The Wise Man's Fear

seven for Simmon and ten for me. “Hardly conclusive,” Wilem mused.

“We could declare it a draw,” I suggested magnanimously.

Simmon scowled. Good-natured or not, he hated losing a bet. “Fair enough,” he said.

I turned to Wilem and gave a significant look at the pair of books still untouched on the table. “It looks like our bet will be settled a little more quickly, nia?”

Wilem gave a predatory grin. “Very quickly.” He lifted a book. “Here I have a copy of the proclamation which disbanded the Amyr.” He opened to a marked page and began to read. “ ‘Their actions will henceforth be held in account by the laws of the empire. No member of the Order shall presume to take upon themselves the right to hear a case, nor to pass judgment in court.’ ”

He looked up smugly. “See? If they had their adjudicating powers revoked, then they must have had some to begin with. So it stands to reason they were a part of the Aturan bureaucracy.”

“Actually,” I said apologetically, “The church has always had judiciary powers in Atur.” I held up one of my two books. “It’s funny you should bring the Alpura Prolycia Amyr. I brought it too. The decree itself was issued by the church.”

Wilem’s expression darkened. “No it wasn’t. It was listed in here as Emperor Nalto’s sixty-third decree.”

Puzzled, we compared our two books and found them directly contradictory.

“Well I guess those cancel each other out,” Sim said. “What else have you guys got?”

“This is Feltemi Reis. The Lights of History,” Wilem grumbled. “It is definitive. I didn’t think I would need any further proof.”

“Doesn’t this bother either of you?” I thumped the two contradictory books with a knuckle. “These shouldn’t be saying different things.”

“We just read twenty books saying different things,” Simmon pointed out. “Why would I have a problem with two more?”

“The purpose of the greystones is speculative. There’s bound to be a variety of opinions. But the Alpura Prolycia Amyr was an open decree. It turned thousands of the most powerful men and women in the Aturan Empire into outlaws. It was one of the primary reasons for the collapse of the empire. There’s no reason for conflicting information.”

“The order has been disbanded for over three hundred years,” Simmon said. “Plenty of time for some contradictions to arise.”

I shook my head, flipping through both of the books. “Contrary opinions are one thing. Contrary facts are another.” I held up my book. “This is The Fall of Empire by Greggor the Lesser. He’s a windbag and a bigot, but he’s the best historian of his age.” I held up Wilem’s book. “Feltemi Reis isn’t nearly the historian, but he’s twice the scholar Greggor was, and scrupulous about his facts.” I looked back and forth between the books, frowning. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“So what now?” Sim said. “Another draw? That’s disappointing.”

“We need someone to judge,” Wilem said. “A higher authority.”

“Higher than Feltemi Reis?” I asked. “I doubt Lorren can be bothered to settle our bet.”

Wil shook his head, then stood and brushed the wrinkles from the front of his shirt. “It means you finally get to meet Puppet.”

CHAPTER FORTY Puppet

“The most important thing is to be polite,” Simmon said in a hushed tone as we made our way through a narrow hallway lined with books. Our sympathy lamps shot bands of light through the shelves and made the shadows dance nervously. “But don’t patronize him. He’s a bit—odd, but he’s not an idiot. Just treat him like you would treat anyone else.”

“Except polite,” I said sarcastically, tiring of this litany of advice.

“Exactly,” Simmon said seriously.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked, mostly to stop Simmon’s henpecking.

“Sub-three,” Wilem said as he turned to descend a long flight of stone steps. Centuries of use had worn down the stone, making the stairs look as bowed as heavy-laden shelves. As we started down, the shadows made the steps look smooth and dark and edgeless, like an abandoned riverbed worn from the rock.

“Are you sure he’s going to be there?”

Wil nodded. “I don’t think he leaves his chambers very much.”

“Chambers?” I asked. “He lives here?”

Neither of them said anything as Wilem led the way down another flight of stairs, then through a long stretch of wide hallway with a low ceiling. Finally we came to an unremarkable door tucked into a corner. If I hadn’t known better I would have assumed it was one of the countless reading holes scattered throughout the Stacks.

“Just don’t do anything to upset him,” Simmon said nervously.

I assumed my most polite expression as Wilem rapped on the door. The handle began to turn almost immediately. The door opened a crack, then was thrown wide. Puppet stood framed in the doorway, taller than any of us. The sleeves of his black robe billowed strikingly in the breeze of the opening door.

He stared at us haughtily for a moment, then looked puzzled and brought a hand to touch the side of his head. “Wait, I’ve forgotten my hood,” he said, and kicked the door closed.

Odd as his brief appearance had been, I’d noticed something more disturbing. “Burned body of God,” I whispered. “He’s got candles in there. Does Lorren know?”

Simmon opened his mouth to answer when the door was thrown wide again. Puppet filled the doorway, his dark robe striking against the warm candlelight behind him. He was hooded now, with his arms upraised. The long sleeves of his robes caught the inrush of air and billowed impressively. The same rush of air caught his hood and blew it partway off his head.

“Damn,” he said in a distracted voice. The hood settled half on, half off his head, partially covering one eye. He kicked the door shut again.

Wilem and Simmon remained straight-faced. I refrained from any comment.

There was a moment of quiet. Finally a muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “Would you mind knocking again? It doesn’t seem quite right otherwise.”

Obediently, Wilem stepped back up to the door and knocked. Once, twice, then the door swung open and we were confronted with a looming figure in a dark robe. His cowled hood shadowed his face, and the long sleeves of his robe stirred in the wind.

“Who calls on Taborlin the Great?” Puppet intoned, his voice resonant, but slightly muted by the deep hood. A hand pointed dramatically. “You! Simmon!” There was a pause, and his voice lost its dramatic resonance. “I’ve seen you already today, haven’t I?”

Simmon nodded. I could sense the laughter tumbling around in him, trying to find a way out.

“How long ago?”

“About an hour.”

“Hmm.” The hood nodded. “Was I better this time?” He reached up to push the hood back and I noticed the robe was too big for him, the sleeves hanging down to his fingertips. When his face emerged from the hood he was grinning like a child playing dress-up in his parents’ clothes.

“You weren’t doing Taborlin before,” Simmon admitted.

“Oh.” Puppet seemed a little put out. “How was I this time? The last time, I mean. Was it a good Taborlin?”

“Pretty good,” Simmon said.

Puppet looked at Wilem.

“I liked the robe,” Wil said. “But I always imagined Taborlin with a gentle voice.”

“Oh.” He finally looked at me. “Hello.”

“Hello,” I said in my politest tone.

“I don’t know you.” A pause. “Who are you?”