“To some a book has four corners. To others, eight.

It is simply a matter of perspective.”

—Unknown

----------------------------------------

The third chime cut through the obstacle course like a gong. Hearing it, Callam relaxed; he was covered in mud and stunk worse than a militia’s latrine, but had made it back from his detour with time to spare—all he had to do now was enact his plan.

Assuming I’m even right, Callam thought. He wiped off as much muck as he could, then began to shuffle his way back over to the trial entrance. Otherwise, I’ll be punished for being last. His pace slowed, and he was suddenly aware of how parched he was. Trial penalties carried a heavy toll, especially if an unbound failed to bind—he’d seen Ruddites branded for poor performance, their faces distant, hands chained, with auctioneers circling. He could imagine the burn of the iron, the—.

That won’t happen. Callam took a deep breath and repeated the affirmation once more before his fear could settle. Then he sped towards the clock and the unbound gathered there, trusting the movement would help calm his mind.

This was not the moment for self-doubt. He would win this trial—needed to. He had a promise to fulfill, and placing in the top five was his best chance for the ink to take.

“I’ve one red key, sir,” a young blond woman in a seamstress’s kirtle shouted out, her voice sounding weary. Callam, now within earshot, counted another twenty teens behind her, all crowding around a water barrel. By their chatter, it was obvious that they’d already finished.

One short. A look around confirmed it: another unbound was running late as well.

“Very well,” the Scriptor replied, and motioned the girl forward.

She obliged, stepping up to the clock and inserting the key. A twist later, and the longer hand sprung forward. “Finished sir!” she called out.

“Final time, forty two minutes, thirty-seven seconds,” the Scriptor shouted.

Wincing, the girl departed, joining some girls chatting among themselves. Another group of unbound stood sullenly in one corner, an anxious look about them, while Airster, Elera, and a boy Callam didn’t recognize stood separately, appearing smug.

A hush fell over all of them as Callam approached. Airster’s smirk told the whole story—he’d proudly shared the results of his ruse with everyone else.

Callam ignored their stares and made his way over to the barrel. A crisp ladle of water later and he was ready.

Approaching the Scriptor, he called out, “What’s the time to beat sir?”

“Firegale, Airster’s, seven minutes forty-four seconds.” the Scriptor responded stiffly.

Callam nodded once, the news coming as no surprise. He’d seen a volley of emerald sparks earlier and had concluded then that someone had turned in a handful of green keys, likely Elera or Airster. From the spattering of red flares that immediately followed, he’d guessed a few unbound had raced to insert their keys right after those two. The only unusual thing was that he’d counted eleven green trills total, one more than he’d expected.

Twelve or thirteen minutes of real time left, Callam thought, running the numbers in his head. Seventeen minutes left on the clock, so I’ll need... It was a short window, but he’d make it work.

"Unbound,” the Scriptor spoke curtly, bringing Callam back to the present. "You'd best hurry up.”

"Understood, sir," Callam said, raising a hand to the wishbone around his neck for luck. Then he walked towards the clock, his steps slow and deliberate. He’d committed to his plan, so he might as well play to the crowd—thieves were showmen at heart, after all.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

As he walked, Callam pulled two green keys from his pocket and spun them around his fingers for all to see. Reaching the clock, he inspected it for a long moment, then shook his head, as if struck by a sudden thought. He let his look of confusion linger, waiting until he heard the first bout of snickers.

And then, Callam sat down. The floor was uncomfortable, covered with mulch and twigs, yet Callam rested his hands behind him and leaned back, appearing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

More people laughed, some outright jeering. Others stared at him suspiciously, as if trying to decipher why he was so calm. Callam took special note of these teens; he hoped he wouldn’t have to fight any of them in the final trial, as they adapted quickly to new information. Only one unbound seemed excited at the delay: the girl who’d gone just before him—she’d looked stricken when he’d flashed the green keys.

Finally, Airster had enough. “Has your nib run dull, Quill?” he mocked, eliciting a few more chuckles from the crowd.

Callam ignored the taunt, unbothered by the barb at his surname. Street kids were quick of the tongue, and he’d heard much worse over the years. About ten minutes left, he thought.

“What’s the hold up, lordling?!” a long-faced boy demanded, thumping over to where Callam was seated. Dressed in a common brown smock, this unbound looked like he had more forehead than sense. “Not all of us want to sit around and laze!”

Callam covered his mouth at the words, stifling a yawn. He was sore, and tired. Maybe he could… No, that would be too much.

Angered by his silence, the boy turned to the Scriptor. “We,” he said, jabbing a finger at himself, and a few others, “scored well on this trial, and want to see our families before—“

“Have the unbound all finished? Have you heard a fourth chime that I somehow missed?” the Scriptor cut in, his eyes dangerous.

“—no. No, sir!” the unbound said quickly, mollified. Walking away, he grumbled, “Enjoy the penalty, lackwit.”

Eight minutes. More quiet whispering, but everyone now seemed content to watch him make a fool of himself. Airster and Elera had moved away, clearly writing him off as mad. Callam began to tune them all out.

Seven. He was beginning to feel anxious and closed his eyes. He always felt this way right before a score. The planning was easy. Execution, he could handle it. But those few moments before? They ate at his stomach.

“Faeble! Finished yet?” piped a high-pitched voice Callam didn’t recognize. With a burst of glee, she exclaimed, “I scored best in our group. Just under five minutes!”

“We’re stuck here!” Faeble hollered back. “This boy, he’s lost his script! Come take a look…”

Six minutes of real time left, ten or so on the clock. Good enough, Callam decided. Poet’s hand, but he hoped this would work. He opened his eyes to a small crowd surrounding him; nothing like that girl had earlier, but at least forty people from various pods were watching.

Standing, Callam looked to the Scriptor for any hint that he was on the right path. No luck—the man’s expression remained as unreadable as a Ruddite.

Here goes nothing, Callam thought, leaning towards the timepiece. He moved for his keys.

“T… time to beat, sir?”

Turning with the crowd, Callam saw a panting unbound covered head to toe in mud, his overly large smock more dress than tunic. His hands clutched a small pile of red keys, and his smile was all grit.

Callam almost laughed. This whole time he’d been afraid that he was wrong, when really he should have feared that someone else would figure this trial out. He wasn’t mad—he liked this particular unbound.

Of course, that didn’t mean he would let the boy best him. In one motion, Callam pulled from his pocket the two red keys he’d detoured for when he’d stayed behind in the maze. The first went into the clock, and Callam twisted.

The timepiece’s longer hand jumped to the fifty-five minute mark. Several people pointed at him in confusion, gawking. Yet everyone kept silent. Even Airster didn’t run his mouth.

“Poet willing, this is written.” Callam recited the words softly, as if they were a prayer. He inserted the second key, his heart pounding. He turned.

The clock made a horrible screeching noise. The minute hand shook, and Callam’s breath hitched—his whole trial, his whole Binding Day, came down to this moment.

With a jolt, the hand shuddered to the top of the hour; it paused for a beat, then shifted ever so slightly towards the one-minute mark.

Fingers tucked into his pockets so that no one could see them tremble, Callam said, “Finished sir.” The words came out as barely more than a whisper.

The Scriptor held Callam’s gaze far longer than was necessary. His eyes were deep, calculating, as if they were searching Callam for something. Then the man’s stony face broke out into a thin smile. To the newcomer in the muddy tunic, he shouted:

“Time to beat: eight seconds.”