The Temple

by Jean Johnson

  Since they still had several lengths of bookcases to go, Foren sighed and nodded. “Ask.”

  “How exactly do these Master Scroll queries work? I’ll need to know so I can look up . . . what . . . No?” Grell asked, eyeing Foren’s shaking head.

  “No,” the middle Puhon brother confirmed. “Only senior-ranked mage-librarians are allowed to manipulate the Master Scrolls. Doing so requires having the authorization spells, and the magic to empower the searches. You just go to the master librarian, state as clearly as you can what you are looking for—use lots of different words for the same thing if you’re not completely sure which word to use—and then write down whatever they tell you. All librarians have translation tattoos to assist in understanding you, but you must speak clearly of what you seek.

  “Once you have it in writing, you just look for the shelving numbers and letters on the ends of each stack of shelves,” Foren added, gesturing at the placards and their arrows. “And then check each shelf for the exact section, and then you look for the exact book.”

  “So what we’ll find will be on these shelves?” Grell asked, dubious. “I know the Great Library is supposed to be huge, but this place seems . . . small. Compared to its reputation, I mean.”

  Foren chuckled; it always amused him when foreigners thought this was all there was to the Great Library. Reaching the third line and slipping between two clusters of waiting visitors, he shook his head. “There are many buildings here in the Great Library of Mendham. This one literally just tells you where to go. If you do not wish to wait forever in line,” he added, gesturing at the second line they approached, “then you can attempt to find the right section by topic . . . which sometimes is not intuitive.”

  “It isn’t?” Grell asked, confused.

  “If you wanted to find a book on how to tie different kinds of knots, and when to use them, you might try to find how to make cordage and rope, under crafted materials, since such things are used to tie those knots. But you could also end up looking under Transportation,” Foren explained, from recent personal experience. “Sailing requires understanding how to tie many kinds of knots. Construction would be another possible subject. Either way, once you find the subject you want, you look for the section’s master ledger to look up your topic again, then you get to look for the specific numbered ledger on the specific shelf, and then you will be able to find all the entries on exactly which building or buildings to go to in search of what you came to Mendham to find. In the case of my example, you would be looking for books with instructions and illustrations on how to tie various kinds of knots, and how to use them appropriately.”

  The outlander male eyed all the books and scrolls on all the shelves, visible through the three lines snaking through the center of the building. “So then what are the scrolls for? Are they also ledgers?”

  “They keep track of the oldest books, and most of the loose papers,” Foren explained. He edged his way between Grell’s companions. “Everything is organized by its subject, its age—as in how long ago it was written—by its author if known, its subcategory, and so forth. It is all organized according to the Mendhite alphabet after that point. Now, excuse me, I do have to get back. My companions are waiting.”

  “Of course, of course—thank you for your assistance, Pwan Foren,” Brother Grell added.

  “Puhon,” Foren asserted, frowning. “It’s pronounced Puhon.”

  Grell tried a couple of times. He did not get it right, and finally just shrugged. “My apologies—may I simply call you Foren? You, of course, may call me Grell, if you like.”

  Impatient to get back, Foren nodded curtly. “May you find what you seek in the Library, Grell. Have a good day.”

  Thankfully, the two domos still stood in the same section of the shelves as before. Smothering a yawn as he approached, Foren halted at a spot where Domo Anso would be able to see him and debated whether or not he should kneel.

  “Do you find the library boring, Penitent Foren?” the Disciplinarian asked dryly, his gaze on the tome in his hands, but his awareness of his surroundings acute. “You yawned.”

  “I served as the nightwatch mage on board our ship, Domo. I have not slept in nearly a full day,” Foren replied.

  “I saw you talking with a cluster of foreigners,” Domo Galen stated, proving he, too, had stayed aware of his surroundings. “I do not recall Domo Anso giving you permission to speak to them.”

  “Domo Anso did not give me an order to stay silent, either,” Foren returned, irritated that the other man would dare suggest that. “I am not your penitent to be Disciplined, Domo Galen, and you have not gauged my sins with your tattoos. One of them requested to know where the refreshing rooms were located. It made sense to assist them.”

  Domo Anso gave him a quelling look, and a command. “Kneel, Puhon Foren . . . and be quiet. You may speak when spoken to, or speak when there is a clear need. Above all . . . be respectful toward those who did pass the Godess’ test. As you did not.”

  Annoyed, Foren reluctantly lowered himself to his knees on the age-worn stone of the Index Hall floor. Resitance would bring on that smothering feeling of his magics being harder-repressed by his Disciplinarian. And as far as punishments went, being made to merely kneel—with no admonition to hold a particular pose for any set length of time—was mild. Obedience to such a mild thing would help reduce the chances of anything worse happening to him.

  The way Domo Galen snuck speculative, thoughtful little looks at him every now and again unsettled the middle Puhon brother, though.

  * * *

  * * *

  Pelai still had yet to assess him. Her Disciplinarian tattoos had the ability to assess his soul, to mark his body—in her eyesight only—with runes suggesting how best to punish Puhon Krais for his various sins. Combined with lectures on proper behavior and retraining methods, it usually convinced criminal mages to behave. Or at least to toe the line in their behavior.

  Krais’ behavior confused her. As an agent of the Hierarchy, a highly trained Painted Warrior and mage, he had been sent on many missions by his father and the other Elders. The Hierarchy had a pool of around two to three hundred Painted Warriors of different strengths and abilities to call upon. They could be sent to travel throughout Mendhi, its neighbors, and even the world at large.

  Tasks ranged wildly: escorting envoys to and from other lands, acquiring rare manuscripts, witnessing world events known about in advance, even carrying lists of questions to authorities in the hopes of securing written instructions or histories or methods for whatever subjects where the Great Library held only gaps, not a fullness of information. Sometimes they worked in conjunction with the Elder Commander and the Disciplinarians to bring criminals to justice.

  Sometimes the Painted Warriors called themselves Painted Hounds in jest, for all the many times they had been told to “fetch.”

  All three Puhon brothers had done a wide variety of these things. But all throughout those tasks, all three brothers remained arrogant souls who looked down upon others. Who chafed at having to work for anyone less than an actual Elder of the Hierarchy. Being the sons of a long-standing Elder, this was understandable. Borderline rude and inappropriately prideful, but understandable. They showed impatience, they showed arrogance, they showed pride and defended against any slight or insult immediately.

  She knew she had to assess the eldest fully before the day ended, but his patience, his restraint, his immediate compliance to all of her requests—save for one brief slip when they had visited the Healers—confused her. Krais knelt where and when she told him to, followed when she commanded, stayed quiet while she tended to the tasks of organization and overwatch required of the Second Disciplinarian. He ate without complaint the food placed before him in the hall where her fellow Disciplinarians ate the meals that were part of their wages . . .

  He didn’t even ask when she was going to assess him, or how she
intended to punish him, or anything. As if it did not matter to him. That bothered her. If Krais did not fear being disciplined . . . how would she be able to reach into him to correct any flaws? More to the point, how can I be seen punishing him? His father is going to throw a fit if I do not do so publicly in some way, but by the rules of Discipline, I must not do so arbitrarily. There must always be a valid reason.

  Thankfully, knowing Dagan’thio’s schedule, she managed to avoid his father for the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon. However, the Elder Disciplinarian strolled into her office after the second hour past noon. Thumbs tucked into the belt of his leather kilt, he eyed his son, sitting patiently on the floor of the room in the corner, and frowned at Pelai.

  “Aren’t you punishing him yet?” Dagan’thio demanded. He looked down his long, flat nose at her, nostrils flaring a little bit. “Are you failing to fulfil your duties?”

  “Krais has often displayed impatience in the past . . . much like his brothers,” Pelai stated flatly, subtly implying that other members of the Puhon family counted as well. “I am testing his patience. I am also giving him time to think of everything I can and will do to him in due time. I appreciate your worry over his progress as my penitent, but he is your son. For the sake of your honor, and the sake of the law, you cannot have any say in how he is disciplined.”

  Dagan’thio frowned at that, but merely looked around her office, with its neat scroll racks, bookshelves, and broad, flat table with a slanted, portable writing desk sitting in the middle before her. “Where are my other sons?”

  She continued making notes for the Third Disciplinarian, Doma Belaria, who would become Second in Pelai’s place after Tipa’thia stepped down fully as Guardian. “They have been assigned to other Disciplinarians. Domo Anso has charge of Penitent Foren, and Doma Dulette has charge of Penitent Gayn. By assigning each one to their own Disciplinarian, this guarantees their punishments will be given thorough attention. I, of course, will personally see to the penance of Puhon Krais, the leader of the three and the brother put in charge of the mission that they failed, as promised.”

  The Domo’thio grunted in reply. Hands on his hips, he stared down at his son, then looked around the room. A frown creased his aging brow. “You have removed your things?”

  Pelai lifted her chin at a woven basket sitting on the floor near his son. “I am handing over the last of the tasks of being Second to Doma Belaria when she comes in tomorrow morning. I will always be a Disciplinarian, unless and until the Goddess takes my marks from me, but I am retiring from the Second’s rank. The Elder Mage is retiring formally over the next few days, and I am taking over her duties.

  “When that happens . . . I will still be a Disciplinarian, but I will be your equal, and the Elder of Mages on the Hierarchy. It makes sense to make the transition now, while every detail can be managed properly, and not let anything get lost in the chaos of an abrupt death.”

  He grunted again. Pacing over to peer into the basket—and not so coincidentally looming over his son—Dagan’thio eyed the small art objects, pottery figures, wooden carvings, and of course her personal taste in poetry scrolls that had hung on these walls for the last three years. “When will the powers of the Temple Fountain be transferred into your care?”

  “They already are. I share joint Guardianship with Tipa’thia. She merely retains the title for the moment.” Pausing, Pelai added carefully, “It is a very fine parsing of the laws of the Hierarchy, as they are written. Many of us know how to get what we want without breaking any of the rules, after all.”

  There, let him think I will heed his desires without actually saying I will punish his sons like he wants. Sure enough, her current superior smiled faintly but smugly at that. A flick of her gaze to his son showed Krais staring stonily across the room. Not meditatively, as before. He’s angry? With his father? Or with me, for implying I’m going to follow his father’s threats? . . . Either way, being ranted at for six months straight on how heavily he is to be punished would make anyone angry. I know Dagan’thio scry-called them many times on their Gods-elongated return journey.

  “Very well, then. Continue to keep me up-to-date on my sons’ penances. Every detail,” Dagan’thio added as he strolled toward the door.

  “I will follow the law, Dagan’thio. Be mindful that you do, too, and all will go well.” She made another note on her sheet of instructions for Belaria, but kept a peripheral awareness of the dark look the Elder sent her over his shoulder. He left, and she breathed deeply a couple of times, forcing her muscles to relax. Tension while writing did not help. A glance over at his son showed him slowly relaxing as well. No longer quite so angry, but not as peaceful as before.

  Setting down her pen, Pelai rose, moved over behind him, and planted her hands on those muscular shoulders. Warm sun-brown skin, colored with tattoos both vivid and subtle, his hide-covered muscles that flexed a little under her pressure. But . . . she did not activate her Disciplinarian tattoos. Instead, she leaned down by his left ear and asked quietly, provocatively, “Why are you being so patient and tolerant, Puhon Krais? Why are you being so submissive to me?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw.

  “Without any struggle? Without even a token fight? You just . . . submit? Admitting I’m your superior?”

  “I submit to a higher power,” he snapped, provoked. Then shut his mouth with a faint but audible snap.

  An odd thing to say. She needed clarification “You submit to your father’s will? To have you harshly punished for failure?”

  Even odder, he snorted, as if the idea of him submitting even to his own sire—as he had done for years, his only willing submission for many years—was now absurd. Interesting . . .

  It couldn’t be the Hierarch he submitted to, currently the Elder Priest. Partisan though he was, even Pelai had heard about how Aleppo’thio had used the mirrors sent with the ships to grill the brothers, the ship crew members, and especially the priestess who had been picked by outsiders to represent the people of Mendhi at the Convocation of Gods and Man . . . anyone and everyone, gleaning for the least little scrap of information about the Convocation that he could find, and especially any mention of Menda Herself doing, well, anything.

  Aleppo’thio’s idea of punishment would be to write down every single detail of all those Manifested Gods, especially the Goddess of Writing. Hardly a punishment, really. All three brothers had already done so, writing out their observations on their long, spell-assisted voyage around the world, delivering priests and priestesses home. Writing about how the Goddess Herself had spoken to them . . . and. . . . Wait, Gayn and Foren’s reports . . . didn’t Anya’thia remark on how little there was in what Krais wrote about the Goddess? She spoke to all three brothers, but he merely said that she spoke to him, and that it shook him to his core . . .

  “Do you submit to your punishments because of the will of the Goddess Menda?” Pelai asked quietly . . . and received a brief little jerk of his head. A tiny, involuntary nod. Confirmation. Sighing, she pushed away from his shoulders, returning to her seat at her desk. “Well, that takes all the fun out of it . . .”

  That provoked him, too. Turning his head to look at her, he asked in a tone almost low enough to be a growl, “This is fun to you?”

  She almost answered him as an equal, since up until today, they had been essentially equals. Not Hierarchy Elders, but high-ranked all the same among their particular fields of work. But her door was open, and anyone could be lurking outside, listening. “I will answer your question later,” she merely said. “Be patient, and remain seated. When I have finished, we will go eat, then I will take you to a place where I can fully assess you for proper disciplining.”

  Breathing deeply, he shifted his position on the floor, but said nothing.

  Interesting indeed. The “old” Krais would have argued for getting a better answer than that. Whatever did Menda say to him to make
him so compliant?

  * * *

  * * *

  Goddess! When is she going to assess me, and get this over with? Trudging along in Doma Pelai’s wake, Krais felt free to glare at her back. Menda, I know I pledged to take my punishment without complaint, but I expected to be punished!

  Expecting her to take the left fork on the garden path, he stumbled and had to catch up when he realized she headed right instead. Frowning in confusion, Krais found himself following her toward the buildings housing a variety of mid- to high-ranked denizens of the Temple staff. Those who came to serve with a legacy of wealth already in their backgrounds often stayed in homes elsewhere in the city, albeit usually ones located near the sprawling grounds. If they had poor backgrounds, the various priests, librarians, servants, and apprentices usually slept in the dormitories associated with each section of the Hierarchy . . . excepting the Elders for Agriculture, Craftsmen, and especially the Elder Citizen, who by law had to live among the people in a “modest” house with a “modest” budget for food, clothing, and furnishings.

  Modest had deviated toward moderately decadent several generations ago. He had heard the current Elder Citizen, Sandu’thio, claim it was only fair because there were so many lavish palaces and mansions surrounding the Temple these days. But those lay outside the grounds. And of course, Anya’thia’s predecessor had pointed out back when Krais was young that the Temple grounds themselves were opulent and decadent for even the lowliest weed puller.

  But he expected to be taken to one of the sparse, mostly undecorated, equipment-lined Discipline cottages off to the west. Cottages built on the southwest side of one of the larger semi-ornamental lakes dotting the grounds. Cottages with trees and hedges for privacy, and far enough away that most cries of pain would not disturb the rest of the Temple’s many tenants. Not to a row of living quarters overlooking the eastern side of the same lake.