Realms of Valor a-1

by Douglas Niles

  I am stunned, unable to think of any reasoned reply. "Surely others might want to read my book-"

  "Of course they will, you silly man," the duke's gaudy consort sneers, batting her eyes as she does so. "Do you think Jozul would spend all that money so everyone might own a copy? He keeps the only book in his library so anybody who wants to read it has to ask his permission."

  I look to the duke, hoping he will correct her, but his face is set in an smug smile. She has described it all too well.

  I am at complete loss for words. All these years I have worked as a historian, carefully checking the letters I managed to save from Yamun's downfall, interviewing the occasional Tuigan prisoner who passed through Procampur on a slave galley, even poring over the maps of caravan masters who have traveled to the East. All this work and the duke wants to hoard it for himself. It is impossible.

  Stiffly I rise from my chair, unable to think of any polite wording to express my refusal. I bow to the assembled company, two rows of aristocrats and their sycophants, glittering among the candelabras and chandeliers. They are all silent, watching me like spirits in an evil-omened dream where sinister faces observe from every turn.

  "I have imposed upon your table. Please forgive me, Duke Piniago. I will leave you now," I say stiffly. Without inviting any further discussion, I take my leave, backing politely toward the exit.

  The duke makes no effort to stop me. Even as I leave the banquet hall, the trickles of unsubdued laughter follow. I have not failed, at least, as entertainment. The footman guides me out of the palace. At the gate the startled guards watch me pass. No one, I imagine, has ever walked out early on one of the duke's parties.

  Cold winter mists are roiling in from the port, soaking my thin robes as I leave the Nobles District to cross the Great Way for home. The vapors diffuse the lamplight, making the walled compounds and flagged streets shine greasy black. The silver roofs glow as if of their own accord. Dogs bark at my passing and guards eye me suspiciously, a solitary stranger in foreign robes prowling the night.

  By the time I depart the Nobles District, my distaste for the duke has grown, feeding on the wet night and the day's frustrations. The pangs of homesickness return, and more than ever my heart longs for the ice-flecked mountain air of Khazari. The desire is strengthened by the memories of things from my youth-tsampo porridge, buttered tea, playing on the fresh snowfields, even the rattling drone of the prayer wheels as they endlessly turn.

  My abrupt appearance before the gate startles the guards of the Temple District, just as their sudden emergence from the fog wakens me from my reverie. They greet me with familiarity as they unbolt the closed gate. I make no answer; I have no mood for talk.

  Inside, the stone temples, their black roofs invisible in the night, ascend into the mists. It is quiet, the business of saving souls done for the day. Back in Khazari, the monastery would echo with the chanted sutras and cymbals of the lamas who maintained the vigil through the night, keeping order in the universe.

  Is there no place for me among these outlanders? Only a few care for learning, but they know nothing of inner harmony. Foxe is among the few who have shown any desire to understand. He would make a good lama if he were not so hasty in his judgments. Yet haste is valued here, in this city of dukes and dwarven printers….

  It is then I decide that I have been away from the center of my being too long. It is time to go home.

  Entering the shrine of Denier by a side door, I pad barefooted across the main chamber, guided by the light of a thousand votive candles arranged on the altar. I feel guilty as I take one to light my way up the stairs to my cell, not far from the study where I write. There I begin arranging my belongings, trying not to wake Foxe, who sleeps in the cell across from mine. I must leave a gift to the temple for their kindness-the copy of my manuscript and perhaps, as I heft it, Yamun's golden paitza. I doubt this warrant of safe passage from the khahan will afford me much aid recrossing the steppe now that he is dead.

  The rustling of my papers wakes Foxe. His cell door creaks as it opens, and he ambles into the room, nightshirt flapping around his bare legs. Sleep clings to him as he sees me, his eyes blinking in their puffy sockets. "Master, you're back! What did the duke say?"

  "The honorable duke requested only a single book." I continue sorting my papers.

  "Oh, no." Foxe notices my packing. "You didn't-" There is a look of reproach in his brightening eyes, like a teacher disappointed in his pupil.

  "One gains no merit in harsh words, Foxe, but the learned duke will not print my history. He would have made a single copy and kept it all for himself. This history is not written for just him, but for all who think songs like Lay of the Purple Dragons and the tales told by old warriors around the fire are the truth of your 'crusade.' Yamun Khahan never called it a crusade; he never tried to make it more than it was-a war. Neither does King Azoun. He knows what the war cost."

  I stop packing. I am tired and do not want to do anything more this night. Closing my eyes, I chant a prayer to Furo for strength. "I have written what I know, and no one wants to read it."

  "As a priest of Denier I'll read it, master. You know that." Perhaps thinking he can change my mind, Foxe begins unpacking what I have prepared.

  'To put it away in your secret vaults with all the other volumes your faith has collected."

  "Our libraries are open to all." Foxe does not fail to defend his church, but his scowl softens. He is more concerned for me, 1 believe, and that is why I will miss him. "There are always others besides the duke."

  "Foxe, I am tired of begging from city to city. There is no more reason for me to be here. I am going back to my homeland." I rub wearily at the stubble of my shaved head.

  Foxe's hands stop in midair, holding a ream of ink-traced parchment. "You're leaving?"

  I nod.

  Foxe sets the paper down and carefully smoothes his nightshirt. He speaks with great sorrow. "There's no need for you to go. Everyone at the temple will agree. Even the high scrivener praises your knowledge and wisdom."

  "No, Firstborn Foxe, there is nothing for me here."

  He sees that I am resolute and gives up. For a time he stands just watching me, until at last, with great reluctance, he passes over those things he has unpacked. We work in silence, feeling the bond that can sometimes be built between a scholar and his secretary. I thought him rude and rash when we first met, but it was only his way of trying to help me. I have learned more about the West from him-less about kings and more about common people- than I ever learned in Suzail. In exchange, I have tried to teach him proper manners, but Foxe can only become whatever he is fated to be by his karma-my influence is pre-ordained within it. I, too, must accept the fate I have earned from previous lifetimes.

  We have done little more than organize the sheaves of yellowed parchment and tied a few in corded bundles when the stairwell rumbles with the distant clap of the temple's door knocker. A twinge of irrational dread chills me. Have I offended Duke Piniago more than I know-enough that he might send thugs against me? The thought passes as quickly as it came; assassins would never pound on the main doors.

  "Quickly, let us see who it is before the entire temple is roused." I look to Foxe; even through the sleepy gape that gives him a double chin his curiosity shows clearly.

  "Nothing but trouble and surprises all night," my companion moans as he looks at his bare toes, barely visible from beneath the curve of his nightshirt, and hurries to his cell to clothe himself in more proper attire.

  Hastily dressed, Foxe follows me down the coiling stairs, belting his robe as he goes. The knock resounds again as I hustle across the main hall, still lit by the votives on the altar. A tall figure stands by the door. At first I mistake it for our caller, then I note it is nothing more than Sister Deara's failed copyist. At Foxe's command, the clanking golem draws back the ponderous door to admit our caller.

  Without a word, a man steps in and bows deeply to Foxe and me. In the luster of candlelight hi
s clothes are silken, dyed deep blue, but cut like the robes I wear-Khazari in design. His hair is black and braided. No mark of office or heraldry does he wear, yet from his poise there is no mistaking the dress as servant's livery.

  "Lama Koja of the Red Mountain," the servant says politely. His voice has the familiar accents of home. "My mistress has heard of your travails this night. She hopes you will honor her by attending a late dinner."

  How could anyone have heard what happened and act so quickly? Sorcery possibly, but who would bother to waste such magic on me? "Dinner? Mistress? Explain yourself," I demand out of caution.

  The servant smiles. "There is no cause to fear, Lama Koja. My mistress is a friend to scholars. You must come quickly, for we stay in this city only for a little while."

  "I wouldn't do it, master," Foxe indiscreetly advises. "This could be a thief's trick."

  Foxe may be right; I shouldn't go, but I am too intrigued to refuse. Besides, I am perfectly capable of protecting myself. I did more than just watch during my years with Yamun's armies, and the lamas of the Red Mountain monastery taught me well how to deal with spirits. With a few charms I was packing I will be safe. "My simple robes would dishonor my hostess. Wait while I change, then lead me to her."

  The servant smiles once more. There is a catlike gleam in his eyes and a sharpness to his teeth that startles me. Upstairs I find the protective fetishes I seek. On the way back down I review my prayers and charms to ward off evil.

  Once outside the temple, fog closes about us until I can barely see my guide. He sets a brisk pace, but always stays just within sight. We pass through the gate of the Temple District, so cloaked in the mist that the guards do not even challenge us-and never have I known the guards to be so lax. I quickly recite the Pure Thought sutra to fortify myself against evil. There is no wisdom in foolish bravery.

  On the Great Way, I turn automatically toward the Nobles District, assuming that is where my hostess resides. "Not that way, good lama," the servant calls from the fog as he turns toward the waterfront. "As I said, my mistress is only passing through this city."

  We pass more gates along the Great Way-the Merchant District, the red-roofed Adventurers' District, and then the ill-warded district of the poor. At the end of the Great Way the path takes us closer to the heart of the sea fog, passing under the massive towers that mark the waterfront. Unchallenged, though we should have been, we enter the port. The roofs here are of all colors, as if to show what little influence the thultyrl of Procampur holds over the unregulated waterfront.

  We venture quickly off the main streets and plunge into a maze of alleys I have never explored. Our route goes past tawdry wineshops and apartments of questionable purpose. A sailor, slurring out a war song I heard soldiers sing in Thesk, staggers by. He is shadowed by a lean pair of half-elves who eye me with far too much interest. A single look from my guide discourages them, and they disappear into the night. I hurry to keep pace, for the streets here are more active than I might wish.

  After more twists and turns than I can remember, the servant stops at a gate. Pushing the creaking iron open, he steps aside and motions me to enter. "My mistress awaits you in the garden."

  I have not been throughout Procampur, but I do know the waterfront is a crowded and dank place where one would never find gardens. Certainly I have never seen anywhere in the city a garden of the sort that now unfolds before me. The mist that washes the port is here riven to unveil a carefully tended landscape. Unwavering torches light a garden path that wanders past blooming bushes and green grass. A spring breeze warms my aching bones.

  I rub my charms, half-expecting to feel the tingle that will alert me to the presence of evil. When nothing happens, I follow the lit path until it comes to a circle of carpets spread under of full-leafed willow.

  The rugs are Tuigan, a weave I cannot mistake, and there are dishes and trays arranged neatly at their center. From the wooden pots and silver bowls I smell the barley-porridge odors of tsampo and the smoothness of rich yak-butter tea. There are leather bags I know are filled with kumiss, and steaming plates of greens and roots I have not seen since I was a child. It is wondrous, but because of its very strangeness I do not eat. I have heard the outlanders' stories of ensorcelled food-the snares laid by the treacherous denizens of their Realm of the Dead. Seeing no one else around, I recite a protective sutra to cleanse and purify the food. Satisfied, I gingerly dip my finger in the nearest bowl.

  "Wise Koja, I mean you no harm. Please sit and eat, if you would honor my table."

  I cannot help a guilty start at the words, moist finger at my lips. I feel like a novitiate caught dozing during meditation. The voice carries musical tones, light as a gong sounding the dawn prayer over high mountain slopes. The willow switches rustle, and a woman dressed in the draped robes of a Khazari noblewoman steps out of the darkness. The silks of her brilliant gown swirl gently as she moves, rippling the embroidered flowers and clouds of gold and red thread on her sleeve. Necklaces of strung silver coins hang layered around her neck, yet she carries her displayed wealth with ease.

  For all her dress, she is not a dark-haired and small Khazari woman, but tall and strong. Her thin, pale face is framed with hair so long and golden that it spills down into the silver chains. Small mouth, wide eyes, and nose a trifle too long all combine in a way that transcends these little flaws until she is beautiful beyond the mere physical. Without waiting for me, she sits cross-legged on the mats and begins the meal.

  While she samples the dishes, I, marveling at her arrival, test her with the Hundred Lotus sutra, one that would surely cause an evil spirit pain. When I softly chant the words, she shows no sign of having noticed. Perhaps she is not a spirit, as I first suspected. My hostess might be a powerful sorceress-though one is no less dangerous than the other.

  I take a seat opposite her, not wishing to be rude but not eager to sit close. I ladle a small bowl of porridge and eat with her. The flavor is more than I held in my memories, full of fall mornings when I sat by the hearth and watched my mother stir the simmering kettle. I savor the taste, knowing the food has been purified by my sutra. Hunger, both immediate and for the things of my past, yearns to be satisfied as I eagerly pick from the other plates set before me. There are types of sweet melons I have not seen since I came among the outlanders and cabbages that only grow in the high valleys outside Manass. My hostess watches, never speaking.

  "Dear lady, I must know. How did you obtain such delicacies? Such food could grace the table of a Khazari prince."

  She bows slightly to acknowledge my compliment. "I have traveled many distant lands. Once you know of such foods, they are not hard to obtain."

  I know this is not true, for I have tried and failed. Considerable magic is needed to gather these ingredients, still fresh, from the East. I carefully press my questions. "I am unworthy to ask, but I must know. Who are you that you are so kind to me?"

  She smiles, and by it I know her answer will not be the truth. "I am a simple benefactor of scholars. I have heard of you, even in distant lands."

  "By what name shall I call you?"

  "None, for you will never see me after tonight."

  "What is it you seek of me?" Her soft tones make me shiver, not with cold or fear, but excitement tinged with awe.

  My mysterious hostess rises calmly, as if not to alarm me. "You have worked for many years on a history of the eastern raiders-the Tuigan-and now you have finished it."

  My throat goes dry, and I cannot swallow. "It is almost completed."

  "Now you seek a patron to print your history. Tonight you visited Duke Piniago."

  My replies grow softer as my caution returns. "I made a bad judgment in doing so. The duke was not interested in my work."

  She laughs like water over stones. "I understand he was all too interested, that it was you who said no. Some say you were rude to the duke, but from what I know of that boor, there must have been some cause."

  "You have quick and accurate sourc
es." I answer, wetting my mouth with a swallow of tea. "It is true I refused the duke, but only because he wished to hide the work from others. My pride is my failing, great lady. I could not accept his terms, when others might gain some small knowledge from my work."

  She cocks an eyebrow at my claim. "You care so strongly to spread learning, yet you are ready to quit and go back to your homeland."

  "How do you know this?" I carefully sidle away from her. The woolen carpet pulls at my robes as I move.

  "My man heard you speak with your servant when I sent him to fetch you."

  I do not believe her, especially while I sit in this spring garden, green like none other in Procampur. The fact that she knows this, though, only suggests further the extent of her power. Prudently, I do not challenge her lie.

  "Koja of Khazari, there are some who think the world needs learning, but there are far too few who will seek it. If you give up, the world has one less seeker. Soon there would be no true scholars left, just men like Duke Piniago."

  The memory of a charm slips into a corner of my mind, a way to see things as they truly are. I remember the verses and the ritual, but I need something to activate the sutra.

  "I have come," my hostess continues, "to make you an offer. I am willing to be your patron, see your book printed-for a service. I, too, have an interest in knowledge." Her lips part to show the hint of white teeth as she waits for my reaction.

  Kumiss, I note silently. I could trigger it with a sprinkle of kumiss. "What service would you require of me, great sorceress?" I try the tide to gauge her reaction.

  She laughs again, icicles breaking into a frozen brook. "You honor me with your titles, lama. I am just a lady." She slides effortlessly across the carpets to sit by me once more. "An oath, binding and unbreakable. Will you do that?" Her eyes are fired with eagerness.

  "An oath?" I dally with the kumiss bowl before me, surreptitiously dipping my finger in the white fluid. 'There is no sin in this oath?"

  "Sworn of itself, it causes no ill to you or any other.