Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2) Read online

  They came to yet another staircase and again climbed, but at its top they found only a small door, against which Drainspoiler cautiously rapped. A voice, muffled by the thick wood, called out for them to enter, at which Drainspoiler turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  It revealed a long, low but surprisingly wide chamber, nestled close to the roof’s rafters. Great purlins ran along each side beneath which long bookcases groaned with well-stacked charges. Between them, a sumptuous carpet gave opulent setting to a battered old sofa, a couple of armchairs and a massive hazelnut desk. The latter sat at the far end of the room and behind which a sharp figure was seated, poised with pen in hand.

  As they filed in and Drainspoiler left the room, closing the door behind him, the man at the desk carefully placed the pen in its holder, silently closed a large ledger and began to rise. He rose slowly for he seemed preoccupied with his new guests, far more so than would have been expected, as though some great mystery was at last to be laid bare.

  His keen gaze darted between them, and Pettar could see some confusion, or maybe even surprise, carefully cloaked behind his eyes. Eventually, their gaze remained fixed on Nephril, and as they did so a warm smile began to widen the man’s narrow mouth.

  As though suddenly sure, he quickly hurried forward, taking Nephril by the shoulders. He said nothing, though, but just stared hard until his surety seemed to falter and his gaze again took to darting.

  Nephril looked a little lost, as though what he’d anticipated was a world away from what he was now seeing. The disarming smile, that had hung around his face for most of their journey, deserted him, leaving a worried and confused look.

  Pettar felt removed from it all, as though staring through a looking-glass, and could do little more than note the man’s strange appearance. He was dressed in a quite normal jerkin over a doublet, but its typically Bazarran shard-pattern was a mix of pearlescent blue tones. Likewise, his pantaloons were of almost identical design, with black suede slippers finishing them off.

  As the man began to speak, Pettar was distracted by his round and bulbous features. His deep brows were set over jet black eyes with a high forehead keeping clear a receding line of tousled, curly, black hair. He had a cleft chin below full, red lips, with soft, plump and rosy cheeks boasting long sideburns. A high and stiff collar dug into a thick neck that rasped against it with short stubble.

  “Lord Nephril? Is it really you?”

  Nephril looked confused, then vaguely interested, but finally shocked. His voice, though, was far stronger than Pettar expected. “Young Melkin? ‘Tis thee, is it not? Somewhere under that flesh I seem to see thee, but thou appear to have been taken in by some much older man. Be thee still the Melkin Mudark I did know, the keen student of ancient script and tongue that did so implore me to be thy tutor?”

  “It is indeed I, Lord Nephril,” Melkin affirmed as a smile broke across his face. It brought a softness to his eyes, but in which Pettar distinctly saw deep concern persisting. “Somewhat older but still the same within.”

  He gently kneaded Nephril’s shoulders before leaning away to turn a questioning eye towards Pettar. When Nephril completely missed the gesture, Pettar felt compelled to mask Nephril’s frailty of mind by quickly introducing himself.

  Melkin inhaled sharply and his eyes widened. “Not the Pettar Garradish, surely?”

  Pettar was about to devalue his obviously widely known reputation when Nephril said, “‘Tis certainly he, young Melkin, although it doth sorely embarrass him for he hath, in its telling, grown far beyond his own credence.” Nephril chuckled to himself.

  “So, how did you come to sit at Nephril’s feet then, Steward Melkin?” Pettar quickly asked.

  “Nay, nay! Less of the Steward, if you would. Just call me Melkin. The honorific’s nothing more than a device to further my goals, not a vain desire for prestige.”

  Nephril’s voice was beguilingly light and mischievous. “Popped up wherever I went, he did. Made such a nuisance of himself I finally decided it were less bother taking him as a student than not.”

  A stifling pause filled the room as the two stared at each other, each lost in their own thoughts, until Melkin gathered his wits and asked, “So, to what purpose or pleasure should we ascribe your first visit here, eh, my Lord?”

  Given that Nephril didn’t respond, Pettar took liberty to answer for him by briefly describing his own earlier journey from Galgaverre, in search of Lord Nephril. When he explained he carried a message entrusted to him by Storbanther, Melkin suddenly barked, “Storbanther! Storbanther Scaedwera? What’s he got to do with it?”

  There was a vehemence in his tone that startled them and his face briefly flushed, but he soon composed himself and gave let with a voice contrived to be softer. “Please, do continue. There’ll be time aplenty for questions later. I shouldn’t have interrupted. I’m ... I’m sorry, please do go on,” Pettar felt a little awkward, but soon got back to unfolding his tale.

  When he’d reached the end, and brought history to the present, he awaited the Steward’s response. After thinking awhile, Melkin asked. “And the message? Where is it now?” Pettar looked at Nephril but realised he’d either missed the thread of the discussion or was still deep in thought. Either way, Nephril needed prompting again, but it elicited little more than the same blank look.

  “The message, Nephril, the one I brought you from Storbanther? You have it still, I hope?” A flicker passed across Nephril’s face but he then surprisingly quickly drew the missive from his sleeve and held it out.

  Before Pettar could reach for it, Melkin almost snatched it from Nephril’s hand. Melkin seemed to think better of it, though, and bowed his head ever so slightly before politely asking if he could see it. As it came into his hand, he noted Nephril’s name clearly written on the outside and swiftly unfolded it, turned it the right way round and quietly read its neatly penned script.

  Even after having read it to himself twice through, quite slowly each time, his gaze remained fixed to the paper, as he silently mouthed the words yet again.

  Presently, his eyes lifted and he read aloud, in a rather flat and monotone voice, “Nephhryl, My Keeper, I am very ill and have need of you. Come here…” He faltered. “No! No, come soon, yes, that’s it, come soon to my embrace. Please. Your True Lover, Leiyfiantel.”

  5 Diagnosis and Direction

  ‘Any weight may be bolstered, may be borne up, excluded from ingress or made as naught provided such pressure be balanced or exceeded by the same, or by such that be greater in its contrary rebuffing. Even the feeble, the fragile or the frail may be emboldened such as to resist great pressing, and so counter encroachment or crushing.

  So it is with seed of fowl or bird, that bear pressing of their begetter within thin and brittle carapace made equal by their fluid fill. Thin shell survives long-brooding and, through craft of shape and holding, hatches forth unharmed young.’

  How those words, translated from their green and ancient Bazarran text, had found their way intact into Melkin’s mind after such a long time he couldn’t fathom. It was fortunate they did for they evoked a similar but much later discovery, a Concise Description of Maladies of the Mind in which the same principles were employed. Less distinct in its remembrance yet just as powerful, Melkin recalled enough to bring forth some understanding.

  It saw the mind as an egg, weighed down with guilt and regret born of an indifferent world. It saw its own shell filled with the yolk of confidence, of understanding, reason and vigour, sustained by an albumen of memories. It posited a healthy and robust mind as one that had balance between the self within, fed and given form by its attendant memories, and the oppressive weight of actuality without. When Melkin first teased out that text, however, and made sense of it, its lack of relevance had quickly doused any further interest.

  Fortunate it was that the memory had only been set aside and not wholly forgotten, for it made clear what had so thoroughly crushed Lord Nephril, what had smitten him down
upon hearing the meaning of the missive. At Melkin’s translation, Nephril’s eyes had steadily grown larger and larger, his mouth trying to form words but wholly failing, whilst he’d begun to sway and totter, as though over-weary or simply too drunk, until finally he’d crumpled to a wizened heap at their feet.

  Although not unconscious he was certainly insensible, unable to move. He was soon borne to a makeshift bed in one of Melkin’s private rooms, carried there by a flock of summoned servants. They’d made him as comfortable as they could and had then withdrawn leaving Melkin and Pettar to stand by his bed, listening to his garbled mutterings.

  Pettar was fraught, completely beside himself, bemoaning his oversight and wringing his hands. “I should’ve thought, but never even considered what that accursed message might do. I should’ve guarded him from it, should’ve held closer to my promise to Storbanther.”

  Even in despair, Pettar still noticed Melkin tense at that name, despite his comforting words. “You’re not to blame, Pettar. Don’t take on so. You weren’t to know what it contained, although Lord Nephril certainly should have!”

  Steward Melkin now remembered his initial surprise, when he’d first read the message, how he’d not at all been clear as to why they’d wanted him to see it. He’d assumed them already aware of its content, and so was amazed at the effect it then had on Lord Nephril. It made Melkin suspicious. “Pettar? Please? Answer me something.”

  When he’d managed to get Pettar to listen, Melkin asked, “Hasn’t Lord Nephril already translated this?” He held the small piece of paper before him. Pettar blinked at it until seeing Melkin’s hidden question, his own discomfort enough of an answer.

  Melkin sat down heavily on a nearby box of books and sighed. He looked up at Pettar, with heavy eyes and a sadness about his face. “I cannot lie, Pettar, but Lord Nephril’s state has shocked me. How long’s he been like this?” Pettar shared his own misgivings and readily confessed how surprised and worried he’d also been.

  They’d both seen how little of the person they’d known appeared to persist, how much of a faint shadow Nephril had somehow become. They wondered at the suddenness and depth of it, but it was Melkin who seemed more buoyant, who appeared to see what Pettar could not.

  “It’s as though,” Melkin began, “any memories from his long past simply smite him down, that he becomes like a dolt only to protect himself, to forget a fearful past. I can’t imagine him ever having had such a past, though, not one that would gather to it such phantoms. The more I think on it, the more I reckon it’s actually t’other way round, Pettar. Strikes me Lord Nephril’s yolk has withered through its own dwindling white, and that he’s actually been lost to the absent succour of memories.”

  Pettar looked confused, so Melkin added, “The Lord Nephril we’ve each known is, like us all, the sum of his memories, the rich discourse between them the shape of his intellect and character, the lessons imparted his wisdom. I don’t think he’s disowned his memories at all, Pettar, no, I think he’s been unable to hang on to them for some reason, that something in him has failed his grasp of them.”

  They both agreed what an oddity Lord Nephril really was. For somebody who everyone seemed to know, or at least know of, there appeared to be very little known about him. A scion of one of the most ancient and highborn Dican families certainly. A long standing and crucial court figure and holder of the ancient title of Master of Ceremonies without doubt, but who he really was and what he actually did all seemed lost to the obscuring mist of time.

  Melkin was sure the riddle’s answer lay hidden somewhere in that jumble of past events. Something in there was culpable for ‘the oppressive weight of actuality’ finally crashing in on him. It had guilt for the loss of that ‘fluid fill’ that would otherwise have allowed him to ‘resist great pressing’. Something from Nephril’s past had deserted him, Melkin was sure, but what it could possibly have been he’d absolutely no idea.

  It now mattered to Melkin not only because he saw in it a possible salvation for Nephril, but also the chance of finally getting at what he himself had so long desired. In repairing the egg there was also an opportunity to learn some answers to far more than just the message’s own riddle.

  Pettar mentioned something else, something that gave Melkin even more hope. Pettar told him how Lord Nephril’s previous incapacities had each been mercifully short, seeming to show that time itself could be a sufficient healer. However, Melkin soon wondered at what scars were left behind. Best given over to that simple balm, he thought, for in truth they’d not even a palliative never mind a cure.

  Melkin looked at Pettar, staring solicitously down at Nephril, and asked, “Why should Storbanther impersonate an engine, eh, make of it a supposed person?” When Pettar’s face lifted it was clear he’d not understood, and so Melkin strove to simplify. “Leiyatel’s but an engine when all’s said and done. I know folk like to see it as living, give it pet names and the like, or sometimes regard it as one would a parent or teacher, but why on earth pretend to be it? Eh, Pettar? Why would Storbanther want to put words into the mouth of a mill?”

  Unlike the Steward, Pettar hadn’t had much time to wonder at the message’s meaning. He admitted that Nephril had often referred to the Certain Power as a person, almost as an intimate, and there most certainly was a strangely personal affinity. He remembered Nephril always referring to it as ‘she’, and on rare occasions as his ‘lover’. Pettar said he’d always assumed it to be poetic allusion, an archaic reference of some kind, maybe even a play on some ancient grammatical gender. He’d never thought it was ever being used literally, though.

  “We don’t know for sure it was Storbanther who wrote it,” Pettar eventually cautioned. “Maybe he was just passing it on from someone else in Galgaverre. The trouble is, I can’t imagine who there would’ve known Nephril enough to want to pass him a message. I mean, even in my years of service to the Ambecs, he never once hinted he’d any contact with Galgaverre.”

  Melkin eyed him thoughtfully, much to Pettar’s discomfort, but then quietly asked, “What of your sister, Pettar Garradish, what of her? Surely, as Guardian she’d have known him well enough.” Pettar became guarded, turned away and once more looked down at Nephril, if only to hide his own eyes.

  Pettar spent quite a while letting his thoughts run free through his childhood years, when he and his sister had enjoyed some innocent closeness. His mind had soon ranged on into adolescence, to when his and his sister’s paths had diverged.

  Hers had gone to a duty of inheritance, but his to a kind of rebellion, largely due his idle hours and junior years. Their paths had remained separate, a gulf apart. Hers lay on the assured bedrock of an ordained passage into authority, whereas his sat on the quicksand of an unknown fate. ‘But for Storbanther!’ he thought, sympathising somewhat with Melkin Mudark’s distrust of the man.

  So, maybe Melkin was right. Maybe Storbanther had penned the note, had written it with intent. But what had that intent been, and were they now just simply witnessing its intended outcome? Was Storbanther really set on totally destroying Nephril, and if so why?

  Melkin had begun almost inaudibly repeating the message, but it soon set spark to dry tinder in Pettar’s mind. “Nephhryl, My Keeper, I am very ill and have need of you. Come soon to my embrace. Your True Lover, Leiyfiantel.”

  There, there in those very words Pettar could almost hear Nephril’s voice, saw his allusion to Leiyatel as a woman, as a lover. To have it voiced so prosaically, though, seemed wholly offensive.

  Quite honestly, he’d seen it in Nephril as an expression of fealty rather than ardour. “I think you’re right, Melkin. Storbanther devised that message to appeal to Nephril. As to why I can’t say. I can’t yet see which side of the scales the greater weight lies, whether it be done to harm or summon.”

  They both looked down at Nephril, but it was Pettar who finally spoke. “I’ve not seen him as bad as this before, not so incapable, so absent in mind. I fear Storbanther’s purpose might ver
y well be sinister.”

  “Whatever his intent, Pettar, all we can do now is wait, wait and hope his Lordship pulls through, as well as you say he’s done before. Only then can we think of getting him to Galgaverre, and only when he’s strong enough. Until then we’re stuck here in Yuhlm.”

  It struck Pettar again how disparate Melkin and Nephril were, and so he found himself once more asking how they’d come to meet. Melkin explained that in his youth he’d fostered an interest in rekindling the old tongue, and how he’d heard that Nephril was its last known speaker.

  What Melkin didn’t reveal, though, was what purpose had driven him so.

  When he’d still been in the flush of youth, he’d quite by chance come across a cache of ancient scripts. Although of an unknown voice, and therefore unreadable, he’d been greatly intrigued by the many drawings they held.

  Like all Bazarran, Melkin Mudark had an innate wit in all manner of mechanicking, in the ways of numbers and the natural compunctions, but in him it was as in no other. It was his very being, the air to his lungs and the lifeblood of his heart, and he recognised the same in those depictions. They spoke to him of natural secrets, of the complex and unfathomable made plain. It was just that their supporting voices spoke in an alien and therefore obscuring tongue.

  With the stamina of youth, Melkin had poured over those texts, and chewed his lip at their figures and designs, but could pull nothing of substance from it all. The only glimmer came from the odd word here and there, how they’d be strangely familiar in shape, how they would obliquely hint at something similar in his own tongue.

  It was some years, though, before his first proper clue came to light, over which time he’d managed to amass considerably more such works. It was a loose page, lost long ago from its binding, but one that depicted an eye; cut through, side-on and quite obviously in the act of seeing.