He handed her a thin locked box fashioned in steel and sealed around the edges with beeswax.
Rhapsody’s brows drew together. “Yes; wasn’t this the container for an ancient schematic of Gwylliam’s?”
“Indeed. And I need it translated, completely and accurately.”
“I believe I did this for you once before,” Rhapsody said, her own ire rising. She opened the box, and carefully moved the top document, written in Old Cymrian, aside from the sheaf of even more ancient parchment below it, graphed carefully in musical script. “Oh, yes, I remember this poem now:
Achmed nodded impatiently.
“I understand the poem,” he said. “It’s the schematic and all the corresponding documents I need translated, and carefully.”
“When?”
The Bolg king considered. “What are you doing until supper?”
“I was actually planning to attend the sledge races,” Rhapsody replied archly. “And after that I thought I might attend the rest of the winter carnival, thank you. What sort of time do you think this kind of thing takes, Achmed? I can assure you, there are many days’, if not weeks’, worth of translation time here. This is more than just musical script; it requires the composition to be played, and to be referenced in later parts of the piece. It’s not something I can sit down and do after noonmeal.”
“I am willing to wait until teatime,” Achmed said wryly.
“You will have to wait until teatime next year,” Rhapsody answered. “Additionally, didn’t I tell you at the time you last showed me this that I worry about your rash experimentation with ancient lore?”
“You did, which is why I have decided not to experiment, but rather to get a careful and accurate translation, then assess for myself what to do with the information. Surely you can’t object to that?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose not.”
“Good. Then perhaps when this folderol is finished, you can turn your attention to this. As I’ve explained, if it works the way the one I knew of in the old world worked, it might be precisely what we need to keep the Bolglands, and consequently the Alliance, free from subversion or attack. Your ward, the Sleeping Child, all your Bolg grandchildren, and the ‘people’ of Ylorc are certainly worth that, aren’t they?”
“Of course,” said Rhapsody uncertainly.
“Well, just in case you still think this is ill advised, know this: While I was off pulling your charming arse out of a sea cave, my kingdom was being infiltrated by the mistress of the assassin’s guild of Yarim, the very same folks you talked me into helping by having the Bolg drill them a new wellspring for Entudenin, for which we have not received payment in full, by the way. Consequently, said guildmistress not only destroyed Gurgus Peak, but also poisoned a good deal of the kingdom with picric acid.”
“Oh, gods!” Rhapsody exclaimed in horror.
Achmed considered. “No, I don’t believe she got them, but it may have only been by accident if she didn’t. Suffice to say that at least a thousand of the Bolg have died or been terribly ill with symptoms like dysentery, bleeding out the eyes, bleeding internally—”
“All right, that’s enough,” Rhapsody said, fighting back nausea and losing. She ran to the nearest potted plant and retched.
Achmed waited smugly until she returned.
“So I trust I can count on your help in this matter?”
Rhapsody sighed, still pale and woozy.
“I will do what I can, Achmed, though I can’t promise that I will be able to give you the information that you seek,” she said, leaning against the enclave wall. “But if it is of any encouragement, know that I expect to have some time to work on it very shortly.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I need to consult with Ashe and see if he agrees first, but it’s my hope to leave and spend some time with Elynsynos shortly.”
Achmed’s eyes widened. “You are going to a dragon’s lair while pregnant?”
“Yes, actually. She is the only one I can think of who truly knows what it is like to be carrying a wyrmkin child. So I will make you an offer: If Ashe agrees I will take the manuscript with me and work on it when the nausea allows. I will do what I can with it, though again I make you no guarantees. You, in turn, will bring Krinsel to me at Thaw, so that I can keep her with me until my baby is delivered.”
She could tell that the Bolg king was smiling behind his veils.
“So you trust yourself to a Bolg midwife before all the vaunted healers of Roland?”
“In a heartbeat. Do we have an agreement?”
“We do,” Achmed said. “Just make certain you hold up your end of the bargain.”
Faron stared down in silence at the merriment below him.
His awareness did not include the concept of holidays; having been kept in the dark basement of the Judiciary all of his life in Argaut, he was confused and upset by the noise and celebration taking place just beyond the hill on which he was standing.
23
“A good solstice to ya, Brookins.”
The burly fisherman broke into a gap-toothed smile but did not pause from tying his lines.
“Glad to see you’re feelin’ better, and a good solstice to you as well, Quayle,” he said, watching the snow in the distance whip about in the wind that rippled the water below the docks. The warmth of the ocean kept the air clear here, on the point of the jetty south of town. He winched the last of the ropes, then pulled his hat down over his red ears. “You up to helping me and Stark haul the traps in?”
Quayle wiped the mucus from the tip of his red nose with the back of his worsted sleeve, then dried his similarly red eyes with it as well.
“Let the lobsters wait another day,” he muttered grumpily as Stark, another dockmate, approached, dragging the crates for the catch. “A storm’s brewin’; you can tell by the sky it’s gonna be a cracker.”
Stark spat into the ocean and shook his head.
“Been two days since baitin’ already,” he said, his voice scratchy from the wind and disuse. Stark rarely spoke; when out in the harbor with both him and Quayle, Brookins occasionally forgot Stark was even in the boat. “An’ a whole village waitin’ to eat ’em tonight.”
“He’s right,” Brookins said to Quayle. “You go home and get yourself a grog; we’ll haul in.”
“You’re daft to go out now; it’s almost sunset.” Quayle jammed his hands inside his sleeves, as if they were a lady’s muff. “Don’t want to be spending the holidays consoling your widows.”
Stark scowled and climbed into the boat.
“Go back to bed,” he said. “Come on, Brookins. My supper’s waiting.”
Brookins looked from Quayle to Stark, then back to Quayle again.
“He’s right,” he said finally. “Get some rest. Stark and me will split the take from this catch with you; you baited, after all. We’ll celebrate the holiday tomorrow, then have a whole lovely catch to pull in the next day. I’ll drop you by a few for your pot on the way home.” Quayle nodded gloomily. Brookins lit the oil lantern that lighted their prow, then set out into the harbor with Stark.
For a long time Quayle stood, watching the bobbing light on the waves as his friends emptied the traps of their catch. The breeze whipped off the waves and stung, sending sand and salt spray into his eyes. Finally, when the boat’s light was too far out to see anymore he turned his attention north to the twinkling candles that shone in the windows of Jeremy’s Landing, and the bonfires that were beginning to light the village square in anticipation of the solstice.