The inside of the clanker was dark but for a conjured ghost light at Flydd's right shoulder. He was deep in a small, thick volume bound in maroon calf, its title inlaid in platinum leaf.
'What's that you're reading?' asked Nish. 'Yet another tome on the Secret Art?'
Over the past days, able to walk only with great discomfort, Flydd had gone through every volume in Nutrid's small library. He was in a fine humour, now that the spell was working.
Wordlessly, the scrutator lifted the volume. The Great Tales, 23: The Tale of the Mirror. No chronicler's name was listed.
'Reading a story!' Nish said with mock sarcasm. 'You really are relaxed.'
'Every human should know the Great Tales,' Flydd said pompously. 'They are the very foundation of the Histories.'
'You're old enough to be in them!'
'Choose your words with care, Nish,' growled the scrutator. 'I'm no older than I look.'
'Two hundred and fifty?' Nish ducked out of the way as Flydd swatted at him.
'I'm sixty-four. A good, round age. An important number too, if you care for such things.'
'Only sixty-four?' Nish said seriously. 'I thought you mancers could extend your life forever.'
'This one has been hard enough; don't inflict another on me.'
'But didn't some of the great mancers live for a thousand years?' Nish bit his tongue, in case Flydd took offence. Perhaps he felt himself to be a great mancer.
Flydd chuckled at Nish's embarrassment Only two, to my knowledge. Extending one 's life is a hazardous process, and more mancers have died in the attempt than have survived it.
Mendark, the long-time magister of Thurkad did it many times but he was a very great mancer, the like of whom we will not see again. And in the end he died, as we all must.
Yggur was also long lived, but in his case it was natural longevity: no one knows why. All those who extended their lives, male or female, were motivated by greed. They wanted what only the other human species — Aachim, Faellem and Charon — had a right to. I've many failings, Nish, but greed isn't one of them.' He pointedly took up his book.
'What part are you up to?'
Flydd sighed, but laid the book aside. 'I was reading the final section of the tale, where Rulke the Charon opened a gate between the worlds and tried to bring the remnant of his people to Santhenar.'
'I .., don't recall that,' said Nish.
'I thought you knew the Great Tales well?' Flydd's continuous eyebrow formed a knot in the middle of his forehead.
'I thought I did.'
'Well, to cut this story to its basics, just a hundred Charon survived the void and the taking of Aachan, many thousands of years ago. The Hundred, they were called, but for some reason they could not reproduce on that world. It seemed as though they would live forever, but theirs was an increasingly bitter, lonely existence, as one by one they became infertile. The Charon were on a one-way road to extinction.
'To save them, Rulke brought the handful of fertile ones through the gate to Santhenar. But Faelamor, the leader of the Faellem, who had always feared the Charon, opened a gate into the void and brought forth several thranx, intelligent winged creatures akin to lyrinx …I think the lyrinx may have flesh-formed themselves to resemble thranx, actually.' He reflected on that for a moment, before continuing. 'While Rulke struggled with Faelamor's illusions the thranx slew the Charon, every fertile one. From that moment, Rulke's species was doomed. Noble Rulke was killed soon after, and the remaimder of the Hundred went back to the void to die.' 'I'm surprised you don't know that part of the story,' Flydd concluded. 'It is, to my mind, the greatest tragedy in all the Histories, and the most poignant tale. Not even the fall of Tar Gaarn can compare to it.'
I've heard many of the tales told, though not by a master chronicler or teller.'
'There aren't many left, since the College of the Histories at Chanthed was sacked by the lyrinx. Most of the masters and students were eaten, and deservedly so, for their scandalous lack of talent.' He smiled — a joke! Flydd was almost back to his normal, crotchety self. 'I prefer to read the Tales as set down by the masters of old. They're closer to the truth—' He broke off, as if censoring a thought.
I didn't know there was a College of the Histories,' said Nish.
Flydd raised the left side of that famous eyebrow. 'What did they teach you, lad? The college was there for thousands of years. Ah, but it was sacked before you were born — the beginning of the end for all Meldorin. After that it was only a matter of time until the whole of Meldorin was lost, even ancient Thurkad. The city fought bravely and long, a noble failure that might have made another Great Tale, were there any master chroniclers to tell it.'
'But there are master chroniclers,' said Nish. 'My mother studied under one for a while.'
'Crass amateurs compared to those of olden times, such as Llian of Chanthed, who made the twenty-third Great Tale. This one!' Flydd lifted the book and began turning the pages.
'Llian the Liar!' cried Nish, recalling his school lessons. 'The biggest cheat in all the Histories. His tale was a fraud. The scrutators had it rewritten a long time ago. My father told me so …' He trailed off. 'What's the matter?'
'I can't talk about what the scrutators may or may not have done, Nish. You know that.'
You said they were corrupt and you were going to brine them down.'
"And I plan to, but I still can't betray my oath of secrecy ' But you told me about the Num-'
Flydd shoved a gnarled fist into Nish's mouth. 'Don't ever mention that name!'
'Why not?'
I can't think how I was indiscreet enough to tell you,' muttered Flydd. 'The infection must have turned my wits. All I can say is, learn to think for yourself.
He took up the book again. The pages turned steadily. Nish had a thousand questions, but he did not suppose that Flydd would answer them. How had the Council of Scrutators come to hold more power than the generals and the leaders of nations? Why had they censored the Histories?
They went without a break until just before sunset, when the leading clankers stopped on the sloping top of a square hill. Higher hills could be seen in all directions, clothed in forest.
The rear hatch was jerked open. Troist stood there with a rolled map under one arm. Climbing in, he spread it on the table in front of Flydd.
'My scouts report that Jal-Nish's army is camped in the valley of Gumby Marth, two-thirds of a league away across those rugged ridges to the north.' He indicated the location on his map.
Nish's stomach cramped at the thought of meeting his father again.
'That's not all, is it, General?' said Flydd.
'The scouts report that there's not a single lyrinx to be found, and no one has the faintest idea where they've got to.'
'Maybe they don't want to fight after all,' said Nish.
'I smell a trap,' Flydd replied, bending over the map. 'It's rugged country between here and there.'
'More than rugged, the scouts tell me,' said Troist. 'It's impassable to clankers and mounted men alike. Foot soldiers could struggle through, though the upper parts of the valley are bounded by cliffs with few paths down, and none are safe.
'We can't go that way. We'll have to march west, this way, for several leagues, to find a way into the valley. We'll begin at first light, Scrutator. With luck we should reach the army by this rime tomorrow.'