Realms of Valor

Forgemaster Inkstain is in.

The shop is nothing more than a lean-to slapped onto the side of a teamster's stable. A paper sign, tattered and water-stained, is tacked near the door. The black ink is streaked from the lettering till it runs into the grain of the pine boards. This is not encouraging, but through the gapped boards comes the squeaking rumble of grinding metal that ends in a thickly padded thump. It is as if a host of rusty knights is stumbling about the room. Foxe's puzzled look tells me he, too, is mystified.

Inside, the clanking bedlam maintains its thunderous tempo. The source is a squat mass of metal and wood crammed into the center of the shed, surrounded by buckets and bales of rag paper in all colors. Nearby, the dwarven master berates his ogre apprentice from atop a crate. The din has concealed our entrance. The thick, hairy back of the apprentice bends and strains in time with the contraption as his thick, warty arms pull on a long lever that wrenches the grinding gears into the motions. Iron arms rise and fall, metallic claws snatching sheets of foolscap from a stack and pushing them into a mechanical maw.

'Don't push her so hard, you lout! Here, ease off an' grease her up. I'll-' Forgemaster Inkstain catches sight of us from the corner of his eye. His demeanor instantly changes. 'Gentlemen, I'm favored to have you visit my humble shop,' the dwarf shouts as he clambers down from his perch. 'I be Forgemaster Inkstain, master printer. Aguul, shut her down, so these gentlemen can hear.'

I am afraid I am rudely gawking, having never dealt much with the dwarves-creatures of the West as they are. The master printer is nothing like the fierce ironlord who commanded the dwarves of King Azoun's army. Truly the name does him justice, for Inkstain seems to be a single blot of ink, all four-and-a-half feet of him. His leather apron and starched linen shirt are a smudgy black. I think his beard is white, though now it is a gray mass tucked into his belt for safety. Only the top of his bald head is undaubed.

'I had her shipped up from the Deep itself,' the dwarf proudly says, the machine's racket finally stilled. Aguul lumbers off, barely squeezing his way through the door to the stable.

'The deep?'

'The Deep-Dwarves' Deep, home to me kin an' all that. Now, what can I do fer you gentlemen?'

Foxe intercedes on my behalf, slipping his portly body between us. 'Forgemaster Inkstain, my master is Koja of Khazari, lama of the Red Mountain, emissary of the Tuigan, and grand historian of Yamun Khahan, former emperor of the steppes. He has come to discuss terms for a printing.'

I do not like these titles, but Foxe has already explained the need to impress the dwarf. I thought this would not work, and I am proved correct. Forgemaster Inkstain remains stolidly unimpressed. 'Printin' what?'

I let Foxe negotiate. 'My master is just completing his Observations of the Tuigan Historian, Recording the Life of Yamun Khahan from his Rise to his Death in the Lands of the West, from Notes made for King Azoun of Cormyr.'

'Title's kind o' long.'

'We can call it A History of the Tuigan.' Foxe concedes too willingly, I think.

Forgemaster Inkstain gnaws at a nail before finally clearing off a corner of the half-buried desk that is his office. 'Well then, how many copies? What kind o' paper? Any illuminations? Illustrations? Ordinary bindin' or would you be wantin' somethin' odd, like dragonscale or wyvern hide? You be holy men-ain't no magical verse, would there be?' Forgemaster Inkstain asks the last with a slow suspicion in his voice.

'There will be a sutra at the beginning-to invoke Furo's favor,' I offer.

'Magical?' The dwarfs face is a wrinkled scowl.

'No. Just a verse of the Yanitsava.'

'Oh, that's all right then,' the dwarf says, smiling once again. 'Ain't able to print magic on a page, you see. Just won't take.'

The rest of the details are beyond me, so I sit in the corner, letting Foxe negotiate. Each point seems to take an interminable amount of time; there is nothing for me to do but meditate, but I cannot blank my mind. Memories intrude on the emptiness-snow melting from the grassy steppe, the sharp taste of kumiss in Yamun's tent, the wind blowing across the granite spires of Khazari. Even the failure to meditate brings forth memories of my teachers at the Red Mountain. Of late, I have been thinking more and more of places past, as if the present is an empty shell that must be filled.

Finally Foxe concludes the negotiations. His face is dour, and I can see it has not gone well. Forgemaster Inkstain steps forward, no longer beaming but serious. 'Well, honored sir, your servant has concluded a price o' no more than ten thousand gold lions or-let's see-eight if it all be Procampan coin-fer the necessary plates an' supplies fer one book. After that, let's say five hundred lions fer extra copies. Is those acceptable terms to you, honored sir?'

Ten thousand gold is more than I have, more than the value of all Yamun's gifts I still possess. Foxe's helpless look tells me the price will be no lower. I look at the walls, hung with flimsy sheets covered with rows of splotchy black printing. The paper is coarse and ragged, the illustrations crude. The sheets I see cannot compare to the careful illuminations prepared at the temple or the vermillion scrolls I have collected from Shou Lung. The cost is too much for such poor quality. 'Forgemaster Inkstain,' I answer with a bow, hoping to save face, 'I will consider your terms. Come, Firstborn Foxe, we must go.'

I hurry out the door before the dwarf can protest. I am embarrassed by this adventure, that Forgemaster Inkstain knows what I cannot pay, even that I considered the plan at all. Foxe runs after me. 'I told you this was unnecessary,' my secretary chides. 'The dwarfs device is only a toy good for nothing but handbills. Besides, Inkstain would not come down a copper bit in his price. Please understand, I tried very hard for you, Master Koja.'

'You have done what you could, I am certain,' I answer to placate Foxe. 'I have wasted your time with a foolish idea. I have no choice….'

'You'll go to Duke Piniago's tonight? Everything will be prepared. Don't worry, master.'

I feel a repugnance about begging from the duke, but I am ashamed to rely any longer on the generosity of the clerics. Am I acting out of pride, though? When this dinner is over, I must increase my meditation and regain the center of my being. But for now, there is inescapable duty. Since leaving the monastery, I have lived through war and treachery at Yamun's side. Now, it seems, I am reduced to peddling my knowledge to aristocrats. In a previous life I must have strayed far from the Path of Enlightenment for things to be such as they are now.

'Very well. I will go. Let us hope your acolyte has laid things out as you instructed.' Watching Foxe, I see his jowls relax with relief at my decision.

Reluctance delays my footsteps, punctuality urges me onward, until at last I arrive at Duke Piniago's palace- neither late nor early. The manse is well back in the Nobles District, where the silvered roofs of that quarter gleam in the unflickering light of the magical street lamps. As I wend through the well-cobbled avenues, the fog trumpets gloomily warn of the impending encroachment of mists over the city, a final encouragement to hurry before that wet chill arrives.

The duke's palace is encompassed by walls, high and carved with grotesque creatures that leer fiercely in the shadowy night. Between the statues jut iron spikes, clearly meant to deter the outside world, including me.

Palanquin bearers brusquely order me aside as I near the courtyard gate. From the passing windows of the closeted boxes, perfumed and powdered faces stare at me in disbelief. No one of importance walks through the streets of Procampur, especially alone. I do not find the walk arduous-even on this damp night. The city air is bracing. Besides, a palanquin would be an ill-befitting indulgence, and I must be more diligent with myself.

Like the guests, the guards at the courtyard gate stare at me. Foxe was right about my choice of clothing. With my orange lama's robes and shaved head I hardly look like one of the duke's customary guests. Nonetheless, I wear the faded cotton as a connection to my past.

Inside the palace, a powdered servant in showy livery guides me through the carpeted outer chambers where enchanted music wafts ethereally through the halls, theme and tempo changing to suit each room. Already the guests have taken their places in the banquet hall, crowded at a table burdened with glowing tapers and platters heaped with viands. My seat, two down from the duke, is the only empty one of the twenty-two chairs I count at the long table. Habit makes me count-the need to know numbers, reasons, and causes.

'Greetings to our distinguished foreign guest,' hails Duke Piniago from the head of the overfull board. He heaves to his feet, massively tall and broad, his thick black beard stained with wine. Waving a goblet around so it