Dear Mother,
Since leaving the comforts of home for ?elasdur, the letters I send have been one of few reminders of the familiar. This linen upon which I write, repurposed from flax that did not meet father’s standards, feels as comforting beneath my palm’s heel as the brush of your hand on my forehead. This bone pen comes from my first Covenant. This ink was a gift from Lord Nudva’s office when his son left my care. I write in the glow of the lantern Father gave me upon reaching adulthood.
Surely the puzzle box you gifted me will soon become such a treasured keepsake, but for now, the mystery remains opaque. After these Nights struggling in vain to meet the task you set out, I wonder if this is not a problem to solve but a lesson in patience, in failure, in obsession. You often remind me that forty years is little more than infancy and I must not be so confident in my cleverness.
I do not feel clever distant from your guidance, Mother. With no reply to my letters, my questions grow numerous. How to open the box and why you entrusted it to me fall secondary to the mystery of your silence—whether my letters fail to reach you, or yours to me, or whether you are ill and can no longer sit in your study. I trust the latter thought to be paranoia. The ramblings of a fatigued mind.
Enclosed, you will find a sum that I request you deposit into my account at Gildergreen. I pray for your health and the success of your shop. Pray that the howling winds of ?elasdur quiet so I may sleep.
~
Working was prohibited during the week of Biltane, when they opened the city for the Peony Marsh Market. The drains were cleared so that once-flooded streets could dry in the sun. Temporary shops stood on uneven legs to keep level against the road’s steep grade. Despite a chilly wind that smelled of rotting gourds, city folk acted like it was Sibíko summertime, leaving overrobes folded on benches to bask in tunics.
Esor an Amen huddled within his winter cloak while sitting at a teahouse patio, accompanied by his colleagues.
“Did you hear the Heralds at dawn?” asked Governess Malenē, holding a delicate teacup. Her keroterase made the party large enough to occupy the entire patio. “Kamim?es’s fishport has fallen under siege by the Dwarrow Warlord. There were a dozen Low families there—all dead before Amalen’s troops arrived.”
Esor had heard the songs. The Warlord’s name was always on Herald lips. The previous Night, Esor had dreamed of a bloated bear dripping blood, hollow eyes staring, and that bear had been called Warlord.
“The Dwarrow are nightmarishly swift,” àstin said. “You would never expect such squat little cave-demons to be so quick coming from the sea. Twelve families would be nothing.”
Esor occupied himself with his tea, fussing with the spoon and the milk and taking time to smell the steam. “Kamim?es is to the north, isn’t it?”
“Deep in the Frostlands,” àstin said. “A vulnerable target. If the Magistrate had ordered them to relocate to Rosen—”
“Abandon ports?” Malenē scowled. She tossed her hair over her fur ruff. “As if the price of fish weren’t high enough. Amalen should protect the villages rather than letting the Warlord burn them.”
Esor choked on his tea at her blunt criticism. àstin slapped Esor’s back until he breathed again.
“We don’t need to worry about the war here,” àstin said. “There’s no reaching us so far to the southwest. The Maiur fleet won’t let a Dwarrow swoop cross the Set straits, and Orkar won’t let them take the long way around the Sou’eastenland shores. Let us discuss cheerier matters.”
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“What else is there to talk about?” Malenē asked. “Would you prefer to discuss the poor comportment I suffer from my students or the frivolity of festivals?”
“Frivolity is an essential part of life,” Esor said. “We were not merely put on this land to labor, but to celebrate.”
The lady had no appetite for her teacakes. She pushed them toward her commanding kerotera so he could eat them. “I’ll not be attending the parade this veton. The past two years have been a blink and I am still in no want of flower crowns.”
“Similarly, I’ve plans to work,” said àstin. “This is the first week I’ve had no lessons in an era. I fully intend to take advantage. Better than attempting to celebrate the warm seasons in a place where spring flowers wither when we water them.”
“How can the city be anything but dreary if we never celebrate?” Esor tempted them by spinning visions of holy revelry: sewing streamers, building fires to dance around, and staying on the streets to drink mead until the last of Light faded. He may have been successful if he had not finished by saying, “Then we will make offerings to Nam?, so next veton, she may bless us with abundance.”
Malenē stood, robes of potash blue tumbling straight along her rigid physique. “If you make offerings to Nam? at the feet of ?elasdur, then you are the festival’s fool, and my urge to attend is even less.” She tossed her napkin to the table. “We shall luncheon again tomorrow to discuss mutual students, Master àstin. You should feel no need to attend, Master Esor.”
The group left quietly besides leather scuffing against leather. The abrupt departure sent a ripple of dismay through the maids. Esor was numb with awkwardness at the exit. As usual, àstin remained unperturbed, even smiling.
“Forgive Malenē for acting precious. She is the first High born to her father’s new House,” àstin said. “Their family is one in a million and she knows it.” Seldom did Low families achieve manumission of enough generations to ascend to High status.
Esor’s fingers traced the peak of his right ear. “As sour as the governess can be, I imagine her husband is sourer for surviving her.”
“The marriage deal is struck, but Malenē won’t marry until the groom comes of age. She terrorizes the rest of us in the meantime. Pity her husband’s future.” àstin drank his tea, though it was hot enough to scald a heart when swallowed. “You’ll be disappointed by our festivals. Use the time to rest. You look as though you need it.”
“Correctly judged.” Esor’s exhaustion remained absolute.
“I’m sure the doctor could give you something to help with that.”
Esor rubbed his arms, taken with sudden chill.
Heralds sang news across the harbor. Conversations silenced as everyone stilled to listen. The method was the same across Disunam?, part of the same network, with each voice singing in a round to convey information to the next tower.
?The Republic has reclaimed ports occupied by the Warlord.?
?The Warlord has relocated to the waters of Men.?
?Kirēd needed for new vessels. Prices have risen.?
?Luxuries restricted. The price of barley has fallen.?
Minute details could be conveyed through the vast harmonies of l?sàlvaren. Somewhere, attentive clerks logged figures, stewards drafted social calendars, and generals planned maneuvers. Military Osurmite filtered the songs using arcane acoustics to receive coded messages none other could understand. To Esor, àstin, and thousands of other citizens, it sounded like being assailed with hymns.
“Teatime is over,” said àstin when the songs began growing distant again. He had other matters to attend, thus bid farewell.
Esor asked for another moment of time. “Pray, if you were to inherit an obscure lock of pedigree unknown, is there anyone in the city you would trust to open it? An artisan attending the market on such a fine day?”
“We have few artisans, and fewer skilled enough to do anything interesting.”
Esor showed the locked box to àstin. Its polished outer walls remained impossibly pristine no matter how often Esor handled it with dirty hands. “Nothing like this?”
àstin considered its design. “I stand corrected. A village locksmith works locks by inferior races. You can only find him at the docks, dire as they are.”
“Could you take me there?” Esor asked.
“Even I will not go to the sin?os except to leave it,” said àstin. “I’ve no business in the village. Few reputable souls do.”
Esor shook àstin’s hand, thanked him for his help, and sought the xilcadis gates. Nam?’s golden eye smiled upon the warming streets.
