Part 10 (1/2)
”They'll release you from the school and make a counteroffer. Since they can't have you poking around in guild business, all they can offer is the shadow sash itself. You pretend to think it over, then casually observe that an a.s.sa.s.sin of such high rank must be allowed into the guild, so that her activities can be monitored and her fees properly t.i.thed. Emphasize 'her' subtly.”
”Ahhh.” A slow, admiring smile crept across Hasheth's face. ”That will befuddle them.”
Danilo grinned. ”That's right. You'll change the direction of negotiations abruptly, gaining an advantage through surprise. Introduce your 'servant'-that's you, Arilyn-as the woman who overcame the shadow sash. Repeat your demand for rank and guild members.h.i.+p for her-and imply you were speaking for Arilyn all along. Chances are they'll be so relieved to be rid of you that they'll embrace Arilyn. Figuratively speaking, my dear,” Danilo hastily a.s.sured the half-elf.
”But what of my a.s.signment? I can hardly champion a woman I was ordered to kill,” the boy pointed out.
The n.o.bleman raised one eyebrow. ”If the guildmasters bring that up, remind them that you were released from the school. Barter met is bargain sealed, as they say hereabouts. You'll have gotten the better of them, and they'll probably admire you for it.”
Hasheth threw back his head and let out a peal of delighted laughter. ”You think like a southerner: devious and subtle. It would seem that I have misjudged you.”
”Everyone does,” Arilyn said dryly. ”That's why he's such an effective agent.”
”Lord Thann is a Harper, as well?” The young man's brow furrowed as he thought this over. ”A n.o.bleman can join such a group?”
”Even a pasha's son,” Arilyn said with a smile. ”In time.”
Hasheth nodded thoughtfully. ”I might like that.”
Danilo folded his arms and smiled broadly. ”Then perhaps it is time for you and me to barter. Tell your father all that has happened. Tell him that Arilyn and I will seek proof that the guilds threaten his power. Ask him to hear what we say and judge for himself.”
”That is your high bid?” scoffed Hasheth.
”You interrupted me too soon,” the n.o.bleman said plaintively. ”I was going to ask for that ring of yours, as well.”
The boy's dark eyes flashed. ”That is absurd! This ring is a mark of royalty. Here is my offer: as you ask, I will deliver your warning to my father. You may not have the ring, but I will be your ears and eyes in Tethyr. From this day, I will pa.s.s to the Harpers whatever information reaches the pasha's court.”
”Throw in a couple of camels, and you have a deal,” Danilo offered.
”Done.”
The young man concluded the bargain in such solemn fas.h.i.+on that neither Harper had the heart to explain that Danilo had been joking.
”Congratulations, Danilo,” Arilyn murmured, struggling to keep the laughter from her voice. ”We've done our duty to the Harpers and you finally got your two camels.”
Patronage
David Cook
”Master Koja, have you forgotten? Tonight is Duke Piniago's dinner. You are going, aren't you?”
The p.r.i.c.king scratch of my quill ends as my secretary's shadow falls across the parchment sheet on which I am toiling. Light is precious in this dim tower closet the priests have granted me, and now my aide, granted by those selfsame clerics of Denier, has managed to position his broad self in front of the only window.
Looking up, I blink as his girth is swathed in the glow of daylight beyond. I am annoyed by his presence, since it is an interruption of my solitude, but I cannot ignore his question. Besides, my secretary is a good priest, so I curb my temper, pus.h.i.+ng back the stack of parchment before me, and considering.
”I am undecided, Firstborn Foxe.” I cannot manage the accents of his honest family name, foreign to me though common enough in this city, so I call him Firstborn in honor of his birth. ”I have heard your gossip about his table, all the magnificent dishes he serves-the finest in Procampur. What if it were to overtax my humble stomach? Besides, I am not learned in the ways of your western courts and might offend him. After all, I am only a simple lama.”
Foxe will not relent as he gathers up the sheets and fusses in a ba.s.s voice that matches his size. ”Simple lama, indeed,” he mutters, once again a.s.suming because of my weatherbeaten and shaved looks that I am old and therefore hard of hearing. ”You are a famous historian. You were a guest of the king of Cormyr and wrote a history of the Tuigan wars for him.” From one of the book-crowded shelves, he takes a bundle of blotting paper and cuts the twine.
”It was not a history, Firstborn Foxe, only a few incomplete notes on the customs of the Tuigan-nothing at all compared to Goodman Reaverson's complete account of the wars.” I recall the bard Reaverson's patient translation and guidance with those notes. For the time he put in, my work had been as much his as mine.
”The duke has money and he likes the arts,” Foxe reminds me with an irritated glare. He thrusts my ma.n.u.script into the hands of waiting scribe. The boy nods and slowly backs down the stairs, apparently reluctant to miss any of our words. I wave him away. It is clear I will write no more today.
”The duke has all the manners of a foreigner.” My insult, the worst to any born in the East as I have been, is lost on Foxe. ”He is less than pleasant,” I explain. ”I am a poor amba.s.sador, Foxe. I will say something foolish to anger him. There must be some other way to raise the money to pay the scriveners and binders or some cheaper way to have a book copied. Perhaps a wizard could conjure duplicates.” I barely glance at my secretary. Perhaps he will disappear if I do not look at him, the way the epistemological Brother Ulin claims everything should-what we do not observe does not exist.
”Hah! That kind of work's beneath most mages. Too much like a trade.” Foxe snorts; he has seen through my deceit. ”You know there is no need for this. You can stay with us here at the temple while you write. I'll make sure the high scrivener sends copies of your Tuigan history to every temple of Denier throughout the Heartlands.”
I shake my head. We have discussed this before and he knows some of my feelings, but both Foxe and I are too stubborn to relent. Part of the problem is my pride, for I have been too long a guest at this temple of the Lord of Glyphs, ever since leaving King Azoun's court in Suzail. More importantly, and the point I have not told Foxe, is that in all those temples, the priests will tuck my history of the Tuigan into their great vaults and no one will ever see it again. I do not feel heroic enough to make such a futile gesture.
Tired of arguing, I look out the tower's small window, signaling Foxe I wish him to go. My high chamber gives me an ample view of Procampur, looking across the walled wards to the sea at the far end of the city. Smoke drifts lazily above the colorful roofs, whole districts tiled in blue for seamen, yellow for taverns and other services, and the sea green that denotes merchants. All are dotted with patches of late winter snow, dull white and sooty gray. It is this peculiarity of Procampur's people, reflected in their roofs, that I like, far more comforting to me than Suzail, where I spent my first years in the West.
In the capital of King Azoun, victor of the crusade over the Tuigan, there was always the feeling that I was a spoil of war-a scholar oddity from the conquered court of Yamun Khahan-no matter how kindly I was treated, no matter how fascinating the city was. When Denier's priests offered me the chance to travel, I accepted eagerly. Looking over the city now, I welcome my decision. Procampur, with its walled wards carefully dividing the city into merchant, n.o.ble, and priest, reminds me of a proper Khazari city-of home. There is a sense of order and place here that Suzail lacked.
Perhaps, I realize with a start, I stay here because I want to go home.
Foxe's deep voice rumbles up from the stone stairwell as he undoubtedly accosts the boy still lurking near the top steps. ”Lay out the master's orange monk robes for tonight. After that, get to work on today's pages. Have them transcribed before morning.”
”More pages,” whines the reedy-voiced lad with resignation. ”Master Koja doesn't make Azoun's crusade heroic enough. It's got no dragons or anything.”
”Maybe you should leave now,” comes Foxe's suddenly gruff reply. ”Go do your copying.”
The youth is oblivious to Foxe's reproach. I am glad Foxe cannot see my smile. ”If it were like, you know, like the Lay of the Purple Dragons-the one that bard-uh, Talamic- sings at the Griffin's Claw. That's a good story of a crusade, full of knights and magic. I really like the part the part where the G.o.ds appear to King Azoun and bless the crusade. Master Koja should write about that.”
”Go!” Foxe snarls as fiercely as a priest can manage. There is a scuffling of feet as the acolyte complies.
The stairs silent, I return to my writing for another try, s.h.i.+fting the table slightly to make better use of the sunlight. The legs sc.r.a.pe over the hard stone floor, the sound quickly swallowed up by the walls of sea-mildewed tomes. I take up the quill again.
During the summer season, a popular sport among the Tuigan men was to hunt the snow beasts of the mountains- There is an ink blot on my parchment, caused by my inattention, so I must set aside the quill and carefully clean the stain. I am thankful for the coa.r.s.e parchment's poor absorbency as I daub it up with a sc.r.a.p of leftover paper-a sample of real paper that Foxe has brought for me to examine. It is a cheap handbill, covered with large blockish script: Announcing the services of Forgemaster Inks tain and his wondrous printing device!
More writing is obscured by absorbed ink. In trying to read the rest, it stains my fingers smudgy black.
”Firstborn Foxe!”
Hurried footsteps come up the stairs in response to my excited cry. ”What is it, Master Koja?” my flushed secretary wheezes as lumbers up the stone steps of the tower.
”Who is this Forgemaster Inkstain?” Unable to restrain my curiosity, I leave my desk and come face-to-face with Foxe as he plods, face red and puffy, through the arched doorway. The foolscap flutters eagerly in my fingers under his nose. I have never before seen letters so black and methodically drawn. Foxe looks surprised as he takes the sheet and holds it close to his face, squinting to read it in the dim light.
”He's one of the new-fangled printers, sir.”
”A printer-some type of scribe?”
Foxe puckers his fat cheeks as he seeks a way to explain it to me. ”Like a scrivener, master, except he uses some sort of contraption to copy the pages.”
”Like Sister Deara's enchanted copyist?” The sister had been working in one of the vaults to form a perfect scribe from sculpted clays, a creature called a golem. In the one test I witnessed, her hulking brute smashed a writing desk by driving a quill through the wooden top. The thing now stands mute guard over the main hall, porter to occasional guests.
”Not like that, sir,” Foxe allows with a smile. ”It stamps out the pages, making lots of copies at one time.”