Not even at his dreamiest best had Diamond imagined so many people alive in the world.

The attendant approached, holding his club with both hands.

“What’s wrong with you, son?”

There was that word again. “Son.” Diamond took a deep breath and looked down at his silly feet, and then he looked up and frowned. “I’m sick,” he said. “I’m dying.”

He didn’t believe that story anymore, but he could offer the words with convincing despair.

The man said, “Oh,” and dropped his gaze.

Nobody spoke for a while.

Then Seldom said, “We’re close.”

A smaller walkway was directly above. Elata took Diamond’s hand again and tugged, smiling at him until he smiled back. She didn’t tell him that they would jump, but he knew what her face was saying. Then she turned forward, and he kept watching her profile—the smile swirling inside fatigue and fear and undiluted stubbornness. Real faces weren’t paint on wooden soldiers or wooden statues. A human face was much more complicated, and if you stared at any face, it showed you more and more that you hadn’t noticed before.

Wood sawed from other trees had been carried to this important place and pinned together to form rooms and hallways, windows and doors, and the entire building was painted a brilliant shade of blue that Diamond had never seen before. Like a giant hand, the school had grabbed hold of Marduk. Every room was lit by daylight. Students dropped to school on ropes and ladders, and they climbed up to it, and strung-out groups scampered along parallel walkways. There was endless motion, yet nobody seemed to hurry. Every day in the world began when it began, and every day lasted as long as it would last. Time was fluid. Starts and endings were never clearly defined. This was morning and not necessarily late in the morning, and it felt like the right time to begin school, and school would last to that vague, still distant point in the afternoon when minds grew too tired to function—student minds as well as those of the teachers.

Someone said, “Seldom.”

The boy nodded vaguely, pushing on.

A girl approached, asking Elata, “Where’s your uniform?”

“Laundry,” she blurted, her excuse at the ready. “My mom forgot again.”

“Who are you?” The girl was short and stocky, and she liked to touch what didn’t make sense. She put both hands on Diamond’s arms, saying, “I don’t know you. Where are you from?”

“My old tree,” Elata said.

The boys looked at her, surprised.

“He’s visiting,” she explained. “His family’s thinking of moving to Marduk.”

“The world’s best tree,” said the girl. And she ran off.

The three of them continued to walk. Then Seldom said, “I know better, but I almost believed you.”

“Lying is my gift,” she said, smiling.

The first few doors were avoided. Planks and a minimal railing created a rising staircase that nobody else used. Elata climbed and paused, waiting for Diamond. “This man we want to see,” she began.

“Master Nissim,” he remembered.

“There’s a story about him,” she said.

Seldom acted self-conscious and nervous, and that was why the teacher noticed him. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, she shouted, “What are you doing there, Seldom?”

He stopped, hands wrestling in front of him.

“Come down here,” she demanded.

“We have an appointment,” Elata called out.

The teacher hadn’t noticed Elata or Diamond. “An appointment?” she asked skeptically.

“This boy is transferring to school.”

“And where are his parents?”

“We’re looking for them.” Elata nodded with authority. “Have you seen two new adults, Master?”

The woman considered and said, “No, I don’t think so.”

“We’ll keep looking, Master. Thank you.”

Elata broke into a crisp run and the boys followed, reaching the next walkway and turning into the first doorway. A tunnel led inside the tree, and suddenly the world became wonderfully quiet.

“What is the story?” Diamond asked.

Elata paused. “What story?”

“About Master Nissim,” he said.

“Oh, he isn’t a teacher anymore.” She showed him a wink and smile. “He used to be. I guess. But something happened long ago, something very bad, and you can never ask about that. Is that understood?”

He thought, No.

But he nodded and said nothing more.

Power saws and pneumatic chisels had carved an enormous room, apparently for no purpose but to be filled up with ash-stained vents and giant grills, cupboards taller than any person and ovens large enough to cook meals for hundreds of growing bodies. Smoke hung in the close damp air. Yesterday’s garbage needed to be thrown out. Jammed into the aisles were block-like tables where food was prepared, each table holding a long rack filled with wooden spoons and huge pots scorched by hard use. Men and women wore uniforms that might have started the day white. Every apron was filthy with plant juices and blood. Everybody was talking, and as the three of them stepped into the kitchen, one woman in back shouted a few words that Diamond didn’t recognize—funny words, judging by the laughter rolling toward them—and then another woman yelled the warning that everybody feared most. “Children,” she called out.

The laughter didn’t die immediately, and several adults repeated the new words. But then the place turned quiet enough that Diamond heard the ticking of ovens and a cauldron of water boiling with enthusiasm.

A different woman stepped forward. “Not now, he’s busy,” she told Seldom.

Seldom hesitated.

“Besides,” the woman continued. “It’s class time and you two aren’t dressed.”

Elata smiled pleasantly while nodding, as if ready to apologize and leave again. But then she told everybody, “This is Diamond. He’s starting school today, and according to tests, he’s even smarter than Seldom.”

Seldom bristled with that news but kept quiet.

“We told Diamond who the smartest person in school is, but he doesn’t believe us. He thinks it should be a teacher.”

Everybody laughed in a head-shaking, cross-the-arms fashion. Then the woman who tried to coax them to leave personally escorted them into a second, much smaller room. White walls and the sudden chill signaled a very different place. The only person present stood at the farthest table. He was covered with blood, the apron soaked and red flecks on his face and the gloves soggy enough to drip blood when he gripped the big cleaver, both hands needed before he could take a whack at the gruesome remains of a long animal leg.

The woman waited for the cutting to stop. Then she said, “Nissim, hey,” and gave Diamond a shove of encouragement. Then to the three of them, she said, “Not long. Or you’ll eat double rations, as a lesson.”

She left laughing.

Diamond had never seen a taller or stronger man. The school’s butcher was younger than his father, but not by too many days. The forearms looked swollen with muscle. The long narrow face was never handsome and was usually forgotten by everyone who looked at him only once. What were memorable were his eyes, oversized and brilliant even though they were blacker than seemed natural. Master Nissim also had an easy, infectious smile and an agreeable voice that was deeper than expected—a smoldering low voice that could say anything and say it softly and still end up being noticed by everyone in earshot.

“Come here, boy,” he said to Diamond. “And bring that nice odd face with you.”

Diamond crept halfway to the table and stopped.

“I don’t know you,” the man decided.

Diamond looked at his own feet.

“There’s a story here, isn’t there?” Nissim set the cleaver into a coral sink and pulled the pieces of leg aside. Removing his filthy gloves, he kept his eyes fixed on Diamond. But he said, “Seldom. Tell me the story, please.”

Elata tried to speak first.

“No,” the man insisted. Up went a huge hand, one finger noticeably shorter than the others. “You can tell it next, dear. But I want to hear something closer to the truth, and you are an accomplished exaggerator.”