Page 429 of Of Empires and Dust
The young man had barely said a word since the battle. Seeing his friend, learning the truth, had broken him a little. And Trusil’s death had affected him deeply. Rist might have been a quiet young man, may have seemed cold or distant to some, but Garramon knew different. Rist cared deeply for everyone and everything around him. He was a kind soul. The moment Garramon had handed over Trusil’s reins to Rist, he had seen how much the young man would love that horse.
Drawing his hood back, Garramon stepped from the rain and through the doorway set into the wall that ringed the yard. He walked along the austere corridors until he found the staircase he was looking for and descended. The Craftsmages that ran the print houses – the Exucendi –preferred to keep their workshops below ground to avoid unnecessary distractions.
The stairs dropped some forty feet into the ground, the interwoven corridors carved with the Spark. Slow-burning oil lanterns sat in alcoves evenly spaced along the smooth stone walls, while iron-grated vents provided air flow. The network of tunnels and chambers beneath the Circle was far more intricate than the dungeons kept by the Inquisition, but Garramon could have walked them in his sleep. The elves had always been fond of subterranean systems and had worked them beneath nearly every major city under elven rule.
His steps echoed in the empty corridor as he walked, only a handful of young acolytes and porters crossing his path.
Garramon stepped through the corridor on his left and out into the antechamber that led to the Exucendi house of Berona. He pushed open the gilded door on the other side of the chamber and stepped into a cavernous hall ornamented with tapestries and banners woven from the finest Narvonan silk. Everything was gold. The doorhandles, the sconces, the banding on the tables – everything. And what precious little wasn’t gold was rubies or sapphires or emeralds. The print houses of the Exucendi may as well have been royal houses themselves with the amount of coin that flowed through their coffers. Like-for-like perfect recreations of entire books, journals, manuscripts, and whatever else was needed were a rare and costly thing. And Fane kept the Beronan Exucendi well cared for. The preservation – and curation – of history was of great import.
He nodded at the porters who occupied the main hall and to the guards posted at every door. In six centuries, Garramon had not known of a single instance when anyone had been stupid enough to attempt a robbery of the Beronan Exucendi, but they retained a solid guard nonetheless.
“Exarch Kalinim.” The guard posted outside Exucendi Adama’s workshop inclined his head to Garramon, opening the door before him.
The workshop was as meticulous and organised as Rist’s chambers, everything neatly placed where it would best suit its function. The entire right wall was an enormous bookcase that stretched some thirty feet long and fifteen feet high, blending into the vaulted ceiling above through arches of worked gold. The left side of the room was divided into two sections. One was dominated by open cabinets with large glass vessels of various inks and solutions and what seemed to be an endless supply of top-quality archival paper, the kind always used when important books were copied and bound. The other section contained a vast array of trinkets that Garramon was sure had absolutelynothing to do with books whatsoever. But Adama was known as a bit of a collector.
“They say that’s the sword of Harken Holdark himself.” Adama emerged from another door on the far side of the chamber, pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. He stared up at an enormous greatsword with a bear head pommel. “I had to trade two kidneys for that.”
Garramon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you need those?”
“They weren’t mine.” Adama stared at the sword for a moment longer, then raised a finger. “I have two pages left to transfer, and your books will be ready. Come, come. My apologies, I have been a bit distracted of late.”
The Exucendi walked Garramon over to a bench that was just as meticulously arranged as the rest of the workshop. Inks, tools, books, and various binding materials were all organised in specific sections. The man stood beside a well-worn leather chair, two books laid out on the bench before him. He slid an enormous glass vessel of ink across the smooth stone bench and removed the lid.
“It will only be a moment,” Adama said, once more pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “As with most crafts, what you’re paying for is the time it took to perfect the skill, not simply the time it takes to perform the task.”
The Spark flowed from the man in a gentle ripple, threads of Air, Water, Fire, Earth, and Spirit whirling about his hand, each as thin as a strand of a spider’s webbing. He wove the threads of Air, Water, and Earth into the vessel of ink and pulled a sheet of rippling dark liquid into the air, thinning it out so it looked like an almost solid pane of black glass. At the same time, the man wove threads of Spirit into the first book and onto the blank page of the second.
“What do threads of Spirit do?” Garramon whispered, looking over Adama’s shoulder.
“They help my mind focus on what my eyes cannot see. The words, the inflections of the original penstrokes, the character and art in the craft. The near-imperceptible characteristics that make something unique. Now please, quiet.”
The man created a triangle of Spirit between the two books and the ink. As he lowered the sheet of floating ink onto the second page, it thinned and pulled apart, creating hundreds of shapes: letters and punctuation marks. He pressed the ink onto the blank pages, weaving the threads of each element through them until they were set.
After a moment, the threads evaporated, and Adama closed both books. He set the newly inked book to the side, then pulled a second from a chest beneath the bench, laying them both in front of Garramon.
“A strange request,” Adama said as he ran his fingers over the deep red leather atop the book closest to him. “A History of Magii, by Gandal Frendor, andDruids, a Magic Lost,by Duran Linold. There are not many who would pay my rates for books in such wide circulation.”
“There are not many Exucendi who still hand bind and dye their own leather from Khergani goathide. Your work is worth the coin, Adama.”
“I am pleased you think so, Exarch Kalinim. You put great care into these. Someone special?”
Garramon nodded. “My son.”
The door creaked open on the other side of the room, and Garramon was surprised to see Brother Pirnil stepping into the workshop. The man looked like a ghost of himself, pale as bone, eyes sunken, clothes stained and torn. He bit at his lip as he walked, a persistent tremor in his hands.
Pirnil didn’t even seem to notice Garramon. “Adama,” he snapped. “Where is my commission?”
“I have it here, Lector Pirnil.” Adama gave Garramon a look that let him know Brother Pirnil was not a particularly welcome client. The Exucendi bent down to another chest beneath the bench.
“If every detail is not perfect this time, I swear I will have you strung up by order of the emperor. Do you understand, Adama?Perfect. The illustrations could have been copied by a child. I was told you were the best the Exucendi had to offer, but I am yet to be impressed.” Pirnil moved so he stood beside Garramon, still not seeming to notice Garramon even stood in the room.
“So you’ve told me, Lector.” The man emerged with two thick black leather books, not dissimilar to the one Garramon had seen Fane with. “Here they are,” he said, handing the books to Pirnil. “And my sincere apologies for the wait. It has been a busy period.”
“Your apologies are not needed,” Pirnil snapped, pulling the books close to his chest. “You will not be paid for tardiness and sloppy craftsmanship. You can consider this book a tribute to ensure the emperor allows you to keep your fingers. When I call again, Brother Adama, I will expect better.”
Pirnil turned and strode from the room, muttering to himself as he did.
Garramon raised an eyebrow at Adama.
