No, his life was not yet over.
There is no ice. The world is sure and solid beneath me. Listen! There is nothing.
A scratching knock at his door made Sagander close his eyes briefly. Arathan. How could a man such as Draconus sire such a child? Oh, Arathan was bright enough, and by all reports Ivis had run out of things he could teach the boy in matters of swordcraft. But such skills were of little real value. Weapons were the swift recourse among those who failed at reason or feared truth. Sagander had done his best with Arathan but it seemed likely that, despite the boy’s cleverness, he was destined for mediocrity. What other future could be expected from an unwanted child?
The knock came again. Sighing, Sagander bid him enter. He heard the door open but did not turn from his examination of the many objects cluttering his table.
Arathan moved up alongside him, was silent as he studied the array on the ink-stained surface. Then he said, ‘The Lord stated that we must travel light, sir.’
‘I know very well what I shall need, and this is the barest minimum. Now, what is it you want? As you can see, I am very busy — ideally, I need three days to prepare, but it is as Lord Draconus commands, and I shall make do.’
‘I would help you pack, sir.’
‘What of your own gear?’
‘Done.’
Sagander snorted. ‘You will rue your carelessness, Arathan. These matters demand deliberation.’
‘Yes sir.’
Sagander waved a hand at the assemblage. ‘As you can see, I have completed my preliminary selection, always bearing in mind that additions are likely to occur to me until the very last possible moment of departure, meaning it shall be necessary to ensure that the trunks each have room to spare. I expect I will be returning with many artefacts and writings, as well. Frankly, I don’t see how you can assist me, apart from carrying the trunks downstairs, and you will need help for that. Best let the servants deal with it.’
Still the boy hesitated, and then he said, ‘I can help you make more space in the trunks, sir.’
‘Indeed? And how will you do that?’
‘I see you have five bottles of ink, sir. As we will be riding hard throughout, there will be little time to write during the trip-’
‘And what about once we arrive among the Azathanai?’
‘Surely, they will have ink, sir, with which they will be generous, particularly when it comes to a visiting scholar of such high renown as yourself. Indeed, I imagine they will be equally generous with scrolls, lambskin and wax, as well as frames, gut and scribers.’ Before Sagander could respond, he went on, ‘And these maps — of Kurald Galain — I presume they are intended as gifts?’
‘It is customary-’
‘While there has been peace for some time between the Azathanai and the Tiste, no doubt other visitors among the Azathanai might value such maps, for all the wrong reasons. Sir, I believe Lord Draconus will forbid the gift of maps.’
‘An exchange between scholars in the interests of knowledge has no relevant bearing on mundane political matters — whence comes this arrogance of yours?’
‘I apologize, sir. Perhaps I could return to our lord and ask him?’
‘Ask him what? Don’t be a fool. Furthermore, do not presume a sudden rise in your status simply because you spent a few moments with our lord. In any case, I had already concluded that I would not bring the maps — too bulky; besides, these copies are the ones done by your hand, last year, and the rendition is suspect at best, deplorable in some instances. In fact, given that, they make most dubious gifts, rife with errors as they no doubt are. You wish to assist me, student? Very well, give some thought to suitable gifts.’
‘To one recipient or many, sir?’
Sagander considered the question, and then nodded. ‘Four of respectable value and one of great worth.’
‘Would the one of great worth be intended for the Lord of Hate, sir?’
‘Of course it would! Now, be off with you, but be back before the evening meal’s bell.’
As Arathan was leaving, Sagander turned. ‘A moment. I have decided to reduce the number of trunks to two, with one only half filled. Bear that in mind with regard to these gifts.’
‘I shall, sir.’
The door creaked when Arathan shut it behind him.
Irritated by the sound, Sagander fixed his attention once more on the gear on the worktable. He pushed the maps off the edge as they were cluttering his vision.
He did not think much of the boy’s chances in finding a suitable gift for the Lord of Hate, but it would keep Arathan out from underfoot. Sagander had observed a new bad habit emerging from the boy, though the scholar was having difficulty defining it with any precision. It was in the way Arathan spoke, in the questions he asked and that mask of innocence on his face when he asked them. Not just innocence, but earnestness. Something about the whole thing was suspect, as if none of it was quite real.