Patronage

David Cook

 

"Master Koja, have you forgotten? Tonight is Duke Piniago's dinner. You are going, aren't you?"

The pricking scratch of my quill ends as my secretary's shadow falls across the parchment sheet on which I am toiling. Light is precious in this dim tower closet the priests have granted me, and now my aide, granted by those selfsame clerics of Denier, has managed to position his broad self in front of the only window.

Looking up, I blink as his girth is swathed in the glow of daylight beyond. I am annoyed by his presence, since it is an interruption of my solitude, but I cannot ignore his question. Besides, my secretary is a good priest, so I curb my temper, pushing back the stack of parchment before me, and considering.

"I am undecided, Firstborn Foxe." I cannot manage the accents of his honest family name, foreign to me though common enough in this city, so I call him Firstborn in honor of his birth. "I have heard your gossip about his table, all the magnificent dishes he serves-the finest in Procampur. What if it were to overtax my humble stomach? Besides, I am not learned in the ways of your western courts and might offend him. After all, I am only a simple lama."

Foxe will not relent as he gathers up the sheets and fusses in a bass voice that matches his size. "Simple lama, indeed," he mutters, once again assuming because of my weatherbeaten and shaved looks that I am old and therefore hard of hearing. "You are a famous historian. You were a guest of the king of Cormyr and wrote a history of the Tuigan wars for him." From one of the book-crowded shelves, he takes a bundle of blotting paper and cuts the twine.

"It was not a history, Firstborn Foxe, only a few incomplete notes on the customs of the Tuigan-nothing at all compared to Goodman Reaverson's complete account of the wars." I recall the bard Reaverson's patient translation and guidance with those notes. For the time he put in, my work had been as much his as mine.

"The duke has money and he likes the arts," Foxe reminds me with an irritated glare. He thrusts my manuscript into the hands of waiting scribe. The boy nods and slowly backs down the stairs, apparently reluctant to miss any of our words. I wave him away. It is clear I will write no more today.

"The duke has all the manners of a foreigner." My insult, the worst to any born in the East as I have been, is lost on Foxe. "He is less than pleasant," I explain. "I am a poor ambassador, Foxe. I will say something foolish to anger him. There must be some other way to raise the money to pay the scriveners and binders or some cheaper way to have a book copied. Perhaps a wizard could conjure duplicates." I barely glance at my secretary. Perhaps he will disappear if I do not look at him, the way the epistemological Brother Ulin claims everything should-what we do not observe does not exist.

"Hah! That kind of work's beneath most mages. Too much like a trade." Foxe snorts; he has seen through my deceit. "You know there is no need for this. You can stay with us here at the temple while you write. I'll make sure the high scrivener sends copies of your Tuigan history to every temple of Denier throughout the Heartlands."

I shake my head. We have discussed this before and he knows some of my feelings, but both Foxe and I are too stubborn to relent. Part of the problem is my pride, for I have been too long a guest at this temple of the Lord of Glyphs, ever since leaving King Azoun's court in Suzail. More importantly, and the point I have not told Foxe, is that in all those temples, the priests will tuck my history of the Tuigan into their great vaults and no one will ever see it again. I do not feel heroic enough to make such a futile gesture.

Tired of arguing, I look out the tower's small window, signaling Foxe I wish him to go. My high chamber gives me an ample view of Procampur, looking across the walled wards to the sea at the far end of the city. Smoke drifts lazily above the colorful roofs, whole districts tiled in blue for seamen, yellow for taverns and other services, and the sea green that denotes merchants. All are dotted with patches of late winter snow, dull white and sooty gray. It is this peculiarity of Procampur's people, reflected in their roofs, that I like, far more comforting to me than Suzail, where I spent my first years in the West.

In the capital of King Azoun, victor of the crusade over the Tuigan, there was always the feeling that I was a spoil of war-a scholar oddity from the conquered court of Yamun Khahan-no matter how kindly I was treated, no matter how fascinating the city was. When Denier's priests offered me the chance to travel, I accepted eagerly. Looking over the city now, I welcome my decision. Procampur, with its walled wards carefully dividing the city into merchant, noble, and priest, reminds me of a proper Khazari city-of home. There is a sense of order and place here that Suzail lacked.

Perhaps, I realize with a start, I stay here because I want to go home.

Foxe's deep voice rumbles up from the stone stairwell as he undoubtedly accosts the boy still lurking near the top steps. "Lay out the master's orange monk robes for tonight. After that, get to work on today's pages. Have them transcribed before morning."

"More pages," whines the reedy-voiced lad with resignation. "Master Koja doesn't make Azoun's crusade heroic enough. It's got no dragons or anything."

"Maybe you should leave now," comes Foxe's suddenly gruff reply. "Go do your copying."

The youth is oblivious to Foxe's reproach. I am glad Foxe cannot see my smile. "If it were like, you know, like the Lay of the Purple Dragons-the one that bard-uh, Talamic- sings at the Griffin's Claw. That's a good story of a crusade, full of knights and magic. I really like the part the part where the gods appear to King Azoun and bless the crusade. Master Koja should write about that."

"Go!" Foxe snarls as fiercely as a priest can manage. There is a scuffling of feet as the acolyte complies.

The stairs silent, I return to my writing for another try, shifting the table slightly to make better use of the sunlight. The legs scrape over the hard stone floor, the sound quickly swallowed up by the walls of sea-mildewed tomes. I take up the quill again.

During the summer season, a popular sport among the Tuigan men was to hunt the snow beasts of the mountains-

There is an ink blot on my parchment, caused by my inattention, so I must set aside the quill and carefully clean the stain. I am thankful for the coarse parchment's poor absorbency as I daub it up with a scrap of leftover paper-a sample of real paper that Foxe has brought for me to examine. It is a cheap handbill, covered with large blockish script:

Announcing the services of Forgemaster Inks tain and his wondrous printing device!

More writing is obscured by absorbed ink. In trying to read the rest, it stains my fingers smudgy black.

"Firstborn Foxe!"

Hurried footsteps come up the stairs in response to my excited cry. "What is it, Master Koja?" my flushed secretary wheezes as lumbers up the stone steps of the tower.

"Who is this Forgemaster Inkstain?" Unable to restrain my curiosity, I leave my desk and come face-to-face with Foxe as he plods, face red and puffy, through the arched doorway. The foolscap flutters eagerly in my fingers under his nose. I have never before seen letters so black and methodically drawn. Foxe looks surprised as he takes the sheet and holds it close to his face, squinting to read it in the dim light.

"He's one of the new-fangled printers, sir."

"A printer-some type of scribe?"

Foxe puckers his fat cheeks as he seeks a way to explain it to me. "Like a scrivener, master, except he uses some sort of contraption to copy the pages."

"Like Sister Deara's enchanted copyist?" The sister had been working in one of the vaults to form a perfect scribe from sculpted clays, a creature called a golem. In the one test I witnessed, her hulking brute smashed a writing desk by driving a quill through the wooden top. The thing now stands mute guard over the main hall, porter to occasional guests.

"Not like that, sir," Foxe allows with a smile. "It stamps out the pages, making lots of copies at one time."

"I would very much like to see this. Can you find the place?"

Foxe squints at the sheet again. "It says he's on Scribes' Alley, I think. That's easy enough."

"Then, Foxe, I ask you to take me to Forgemaster Inkstain. If we are quick, your dinner will not go to waste. We must inquire about printing-and its costs."

Foxe stands flustered as I slip past him and pad down the steps. "Printing costs? What for?" Foxe cries as he hurries after me, his paunch jiggling. "The church already has one copy of your work, bound with Goodman Reaverson's history, and we will happily copy your next book. Master Koja, why waste your money to make more?"

I stop at the bottom of the steps, and out of unbreakable habit give the man a polite bow. "Call it this one's wretched vanity, but it would be good for more people to know the truth of the war. Do you not agree?"

"Master Koja, not that many souls can read anyway."

"Perhaps my humble work will inspire them to learn." I hurry on, determined not to be delayed. "Besides, I might be able to avoid Duke Piniago's dinner."

Foxe hurries after because he knows me too well. "At least wait until I get my get my coat," he says with resignation.

 

* * * * *

 

The walk to Forgemaster Inkstain's is cold, not the dry cold of my mountainous homeland, but a damp wintry breeze from the harbor, a cold that I have grown accustomed to here. The road that we follow, known here as the Great Way, is quiet, but that only stirs unease in me. The growing shadows from the sun as it sinks toward the swelling waters of the Inner Sea only add to the barrenness. I have never been comfortable with solitude, despite -or perhaps because of-the bleakness of my native Khazari.

I am relieved when we leave the main avenue and Foxe guides me through the gate of the Merchants District, where the narrow streets are close-pressed by the green-roofed workshops and apartments. The air is rich with smells that only cities have, whether from Khazari to Cormyr. Procampur reeks of wood smoke and sewage, overripe fish and buttered pastries. By curious connections it calls to mind the days spent sipping buttered tea around dung fires in my lord Yamun's tent on the open steppe.

"Hurry up, master. This air will make us ill." Foxe has wrapped his face with a thick scarf until I can barely see his small eyes. "It is bitter cold out today."

I almost laugh, since I am walking beside him bareheaded with Only my spring robes on, but that would be impolite. "Firstborn Foxe, were I home in Khazari-then I would be cold. By now the trails to the Red Mountain- where I was a lama-might be barely passable. This is only a little wind, like the spring breeze on the steppe."

"Do you ever miss your home?"

"What?"

"You told me you've been away ten years, first with the Tuigan and then here in the West. Don't you ever get homesick?"

I think about Khazari-soaring mountains crusted with glaciers, isolated monasteries for those seeking enlightenment. I watched Yamun Khahan conquer my homeland; I rode at his side when he did it. Now my lord Yamun is dead and his empire gone. Furo, the Mighty One, forgive me, but I miss the khahan more than I miss Khazari.

"It is my shame to admit I miss proper food, Firstborn Foxe. I may never get used to your Procampan cooking- too many rich meats and raw vegetables. I would dearly like a little kumiss, rice, and tea."

"Ugh-kumiss-soured horse milk. Your stomach is stronger than you say."

"Ah, Firstborn Foxe, in the Yanitsava, it is said all things have their balance. Kumiss fires the blood and purges cooling humors from the body. Those roasts such as you eat unbalance the weak and strong animus within you." I look with meaning at Foxe's broad waist.

Foxe returns my look evenly. "I am balanced just fine, Master Koja. After all, I carry your books up and down those stairs every day. Mind the mud there."

We avoid the puddles in Procampur's unflagged streets, the water fresh from yesterday's winter rain. And as the sodden way clears before us, we hear the bellow of machinery. It comes from a rickety shop through the next alley's archway.

"Oi, watch that bucket, you ink-sloppin' runt o' an apprentice! I'll take every drop out o' yer miserable wage. How'd you like that, eh?"

Forgemaster Inkstain is in.

The shop is nothing more than a lean-to slapped onto the side of a teamster's stable. A paper sign, tattered and water-stained, is tacked near the door. The black ink is streaked from the lettering till it runs into the grain of the pine boards. This is not encouraging, but through the gapped boards comes the squeaking rumble of grinding metal that ends in a thickly padded thump. It is as if a host of rusty knights is stumbling about the room. Foxe's puzzled look tells me he, too, is mystified.

Inside, the clanking bedlam maintains its thunderous tempo. The source is a squat mass of metal and wood crammed into the center of the shed, surrounded by buckets and bales of rag paper in all colors. Nearby, the dwarven master berates his ogre apprentice from atop a crate. The din has concealed our entrance. The thick, hairy back of the apprentice bends and strains in time with the contraption as his thick, warty arms pull on a long lever that wrenches the grinding gears into the motions. Iron arms rise and fall, metallic claws snatching sheets of foolscap from a stack and pushing them into a mechanical maw.

"Don't push her so hard, you lout! Here, ease off an' grease her up. I'll-" Forgemaster Inkstain catches sight of us from the corner of his eye. His demeanor instantly changes. "Gentlemen, I'm favored to have you visit my humble shop," the dwarf shouts as he clambers down from his perch. "I be Forgemaster Inkstain, master printer. Aguul, shut her down, so these gentlemen can hear."

I am afraid I am rudely gawking, having never dealt much with the dwarves-creatures of the West as they are. The master printer is nothing like the fierce ironlord who commanded the dwarves of King Azoun's army. Truly the name does him justice, for Inkstain seems to be a single blot of ink, all four-and-a-half feet of him. His leather apron and starched linen shirt are a smudgy black. I think his beard is white, though now it is a gray mass tucked into his belt for safety. Only the top of his bald head is undaubed.

"I had her shipped up from the Deep itself," the dwarf proudly says, the machine's racket finally stilled. Aguul lumbers off, barely squeezing his way through the door to the stable.

"The deep?"

"The Deep-Dwarves' Deep, home to me kin an' all that. Now, what can I do fer you gentlemen?"

Foxe intercedes on my behalf, slipping his portly body between us. "Forgemaster Inkstain, my master is Koja of Khazari, lama of the Red Mountain, emissary of the Tuigan, and grand historian of Yamun Khahan, former emperor of the steppes. He has come to discuss terms for a printing."

I do not like these titles, but Foxe has already explained the need to impress the dwarf. I thought this would not work, and I am proved correct. Forgemaster Inkstain remains stolidly unimpressed. "Printin' what?"

I let Foxe negotiate. "My master is just completing his Observations of the Tuigan Historian, Recording the Life of Yamun Khahan from his Rise to his Death in the Lands of the West, from Notes made for King Azoun of Cormyr."

'Title's kind o' long."

"We can call it A History of the Tuigan." Foxe concedes too willingly, I think.

Forgemaster Inkstain gnaws at a nail before finally clearing off a corner of the half-buried desk that is his office. "Well then, how many copies? What kind o' paper? Any illuminations? Illustrations? Ordinary bindin' or would you be wantin' somethin' odd, like dragonscale or wyvern hide? You be holy men-ain't no magical verse, would there be?" Forgemaster Inkstain asks the last with a slow suspicion in his voice.

"There will be a sutra at the beginning-to invoke Furo's favor," I offer.

"Magical?" The dwarfs face is a wrinkled scowl.

"No. Just a verse of the Yanitsava."

"Oh, that's all right then," the dwarf says, smiling once again. "Ain't able to print magic on a page, you see. Just won't take."

The rest of the details are beyond me, so I sit in the corner, letting Foxe negotiate. Each point seems to take an interminable amount of time; there is nothing for me to do but meditate, but I cannot blank my mind. Memories intrude on the emptiness-snow melting from the grassy steppe, the sharp taste of kumiss in Yamun's tent, the wind blowing across the granite spires of Khazari. Even the failure to meditate brings forth memories of my teachers at the Red Mountain. Of late, I have been thinking more and more of places past, as if the present is an empty shell that must be filled.

Finally Foxe concludes the negotiations. His face is dour, and I can see it has not gone well. Forgemaster Inkstain steps forward, no longer beaming but serious. "Well, honored sir, your servant has concluded a price o' no more than ten thousand gold lions or-let's see-eight if it all be Procampan coin-fer the necessary plates an' supplies fer one book. After that, let's say five hundred lions fer extra copies. Is those acceptable terms to you, honored sir?"

Ten thousand gold is more than I have, more than the value of all Yamun's gifts I still possess. Foxe's helpless look tells me the price will be no lower. I look at the walls, hung with flimsy sheets covered with rows of splotchy black printing. The paper is coarse and ragged, the illustrations crude. The sheets I see cannot compare to the careful illuminations prepared at the temple or the vermillion scrolls I have collected from Shou Lung. The cost is too much for such poor quality. "Forgemaster Inkstain," I answer with a bow, hoping to save face, "I will consider your terms. Come, Firstborn Foxe, we must go."

I hurry out the door before the dwarf can protest. I am embarrassed by this adventure, that Forgemaster Inkstain knows what I cannot pay, even that I considered the plan at all. Foxe runs after me. "I told you this was unnecessary," my secretary chides. "The dwarfs device is only a toy good for nothing but handbills. Besides, Inkstain would not come down a copper bit in his price. Please understand, I tried very hard for you, Master Koja."

"You have done what you could, I am certain," I answer to placate Foxe. "I have wasted your time with a foolish idea. I have no choice...."

"You'll go to Duke Piniago's tonight? Everything will be prepared. Don't worry, master."

I feel a repugnance about begging from the duke, but I am ashamed to rely any longer on the generosity of the clerics. Am I acting out of pride, though? When this dinner is over, I must increase my meditation and regain the center of my being. But for now, there is inescapable duty. Since leaving the monastery, I have lived through war and treachery at Yamun's side. Now, it seems, I am reduced to peddling my knowledge to aristocrats. In a previous life I must have strayed far from the Path of Enlightenment for things to be such as they are now.

"Very well. I will go. Let us hope your acolyte has laid things out as you instructed." Watching Foxe, I see his jowls relax with relief at my decision.

 

* * * * *

 

Reluctance delays my footsteps, punctuality urges me onward, until at last I arrive at Duke Piniago's palace-neither late nor early. The manse is well back in the Nobles District, where the silvered roofs of that quarter gleam in the unflickering light of the magical street lamps. As I wend through the well-cobbled avenues, the fog trumpets gloomily warn of the impending encroachment of mists over the city, a final encouragement to hurry before that wet chill arrives.

The duke's palace is encompassed by walls, high and carved with grotesque creatures that leer fiercely in the shadowy night. Between the statues jut iron spikes, clearly meant to deter the outside world, including me.

Palanquin bearers brusquely order me aside as I near the courtyard gate. From the passing windows of the closeted boxes, perfumed and powdered faces stare at me in disbelief. No one of importance walks through the streets of Procampur, especially alone. I do not find the walk arduous-even on this damp night. The city air is bracing. Besides, a palanquin would be an ill-befitting indulgence, and I must be more diligent with myself.

Like the guests, the guards at the courtyard gate stare at me. Foxe was right about my choice of clothing. With my orange lama's robes and shaved head I hardly look like one of the duke's customary guests. Nonetheless, I wear the faded cotton as a connection to my past.

Inside the palace, a powdered servant in showy livery guides me through the carpeted outer chambers where enchanted music wafts ethereally through the halls, theme and tempo changing to suit each room. Already the guests have taken their places in the banquet hall, crowded at a table burdened with glowing tapers and platters heaped with viands. My seat, two down from the duke, is the only empty one of the twenty-two chairs I count at the long table. Habit makes me count-the need to know numbers, reasons, and causes.

"Greetings to our distinguished foreign guest," hails Duke Piniago from the head of the overfull board. He heaves to his feet, massively tall and broad, his thick black beard stained with wine. Waving a goblet around so it splashes wine on the shoulder of the plump courtesan next to him, he proclaims, "This is a rare occasion everyone, for I have lured the eminent anchorite from his lair!" He bangs the goblet on the table, showering wine across the white tablecloth. The elaborately coifed heads at the table turn to him, then to me. The other guests do not disguise their opinions of my humble appearance.

The duke continues, but I cannot say if he is in his cups or naturally so coarse. "Fellow lords, esteemed gentlemen and ladies, I introduce to you a truly unique dinner guest, the-um ..."

"Lama, your lordship."

"Lama Koja. I am sure he has many interesting and curious stories about the Tuigan-those savages who believed they could conquer all the West. Lama Koja, you see, was a scribe of the barbarian leader, Yamun."

So, I am to be tonight's entertainment. "Indeed, it is true that I was grand historian to the court of Yamun Khahan." I gently try to correct his description of my post. It is a vain attempt.

"Sit at our table, lama, and enjoy. Tonight, let no man say you are poorly fed." The duke settles back heavily into his thronelike seat.

Barely have I taken my place before the meal is served. The roasts, sauces, and pies presented certainly uphold the duke's reputation as a gourmand, but I only gingerly sample them, more accustomed to simple bread and vegetables. Next to me, a thin venerable, his wispy beard floating like white yak hair, piles the rich offerings high. Noticing my gaze, he nods an over-solicitous smile and plops a quivering, rare slice of beef on my platter.

"Is it the custom of your people not to eat or drink?" the duke rumbles, noticing my reticence. "Perhaps you are one of those races said to subsist on air."

"He's certainly thin enough, Jozul," giggles the consort seated next to him.

"My greatest apologies, Your Lordship. I assure you I require sustenance like all mortals. It is just that since arriving in Procampur, I have tried to adhere to the sutras- that is, the teachings of the mighty Furo."

"So?"

"By Furo's law, strong drink and flesh are to be avoided-"

"Stuff and nonsense," the duke interrupts while waving a servant for more wine. His black brows are knit, his face a scowl. "People say the barbarians ate insects."

"Perhaps in times of great hunger, honored sir. I never knew of such habits among the Tuigan. Nonetheless, it is true that among the Tuigan vegetables were unknown and so I was compelled to violate the teachings of Furo and the dictates of the Red Mountain. However," I add quickly while accepting a dish of boiled root vegetables, "your table is civilized, so that I need not starve while retaining my vows." The duke seems placated by my answer.

"I can't imagine living among such savages," remarks the ancient next to me, who I guess to be a priest from the temple of Tymora Duke Piniago nods in agreement as he tears a wing from a roast goose.

"It is held by some sages of my homeland that the gods choose every man's life at birth. It is our duty to discover what life is intended for us. I do not think many of Yamun's warriors could imagine sitting here either."

"But we westerners beat those horse thieves, didn't we?" It is Duke Piniago who speaks to the murmured approval of his guests I know, because Foxe told me, that Duke Piniago took little part in the war, profiteering on the supplies the crusading army needed. These pampered and groomed peers are nothing like the hard-minded and stoic warriors who met the Tuigan horde. I remember the plain of Thesk where King Azoun met my lord Yamun and slew him, although I think my memories are quite different from the men whose glory the duke seeks to inflate.

I phrase my reply carefully. "Indeed. As the great sage Chih said, Truly a kingdom's victory is shared by all her people from the noble to the peasant.'"

"Precisely-every man in Procampur feels proud," the duke blithely agrees, raising his glass for a toast.

"It is sad the people think you only fought a tribe of bandits, Your Lordship. Would it not be wise to print a history of the Tuigan, so that others would know their true might?"

"A history such as yours, priest?"

"I have expanded the notes I made for King Azoun into a small volume. I hesitate to offer it."

Duke Piniago leans over his plate. "You're being coy with me, priest. What'll it cost?" he demands in a fierce whisper so only those near us hear.

There is no point trying to be polite with this blunt-headed man. 'Ten thousand golden lions, Your Lordship."

“Ten thousand! For one book?" The duke hurls a gnawed bone to his dogs. His voice is no longer quiet.

"That is the necessary cost to prepare the impressions for the printer-so I understand, Your Lordship. Additional books would be five hundred lions." It seems that everyone at our end of the table has fallen silent, waiting for the duke's response.

"Additional copies?" the duke queries. He turns to the old priest beside me. "Since when do scribes deal in multiple copies at cut-rate prices, Hierarch?"

"Never, Your Lordship."

I wet my dry throat on some fruit nectar brought for me. "I was going to have the books made by a printing machine, not a copyist, honorable sir."

The hierarch snorts in disgust. "Printing machines- hah! Only good for cheap broadbills. Can't even make a proper prayerbook with one-won't print the magic, you see."

"The book is not magical," I protest.

"It doesn't matter. A scribe can do the job just as well," the duke interjects. "What do I need with multiple books? I only need one for my library."

I am stunned, unable to think of any reasoned reply. "Surely others might want to read my book-"

"Of course they will, you silly man," the duke's gaudy consort sneers, batting her eyes as she does so. "Do you think Jozul would spend all that money so everyone might own a copy? He keeps the only book in his library so anybody who wants to read it has to ask his permission."

I look to the duke, hoping he will correct her, but his face is set in an smug smile. She has described it all too well.

I am at complete loss for words. All these years I have worked as a historian, carefully checking the letters I managed to save from Yamun's downfall, interviewing the occasional Tuigan prisoner who passed through Procampur on a slave galley, even poring over the maps of caravan masters who have traveled to the East. All this work and the duke wants to hoard it for himself. It is impossible.

Stiffly I rise from my chair, unable to think of any polite wording to express my refusal. I bow to the assembled company, two rows of aristocrats and their sycophants, glittering among the candelabras and chandeliers. They are all silent, watching me like spirits in an evil-omened dream where sinister faces observe from every turn.

"I have imposed upon your table. Please forgive me, Duke Piniago. I will leave you now," I say stiffly. Without inviting any further discussion, I take my leave, backing politely toward the exit.

The duke makes no effort to stop me. Even as I leave the banquet hall, the trickles of unsubdued laughter follow. I have not failed, at least, as entertainment. The footman guides me out of the palace. At the gate the startled guards watch me pass. No one, I imagine, has ever walked out early on one of the duke's parties.

Cold winter mists are roiling in from the port, soaking my thin robes as I leave the Nobles District to cross the Great Way for home. The vapors diffuse the lamplight, making the walled compounds and flagged streets shine greasy black. The silver roofs glow as if of their own accord. Dogs bark at my passing and guards eye me suspiciously, a solitary stranger in foreign robes prowling the night.

By the time I depart the Nobles District, my distaste for the duke has grown, feeding on the wet night and the day's frustrations. The pangs of homesickness return, and more than ever my heart longs for the ice-flecked mountain air of Khazari. The desire is strengthened by the memories of things from my youth-tsampo porridge, buttered tea, playing on the fresh snowfields, even the rattling drone of the prayer wheels as they endlessly turn.

My abrupt appearance before the gate startles the guards of the Temple District, just as their sudden emergence from the fog wakens me from my reverie. They greet me with familiarity as they unbolt the closed gate. I make no answer; I have no mood for talk.

Inside, the stone temples, their black roofs invisible in the night, ascend into the mists. It is quiet, the business of saving souls done for the day. Back in Khazari, the monastery would echo with the chanted sutras and cymbals of the lamas who maintained the vigil through the night, keeping order in the universe.

Is there no place for me among these outlanders? Only a few care for learning, but they know nothing of inner harmony. Foxe is among the few who have shown any desire to understand. He would make a good lama if he were not so hasty in his judgments. Yet haste is valued here, in this city of dukes and dwarven printers....

It is then I decide that I have been away from the center of my being too long. It is time to go home.

Entering the shrine of Denier by a side door, I pad barefooted across the main chamber, guided by the light of a thousand votive candles arranged on the altar. I feel guilty as I take one to light my way up the stairs to my cell, not far from the study where I write. There I begin arranging my belongings, trying not to wake Foxe, who sleeps in the cell across from mine. I must leave a gift to the temple for their kindness-the copy of my manuscript and perhaps, as I heft it, Yamun's golden paitza. I doubt this warrant of safe passage from the khahan will afford me much aid recrossing the steppe now that he is dead.

The rustling of my papers wakes Foxe. His cell door creaks as it opens, and he ambles into the room, nightshirt flapping around his bare legs. Sleep clings to him as he sees me, his eyes blinking in their puffy sockets. "Master, you're back! What did the duke say?"

"The honorable duke requested only a single book." I continue sorting my papers.

"Oh, no." Foxe notices my packing. "You didn't-" There is a look of reproach in his brightening eyes, like a teacher disappointed in his pupil.

"One gains no merit in harsh words, Foxe, but the learned duke will not print my history. He would have made a single copy and kept it all for himself. This history is not written for just him, but for all who think songs like Lay of the Purple Dragons and the tales told by old warriors around the fire are the truth of your 'crusade.' Yamun Khahan never called it a crusade; he never tried to make it more than it was-a war. Neither does King Azoun. He knows what the war cost."

I stop packing. I am tired and do not want to do anything more this night. Closing my eyes, I chant a prayer to Furo for strength. "I have written what I know, and no one wants to read it."

"As a priest of Denier I'll read it, master. You know that." Perhaps thinking he can change my mind, Foxe begins unpacking what I have prepared.

'To put it away in your secret vaults with all the other volumes your faith has collected."

"Our libraries are open to all." Foxe does not fail to defend his church, but his scowl softens. He is more concerned for me, 1 believe, and that is why I will miss him. "There are always others besides the duke."

"Foxe, I am tired of begging from city to city. There is no more reason for me to be here. I am going back to my homeland." I rub wearily at the stubble of my shaved head.

Foxe's hands stop in midair, holding a ream of ink-traced parchment. "You're leaving?"

I nod.

Foxe sets the paper down and carefully smoothes his nightshirt. He speaks with great sorrow. "There's no need for you to go. Everyone at the temple will agree. Even the high scrivener praises your knowledge and wisdom."

"No, Firstborn Foxe, there is nothing for me here."

He sees that I am resolute and gives up. For a time he stands just watching me, until at last, with great reluctance, he passes over those things he has unpacked. We work in silence, feeling the bond that can sometimes be built between a scholar and his secretary. I thought him rude and rash when we first met, but it was only his way of trying to help me. I have learned more about the West from him-less about kings and more about common people- than I ever learned in Suzail. In exchange, I have tried to teach him proper manners, but Foxe can only become whatever he is fated to be by his karma-my influence is pre-ordained within it. I, too, must accept the fate I have earned from previous lifetimes.

We have done little more than organize the sheaves of yellowed parchment and tied a few in corded bundles when the stairwell rumbles with the distant clap of the temple's door knocker. A twinge of irrational dread chills me. Have I offended Duke Piniago more than I know-enough that he might send thugs against me? The thought passes as quickly as it came; assassins would never pound on the main doors.

"Quickly, let us see who it is before the entire temple is roused." I look to Foxe; even through the sleepy gape that gives him a double chin his curiosity shows clearly.

"Nothing but trouble and surprises all night," my companion moans as he looks at his bare toes, barely visible from beneath the curve of his nightshirt, and hurries to his cell to clothe himself in more proper attire.

Hastily dressed, Foxe follows me down the coiling stairs, belting his robe as he goes. The knock resounds again as I hustle across the main hall, still lit by the votives on the altar. A tall figure stands by the door. At first I mistake it for our caller, then I note it is nothing more than Sister Deara's failed copyist. At Foxe's command, the clanking golem draws back the ponderous door to admit our caller.

Without a word, a man steps in and bows deeply to Foxe and me. In the luster of candlelight his clothes are silken, dyed deep blue, but cut like the robes I wear-Khazari in design. His hair is black and braided. No mark of office or heraldry does he wear, yet from his poise there is no mistaking the dress as servant's livery.

"Lama Koja of the Red Mountain," the servant says politely. His voice has the familiar accents of home. "My mistress has heard of your travails this night. She hopes you will honor her by attending a late dinner."

How could anyone have heard what happened and act so quickly? Sorcery possibly, but who would bother to waste such magic on me? "Dinner? Mistress? Explain yourself," I demand out of caution.

The servant smiles. "There is no cause to fear, Lama Koja. My mistress is a friend to scholars. You must come quickly, for we stay in this city only for a little while."

"I wouldn't do it, master," Foxe indiscreetly advises. "This could be a thief's trick."

Foxe may be right; I shouldn't go, but I am too intrigued to refuse. Besides, I am perfectly capable of protecting myself. I did more than just watch during my years with Yamun's armies, and the lamas of the Red Mountain monastery taught me well how to deal with spirits. With a few charms I was packing I will be safe. "My simple robes would dishonor my hostess. Wait while I change, then lead me to her."

The servant smiles once more. There is a catlike gleam in his eyes and a sharpness to his teeth that startles me. Upstairs I find the protective fetishes I seek. On the way back down I review my prayers and charms to ward off evil.

Once outside the temple, fog closes about us until I can barely see my guide. He sets a brisk pace, but always stays just within sight. We pass through the gate of the Temple District, so cloaked in the mist that the guards do not even challenge us-and never have I known the guards to be so lax. I quickly recite the Pure Thought sutra to fortify myself against evil. There is no wisdom in foolish bravery.

On the Great Way, I turn automatically toward the Nobles District, assuming that is where my hostess resides. "Not that way, good lama," the servant calls from the fog as he turns toward the waterfront. "As I said, my mistress is only passing through this city."

We pass more gates along the Great Way-the Merchant District, the red-roofed Adventurers' District, and then the ill-warded district of the poor. At the end of the Great Way the path takes us closer to the heart of the sea fog, passing under the massive towers that mark the waterfront. Unchallenged, though we should have been, we enter the port. The roofs here are of all colors, as if to show what little influence the thultyrl of Procampur holds over the unregulated waterfront.

We venture quickly off the main streets and plunge into a maze of alleys I have never explored. Our route goes past tawdry wineshops and apartments of questionable purpose. A sailor, slurring out a war song I heard soldiers sing in Thesk, staggers by. He is shadowed by a lean pair of half-elves who eye me with far too much interest. A single look from my guide discourages them, and they disappear into the night. I hurry to keep pace, for the streets here are more active than I might wish.

After more twists and turns than I can remember, the servant stops at a gate. Pushing the creaking iron open, he steps aside and motions me to enter. "My mistress awaits you in the garden."

I have not been throughout Procampur, but I do know the waterfront is a crowded and dank place where one would never find gardens. Certainly I have never seen anywhere in the city a garden of the sort that now unfolds before me. The mist that washes the port is here riven to unveil a carefully tended landscape. Unwavering torches light a garden path that wanders past blooming bushes and green grass. A spring breeze warms my aching bones.

I rub my charms, half-expecting to feel the tingle that will alert me to the presence of evil. When nothing happens, I follow the lit path until it comes to a circle of carpets spread under of full-leafed willow.

The rugs are Tuigan, a weave I cannot mistake, and there are dishes and trays arranged neatly at their center. From the wooden pots and silver bowls I smell the barley-porridge odors of tsampo and the smoothness of rich yak-butter tea. There are leather bags I know are filled with kumiss, and steaming plates of greens and roots I have not seen since I was a child. It is wondrous, but because of its very strangeness I do not eat. I have heard the outlanders' stories of ensorcelled food-the snares laid by the treacherous denizens of their Realm of the Dead. Seeing no one else around, I recite a protective sutra to cleanse and purify the food. Satisfied, I gingerly dip my finger in the nearest bowl.

"Wise Koja, I mean you no harm. Please sit and eat, if you would honor my table."

I cannot help a guilty start at the words, moist finger at my lips. I feel like a novitiate caught dozing during meditation. The voice carries musical tones, light as a gong sounding the dawn prayer over high mountain slopes. The willow switches rustle, and a woman dressed in the draped robes of a Khazari noblewoman steps out of the darkness. The silks of her brilliant gown swirl gently as she moves, rippling the embroidered flowers and clouds of gold and red thread on her sleeve. Necklaces of strung silver coins hang layered around her neck, yet she carries her displayed wealth with ease.

For all her dress, she is not a dark-haired and small Khazari woman, but tall and strong. Her thin, pale face is framed with hair so long and golden that it spills down into the silver chains. Small mouth, wide eyes, and nose a trifle too long all combine in a way that transcends these little flaws until she is beautiful beyond the mere physical. Without waiting for me, she sits cross-legged on the mats and begins the meal.

While she samples the dishes, I, marveling at her arrival, test her with the Hundred Lotus sutra, one that would surely cause an evil spirit pain. When I softly chant the words, she shows no sign of having noticed. Perhaps she is not a spirit, as I first suspected. My hostess might be a powerful sorceress-though one is no less dangerous than the other.

I take a seat opposite her, not wishing to be rude but not eager to sit close. I ladle a small bowl of porridge and eat with her. The flavor is more than I held in my memories, full of fall mornings when I sat by the hearth and watched my mother stir the simmering kettle. I savor the taste, knowing the food has been purified by my sutra. Hunger, both immediate and for the things of my past, yearns to be satisfied as I eagerly pick from the other plates set before me. There are types of sweet melons I have not seen since I came among the outlanders and cabbages that only grow in the high valleys outside Manass. My hostess watches, never speaking.

"Dear lady, I must know. How did you obtain such delicacies? Such food could grace the table of a Khazari prince."

She bows slightly to acknowledge my compliment. "I have traveled many distant lands. Once you know of such foods, they are not hard to obtain."

I know this is not true, for I have tried and failed. Considerable magic is needed to gather these ingredients, still fresh, from the East. I carefully press my questions. "I am unworthy to ask, but I must know. Who are you that you are so kind to me?"

She smiles, and by it I know her answer will not be the truth. "I am a simple benefactor of scholars. I have heard of you, even in distant lands."

"By what name shall I call you?"

"None, for you will never see me after tonight."

"What is it you seek of me?" Her soft tones make me shiver, not with cold or fear, but excitement tinged with awe.

My mysterious hostess rises calmly, as if not to alarm me. "You have worked for many years on a history of the eastern raiders-the Tuigan-and now you have finished it."

My throat goes dry, and I cannot swallow. "It is almost completed."

"Now you seek a patron to print your history. Tonight you visited Duke Piniago."

My replies grow softer as my caution returns. "I made a bad judgment in doing so. The duke was not interested in my work."

She laughs like water over stones. "I understand he was all too interested, that it was you who said no. Some say you were rude to the duke, but from what I know of that boor, there must have been some cause."

"You have quick and accurate sources." I answer, wetting my mouth with a swallow of tea. "It is true I refused the duke, but only because he wished to hide the work from others. My pride is my failing, great lady. I could not accept his terms, when others might gain some small knowledge from my work."

She cocks an eyebrow at my claim. "You care so strongly to spread learning, yet you are ready to quit and go back to your homeland."

"How do you know this?" I carefully sidle away from her. The woolen carpet pulls at my robes as I move.

"My man heard you speak with your servant when I sent him to fetch you."

I do not believe her, especially while I sit in this spring garden, green like none other in Procampur. The fact that she knows this, though, only suggests further the extent of her power. Prudently, I do not challenge her lie.

"Koja of Khazari, there are some who think the world needs learning, but there are far too few who will seek it. If you give up, the world has one less seeker. Soon there would be no true scholars left, just men like Duke Piniago."

The memory of a charm slips into a corner of my mind, a way to see things as they truly are. I remember the verses and the ritual, but I need something to activate the sutra.

"I have come," my hostess continues, "to make you an offer. I am willing to be your patron, see your book printed-for a service. I, too, have an interest in knowledge." Her lips part to show the hint of white teeth as she waits for my reaction.

Kumiss, I note silently. I could trigger it with a sprinkle of kumiss. "What service would you require of me, great sorceress?" I try the tide to gauge her reaction.

She laughs again, icicles breaking into a frozen brook. "You honor me with your titles, lama. I am just a lady." She slides effortlessly across the carpets to sit by me once more. "An oath, binding and unbreakable. Will you do that?" Her eyes are fired with eagerness.

"An oath?" I dally with the kumiss bowl before me, surreptitiously dipping my finger in the white fluid. 'There is no sin in this oath?"

"Sworn of itself, it causes no ill to you or any other.

Beyond that, your fate is your own."

I am ready. Almost fearful at what I will see, I flick a few drops of kumiss toward the woman and utter the Sunlight After Storm sutra, the words which clear the mind from illusion. My hostess recoils slightly in surprise. Then, as I watch too startled to move, her golden hair grows dark black, banded by a golden circlet. Her body ripples and her face changes as the mask of femininity falls away A white glare, like a furnace that gives no heat, blinds me temporarily. When my eyes adjust, a man stands at the heart of the light, stocky and straight, in a tunic and cloak of purest white.

"By the great and mighty Furo!" I gasp, quickly looking away. This is no sorceress or even a spirit, but a power greater than any mortal, living or dead.

"Koja of Khazari, you have seen what I am." The voice is symphonic, strong chords resound within the words. "Know that I will not harm you. I am Denier, Lord of Glyphs and servant of Oghma, the patron god of bards. I am Denier, in whose temple you have toiled. Now, lama, will you swear my oath'"

The voice from the fire is powerful yet soothing, so that even in the god's mighty presence I feel no fear. Shielding my eyes from the corona that encases him, I am able to look on the spirit once more. "Immortal radiance, what do you demand of me, an unworthy scholar?"

Denier, demipower of words, waves his hands toward the still-dark walls of Procampur. "Write for the outlanders so that they will be encouraged to learn. Stay in the West and become a muse for them. Do this and you need never despair."

I stop at the scope of this oath. "Then I could not go home."

"Not until you are ready to die, lama. I have given you the taste of home you longed for. Would your homecoming now be as sweet as you imagined?"

I look at the food before me, spilled over the carpets and awash in his radiance. With Yamun dead, the Tuigan have no reason to welcome me back into their lands. And what kind of return could I expect in Khazari, a land Yamun conquered while I rode at his side? Sadly I admit what I have always known-my memories have become illusions, ephemeral dreams of places I can no longer call home.

"I accept."

"Then it is done." There is a flare of light, and I am blinded. I stumble forward, my senses fleeing into the dark and cold. My eyes burn, my skull throbs with pain. The soft cushion of the carpet vanishes beneath me, and suddenly I fall to the stone, cold and wet.

Finally the brilliant sparkles fade from my vision, giving way to fog-clad night. The garden and soft carpets are transformed to leafless branches and chill stonework. On the gray cobblestone before me is a small bag. Taking it, I unwork the strings and pour a small stream of dazzling gems into my hand, worth no less than ten thousand golden lions, I would guess.

"Master!" It is Foxe's voice. I turn as the fog swirls away to reveal the portico to Denier's temple before me. Foxe is hurrying down the steps, still hastily dressed, just as I had left him an hour or more before. I suddenly feel foolish, sitting in the darkness in my limp, damp robes. "Master, what happened? I warned you not to go. Are you safe?"

What can I tell him of this night? Surely he would believe me possessed or charmed. Were it not for these gems, I myself would doubt the tale, and yet I have to give him some answer. "I've been home and back again."

"What?"

"Later, Firstborn Foxe. I am tired. Help me back to the temple. Tomorrow we can pack." I look around, just to make sure I am where I think I am.

"You're still leaving us?" His voice is sad as he slips a strong, thick hand under my elbow to help me up. I stand a little unsteadily, still disoriented by my sudden appearance in front of the temple.

"Yes and no, Foxe. I think-" I roll a few gems in my hand, trying to guess how many books they might purchase. "I think there is business to attend to here before I do anything. And after that.... Have I ever told you how much I should like to visit Waterdeep?" We slowly climb the temple steps. "I could use a good secretary, if I make such a trek. You don't know where I might find one, do you?"