redemption? Had it been selfish of him to flee? No. Lady Rawneth would have destroyed him even if her hieratic minions hadn’t.
Index rose and started to putter around his shed, gathering the ingredients for alfalfa tea.
“Not perfect,” he repeated over his shoulder, “but fair is fair. The scrollsman with the information that you want, Moyden by name, has gone on an ambassadorial mission to the Poison Courts. We may never see him again.”
“Oh.”
“However, I know something about the history of the Southern Wastes. Before we arrived on Rathillien, the natives say that in their place was a huge inland sea surrounded by rich civilizations. Then the climate changed from temperate to a desert, don’t ask me why or how. They say that even the stars shifted in the sky. Anyway, the sea was cut off from its freshwater sources, turned to salt, and dried up. The cities that clustered around it disappeared into the sand and their people fled. Only their outposts remained—Kothifir, Hurlen, and Urakarn, for example. All of this was some three thousand years ago, during the Fifth Age. By most accounts, Rathillien has had seven.”
Kindrie blinked, trying to comprehend the scope of such vast changes, so baldly presented. If Index had been a singer, and more poetic, he would have suspected that the old man was taking advantage of the Lawful Lie.
“I think,” he said, “that I should talk to Moyden when . . .”
“If.”
“If he returns.”
“You do that. Tell him that you bartered with me and that I will repay him.” Index poured boiling water over his herbs and cradled the cup in gnarled fingers. “Ah,” he said, inhaling the fragrance. “Soul-images are all very well, but give me a fistful of dried leaves every time. You’re doing this for that gray sneak, aren’t you? Take my advice, boy: make sure that he pays you.”
Kindrie stood up and executed a courteous if awkward bow. “All information, ultimately, is for my cousin. I don’t barter with her.”
“Ah.” Index impatiently waved him away. “Beware that one: honorable as she seems, she has the darkling glamour.”
As Kindrie climbed the shed’s stair and crossed Mount Alban’s cavernous entry hall, he dismissed Index’s warning and savored that word: cousin. Bastards had no kin. He was not a bastard. He had a family, small though it was, and moreover not one cousin but two. The thought warmed him as much as his blue woolen robe, a gift from Kirien and finer than he had ever owned before. Kin, and friends.
Here was the central wooden stair rising in its square well up though the layers of the Scrollsmen’s College. Within the cliff face itself was a maze of apartments honeycombing the rock. Bits of conversation reached him as he climbed, scrollsmen and singers at their eternal bickering:
“Facts are for small minds. You couldn’t find yours with both hands and a torch.”
“How could I search with both hands and still hold a . . . wait a minute.”
“Who borrowed my concordance to the law scrolls?”
“I needed to look up a word that rhymes with ‘splendiferous.’ Why?”
“Has anyone seen my experiment?”
“D’you mean the purple thing with black spots? It went that way.”
The voices faded behind him as he reached the three levels on top of the cliff, devoted to public spaces and the Director’s quarters. Over these was the observation deck. The level rays of the setting sun met Kindrie as he emerged from the stairwell and half blinded him. Two figures stood silhouetted against the glare.
“Kindrie,” said one warmly, in Kirien’s voice.
“My lady.”
She laughed. “Such formality.”
The other figure by contrast radiated the cold of the unburnt dead. Kindrie braced himself.
“Singer Ashe,” he said, with an awkward bob of the head.
“I was about to send for you,” said the Jaran Lordan. “I have news.”
She indicated a seat on the ledge between herself and Ashe. Kindrie self-consciously perched on her
Index rose and started to putter around his shed, gathering the ingredients for alfalfa tea.
“Not perfect,” he repeated over his shoulder, “but fair is fair. The scrollsman with the information that you want, Moyden by name, has gone on an ambassadorial mission to the Poison Courts. We may never see him again.”
“Oh.”
“However, I know something about the history of the Southern Wastes. Before we arrived on Rathillien, the natives say that in their place was a huge inland sea surrounded by rich civilizations. Then the climate changed from temperate to a desert, don’t ask me why or how. They say that even the stars shifted in the sky. Anyway, the sea was cut off from its freshwater sources, turned to salt, and dried up. The cities that clustered around it disappeared into the sand and their people fled. Only their outposts remained—Kothifir, Hurlen, and Urakarn, for example. All of this was some three thousand years ago, during the Fifth Age. By most accounts, Rathillien has had seven.”
Kindrie blinked, trying to comprehend the scope of such vast changes, so baldly presented. If Index had been a singer, and more poetic, he would have suspected that the old man was taking advantage of the Lawful Lie.
“I think,” he said, “that I should talk to Moyden when . . .”
“If.”
“If he returns.”
“You do that. Tell him that you bartered with me and that I will repay him.” Index poured boiling water over his herbs and cradled the cup in gnarled fingers. “Ah,” he said, inhaling the fragrance. “Soul-images are all very well, but give me a fistful of dried leaves every time. You’re doing this for that gray sneak, aren’t you? Take my advice, boy: make sure that he pays you.”
Kindrie stood up and executed a courteous if awkward bow. “All information, ultimately, is for my cousin. I don’t barter with her.”
“Ah.” Index impatiently waved him away. “Beware that one: honorable as she seems, she has the darkling glamour.”
As Kindrie climbed the shed’s stair and crossed Mount Alban’s cavernous entry hall, he dismissed Index’s warning and savored that word: cousin. Bastards had no kin. He was not a bastard. He had a family, small though it was, and moreover not one cousin but two. The thought warmed him as much as his blue woolen robe, a gift from Kirien and finer than he had ever owned before. Kin, and friends.
Here was the central wooden stair rising in its square well up though the layers of the Scrollsmen’s College. Within the cliff face itself was a maze of apartments honeycombing the rock. Bits of conversation reached him as he climbed, scrollsmen and singers at their eternal bickering:
“Facts are for small minds. You couldn’t find yours with both hands and a torch.”
“How could I search with both hands and still hold a . . . wait a minute.”
“Who borrowed my concordance to the law scrolls?”
“I needed to look up a word that rhymes with ‘splendiferous.’ Why?”
“Has anyone seen my experiment?”
“D’you mean the purple thing with black spots? It went that way.”
The voices faded behind him as he reached the three levels on top of the cliff, devoted to public spaces and the Director’s quarters. Over these was the observation deck. The level rays of the setting sun met Kindrie as he emerged from the stairwell and half blinded him. Two figures stood silhouetted against the glare.
“Kindrie,” said one warmly, in Kirien’s voice.
“My lady.”
She laughed. “Such formality.”
The other figure by contrast radiated the cold of the unburnt dead. Kindrie braced himself.
“Singer Ashe,” he said, with an awkward bob of the head.
“I was about to send for you,” said the Jaran Lordan. “I have news.”
She indicated a seat on the ledge between herself and Ashe. Kindrie self-consciously perched on her
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