legend. One pearl of wisdom plucked out of all that history is that every house mirrors the interior of its master.'
'Meaning this place is falling apart and the staff is slovenly because that's how Paludan Bruglioni is?'
'Yes. Paludan doesn't like the house the way it is. But it's' too much trouble to do battle with the night.'
'Uh?'
'Oh. I didn't mean that in the supernatural sense. Only spiritually. Like, the night will always be there, no matter how hard you fight it. So why bother? Why suffer all that frustration?'
'I see. Is there anything I can show Paludan and Gervase when they finally decide they have to know what all the racket is about?'
'There will be.'
'How do you think this will play with Saluda?'
'What are you asking?'
'Does Saluda have a personal interest in things staying the way they are? Has he been collecting kickbacks? I haven't found any evidence but that's what it feels like.'
That notion surprised the cook. 'I don't think so. Not that he wouldn't. If he thought of it'
'But he might have an interest?'
'Maybe. But he's also more of a Bruglioni than most of the family who ran off to the country. Who don't want to come back.'
Else had heard the same from Polo.
'So it goes. That can be dealt with. Keep on, here. And find me a couple of troublemakers to fire. To remind the others that they can be replaced.'
Else found Polo with Mr. Grazia. Polo reported, 'There's been some creative accounting here. Paludan Bruglioni is spending thirty thousand ducats a year for half that in results, mostly as payouts to people who don't exist for work that doesn't get done and to vendors for goods that never arrive.'
'I see. Mr. Grazia! Did you think nobody would ever notice?'
Grazia shrugged. Like so many caught in his situation, he had no idea why he had not considered possible consequences.
Else asked, 'Polo, did you ever get my paper?'
'No. I keep trying the places in Naftali Square. They keep having nothing to sell. I haven't had time to go to the Devedian quarter.'
'I'll handle it myself, then. Keep putting Mr. Grazia through his paces.' Else patted Grazia's shoulder. 'An epic of the imagination, sir. A true epic.'
'You won't tell Paludan?'
'Not as long as you're helping me whip this place into shape. You slack off, though, or you dip your beak again, then you can probably count on getting together with Father Obilade.'
Else tried to slip away using the servants' gate. That did not work. He picked up a tail anyway.
He worried who and why for a few minutes, decided that it didn't matter. There were only two of them and they were inept. He shed them near Anna Mozilla's house. Thoughts of Anna distracted him momentarily. But he could reward himself later. He headed for the Devedian quarter.
Brothe's Devedian elders admitted that twenty thousand Deves lived in the city. Rumor suggested there were several times that. If true, then more Deves lived in the seat of the inimical Episcopal faith than in the Holy Lands themselves. But in Suriet the towns could not grow large, except on the coast of the Mother Sea. The coast where western invaders established their crusader principalities and kingdoms.
There were many times more Devedians in their Diaspora than remained resident in the mad country that had given them birth.
Else tried and failed to imagine what it must be like to live in those madlands, in amongst the Wells of Ihrian, where the magic boiled out of the earth incessantly, warping everything around it, birthing malignant new spirits, feeding the Instrumentalities of the Night, and incidentally, unleashing the only power capable of holding the ice at bay.
Even today many Devedian native sons were perfectly willing to leave Suriet and let it become a nesting place of Chaldarean conquerors and Praman liberators alike. Or maybe the reverse.
Let them bash one another's heads amidst the floods from the magical springs. One day He Whose Name Is Legion would cleanse the earth of all but His Chosen.
Aaron, Eis, Kelam, and the other prophets who laid the foundations of Arianism, which evolved into Chaldareanism, departed the Holy Lands themselves as soon as their preaching and witnessing gifted them with donations sufficient to let them travel without having to sleep under bridges. They scattered across the Brothen Empire, carrying their message to those whose lives consisted primarily of despair.
The preaching, the witnessing, the performing of miracles — most of that had taken place far from the Wells of Ihrian, in provinces now part of Lucidia or the Eastern Empire.
As he moved southward Else began to sense a potent electric tension. Something significant had happened. Something bigger was expected to happen. Its threatened scale troubled everyone.
Else could not get an answer when he asked why. There was an immense prejudice against foreigners with blond hair.
His Devedian contact could explain.
There was no threat of rain, but the Deves and Didnshaus scurried about in a jerky hurry, as though trying to get the day's business done before bad weather arrived.
Else entered a tiny papermaker's shop. A sign on the artist's own product proclaimed it the source of the best papers in Brothe. A stereotypical little old Deve, bent, leaning on a cane, his features camouflaged by thickets of wiry gray hair, came from the back in response to the bell that jingled when Else opened the front door. Chemical smells accompanied the shopkeeper.
'How may I be of…?' the little man asked as he forced his head to turn upward. He did not complete his question.
'I'm here to buy paper, not collect heads. I want an inexpensive, working grade. Twenty sheets. Then I want a better grade, suitable for permanent records and letters expected to survive travel over extended distances. Again, twenty standard sheets. Finally, I want some of that erasable parchment or vellum that students use.'
The old man found his tongue. 'That's an animal product, not paper, though normally we keep some around. You need a special ink, a treatment sponge, a sanding stone, an ink remover, and Halmas clay. Plus calligraphy brushes.'
'I'm in the market for those things, too.'
'We don't carry any of that.'
'And that isn't a problem. There seems to be a paper shortage in Brothe. I'm prepared to go from shop to shop until I find everything.'
'You can pay for all that?'
'Of course. You have a problem with me? You're averse to making a sale?'
'Not at all, sir. This constitutes an excellent sale. My biggest in weeks. It's just that we don't often see men like yourself here in the quarter. Twenty sheets packer grade, twenty choice?'
'Packer?'
The old man shrugged. 'Nobody knows why it's called that. Not anymore. It's your working grade. Your most affordable paper.'
'I see.'
'And how much of the reusable?'
'Six folded to standard-size double exercise sheets. One for me and one for each of my students.'
'Students? Uh … Never mind. None of my business. I have three of those in stock. I know where to find the rest. And the supplies to go with.'
'Good.'
'I'll send my grandsons to bring it all here. That'll save you running from shop to shop.'
Else scowled.
'Oh. No, sir. I won't add another layer of markup.' The bent little man leaned closer to confide, 'They'll pay a
