm-eaten balusters. Just as the whole thing seemed ready to break apart, Caliph managed to gain leverage and push her back.
    Apparently she either didn’t care or didn’t comprehend their peril. Her hands clenched in his shirt, pulling him along in a clumsy stumbling dance toward the bookcases.
    Their scuffle rocked something near the shelves: the sound of a wooden pedestal base rolling slowly in a teetering circle followed by a splintering smash.
    Caliph toppled to the floor and wrestled with the girl who now pressed him from above. Somehow, through a quirk of balance and leverage she had managed to stay on top. He was astonished at her subtle strength.
    “Don’t-move-I’ll-kill-you.”
    Her lips ran all the words together. He could feel her breath and the icy edge of a small knife touch him on the throat. It was the same kind of knife he had used on his hand, the same kind every student of holomorphy was allowed to carry