Realms of Valor - James Lowder [53]
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