“I look for the things I do to make the door open.”
I didn’t know the word “letters.”
“Show me,” he said.
I could have drawn the shapes in the air with my anger as I did when I opened the door, but instead I got up and took the big dark-brown leather-bound book from the bottom shelf; the book I called the Bear. I opened it to the first page with words on it. (I think I did know they were words, but maybe not.) I pointed to the shapes that were the same as the ones that opened the door.
“Thisone, and this one,” I said, whispering. I had laid the book on the table, very carefully, as I always did with the books when I looked inside them. He stood beside me and watched me point at the letters I recognised, though I didn’t know their names or how they sounded.
“What are they, Memer?”
“Writing.”
“So it’s writing that opens the door?”
“I think so. Only for the door you do it in the air, in the special place.”
“Do you know what the words are?”
I didn’t entirely understand what he was asking. I don’t think I knew then that the words in writing are the same as the words in speaking that writing and speaking are different ways of doing the same thing. I shook my head.
“What do you do with a book?” he asked.
I said nothing. I didn’t know.
“You read it,” he said, and this time he smiled as he spoke, his face lighting up as I had seldom seen it.
Ista was always telling me how happy and hospitable and genial the Waylord was in the old days, how merry his guests in the great dining room used to be, and how he had laughed at Sosta’s baby tricks. But my Waylord was a man whose knees had been broken with iron bars, his arms dislocated, his family murdered, his people defeated, a man in poverty and pain and shame.
“I don’t know how to read,” I said. And then, because his smile was fading fast, going back into the shadow, I said, “Can I learn?”
It saved the smile for a moment. Then he looked away.
“It’s dangerous, Memer,” he said, not speaking to me as to a child.
“Because the Alds are afraid of it,” I said.
He looked back at me. “They are. They ought to be.”
“It’s not demons or black magic,” I said. “There isn’t any such thing.”
He did not answer directly. He looked me in the eyes, not like a man of forty looking at a child of nine, but as one soul judging another soul.
“I’ll teach you, if you like,” he said.
¦ 2 ¦
So the Waylord began to teach me, and I learned to read very quickly, as if I had been waiting and more than ready, like a starving person given dinner.
As soon as I understood what the letters were, I learned them, and began to make out the words, and I don’t remember ever being puzzled or stopped for long, except once. I took down the tall red book with gold designs on its cover, which had always been a favorite of mine before I could read, when I called it Shining Red. I just wanted to find out what it was about, to taste it. But when I tried to read it, it made no sense. There were the letters, and they made words, but meaningless words. I could not understand a single one. It was nonsense, garble, garbage. I was furious with it and with myself when the Waylord came in. “What is wrong with this stupid book!” I said.
He looked at it. “Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s a very beautiful book.” And he read some of the garble out loud. It did sound beautiful, and as if it meant something. I scowled. “It’s in Aritan,” he said, “the language spoken in the world a long time ago. Our language grew out of it. Some of the words aren’t much changed. See, here? and here?” And I recognised parts of the words he pointed to.
“Can I learn it?” I asked.
He looked at me the way he often did, slowly: patient, judging, approving. “Yes,” he said.
So I began to learn the ancient language, at the same time as I began to read the
We couldn’t take books out of the secret room, of course. They would endanger us and everyone in Galvamand. The redhat priests of the Alds would come with soldiers to a house where a book was found. They wouldn’t touch the book, because it was demonic, but they’d have slaves take it down to the canal or the sea, bind stones to it to weight it, and throw it in to sink. And they’d do the same with the people who had owned it. They didn’t burn books or people who read them. The god of the Alds is Atth, the Burning God, and death by fire is a grand thing to them. So they drowned books and people, or took them to the mudflats by the sea and pushed them in with shovels and poles and trampled them down until they suffocated, sunk in the deep wet mud.
People often brought books to Galvamand, at night, in secret. None of them knew of the hidden room—people who’d lived in the house all their life didn’t know of it—but people even outside the city knew that the Waylord Sulter Galva was the man to bring books to, now that it was dangerous to own them, and the House of the Oracle was the place to keep them safe.
None of us in the household ever entered the Waylord’s rooms without knocking and waiting for his answer, and since he was no longer so ill, if he didn’t answer we didn’t bother him. What he did with his time and where he spent it, Ista and Sosta never inquired. They thought he was always in his apartments or the inner courtyards, I suppose, as I used to think. Galvamand is so big it’s easy to lose people in it. He never left the house, being too lame to walk even a block’s length, but people came to see him, many people. They’d spend hours talking with him in the back gallery or, in summer, in one of the courts. They’d come and leave quietly, any time of the day or night, attracting no notice, using the ways through the back part of the house where nobody lived and the rooms were empty and in ruin.
When he had daytime visitors, I’d serve water, or tea when we had any, and sometimes I could stay with them and listen. Some were people I’d known all my life: Desac the Sundramanian, and people of the Four Houses, like the Cams of Cammand, and Per Actamo. Per had been a boy of ten or twelve when the Alds took the city. The people of Actamand put up a hard fight, and when the soldiers took the house they killed all the men and carried off the women as slaves. Per hid from the soldiers in a dry well in a courtyard for three days. He lived now as we did, with a few people in a ruinous house. But he joked with me and was kind, and younger than most of the Waylord’s visitors. I was always glad when Per came. Desac was the only visitor who made it clear I was not welcome to stay and listen to the talk.
The people I didn’t know who came to see the Waylord were mostly merchants and such from the city; some of them still had good clothes. Often men came who looked as if they’d been on the road a long time, visitors or messengers from other towns of Ansul, maybe from other waylords. After dark, in winter, sometimes women came, though it was dangerous for women to go alone in the city. One who used to come often had long grey hair; she seemed a little mad to me, but he greeted her with respect. She always brought books. I never knew her name. Often the people from other towns had books, too, hidden in their clothing or in parcels containing food. Once he knew I could enter the secret room, the Waylord would give them to me to take there.
He mostly went to the room at night, which was why we’d never met there before. I hadn’t gone often, and never at night. I shared a sleeping room in the front part of the house with Ista and Sosta, and couldn’t just vanish. And the days were busy; I had my share of the housework to do, and the worship, and most of the shopping too, since I liked doing it and got better bargains than Sosta did.
Ista was always afraid Sosta would meet soldiers and be taken and raped if she went out alone. She wasn’t afraid for me. The Alds wouldn’t look at me, she said. She meant they wouldn’t like my pale bony face and sheep hair like theirs, because they wanted Ansul girls with round brown cheeks and black sleek hair like Sostas. “You’re lucky to look the way you do,” she always told me. And I stayed quite small and slight for a long time, which really
