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