The Philosopher Kings by Jo Walton Read Free Book Online Page B

the city, and it fell to me to ask him if he would make us some clear glass bowls for the lamps.
    It was raining. Crocus was putting a roof onto the hall in the southwest corner that was destined for our library. Some of us had, through practice, become quite skilled at masonry, but roofing was still a real challenge. “Joy to you, Crocus,” I said.
    He stopped work and turned one of his hands to carve “Joy to you Maia!” into one of the damp marble blocks of the library wall. As was his custom, he carved the Greek words in Latin letters, which always looked peculiar.
    I beckoned him over to where he could carve his responses in the paving stones of the street outside, some of which already bore his side of dialogues, sadly more practical and less philosophical than those that still lined the walks of the Remnant City. I asked him about the glass globes. “Can make,” he inscribed tersely. “How many?”
    There were over two thousand of us Amazons, and we all desperately wanted light at night. We were used to it and hated doing without it. Some people had slunk back to the Remnant already for this reason, but most of us were made of sterner stuff. Everyone would want one. “Two thousand five hundred,” I said.
    â€œIn return?” he carved.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I asked. How easily it turned to this, I thought, to trade and barter.
    â€œThomas Aquinas,” he carved.
    â€œWe don’t have it,” I said, surprised. “We don’t have any Christian apologetics. We didn’t bring them. You know we didn’t. We’ll read you anything we have.”
    â€œIkaros owns forbidden books,” he carved.
    â€œHe does? How do you know?”
    Crocus just sat there in the fine drizzle, huge, golden, mud-spattered. I’d say he was looking at me, but he didn’t give any impression of having eyes or a head. With a shock of guilt I remembered my Botticelli book, full of forbidden reproductions of Madonnas and angels, with text in English. Of course. Ikaros had given it to me. What else might he have brought here?
    â€œIf he has it, then yes,” I said.
    â€œThomas Aquinas. In Greek,” Crocus wrote.
    â€œIf Ikaros has it, I’ll make him agree to translate it and read it to you,” I said. “If not, we’ll read you something else you want.”
    â€œDisplay sculpture,” he inscribed.
    â€œWhat? I don’t understand.”
    â€œI make sculpture, for display in Amazon plaza.”
    â€œOh Crocus, but we’d love that. You don’t have to ask that as a favor. We’d regard it as an honor.”
    â€œWill make bowls for lamps,” Crocus inscribed. He waited politely for a moment to see if I had anything else to say, then went back to his half-finished library roof. And there was his half of the dialogue, there in the marble for anyone to read. “Thomas Aquinas. Ikaros owns forbidden books.” Ikaros was no friend of mine. But I felt the urge to protect him nevertheless. No good could come of everyone knowing he had forbidden books. I took a piece of heavy wood from an unfinished house nearby and used it as a crowbar to pry up the heavy marble paving stone. Then I flipped it over so that the carving was on the underside and set it back in place. It was earth-stained and filthy compared to the other flags, but I hoped the rain would soon wash it clean. I went off to find Ikaros.
    I wanted to talk to him in private, but I wasn’t the stupid young girl who had gone off to the woods alone with him, unconscious of anything but my own burning desire for philosophical conversation. I was over thirty now. I sought Klio about the city. She knew about my Botticelli book, and about the rape. She was pressing olives with a crowd of Children and couldn’t come immediately. She agreed to talk to Ikaros with me after dinner.
    As luck would have it, I ran into him a few minutes later in the street. He