All the Paths of Shadow (29 page)

Donchen brought only forks. “No, we’ll not struggle with chopsticks,” he’d said, when Meralda asked how the king and court were faring with the Hang utensils. “To be honest with you, I myself may adopt your fork as my dining tool of choice,” he added, with a grin. “Chezin will have a conniption fit.”

Meralda laughed, and eyed the silver bowl that held the almond chicken.

“Oh, do have more,” said Donchen, beaming. “Nothing flatters a chef more than a healthy appetite.”

Meralda reached for the lid. “You cooked this?”

“I did,” said Donchen, wiping his chin with an embroidered palace napkin. “Cooking relaxes me. I should have been a cook, really.”

Meralda lifted the lid. “A cook, as opposed to what?” she asked.

Donchen laughed. “Well put, Thaumaturge,” he said. He pushed his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “But what I am is not an easy question to answer.”

Meralda heaped three serving spoons of almond chicken on her plate.

“And yet you want me to ask,” said Meralda. She noticed Mug, who had feigned sleep as soon as the doors opened, slowly swivel another half-dozen barely open eyes her way. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”

Donchen stretched, and met her gaze.

“Just so,” he said. His smile softened. “I wish we had more time, Thaumaturge,” he said. “We have a proverb. Trust, it is said, must be built over time, lest it fall away as quickly as it was born.” Donchen shook his head. “It’s a bit of a cliché, really, but there is an element of truth there. I can hardly expect an intelligent person such as yourself to suddenly trust a mysterious Hang visitor, even if he does cook an excellent almond chicken.”

Meralda swallowed a mouthful of rice and chicken and put down her fork.

“And what am I to trust you with?” she said.

Donchen sighed. “That, Thaumaturge, is for you to decide,” he said. “But here. I’ve done nothing but speak in riddles and proverbs. A failing of my schooling, I’m afraid.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Enough of that,” he said. “All that blathering about trust. Well, I’ve made up my mind, Thaumaturge. I’ve decided to trust you. You. Not your king, not your captain, not your House of Lords. You. So ask me anything. I’ll tell you, plain and true.”

Meralda saw Mug blink all his open eyes at once. She wiped her lips with her napkin and stood to face Donchen.

“All right,” she said, after a moment. “Why are you doing this?”

Donchen bowed. “I need an ally here,” he said. “Someone with the king’s ear, someone he trusts. I hope this person is you.”

“Why not the king?” asked Meralda. “Why bother with thaumaturges at all?”

Donchen smiled. “The king will act with caution, at all times,” he said. “And caution would tell him that I am not to be trusted. Not yet. Listened to, perhaps. Observed, of course. But trusted?” Donchen shook his head. “He’d be a fool to trust me. A fool to trust any of us. And your king, Thaumaturge, is no fool.”

Meralda stiffened. “And I am?”

“No,” said Donchen. “You may believe what I tell you. You may not. But your office will allow you to make the choice. Is it not true that Tirlish thaumaturges often work well apart from both court and king?”

Well spoken,
thought Meralda.
Well spoken, or perhaps just well rehearsed.

She motioned Donchen away from the remains of their meal. “We can walk about a bit, if you like,” she said. “The laboratory is a favorite spot for touring among our guests.”

Donchen nodded. “Of course,” he said, moving to Meralda’s side.

“And we can talk about the purpose of your visit to Tirlin,” said Meralda. “Or is that question best left for later?”

Donchen shook his head. “Trust knows no bounds,” he said. “And if it does, it is not trust.”

“Why, then?”

“We believe it is time for our cultures to meet,” said Donchen. “We wish to establish regular trade, and diplomatic relations. Your Accords presented the perfect opportunity to introduce ourselves. What, pray tell, is this?”

Donchen had halted before Phillitrep’s Calculating Engine.

“It’s a calculating device,” said Meralda.

Donchen stepped close, put his face as near the whirling gears as he dared. “What is it calculating?” he asked.

“No one knows,” replied Meralda. “Phillitrep never wrote down the question, and he died suddenly in office about three hundred years ago.”

Donchen watched the tiny rods shuttle and click. “Amazing,” he said. Then he straightened and once again turned his grey eyes upon Meralda.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why we’ve come now, after all those years of waiting and watching from afar?”

“All right,” said Meralda, and she recalled the time, long ago, when she’d first seen a drawing of a Hang five-master while Shingvere waggled his finger in her face. “
Mark my words,”
she heard the Eryan say, again.
“They’re up to no bloody good.”

“Tell me why you came,” said Meralda. “Tell me how long you’ve been watching us. And then tell me why.”

Donchen nodded. “As you wish,” he said. “First, a bit of history, if you don’t mind.”

Meralda nodded, struggling to keep her face impassive.

“Oh, not at all,” she said. “Go on.”

Donchen clasped his hands behind his back.
Just like a schoolmaster,
thought Meralda as Donchen began, once again, to walk.

“The date was 640, as you number years,” he said. “My land was at peace, but the Emperor? Well, the Emperor went mad, one day.”

Meralda indicated a row of shelves to her right, and Donchen proceeded down it, his eyes darting from this to that as he spoke.

“He looked upon our land, and saw that it was his, as far as his eye could see,” said Donchen. “But it occurred to him that there was plenty he could not see, and that made him think. And we all know how dangerous it is when monarchs begin to think, do we not?”

Meralda laughed. “We do,” she said. The glass and silver eyes of Movan’s Talking Head swiveled slowly around to fix on Donchen, and he leaned close for a better look.

“It occurred to this mad emperor, whose name was Sosang, that his mastery of the world was incomplete,” said Donchen. “Sosang called together his ministers and bade them tell him how he might bring the farthest shores closer, that he might rule all, as was his right.”

Movan’s Head lifted a silver eyebrow, and Donchen’s eyes went wide.

“One of Sosang’s advisors whispered to another. ‘Does he think he can cast a rope about the world, and draw it to him?’ asked this man.” Donchen smiled at Movan’s Head, and it smiled back, and Donchen laughed. “Sosang, of course, heard this whisper. And, being mad, he took it not as a criticism, but as a rare fine idea.”

Meralda tilted her head. “Stretch a rope around the world?” she asked. “Why?”

“So you can hold either end and pull, of course,” replied Donchen.

Meralda frowned.
I’m surprised Yvin hasn’t asked for that,
she thought.
It might well be true.

“Emperor Sosang was mad, but not forgetful,” said Donchen, moving away from Movan’s Head and continuing his stroll down the ranks of mageworks. “From that moment on, the resources of my land and my people were turned to one goal. We worked to stretch a rope around the world, so that a mad-eyed king might pull the horizons closer.” Donchen shrugged and shook his head. “What an awful waste.”

Meralda cast a warning frown at an unnamed glass cylinder that held a writhing bolt of bright white lightning. It tended to nip at passers-by.
And now is not the time,
intoned Meralda silently.

The lightning dimmed, and its writhing grew less frantic.

“Nineteen years passed,” said Donchen. “Two vessels were built. Monstrous vessels, far larger than anything built before, or since. The very first of the Great Sea ships. Each was large enough to carry one of the five-masters docked by your wharfs as a lifeboat.” Donchen sidled past the jar of lightning with a wry smile. “Of course, they built them inland, another of mad emperor Sosang’s suggestions, and it took another eight years to get either one of them to a coast,” he said. “But this at least gave the rope-makers a head start.”

Meralda tilted her head. “You mean they actually tried to make a rope long enough to cross the Great Sea?”

Donchen met Meralda’s eyes. “They had no choice, Thaumaturge. None at all. Whole provinces were planted with hemp. Two enormous cities sprang up, one on each coast, at the places from which Sosang decreed the ships should set sail. Day and night, they wove ropes, ready to pay out the line on turning wheels so large each was visible from nearly a mile away.”

“Your kings have considerable power,” she said, thinking the most a mad Tirlish king was ever able to accomplish was the line of dancing gargoyles atop the park wall.

Donchen smiled. “We are an obedient people,” he said. “To a fault, at times, as you would say.”

Meralda shook her head. “And these ships?” she asked. “What became of them?”

Donchen shrugged. “Oh, they were crewed with the sons of noble houses,” he said. “Again, at the whim of the Emperor, who bestowed it as an honor. The crews, being sane, if overly obedient, considered themselves doomed and bade their families farewell.”

“The day came for departure,” said Donchen. “And so they set sail, vanishing from sight as they dragged their ropes behind. One went west, the other east, and soon the only evidence of their leaving was the slow, steady turning of the monstrous wheels on the shore.”

Donchen had begun to walk again, and the pair quickly reached the end of the row of shelves. Ahead of them now lay the shadowed rear of the laboratory, where larger mageworks were stored. There, tarps stretched across hulking frames of wood or dark iron, and all was silent and shadowed and still.

Meralda halted at the end of the shelf, and motioned Donchen toward the right.

“And did one of these vessels reach the Realms?” she asked.

Donchen entered the next rank of shelves and nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “But only after three years of sailing. Three years of drifting, actually. Mad kings make poor sailors, as the saying goes. The ship couldn’t tack, dragging such an enormous weight. After a time, both ship and rope were simply dragged along on the current, and the captain struck his sails and gave up.”

Meralda walked and nodded.
Wait until Shingvere hears this,
she thought.

“There was a storm, and the rope was torn away, and lost,” said Donchen. “The captain sailed and searched for the rope, determined to fulfill his charge, fearful that if the rope wheels stopped, his family would suffer Sosang’s mad wrath. But the captain never found the rope, and soon another storm cast the vessel upon a reef, and tore it apart,” said Donchen. “One sailor clung to a floating door, and I imagine you can guess the rest.”

“He was cast up on an Eryan beach?” asked Meralda.

“A bit farther south, but correct in essence,” said Donchen. He leaned down and peered into the eyepiece of Delby’s Far-Seeing Glass, and laughed when he was presented with a bird’s eye view of his own backside. “Our castaway sailor awoke to find himself in the bed of a Kiltish fisherman.”

Meralda went wide-eyed. “Kilt is only forty miles south of here,” she said.

Donchen nodded, and continued his stroll. “I know,” he said. “Charming place.”

“Is it,” said Meralda, blithely.

“The sailor was afraid, at first,” continued Donchen. “As he recovered, he realized he was in a foreign land. This was a new concept, for him. How would he be treated? Would he be held prisoner, or cast into the wilderness?” Donchen shrugged. “He didn’t know. Time passed. He healed, learned a bit of Kingdom, rose from his bed. And found that, after a time, he was welcome among the fisher folk.”

Meralda slowed. “How do you know this?” she said. “If the ship was lost but for him, how did word get back to your people?”

Donchen shrugged. “Our sailor settled down,” he said. “Married, even. Had children.”

Meralda halted.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Donchen. “All those black-haired, small-framed fishermen? My cousins, many times removed.” Donchen chuckled. “The Hang have always been closer than anyone thought.”

Meralda heard Mug whistle softly. She suspected Donchen heard as well, but if so he pretended not to notice.

I’d whistle myself, if it weren’t impolite,
she thought. Centuries of watching the distant horizon, while the fisher folk laughed and went about their business.

“Children aside, though, the tale is not yet done,” said Donchen. “You see, while the ships were at sea, mad Sosang died. Messily, I’m afraid, by means of a sack of serpents and a bottle of poison, proving that he was King of Death as well as life.”

Meralda lifted an eyebrow, but was silent.

“The mad king dead, the families of the nobles aboard the two doomed vessels set forth to rescue their fathers and their sons,” said Donchen. “They built ships, crewed them with wizards, and set sail from the rope-weaver cities, just as the big ships had. And they searched. Searched for years. Forty years, in fact.”

“Forty years?” said Meralda, unable to hide the disbelief in her voice.

“Oh, they weren’t continually at sea for forty years,” said Donchen. “Five years was the longest single voyage.” He saw the confusion on Meralda’s face, and smiled in sudden comprehension. “Ah,” he said. “All our vessels can make fresh water from salt. And the original Great Sea rope haulers could grow their own food, as well. So it was feared that the great ships might lie, becalmed, with the crew helpless, but very much alive.” said Donchen. “Also, the rescue ships did not merely search at random. Each of the original sailors wore a
chosong
. A
chosong
is a small medallion, which houses a finding charm specifically designed and secretly crafted against the day the mad king might reign no more.”

“Fresh water from salt?” asked Meralda. “How?”

“The process is very similar to that by which your guilds extract lifting gas from ordinary air,” explained Donchen. “We carry a number of spare devices. I’ll have one sent round for your inspection, if you like.”