The War Within Page 2

  In his place, another man might have peered upward, reflexively trying to see despite his blindness. But after more than a century of service, Sirjane Marrow had almost forgotten he still had eyes. Watching the staircase with his other senses, he concentrated on preparing himself to meet Set Ungabwey.

  If he had bothered to count his heartbeats, he would not have reached fifteen before Amandis began to descend the stair.

  As always, she glided downward like a woman floating on water rather than treading on stone. As always, she was demurely cloaked from neck to floor, and carried her arms with each hand resting on the opposite forearm inside her wide sleeves. As always, she did not return Magister Marrow’s bow of respect.

  She did, however, acknowledge his presence by saying, “We will await the devotee of Flesh.”

  For lack of any other useful gesture, the librarian raised his eyebrows. “We will? Why, Devotee? Master Ungabwey has returned. His task was hazardous and necessary. His tidings are urgent. I must hear them.”

  Amandis replied with a slight shrug. “We will wait here, librarian, or we will wait in Master Ungabwey’s domicile. He will not speak until the devotee of Flesh is present.” After a moment’s consideration, she conceded, “If Magister Avail’s voice in his mind commands him, he may comply. Otherwise not.”

  With both hands, Sirjane Marrow rubbed the surprise off his features. He had known, of course, that Master Ungabwey’s acquaintance with devotees of Flesh and Spirit was older than his own. Now he was forced to admit that he had no idea what their relationships entailed when they were not encamped in front of the Last Repository. His attention—his obsessions—had always been elsewhere. He had no curiosity to spare for anything that did not pertain to texts—or to the library’s survival.

  While the librarian wondered why Set Ungabwey required the presence of a trained killer and a gifted courtesan, a servant came toward him from the back of the hall. She was one of the monks, and she was in a hurry. The slap of her sandals sounded like scurrying in the cavernous space. When he and Amandis turned to face her, she slowed and halted; assumed the deferential posture habitual to all the monks, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her. Under her grey robe, she was breathing heavily.

  Magister Marrow assumed that she carried some message, perhaps from Magister Rummage or one of the Repository’s other defenders. But when he opened his mouth to question her, the devotee of Spirit forestalled him.

  “She will accompany us,” said Amandis crisply. “Like ours, her presence is required.”

  Before the old man could stop himself, he demanded, “Master Ungabwey requires a servant?”

  “Not a servant,” explained Flamora’s antagonist or opposite. “This servant. The monk known as Third Father is absent. She is known as Fifth Daughter. She stands in his stead.”

  Sirjane Marrow gave up on restraint. “A servant, an assassin, and a courtesan. Are there other requirements that have been kept from me? Does the caravan master need a team of acrobats, or perhaps a dancing sow? He did not rely on such an audience when we last met.”

  Then, abruptly, he swallowed his irritation. The gravity of the small devotee’s attention hinted at peril: a warning, not a threat. He knew her too well to imagine that she might harm him. But her manner reminded him that there were things he did not know, matters that belonged exclusively to Set Ungabwey.

  Then Flamora called out from the top of the staircase, “Librarian!”

  Her voice tugged at him. It was a strange instrument. It gave the impression that viols and lutes were speaking simultaneously, each playing a distinct tune, yet each in harmony. The effect was delicious. No doubt, it was intended to be seductive.

  Magister Marrow was in no mood for it; but he could not pretend that it did not affect him.

  She came down the stairs in a waft of loose muslin thin as gauze. It floated around her as if to suggest that she was much more than she seemed and yet had nothing to hide. Tiny bells on her anklets chimed silver at every step. Her face and figure invited close scrutiny—or so the librarian had been told—but his lack of sight enabled him to ignore that distraction.

  Unfortunately, he could not ignore her voice as well, or her scent, or the floating of her raiment.

  She spoke as she descended the staircase. “Thank you for waiting, librarian. You are kind to the vanity of women.” Her tone resembled an arched eyebrow. “I mean to the vanity of some women. The most holy Amandis has her own pride, but it takes other forms. For example, she takes pride in being obscure. No doubt she has not mentioned that Master Ungabwey has chosen us to be his counselors. He relies on us.

  “In a perfect world, others would join us. Alas, they are too distant to be summoned.”

  The old man contained himself until the most holy devotee of Flesh reached the foot of the stairs. Then he asked, “Master Ungabwey requires counsel? You know this?”

  He might have added, How? More than that, he wanted to ask, Why? Why does Set Ungabwey need advice now? What has happened?

  But Flamora answered, “We know him, Magister.” Before Sirjane Marrow could pose his other questions, she gestured toward the gates. “Shall we? I have kept him waiting too long.”

  By repute, her smile could ravish oxen. It did not touch Magister Marrow. Nevertheless he headed for the gates as if he were obeying her; as if he had not also been kept waiting too long. When Flamora slipped her arm through his, he did not shrug her off.

  “Do you ever wonder, librarian,” she offered as they walked, “how it happens that Master Ungabwey is able to travel this continent in peace and profit? There are many people, many languages, many customs. Some treasure their isolation. Some are warlike. Most are suspicious of strangers. Certainly, Tchwee is able to speak for Master Ungabwey, but how does he win trust? And not only the trust of other merchants. The trust of entire caravans? Many refuse to set out until they can join their wagons to Master Ungabwey’s.”

  The devotee of Flesh held Magister Marrow’s attention in spite of his anxieties. Knowledge had that power over him. In the abstract, he was acquainted with the homelands and natures of the peoples she mentioned. He had learned enough about them to recognize that few of them were likely allies, although they hungered for what the Repository offered. But he had never asked himself how Set Ungabwey had become so successful.

  For a man who never left his rich conveyance—

  “I will tell you,” continued Flamora. “He relies on his counselors to win trust for him. If people are threatened, his guards aid them. If people are hostile, the most holy devotee of Spirit knows how to answer them. If they are merely suspicious, the Wide World Carnival entertains them. If they are rigid in their isolation”—she laughed like an ensemble of instruments—“well, I make friends easily. And the Cult of the Many is everywhere, teaching by example even when people do not realize they are being taught.

  “Also Master Ungabwey is wise,” she concluded. “He knows that trade and knowledge benefit all who consent to share them. If we saw no worth in him, or in what he does, we would not be his counselors. In our separate fashions, we benefit also.”

  Magister Marrow nodded to himself. Flamora had told him enough: he could imagine most of the details she left out. And ahead of him, the reinforced gates were opening. Casting his senses through the gap, he discerned Set Ungabwey’s elaborate residence only a few dozen steps away.

  In front of the carriage door stood Tchwee, waiting.

  Sirjane Marrow was tall, but Master Ungabwey’s black interpreter was taller. He was naked to the waist, clad only in a dhoti cinched below his navel; and his strong torso and muscled arms gleamed in the afternoon shadows as if his skin had been burnished with oils or sweat. In the mountain breeze, his chest and hairless scalp steamed like the labored breathing of the illirim. By that sign, the librarian understood that Tchwee had just emerged from the uncomfortable heat of Set Ungabwey’s h
ome.

  Eager now, desperate to know, Magister Marrow passed between the gates onto the plateau with Flamora still holding his arm, Amandis and Fifth Daughter close behind him.

  “Librarian,” greeted Tchwee in a good-natured subterranean rumble that made his grin audible. “Make us welcome with wine and song. I do not hope for women.” His tone implied a teasing glance at the most holy devotee of Flesh. “But our need for other pleasures is severe. We are much scathed, and more than a little humbled. Nevertheless we have returned.”

  Sirjane Marrow disentangled himself from Flamora and bowed to the interpreter. “Honored Tchwee.” He tried to match the black man’s manner. “Some women may be willing, but if you are wise, you will not wish for song. You have not heard me sing.”

  Tchwee chuckled. But when the librarian heard his own attempt at banter, he gave it up. His mood was too dark. More brusquely, he added, “Will Master Ungabwey speak with me?” When Flamora nudged him, he amended, “With us? Will he speak with us? I need his tidings.”

  Tchwee barked a laugh that sounded too cheerful to be insulting. “Certainly,” he answered. “Master Ungabwey awaits you. He emulates the patience of stone, but his eagerness does not diminish.”

  With a flourish of his arm, he invited Magister Marrow’s small company forward. Then he ascended the steps to the door, opened it, and went in.

  “Master Ungabwey.” His voice seemed to echo out of the carriage. “Your guests have come.”

  Sure of his footing despite his blindness, Magister Marrow entered Set Ungabwey’s domicile.

  The circumstances felt strange to him, portentous in both obvious and obscure ways. He had been here on other occasions, but none of them had stung him with so many different concerns. The future of the Last Repository was at risk, as it had been when he had asked Master Ungabwey to dare the mountains. Of course the situation felt portentous: he did not know whether the caravan had succeeded or failed. But when he had explained what he wanted a few fortnights ago, he had been alone with Set Ungabwey; alone apart from Tchwee and the caravan master’s four ochre-robed daughters. Yet now the Master wanted his counselors around him? Positively required them?

  What had changed? Clearly, the stakes were higher now, for Set Ungabwey as well as for the Repository—but why?

  To the extent that Magister Marrow bothered to perceive its details, the Master’s council chamber matched his memory of it: excessive warmth, a floor covered with rugs and strewn with satin pillows, doors ornamented with gems and silver, a starscape painted on the ceiling. As usual, brass trays crowded with goblets and ewers were set among the pillows. A dozen lanterns gave light for those who needed it—and added heat without regard for those who preferred cooler air.

  Set Ungabwey’s daughters sat in their customary places against the walls. They were older than they had been when he had last focused his attention on them: over the years, they had become mature women. But as far as he could tell, they had not moved a muscle since he had left their domicile half a season ago.

  Nor had their father. While Amandis and Flamora entered behind Sirjane Marrow and chose pillows, then urged the monk to do the same, the tall old man studied Set Ungabwey.

  The caravan master was immensely fat: so obese he could hardly stand without help; so laden with excess flesh he could barely open his eyes. Indeed, he would have looked absurd if he had not wielded such power and respect. As he sat cross-legged, his thighs supported his belly, while his shoulders provided resting places for his jowls and earlobes. Like Tchwee’s, his skull was bald; but unlike his interpreter, he lacked both eyebrows and lashes. For clothing, he wore sheets of ochre muslin.

  His only acknowledgment of the librarian’s arrival was a slight nod that made his cheeks wobble. If he spared a glance for his counselors, Magister Marrow could not detect it. Apparently, he took their attendance for granted.

  As usual here, Tchwee knelt beside the caravan master. On this occasion, however, he was not alone.

  In a far corner near one of the doors to the carriage’s private rooms stood a hulking figure that made the librarian think instinctively of a bear. Not as tall as Tchwee, but much broader. Covered from his hooded head to his bare feet in furs that he wore as if they were his natural skin. A flat face deeply tanned, a look of absence in his glacial blue eyes. Despite his size, he had an air of uneasiness, a discomfort that seemed to have nothing to do with wearing winter garments in a chamber heated like the western desert.

  Sirjane Marrow had read about such people. As with other distant races, he knew where they came from and how they lived. And he had heard Tchwee’s description of them. But this was his first encounter with one of the Quolt in person.

  The way the man stood gave the impression that he would have preferred to crouch on all fours. If he looked like a bear, perhaps he walked like one as well.

  Still standing, the Magister bowed to his host. Prompted by uncertainty or intuition, he bowed to the Quolt as well.

  To his surprise, the man responded by uncovering one hand from his furs, touching his fingertips to his forehead, then resting his palm briefly over his heart.

  The skin of his hand was a startling white, the hue of clean snow.

  “Please, librarian,” said Tchwee comfortably. “Be seated. Take wine. I will explain.”

  Staring blindly, Sirjane Marrow sat down as if he had been dropped. He was too shaken to touch the wine. What was going on here? Did Set Ungabwey need his counselors because the Quolt was present? Had something fatal happened?

  There were Magisters in the Repository who could see events and individuals at any distance; but Sirjane Marrow, the oldest sorcerer, had not asked them to turn their sight eastward. Because their gift was rare, he had too few of them—and too many other places that required watching. His own thoughts were fixed on Belleger and Amika. He had trusted Set Ungabwey to send or deliver timely reports. After all, there was nothing the librarian or his fellow sorcerers could have done to aid the caravan master’s efforts.

  Smiling as if he were unaware of Magister Marrow’s confusion, his growing alarm, the interpreter asked, “Devotee of Flesh?”

  “Gladly,” replied Flamora. Filling a goblet from one of the ewers, she held it up, first to Set Ungabwey, then to Tchwee, then to the Quolt. Both the caravan master and his strange guest ignored her; but Tchwee nodded his approval. With a sigh of appreciation, she drank.

  Amandis and Fifth Daughter did not follow her example. For their own disparate reasons, neither the devotees of Spirit nor the monks of the Cult of the Many indulged in wine or ale.

  When the devotee of Flesh lowered her goblet, Tchwee began.

  Sonorous as the groan of rock shifting deep in a distant mountain, he said, “Librarian, this man is Sirl Hokarth. He has been chosen to speak for the Quolt. In their name, he has given you a gesture of respect. In his tongue, however, ‘respect’ has an added meaning. It entails a bond of kinship. His gesture calls you his brother.”

  While the Magister tried to imagine why any Quolt would call him brother, the interpreter turned to Sirl Hokarth. In a language full of harsh consonants, exaggerated fricatives, and piercing sibilants, Tchwee presumably repeated what he had just said to Sirjane Marrow. The sounds hurt the librarian’s ears, but he thought he understood: not the words themselves, of course, but the style of speech. A people who spoke the tongue of the Quolt would be able to make themselves plain across great distances, or in high winds: a useful ability among the ragged peaks, sheer valleys, and masked crevasses of the Wall Mountains.

  But his tension was rising. He had no patience to spare for a language he had never heard before. As soon as Tchwee stopped, the Magister demanded, “Why?”

  He meant, Why does he call me brother? He does not know me.

  But he also meant, Why have I been kept waiting? Did I not explain that the library is threatened? My need is urgent. I need to kn
ow. Did you succeed? What has happened?

  Before Tchwee could respond, Set Ungabwey raised his head. In a high, thin voice, a falsetto croon, he said, “Because I believe.”

  There he stopped. Apparently, he considered that he had said enough.

  No one moved or spoke. The lanterns seemed to give off more heat. Magister Marrow felt moisture on his forehead. Sweat dripped down his spine under his robe.

  As if to ease an awkward moment, Tchwee offered in tones the old man felt in his chest, “You will understand, librarian, that we had no cause to credit your fears. You speak of a terrible foe, but no one confirms your concern. Throughout our travels, no one. And who would threaten such a storehouse of knowledge? How could they threaten it?”

  “If you had consulted me,” interjected Amandis, “I would have confirmed it. The Wide World Carnival travels more widely than your train, and some of my sisters in Spirit go with it. From rumors and hints, they have determined that the threat has substance.”

  Magister Marrow gave the devotee of Spirit a quick glance of approval; but both Set Ungabwey and Tchwee appeared to ignore her. While they remained silent, one of the Master’s daughters rose. Filling a goblet with wine, she carried it to her father and helped him drink, then returned to her seat. As she settled herself, the interpreter resumed addressing the librarian.

  “Master Ungabwey accepted your request because it was yours. And he delayed naming his price because he did not know what difficulties awaited him, or whether your request was possible, or how high its cost in lives might be. But he also delayed because he was not certain his task was necessary. From the first, he was prepared to turn back—and to suffer your disappointment.”

  The Magister struggled to contain himself. “But now he believes?”

  Instead of responding directly, Tchwee faced Sirl Hokarth with another translation. This time, his spate of sounds had a querying cast. When the fur-clad man nodded, Tchwee returned his attention to Sirjane Marrow.