indian summer

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It happened the same time every year, according to Ozorne; heat waves rolling across the land, bringing with them the stifling heat of Carthaki summer. The sun became blinding; the air rippled like glass in the glare, turning the palace into a shimmering mirage.

Kalasin couldn't remember Tortall ever being this hot. The only blessing was that she was too young for the university, as of yet; but Ozorne had arranged for palace tutors for her, and granted her permission to use his study this morning, before he left for his council meeting. Now, she hunched over at his desk, scratching away at the pile of arithmetic homework the Masters had assigned her.

A is 50m due east of O. The bearing of B from O is 30 degrees northeast and the distance of B from O is also 50m. Find the distance and bearing of B from A.

Kalasin stared blankly at the words as they swum across the page, not comprehending them. After a while she decided that a diagram would help. Then she realised that she didn't have a ruler, and she didn't know where Ozorne kept his stationary. Not in any of the drawers, at least – when she finally managed to drag herself over to them, they were filled to the brim with neat stacks of reports and records, all branded with the imperial seal.

Eventually, Kalasin gave up and rested her head on the desk instead, polished wood smooth against her skin. She wriggled her toes, cool against the marble floor, and then it struck her. The floor was cold. Her feet were on the floor. Her feet were cold. Therefore –

Ozorne returned to his chambers to find Kalasin sprawled out on the floor of his study, flushed cheeks pressed against the cool marble floor. At the sound of footsteps, she opened one eye blearily.

The Emperor Mage stared down at her, seemingly at a loss for words. He didn't seem to be sweating at all, she noticed hazily.

"Kalasin," he said at last. "Are you not feeling well?"

Kalasin shook her head. "I'm–" she began. She swallowed, and tried again. "I'm not used to this heat."

"Ah," he said. He considered her for a moment, then frowned. "Where are the slaves?"

Kalasin shifted slightly, to a patch of cooler marble. Her hair clung to her face, but she was too hot to brush it out of the way. "I sent them out," she mumbled. "Sorry."

"I see," he said, but he didn't say anything more. There was an uncomfortable pause, then the rustle of fabric, and Ozorne disappeared. Kalasin closed her eyes again.

A gentle clink by her ear stirred her out of her doze. Ozorne carefully placed the glass on the floor next to her, within easy arms reach. Moisture beaded on the clear glass, the ice already melting in the heat.

"Just water," he said, when she looked at him. "You don't have to get up if you don't want to."

Kalasin sat up and took a sip of the water, feeling the chill of the ice against her tongue. Why, she wanted to ask, but she couldn't bring herself to ask.

"Thank you," she murmured instead, and she didn't just mean for the water.

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