Updraft by Fran Wilde Page A

the test of Laws without any further discussion.
    He pointed at me, then drew a bone chip from the silk pouch and said, “Trade.”
    I was very lucky, then. I began to sing the first Law I’d learned, from my mother.
    Fair trade requires freedom, honesty, and speed.
    No goods will spoil when a tower is in need.
    I heard Sidra stifle a laugh when my voice soured, but I kept going.
    No trader lives with jealousy or greed.
    Or keeps tithes from Spire or Tower.
    When I finished, Macal nodded.
    Nat got Safe Passage, which he stumbled on.
    Sidra took Spire neatly. That was the easiest, and shortest, law.
    None enter the Spire, night or day, unless Singer-sworn, or Singer-born, all in gray.
    She held the note and ended with a flourish.
    Four more Laws passed. Then it was back to me. When the Magister pulled the chip, his brow wrinkled. He stumbled on the word. “Bethalial.” An archaic Law. Birdcrap.
    My mind searched for the opening phrase. I knew this. They observed it more in the south, and in the city center.
    In the Allmoons time of quiet, let no tower be disturbed.
    Let no things thrown down in sacrifice be salvaged or perturbed.
    A strange one. No one sacrificed things that weren’t broken anymore, even symbolically. Magister Florian had said once that some Laws were traditions from the past, but we must learn them still.
    Nat got War, which was dead simple.
    No tower will sabotage or war
    With neighbors near or far.
    We rise together or fall apart
    With clouds below, our judge.
    Only one tower had tested that Law since we came out of the clouds. The Singers hadn’t let them rise for generations. Ezarit said the towers to the west sometimes raided, but that was nothing overt.
    The Magister circled Densira’s flight group. Voices stammered and stalled, and some sang confidently too. At the plinth’s other corners, Laws filled the air and were carried away on the wind.
    Sidra received another frown from the Magister as his hand fumbled in the Laws bag. We could tell he’d never done this before. Most testers, Florian said once, could feel the Lawsmarks with their fingers and choose those we were required to know. Like Right-of-Way and Tithing. So far, we hadn’t had much luck.
    â€œDelequerriat,” Macal said after two false starts. Sidra’s mouth moved strangely. “Dele—” she began to say, but cut off before she started a song she could not finish. That was how my cousin had failed last year. I could see Sidra thinking. I didn’t know this one either, though it sounded familiar. Sidra was left gaping openmouthed, like a baby bird. The time for her answer passed, and Magister Macal turned from her to the group. “Delequerriat: The act of concealment, in plain sight, may only be used to turn wrong to right. ”
    Macal moved on as Sidra’s face turned purple, matching her wings. Dojha took Sidra’s hand and squeezed. This couldn’t get much worse.
    It didn’t. The Magister pulled Tithing from his pouch, and Dojha passed it. We’d made it through Laws.
    Singer Wik handed a blue-dyed marker to each tester who’d passed. He gave Sidra a half marker, breaking it in front of her. He passed before me and gripped my marker with both hands. My eyes widened. I’d passed well. He wouldn’t dare. He handed it to me, and I quickly tied the thin chip to my wing.
    Wik and Macal passed on the plinth. The two exchanged a look I could not fathom. A greeting, it seemed, but fiercer. Macal grimaced and turned away.
    The craft representative unfurled a dyed silk and set it in the center of the plinth, anchoring it with thick madder-dyed chips against the wind. The City test. We all turned our backs. One by one, we were beckoned forward and given bone chips to place on each of the city’s fifty-eight towers, naming them and speaking of their qualities as we did.
    I heard Nat take deep breaths beside me, nervous.
    The towers rose in my mind,