The Mazer

by C. K. Nolan

  ***

  ~~ Chapter Two ~~

  Dead Leaves and Dry Books

  Bassan looked up from his manuscript table. Across the laboratory, thick steam from his fungus pot wafted up to the ceiling. Once the brew cooled enough, he’d be ready for whatever lay ahead, good or bad. With any luck he wouldn’t need to kill Great Aspen, but you never knew. It was always best to be prepared. Who could rely on luck?

  He’d got back just as the Albatorium bell had started to ring. Nobody had noticed him thread his way through the sleepy, confused crowd gathering in the entrance. Nobody would have thought twice about their Librarian racing down to the laboratory and locking the door behind him. He’d thrown the sticks into the fire, rinsed his dirty clothes, and scrubbed his boots clean. The experiment in Skeps Wood was proving to be a wonderful success. The trees were dying, and nobody knew how, not even the trees themselves!

  His manuscript, however, was not progressing so satisfactorily. He had worked on the illustration for hours. The dimensions were correct, but it still didn’t look right. It was impossible to convey the essence of the vessel sitting on the table in front of him, even if he strayed from an exact representation and dabbled in something a little more artistic. From this angle, here was a simple drinking bowl on a stand, much like the mazers of old, yet not used to sup, a gleaming charcoal color, almost black, but not quite, wooden, yet not exactly that, either. How could he draw the Mazer when he couldn’t even understand the material that fashioned it?

  He stood up, walked slowly to the fireplace, and surveyed the room. His laboratory was the hidden heart of the Albatorium. This was where the real power of the island was balanced, not in the Session rooms above. This place, his place, was where the true record of life on the island would be written, not in the Albatorium library. And he’d be the one to write it.

  To his right, along the back wall, stood his experiment table, packed with plant samples, containers, bottled liquids, a jug of water, a wash bowl and the fungus pot. From the stone roof above hung his own invention, a light tunnel, bringing sunbeams from the west underground, useful for those plants he was obliged to bring in from the greenhouses.

  In front of his experiments stood two trestles with compartments for fresh and dried herbs, powders, samples of leaf, bark, and root, beyond them at the western end of the laboratory, behind a screen, his stores of vellum, illumination supply, glass and metal ware, botanical equipment, barrels of water, and buckets.

  Around the other walls of the room were his worktops for plants and trees where he kept petals, pressed flowers, inscribed leaves, pots of earth, glass jars of fungi, seeds, catkins, everything he needed to continue that great work started by Zossimo before him: an Arboral of Southernwood, detailing the life of the island’s trees.

  His manuscript table held inks, gold leaf, shells, brushes, vellum, strips of cord, fine fabrics, yarn, needles, and wooden boards for book covers; the Mazer, a sheen around its edge in the dim candlelight; his manuscript, unfinished.

  Oh, and in front of that, his display cabinet, proclaiming the collections made by both Zossimo and himself, with labeled specimens, some unusual plants both pressed and illustrated, as well as Zossimo’s original Arboral. If only he could find that last, missing chapter!

  He loved his laboratory. He loved the overflowing greenhouse catalogs stuffed onto shelves next to the maps of woodland and coastline. He loved the herbarium with its dried leaves, stems, and flowers, along with additional notes and sketches. He loved his books, too, a selection of precious, original records detailing their island’s history since the Dark Days, over a thousand years ago, stored in a solid bookshelf in the center of the laboratory. Old Marchus from the archive had been wanting to move them upstairs for years, but they would stay here, oh yes, they would. The city folk wouldn’t be soiling the pages of these treasures with their grubby hands while Bassan was Librarian!

  Bassan returned to the Mazer and carefully picked it up, cradling it in both hands. He walked past the display cabinet to the east end of the laboratory, where a crimson curtain partially hid a private chamber. Here was his haven from the bustle of the Albatorium, a place to think and dream, his home, much more so than the small, cold house where he had lived as a child.

  It was cold in the chamber, too, of course. The unused fireplace was completely covered by a thick tapestry depicting scenes of island life around a map of Southernwood. But the pile of blankets on the divan kept him warm, and if the fire was strong enough in the laboratory, it wasn’t too chilly in here. His desk was empty except for his mother’s large old writing box, its panels bearing faded illustrations of strawberry leaves and fruit, the worn leather lid open, the hinges still golden. He put the Mazer inside, closed the lid, and sat down, his fingers tracing the scratches on the surface of the desk. He remembered the day Zossimo had become Legator of Southernwood, a day of sun and celebration. Had Zossimo sat here, too, pondering his future as Legator, his work as Librarian? How had Zossimo felt, standing on the Albatorium terrace, looking out at the crowds in the square, listening to their cheers and song?

  Bassan looked out of the corner of his eye at the tapestry covering the old fireplace. Soon after he’d become Zossimo’s apprentice, he’d entered the laboratory and seen the tapestry move. At first he’d thought the place was haunted. Then curiosity got the better of him. He’d pulled the tapestry out, seen the fireplace, felt the strong draught, and realized that this air had no smell of chimney about it at all. Zossimo had definitely come into the laboratory before him, but now was nowhere to be seen. There must be a tunnel to the outside. Clever Zossimo!

  At the start of his training, he’d lapped up Zossimo’s attention and praise. It had seemed as if he would, indeed, follow in Zossimo’s footsteps and become Librarian, even Legator, too. Zossimo, however, had rarely encouraged his ambition to be something greater than he already was. Had he thought that Bassan would remain an apprentice forever?

  One day, Bassan had found the door to the laboratory unlocked. He’d lit a lamp, stepped into the fireplace, and started creeping along the tunnel, the roof above punctured with roots from Great Aspen, the ground below leading him down, not up and out beyond the back of the building as he’d expected.

  He slid down a pebbly slope. The lamp was burning low, and he cursed himself for not being more prepared. The roots had begun to bulge, coming together until they resembled a massive pipe attached to the side of the tunnel and heading off in the direction of Oakenwood, as far as he could tell. He stepped up onto a rock and touched the smooth root surface.

  His hand flushed with a moving heat. There was light, too, a verdant, beautiful glow, emanating from the root through his hand. His veins spread across his palm like the veins of a leaf, his lifeblood seemingly merging with the tree sap whose green brilliance spread along the root path. A swarm of bats shot through from the darkness beyond. He stumbled in shock and took his hand off the root. The light died; the bats flapped away; and he stood alone.

  The Session bell rang, its muffled chimes sweeping down the light tunnel into the laboratory. He sighed. All the members of the Session would be gathering tonight. Among them, Wystan Zabal, his own brother, chosen as Legator after Zossimo’s demise, at the same time as he, Bassan, was named Librarian.

  The ambition had never left him: to hold not only the position of Librarian, but also that of Legator. Librarian and Legator, yes, just as Zossimo had been, all those years ago. Now, only Wystan stood in his way.

  Bassan carefully snuffed out the candles, leaving only the fire glowing in the laboratory. He stepped into the underfloor corridor, then pulled the door firmly shut and locked it.

  ***

  The corridor circled the base of Great Aspen’s trunk. It was empty now, but by day, the Albatorium underfloor was a busy place. Bassan’s laboratory joined the main stores with their vault and ink house. Farther round were more storage areas, a jail cell next to a cramped guards’ office, and an undercroft for kitchen supplie
s and barrels of mead. The icehouse completed the circle, separated from the chamber of his laboratory by a narrow passage leading out to the bricked well shaft. From here the passageway took a sharp right, sloping up around the back of the icehouse, ending up outside by the kitchen yard.

  Bassan went up the steps, past the ground level with its halls, offices, and kitchen, up and round the trunk again, passing the library. Loud voices came from the Session above; benches scraped along the floor; then there was a crash of wood, followed by shouts and pounding footsteps. Someone had just dropped a box of documents next to the Legator’s dais by the sound of it.

  Bassan turned into the Session room. It was the usual mayhem, tired old chattering men, unable to make any decision with a clear mind, oblivious to what was happening. Good. How his brother had managed to work with them for nigh on twenty years was a mystery.

  “Ah, Bassan! I’m glad you’re here; that’s almost everyone, I think,” said Wystan, walking towards him. “We can get started. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Bassan bowed. “Very well, my brother.” He turned to the crowd of men, some dressed in their green Session robes with finely twined belts of willow, others looking somewhat more disheveled in odd socks and creased tunics. “Members of the Session! Let us begin! Harold, you may ring the bell again.”

  Young Harold, sitting on a low window seat, jumped up and walked out to the bell tower at the front of the terrace. Twelve slow chimes marked the start of Session, drowning the voices of the members who were settling onto their benches as they exchanged niceties and stifled their yawns.

  Someone thudded up the stairs, and the last member arrived, panting.

  “Filibert!” said Bassan. “I hope you’ve left us some pickings in the kitchen for later?” The Session broke into laughter. The Treasurer blushed and took his place on the dais between Wystan and Trevello Glendower, the chief of the island guardery.

  Bassan took the last empty seat next to his brother. Wystan, Filibert, Trevello. What a group of old-timers! They’d all started training at the Albatorium as young men. Trevello, law maker, judge, jury, too, if people were to be believed, had arrived first, almost half a century ago; he must be well into his seventies. Wystan and himself had begun their apprenticeships thirty years ago, Wystan joining the old political fools in their games, getting them on his side, proving himself to be persuasive, reliable, clever, and now reaping the rewards as Legator, while he, Bassan, had begun his work under Zossimo, studying the trees of the island and assisting in the development of the library.

  Filibert wasn’t such a bad chap, industrious, good with his calculations, no, he didn’t miss a thing in that department, a gourmand if ever there was one, but everyone has their vices.

  Wystan got up to speak. He was a confident, natural leader. Nothing ever seemed to bother him. He could always find a solution to every problem and keep everyone happy. Yet tonight, there was a line of worry across his brow. It was unusual for the Session to be called at this time of night, just when they should all be asleep in their beds, which probably meant only one thing. Bassan smiled and shifted forward in his seat to watch his brother.

  “Members of the Session, welcome. I would not have summoned you here tonight were it not for a matter of urgency. Yes, Filibert, what is it?”

  “My dear Legator, I do apologize for my lateness—”

  The Session laughed again, and some of the members began muttering to each other and shifting in their seats.

  “—But I feel you ought to know that there are rumors of an uprising in the city. I believe that this very night we may see trouble from a crowd in the market square. Homesteaders are worried about their trees being contaminated by the foul smoke that’s been plaguing us this past month, and there’s a lot of activity by Quagfen Bridge.”

  “Yes, Filibert,” said Wystan, “I’m aware of the threat of civil unrest, and that’s why I’ve called us together. It’s time,” he nodded his head thoughtfully, “to take more stringent measures against this infection, this rot, which is destroying our wood, our livelihoods, too. So, Bassan, can you give us your latest report on the health of our trees that we may decide on the proper course of action?”

  Bassan stood up, his expression serious.

  “Legator, Session members, the situation is, indeed, of the greatest concern. A foul pestilence affects many of the trees of Southernwood and shows no signs of abating. I’ve been hard at work experimenting with this fungus, which is extremely resistant to all my efforts at eradicating it. However, my esteemed Legator, I have suffered, as you know, severe budget cuts in the financing of my work and have not been able to employ all means possible and necessary to rid us of this frightening evil. I believe this delay may prove fatal. Oh, yes, Wystan, it might come to that,” as Wystan rose in protest, “for the fungus appears to be changing into an infection that could well lead to a plague of illness among our citizens.”

  The Session burst into life.

  “What? Plague?”

  “A fatal delay? Whose fault is that?”

  “Budget cuts? Since when did we ever have budget cuts?”

  “Who cut the budget?”

  “This air is, indeed, foul. We could all be carrying this thing around inside us, I tell you!”

  “Session members, please!” shouted Bassan. “We simply must have order in here! You forget yourselves! Wystan, all this is true. Is it not also true that the murderer, Rath Forth, who escaped not six weeks gone, could be responsible for planting this contagion, an act of revenge upon those who sought justice for the death of Zossimo? Why was he not held more securely?”

  “Bassan,” said Wystan, “I find it hard to believe that your research has come up with so poor a conclusion. We want answers, not excuses! And let me assure you, you have had my full backing financially, as Filibert would agree.”

  Filibert nodded. “I would say your allocation—”

  “We may have to agree to differ on that point, if you insist,” interrupted Bassan. “Nonetheless, this does not explain why you were arguing for Rath’s release, saying that his term of imprisonment was coming to an end, despite his having murdered your predecessor Zossimo, proven beyond any doubt in Trevello’s court at the time. Why would he flee, unless he were guilty! He knew we were reviewing his case. He feared the Session might vote to extend his custody. And now he’s jeopardizing us all with this plan of his to destroy Southernwood, the trees, our life, and you, too, Wystan, if you’re not careful.”

  “This is utter nonsense!” barked Wystan. “What are you talking about? We all knew that Rath was due to be freed according to our law and the sentence decreed at the conclusion of his trial. That matter has nothing to do with the threat we face from the trees. Furthermore—”

  “Really, Wystan? Under your roof, here, in the Albatorium, you have fed and watered a man guilty of removing the best Legator and Librarian this island has ever had, allowing him, no doubt, access to library documents and who knows what other information. I’ve even suspected him of bribing the guards to let him into my laboratory. There have been several disturbances there over the last year that I cannot explain, duly reported to the guardery, permitting him, secretly, to fashion his revenge and wreak it on an innocent, nay, ignorant, gullible set of fools such as us!”

  “Fools? Us?”

  “Gullible? Hah! Not me!”

  “Bribing the guards? That wouldn’t be the first time, would it Trevello!”

  Trevello immediately stood to defend the guardery, but Wystan spoke first. “What are you saying, Bassan? Are you accusing us all of foolery in the face of danger?”

  “No,” said Bassan, slowly. “I suppose that what I’m saying is that you, Wystan, have been a fool in this matter. You never prioritized my work as you should, and you took no heed of the danger living in the jail below. Now we are faced with anarchy, pestilence, and death. I’ve searched my conscience with a heavy heart, Wystan—we are brothers, after all—but what my heart tells me is tha
t you have broken your Legator’s pledge, and that we should vote for a stronger ruler to take your place.”

  There was silence. Wystan sat down, his face taut. Trevello, still standing, addressed the Session.

  “Over nineteen years ago, in the spring of 1126, I asked you, the Session, to inscribe your votes on the leaves of our Great Aspen. At that time, a terrible time, still mourning the death of Zossimo, we were, I can say, of one accord; we named Wystan as Legator, and the Aspen upheld our decision.

  “Now Wystan’s rule has been challenged by Bassan, our Librarian. In accordance with our law, we must elect a new Legator. I will prepare the chamber above, those of you without offices shall sit here in silence and consider your choice. Filibert, Bassan, you shall retire to your own rooms. The guards will be called to ensure the proceedings are not interrupted. When the bell rings, you may come upstairs and vote. And then, we wait.”

  ***

  The sticks in the fireplace had burned to a cinder. The brew in the fungus pot was ready. Bassan lay on his divan and breathed deeply. It had been easy to convince the old men that change was long overdue. Goodness, he’d expected a much more difficult confrontation. He’d timed things just right, it would seem. He’d waited long enough. Worked hard enough, certainly. Even Great Aspen would have to concede that he’d put his heart and soul into fulfilling his duty as Librarian.

  The bell wouldn’t ring just yet; Trevello had to prepare treequills for those who had forgotten to bring them and open up the top door of the Albatorium roof that led to Great Aspen’s branches. He’d better think of someone worthy to vote for. It could be anyone from the Session or one of the city folk, a fisherman from Quagfen or a shipwright from Oakenwood. Why, he could even vote for the Almanagic!

  During his time at the Albatorium, he’d never been able to find out very much about the Almanagic, a strange looking fellow, evidently not from these parts, with a close shaved head, and that thick, metal earring, very strange indeed, old, older than Bassan, maybe older than Trevello, cleverer than Filibert, lithe, and sly.