Novels

Mura adjusted her grip on her rifle.

She was one of four in her family who had taken to the art, the rest had made do with bows, swords, and spears. Even accounting for her natural talent, she had wished she had been given more opportunity to practice; but they had limited ammunition and getting more was both complicated and dangerous.

Mura’s eyes narrowed as she saw the marching soldiers break over the distant hill, pushing against the windstorm. She fought the urge to press herself down behind the barn rooftop where she lay; hiding would do no good now, and she needed to watch them approach.

Two years. Two years of banditry, as a family outside the Empire. Two years since they had killed a Knight of House Noonan, and was cast out of the Empire as heretics and bandits. Two years of waiting for the day when the Baroner’s soldiers would march down the road with weapons gleaming and deadly to either kill or imprison them all.

Two years of silence.

Heim Outwater was not a particularly handsome boy. Neither was he especially strong or clever. He was not known as a particularly skilled farmer nor tender of animals, he was a passing flue-player and could dance no better than any of the other awkward boys his age.

Mura was grateful for his lack of special skills, as it made him well suited to be House Outwater’s messenger boy. He traveled often between the farms of the Barony of Noonan, gathering and sharing news as he could. Mura didn’t doubt that House Ashtree was not the only House that saw him less as an Outwater and more as a wandering vagabond, accepting a meal and warm bed for his service.

He was still sleeping in that bed when Mura had woken up to start her morning chores. She didn’t begrudge his exhaustion; He had arrived late last night on his tired horse, bearing the news from the other farms.

Mura had given Heim a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. This made him first blush most furiously, and then stagger when Oklan slapped him heartily on the back with a laugh. It was a welcome moment of levity, considering the news he had brought.

Ordinarily, the evening meal in House Ashtree was a boisterous affair. Ashtree was a one of the larger farms in the Barony, with no fewer than forty men, women, and children. Each had a place at the longhouse table, and they all ate together when the day’s work was finished. Even when the day had been long and their muscles exhausted, there was always a story worth telling and laughter worth sharing.

Unlike the morning meal; which had three tiny courses of egg, butter-root cakes, and thick honeyed curd to provide energy for the day; the evening meal was longer, richer, and seasoned with good company. Roasted roots and grains were mashed into crispy cakes next to thick and chewy vegetables. Honeyed fruits garnished thin cuts of meat and bread. Nothing was served that took long to prepare, but all of it would insure a deep and restful sleep.

On the days that marked the changing of the seasons, a large paper-wrapped cheese was brought out at the end of the meal to much celebration, and everyone would share a hearty slice. The children would then be sent to bed while the adults would stay awake, pulling bottles of old wines and beers out of the pantries, sharing a drink and speaking with each other about the news between local families and rumors from the other Houses and farms.

Mura’s father returned to the farm, not with a message, but with a man.

She had waited by the gate to the Ashtree farm every evening for a week, watching the road in hopes that her father would return soon with good news of their liege’s generosity. Her mother had admonished her for a fool, but Mura finished her work every day, so her mother could not call her undutiful. Sometimes her Uncle Oklan came to watch with her and talk, even though there wasn’t much to talk about. That is, except the one thing they didn’t want to talk about.

When she first saw the dust on the distant road, blown about by the Fourth World’s constant wind, she wasn’t sure she was seeing true. She stared for a few minutes until she was sure that there was indeed the dark shape of a horse and rider heading towards the farm. She ran to the farmhouse, calling her family to come and see. By the time she returned to the gate with her family in tow, there was no doubt; her father was coming home.

The Eve’nbell rang out over the Ever Palace. All returned to their homes, save the Doorsmin, their eyes scanning every shadow, seeking out every corner, attentive in their holy duty to ensure that after Eve’nbell had rung, there was no one whose feet walked the pavement.

Tonight, his Indomitable Grace, Grand Duchen Karn Li-Schan, Warlord of House Li-Schan and Knight Commander of the Order of the Flank, would slip past them all.

Not because of any desire to flout the Eve’nbell’s curfew, goodness no. It had been a good many decades since youthful vigor and a prideful spirit had pushed Li-Schan out of doors during the night. No, now a veteran of over fifteen military campaigns, Li-Schan knew the importance of following orders, and of giving them as well. He knew that no matter how odd or inconsequential the curfew might be, there was cause, and it was his duty to follow. Even as a Grand Duchen and Warlord, he had to follow orders.

In fact, that was exactly why he would defy the curfew this night. He had been commanded, and he would not shirk his duty.

Kasta’s life was paper.

As Quill-servant in the Ever Palace, his very life’s blood was the bureaucracy, and his heartbeat were the lists. Lists of words. Lists of numbers. Organized. Categorized. Itemized. His penmanship was prayer and his holy cant was procedure.

The Five Worlds of the Ever Empire were connected by paper. What did a knight’s death or a peasant’s wedding matter to a noble on another world? It might as well not have happened. But if the event were written down in a letter or report, the event becomes real. That was truly what the Hall of Record was to the Empire of Ever and Always; a place where the Five Worlds became real.

Kasta dabbed gently at his forehead with a square of cloth, carefully inspecting it in the candlelight after doing so.

There was an art to the game of Stratau.

Among the avid players, it was insulting to call it a game. Stratau Gurus said that you could study the art for a lifetime. The game itself was deceptively easy to learn. Pieces moved according to simple rules and tokens were exchanged for clear reasons. As the game progressed, however, the simple rules began to intersect and interact in incredibly intricate ways.

The Gurus could play games that lasted days. Onlookers could see a rout where the devoted saw an even match, and visa versa. A solid strategy required careful and painful judgments about what could be sacrificed and for what gain. One Game were never the same as the next, and each could last weeks or even months with innocuous moves at the beginning of the game deciding events at the end.

There were no Masters of Stratau; the closer one came to truly mastering the game the further true mastery seemed. Winning the game became secondary to far more important metrics. It became a dance, a creation between two minds, a conversation, a song.

It was Kasta Illibran’s favorite game.

The Hall of Record was like a honeycomb.

Kasta never called it a honeycomb, unlike many of his fellow Quill-servants, though he could certainly understand the parallels. The hundreds of ladders were sometimes occupied by four Quill-servants at a time, reaching out to remove or replace thick folders of paper or stacks of scrolls in their proper cubby-holes. The swish and hiss of robes brushing the smooth stone was like the soft hiss of a waterfall, while thin leather sandals eroded winding paths between the stairs and cabinets.

Everything was in the Hall of Record. Letters from centuries ago were hidden somewhere in the stacks, detailing the rise and fall of Houses long since lost. Collated data on harvest yeilds from across the Empire sat in thick drawers. Which holy relics had been passed to whom, during which wars, and their current precise location were collected in massive books that piled higher than than the tallest Knight.

All along the walls and in carefully positioned loci throughout the massive Hall, desks squatted like frogs while Quill-servants wrote reports, filled out forms, and collated information into thick-bound folders. Their lives were paper and ink, placed on their desks with reverence and marked with the same zeal. Letters and scrolls were passed back and forth, along a current that only the Librarian of Record truly understood.

The first thing Sir Kasta Illibran did when he woke up was wash his face and put on his makeup.

The second thing Sir Kasta Illibran did when he woke up was to kneel in front of the Iron Sigil of the Lord of Ever and Always, and say his prayers for morning service.

The third thing Sir Kasta Illibran did when he woke up was get dressed in the long red robe of the Quill-Servants, and slip his small emergency bag under his belt.

The fourth thing he did when he woke was eat a quick breakfast of roasted root and thin butter, and drink a quick glass of mull-mead. It was the same breakfast he had eaten for over a decade, and he barely tasted the bitter spices anymore.

The fifth thing he did was to pick up the travel-desk that rested on the broad silken cloth covered platform along the wall. Opening the top, he made sure the desk was prepared with five vials of ink, ten quills, and a small cloth-bound wrap of various Quill-servant tools. Once he was satisfied, he carefully adjusted the strap as he pulled it over his head, and settled the broad wooden plank against his stomach before tying off the rope around his back.

The sixth and final thing he did was open his door and unlock the tiny missive-box that hung on its center. Inside, the thick coil of paper that had been placed there during the night sat wrapped in ribbon and wax. Every morning, he pulled out the scroll and unrolled it to read the long list of names, addresses, times, and designations; his instructions for the day. He would then slip the scroll into his pocket, before walking through the Hall of Record and out into the Palace of Ever and Always.

Now, Kasta was ready to begin his daily duties.

In the Hall of Record, the lights burned low.

The Librarian’s many eyes darted around the shadows, searching for signs of movement. There were none. The Quill-servants had all returned to their cells, the doors shut tightly. It was only the Librarian now, with their pile of scrolls, books, papers, letters, documents, rolls of pens, and stacks of ink vials.

Completing their circuit, the eyes of the Librarian landed once more on the single letter that had occupied their thoughts for the whole evening. A single letter, written and sealed with a special mark; the one mark the Librarian held in any kind of esteem.

In the distance, the Darklin’ Hour rang. The Fiveworlders called it Eve’nbell. Such a silly name for the coming of darkness.

For the first time in…was it years? Certainly not. Months at least, but years? Well, it was possible, but still…when was the last time the Librarian had crawled out from behind their desk? What had they done? That’s right, they had been looking for a lost Quill-servant, to administer punishment for his — or was it hers? — laxity in their duties. They had found the poor thing huddled in a ditch on the outskirts of the inner Palace, pressed against the Palace Walls and begging for mercy. Poor thing.