‘He’s taken a copy of the scholar’s book.’ Risala nodded at the younger man. ‘When the scholar’s heard him read it back, to be sure he hasn’t made any en ors, he’ll certify it as accurate and it can be bound properly.’
‘And how does he pay for it, if you don’t use money?’
Velindre demanded.
‘He offers what he thinks it is worth.’ Risala spoke as if that were obvious. ‘As well as something of equal value to whatever other teaching he’s had. Noted scholars, highly appreciated poets, particularly astute seers—they’ll often find a warlord to house and feed them. So you need to be able at least to bluff you way through this, so no one thinks it too odd that Chazen Kheda is willing to be known as your patron.’ The sensation of crushing emptiness all around was threatening to wholly overwhelm Velindre. She focused desperately on the strange incomprehensibility of the Aldabreshin language instead. What’s he saying? What does the book say?’
The white-bearded scholar spared the pair of them a faintly irritated look. Risala drew Velindre some way back. ‘It’s philosophy.’ She listened for a moment before continuing in a low voice. ‘Consider the round lute. Only one string is plucked but the others around it resound in sympathy. The experience of any individual affects all those around. Consider the fig tree. If its fruit falls in its shadow, the seedlings cannot thrive. If a loal carries the fruit away, whatever is lost on the way can grow into a new tree that feeds many more animals than just the loals. If a village’s hunters kill all the loals, eventually they will have no fig trees. Other animals will go hungry. All our actions have consequences, even if we cannot see them at first hand.’
‘That seems a little simplistic’ Velindre sniffed. ‘Like your rationalisation of slavery.’
Risala looked at her. ‘Perhaps we had better buy you some books of philosophy as well as some history.’
‘Why not?’ Velindre agreed. ‘I shall need something to focus my mind on or I will go mad, thanks to your cursed poisons!’
The white-bearded scholar looked up again, scowling.
‘Keep quiet.’ Risala drew the magewoman further back. We’ve a long voyage ahead of us and you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.’
‘How long?’ Velindre demanded with low urgency.
‘It’s thirty days or so till the rains should break. After that, perhaps another ten days, if the storms don’t delay us too badly.’ Risala looked away to the south, face tightening with apprehension. ‘I only hope we’re not too late.’
Velindre could not have spoken even if she’d had anything to say, the choking sensation in her throat was so vile. She pressed her hands to her face, shaking, fighting to control her horror at the prospect of such a long voyage deprived of her magic.
Chapter Eighteen
You could find something to read.’ Kheda looked up from the much-amended star chart he was annotating further. He studied Dev across the books and charts piled on the table in the middle of the observatory. The mage was staring into the lamp in the centre of the table without blinking, without moving, even when the wind rattled the windows with slews of rain. Kheda paused to listen for any sound down in the rooms below.
If anyone comes up here wondering what we’re doing, we’ll have to say we’re just about to retire for the night. Or say that something woke me, if it gets much later.
‘What?’ The mage dragged his eyes away from the flame.
‘Find something to read,’ Kheda repeated. ‘To take your mind off . . . everything.’
‘Everything?’ mocked Dev, his gaze sliding back to the lamp. ‘Piss on that. All I want to read is the word that Velle and your would-be concubine are finally in Chazen waters.’ He tore himself away from the flame reluctantly to look accusingly at Kheda. Didn’t the courier doves bring any word from Risala? You got plenty of messages today. What did they all say?’
‘There was nothing new, which is at least good news of sorts.’ Kheda moved a book whose open pages detailed potentially significant conjunctions of the lesser constellations. Slips of paper fine as onion skin curled beneath his fingers. ‘There’s been no sign of any wild men since the first of the rains.’
‘So are they finally all dead or just hiding from the wet?’ asked Dev sarcastically. ‘Has the dragon eaten them all? Has it shown itself anywhere? Or has it flown off before its fires are damped by some storm?’ The mage reached for a ceramic cup and drank deeply. ‘Or maybe one of your swordsmen finally skewered the bastard wizard summoning it.’
No one’s seen it.’ Kheda rubbed one of the slippery messages between finger and thumb. ‘But Shipmaster Mezai sent word that the last two caches of gems he left have been plundered.’
‘By savages or the dragon?’ Dev didn’t sound that interested, staring at the golden flame imprisoned in the glass of the lamp again.
‘Hard to say.’ Kheda flicked the scrap of paper away. ‘Does it matter as long as the gems are keeping the beast sated?’
‘How long before Mezai has to come back for more gems?’ Dev demanded. ‘Have you got any to give him? Have you got something to throw at it here, when it comes to smash these towers into rubble?’
‘Yes,’ Kheda retorted. ‘And there’s no reason to expect it will come here. We wouldn’t have returned if I thought there was a chance of that. We waited till we’d passed a full ten days without seeing it, didn’t we?’
‘I suppose it could be something to do with the rains breaking, with the antipathy between fire and water.’ Dev thrust himself away from the table, sending insecure books and papers sliding perilously close to the edge ‘But it’s just waiting for another sniff of my magic, sure as curses.’ He stared out into the dark, clouded night, aims folded tight, shoulders hunched. ‘Unless it’s got Velle’s scent and sent her and the Green Turtle to the bottom of the sea.’
‘Don’t even say such things,’ said Kheda sharply. ‘And we’d have heard if anything like that had happened to the ship. Besides, you said yourself it might be that the beast only pursued you because of your affinity with fire.’ He stumbled reluctantly over the words. ‘It may well be that your magewoman is safe, if her ties are to the air.’
‘So how long before Velle brings me some magic to make the bastard creature sorry it ever flew into these waters?’ Dev murmured viciously, leaning on the windowsill, staring out into the night.
‘Soon, I hope,’ Kheda said curtly. He found his hand straying to his thigh beneath the table, to the pocket in his black trousers.
It’s your imagination. You cannot feel such an insubstantial piece of paper. What are you going to do with it? Burn it? Keep it for a talisman, some token of hope to cling to, until its promise is fulfilled? Risala wrote that she should arrive today. Today is nearly past. What could have held her up, besides the weather? What if she doesn’t arrive today or tomorrow or the next day? How many days before Dev refuses to drink the decoction to stifle his magic? How long before someone discovers him drunk and raises an uproar? What do I do then, when the least punishment he should expect is a flogging and the loss of his sword hand, so no one is ever tempted to trust him with their life again?
Kheda watched without comment as Dev refilled his cup from a small blue glass bottle. Dev drank greedily, desperately, spilling a few colourless drops on to the plain brown tunic he wore, little different from Kheda’s own.
The barbarian looked at him belligerently. Do you want to try some?