dwellings of the village. They pitched their tents and remained for one day or a hundred, trading game, labor, or objects for food and handicrafts.
Something in the muddle of scruffy tents caught Tiphan’s eye. He leaned forward, saying, “Leave me at the wall.” The lead bearer grunted acknowledgment and steered his comrades to the open defile.
To prevent enemies from simply storming the necessary openings in the wall, Amero’s builders created a low, extra wall in front of each opening. Those entering Yala-tene by these baffles had to zigzag around the short wall before they could enter. In times of trouble, heavy timbers or boulders could be set in the baffles to block them completely.
The bearers lowered Tiphan’s chair to the ground. He rose with a musical clatter of bronze scales and stepped down. Moments later, his father’s litter arrived.
“Why have you stopped, son?” Konza called.
“I want to check the progress of the wall. You go ahead. Preparation of the offering must commence by midday. Will you see to it?”
The old man blinked. “Gladly.” He sat back, plainly puzzled. “But I thought you were in a hurry to get back.”
“I was.” To Konza’s bearers, Tiphan said, “Take my father to the Offertory.”
With a concerted shout, they set off, giving Konza no chance to countermand his son’s command.
Tiphan sent his own bearers away as well. He strolled along the outside of the wall, admiring the evenness of the stonework, the precision of the seams between the blocks. Amero’s masons had learned a great deal about laying stone in twelve years. This newest section of wall was their finest effort yet.
Turning away from the wall, Tiphan walked down to the wanderers’ camp. Eyes watched him from scores of open tents, yet for all the roughness of the encampment, he had nothing to fear. The inhabitants might call their town Yala-tene, meaning “Mountain Nest,” but to outsiders such as these, it was known as Arku-peli, or “Place of the Dragon.” No one dared interfere with Tiphan. His dragonscale robe made it plain he had access to the powerful Duranix.
Tiphan spied a tall, conical tent near the center of the camp. Bark walls meant the owner was too poor to have a tent made of deerskin. A flap of woven ivy hung over the entrance, reinforcing the image of poverty, yet on the leafy doorflap hung a bronze disk two handspans wide, embossed with an image of the sun. Bronze was rare and valuable, quite out of place on such a lowly shelter. It was this artifact that had caught Tiphan’s eye.
The Sensarku swept back the flap with one hand. The interior was dark and smelled of sour mold and raw meat. He saw crossed feet, clad in bark sandals. They retreated from the shaft of light Tiphan let in.
“May I enter?”
“As you choose, but close the flap.” The speaker — his name was Bek — had an edge in his voice, the sharpness of danger and guile.
Tiphan stepped in and let the mat of vines fall shut behind him. Darkness closed around him. Tiny points of sunlight pierced the interior through chinks in the bark shell. By these Tiphan could see Bek sitting on the far side of the tent. A few rough stones piled in the center of the floor served as a firepit. The rest of the tent was crowded with rattan baskets and bags of moldering leather.
“What do you have for me this time?”
“What you asked for,” Bek said.
Tiphan’s eyes widened. “Show me.”
“It wasn’t easy to come by and won’t be cheap.”
“Show me!”
The shadowy figure stood. Bek was little taller standing than sitting. As he slipped past, Tiphan caught only glimpses of his strange host: tattoos scrolling down his neck, a blue stone fixed in a pierced earlobe, a reddish pigtail hanging down his back. And what was hanging from the back of his belt? A panther’s tail?
Bek knelt by a tall basket and pushed off the lid. The rattan container was crowded with cylinders of stiff white parchment. The tattooed man drew out one scroll, checked the glyphs on the butt of the wooden rod, and handed it to Tiphan.
“Kinsheesus Talikanathor is its name, more or less. In the argot of Silvanesti priests it means ‘The Way to Bind the Sun.’”
Tiphan parted the scroll. It was filled from side to side and top to bottom with Elvish script. Glosses on the black text were scribed in red. He was still learning the language, and the poor light did not make deciphering the ornate, feathery writing any easier.
Tiphan let go of one side, allowing the scroll to roll itself shut. “What do you want for it?”
For the first time the little man looked his customer in the face. Both his eyes glowed in the dark, and in different colors. His right eye was cool, greenish blue, like the belly of a carrion fly. The left eye was yellow, like the stars in the constellation of Matat, the dragon.
“Give me your robe,” Bek said.
Tiphan laughed. “This robe is worth more than your life!”
“This book is worth more than both our lives.” Bek removed the scroll from the Sensarku’s hand and carefully returned it to the basket with the others. “You can’t walk into a scribe’s shop in Silvanost and ask for these tomes, you know. They’re forbidden! I took many chances getting it.” He drew a stubby finger across his throat. Tiphan ignored the ugly gesture. Bek continued, “This book has commentaries by Vedvedsica himself. Did you see the passages in red ink? His hand, his wisdom.”
Tiphan knew the fame of the elf priest Vedvedsica. For many years he’d been the first sage of Silvanos’s realm. Then, a few years ago, rumors had reached Yala-tene of his downfall. It was said the wily Vedvedsica had been exiled to an island far away in the southern sea.
“I’ll give you four pounds of bronze,” Tiphan told him. “Or six pounds of copper. I also have some gemstones.”
Bek shook his head. His eyelids closed for the space of two heartbeats, and when they opened again, his irises had switched colors — now the right one was yellow, and the left blue.
“I want the robe off your back, nothing less,” Bek said, grinning. His teeth were uncommonly long and pointed.
“There’s ten pounds of bronze in this robe!”
“With this book you can command the elements!” The little man held the lid poised over the basket. “Last chance. What say you?”
Tiphan’s hands positively ached to hold the manuscript again. Jaw clenched, he unclasped the buckle of his belt and let it fall to the dirt. Dropping his arms, he shrugged the heavy robe off. It piled around his feet like musical, golden snow.
The little man handed Tiphan the scroll. “Wise choice, my friend. Knowledge is much more valuable than bronze,” he said. To Tiphan’s amazement, the panther tail attached to the back of the man’s belt moved, lashing once from side to side.
“You seem to crave bronze well enough,” Tiphan said, slipping the parchment roll inside his white doeskin shirt.
“A fella’s got to eat. While you’re here, can I interest you in another book? It’s also from Silvanost, very rare, suppressed by five priesthoods.” In answer to Tiphan’s questioning look, Bek elaborated. “ Girthas Laka Morokiti, ‘Dialogue of the Courtesans.’ It tells of the amorous doings of highborn Silvanesti ladies.”
Tiphan sneered. “Keep it. I seek wisdom, not lechery.” He picked up his belt, raised the door flap, and added, “But if you find more like this, contact me in the usual way.”
“Good fortune to you, excellent Tiphan!” Bek called cheerfully. “Always a delight to serve you.”
The Sensarku walked away. He glanced back once and regretted it. The bookseller stood partially concealed in the door of his tent. Where sunlight fell on him, the illusion of humanity failed utterly. One leg, one arm, and his shoulder were covered by charcoal fur. A single yellow fang protruded from his whiskered upper lip. The supposed panther’s tail curled around Bek’s ankle, twitching with feline amusement.
Chapter 2
