Wherein nothing of note is observed (Ch. 5)

 “We have each been blessed or perhaps cursed with those talents and proclivities that the goddess has seen fit to bestow upon us. Some have struggled deeply with this as a problem in our natures, for what if our callings are doomed? Does it not seem that some are prophesied to obscurity and yet thoroughly blessed in all they do? I see no reason to struggle or grapple with these questions as though they bear some deep significance to our beliefs. When the time comes, we must each do our duty to ensure the fulfillment of prophecy, and scorn those who will not do their proper part”

Remarks on the Sebastopol schism, chapter 14 line 778, Eato the half heretic

 

The screeching was getting louder. It had been doing so for some time, though Wicker couldn’t tell just how long. She tried to scrape her brain for some hint or explanation, some aide or support. Nothing. A dull scraping sound gradually gets louder behind her. Scolded, that’s what’s going to happen. She’s going to be scolded by her juniors.

 

“I heard we’re needed, so stop obsessing over this! I can’t count how many times you’ve failed this. Your next failure can wait an hour. Come”

 

Wicker’s concentration broken; she glanced behind her. And just as she had suspected, there stands Jen. Towering almost a head over her, at least the lighting didn’t cast her shadow over Wicker’s head. That was truly intimidating. As it was, Jen seemed as she usually did: terrifying. But not mortifyingly so.

 

“I just want things to be pleasant around here Jen. Ruthela’s father is back, and it only seems appropriate that we don’t put our honored guests in a dangerous situation”

 

Jen obviously finds this unconvincing. Dealing with the howling winds had been Wicker’s assignment for nigh on a month at this point. There was no clear or present danger beyond the slightly disconcerting nausea the sounds could cause. Apparently, some people heard the voices of otherworldly monsters in the wind. But not many of them went mad, so it was alright for a while yet.

 

“Ruthela’s father will survive a bit of wind, just like you have, just like the rest of the girls have for however long the acoustic structure has been damaged for. Honestly, why the handy girls can’t just fix it yet is beyond me”

 

“Do you believe that if I give up the handy girls will find this task trivial? Maybe there’s a reason I was given sanctity to solve this independently? Or maybe you believe me to be malicious?”

 

Jen harumphed in an evident show of derision. Her back turned, her stride delivering her heavily to the compound’s exit, she gave the final word on the matter.

 

“‘And a gust shall speak to the bush, and it shall ask him his mind and ask him his health and demand it bring justification for all it has done and the bush shall refuse’”

 

Wicker didn’t get it. A prophecy of some sort, but her mastery of the various prophecies and their standard interpretations was somewhat of a sore spot for her. Rigid memorization seemed impossible, and the literary methods she was most fond of veered dangerously close to those of the marsh barbarians.

 

Finally turning to join the ever-assertive Jen, she forgot to give the compound her customary goodbye glare. She had adopted it as some small measure of control over this problem that had so consumed her time and effort, intractable and unmoving. Well, if the howling and screeching would continue, so could Wicker. It was only a matter of time until she stumbled upon the right incantation or hex needed to quiet the winds. Jen only looked down at her in disgust. Wicker didn’t even glance her way as she strode her way towards the Pontiac’s shrine.

 

“When did I say we’re needed in Pontiac’s shrine? Focus girl! You practically wander with every step!”

 

Wicker thought it strange that Jen would wait until they had reached the main square to yell this at her. She could’ve scolded her on her absent mind on the walk here. But instead, she waited until she reached the square, where every holy and hand girl could hear, and where every ranger or priest might prick their ears or consult their distant eyes to see her embarrassment. Jen obviously had more to say, and Wicker already knew she didn’t want to hear any of it. Yet she didn’t turn, didn’t raise her voice or even her ire. She was silent when the torrent of abuse began.

 

“If it weren’t for Yead thinking you’re pretty you’d never have made it this far. Do you even remember where the extract I talked before is from? Of course, you don’t, otherwise you’d have said something. Always you think you have something to say, don’t you?”

 

This seemed to Wicker rather an unfair assessment of her character. She felt that she seldom spoke when she didn’t have what to say. What other reason could she have for her silence?

 

“Silence is the refuge of all who seek wisdom, rich man poor man young and old, all learn when hearing from those wiser than them”

 

Jen laughed; the acid temporarily gone from her voice. Her chuckle was as gruff and deep as one would expect from a girl as manly seeming as her. But her social instincts were as female as could be. The acid soon returned to her voice, as did her condescending manner.

 

“Oh so I’m wiser than you? Trying to embarrass me with some irony? I’m not a marsh monkey to be impressed by your sophistry or ability to quote some lay person’s Journal from a hundred years ago. Can’t even quote prophecy, can you?”

 

“I wasn’t quoting some lay journal. It was Eato, in his essay on the third wave of prophecies”

 

Quickly seizing on Jen’s momentary hesitation to challenge this claim, Wicker tried to cut short this undesired round of lecturing and torment.

 

“But we can’t just stand around discussing our favorite commentators and tales. We’re needed somewhere, aren’t we? Or can I return to my drudge work?”

 

As she said this, Wicker realized she should probably leave the drudge and focus on research. But what was said was said, and Jen didn’t seize on the opportunity to demean her failure to solve the screeching winds problem. Instead, after a moment of flushed embarrassment, the hulking girl turned in the direction of the great library. Wicker, relieved, followed close behind. The bystanders who had been tacky enough to watch the interaction slunk back to their routine, seemingly chastised by Wicker’s proper diffusion of the situation.

 

Once safely out of the public eye, Jen spoke once more, though in a tone considerably more neutral than earlier.

 

“You were talking about Ruthela’s father earlier, yes? Well that’s what you’re needed for. He’s meeting with Hailey in the library after afternoon studies.”

 

“But study doesn’t even start until zenith! The spring rains make things so much more difficult, there’ll probably be an extended period of waiting what with the pigeons struggling through the storm!”

 

“Yes, that’s exactly why we may have a chance of success. What we need from you will take time”

 

Wicker didn’t like the direction the conversation was going.

 

“I’m already in trouble. It’s your only justification for how you treat me, Jen. I’m not doing anything that you girls ask me to do again. Sensible people don’t appreciate your sense of humor”

 

“Don’t bitch. Your failures are your own. And this is from up high, so it’s all okay. It’s a test of sorts, you see. To get you out of the mess you’ve landed yourself in”

 

Jen didn’t sound mocking or malicious as she said this, which immediately put Wicker on edge. Jen was never nice, would never wholeheartedly endorse any such clemency for Wicker. Had she suddenly grown a heart? Unlikely.

 

“And what is this test? It takes time, it’s at the library, it involves Ruthela’s father. He’s a ranger, so it can’t be to pry his brain in some way or another. You want me to place some charm or spell on him?”

 

Jen glanced at Wicker, impressed with the girl’s quick wit. Despite a poor grasp on prophecy and interpretation, the girl was sharp. But fallible.

 

“Nothing so invasive, Wicker dear. Just an eye. You see, he’s going to discuss something very important with Hailey. And us holy girls deserve to know. No, we need to know”

 

“And whose permission do you have for this? Who’s going to review the content of the eye once this meeting is done? What happens if it’s noticed?”

 

They had reached the library, or at least a minor branch of it. The building was wood, as all buildings had once been here atop the world. Free from the torrential rain that covered the plains this time of year, there was no need to worry about elemental degradation or mold. At least, that was what anyone who inquired would hear. Wicker, already an accomplished hexmistress despite her junior position, knew better. An assortment of charms and lacquers were necessary for even the most basic level of presentability to be maintained in the face of the aggressive dampness that permeated Pontiac’s point. What she never figured out was why the wooden buildings were maintained instead of being replaced with stone as Pontiac’s shrine was.

 

A gaggle of adolescent and somewhat post adolescent girls had gathered here. Each of them looked at Jen and Wicker expectantly as they approached. Not quite awe but not mere formality either, they fell into silence as Jen, ever the leader, spoke up.

 

“Well ladies, she’s here. Our dear hexmistress is going to do her dirty work and give us our information. Then we’re all off the hook”

 

Wicker pondered this phrasing just as she pondered the girls gathered here. Some were the Pontiac’s handmaidens, some were scholars in training, and some were from the outreach core. Crucially, they were of good pedigree. Not the rabble that ended up with any odd job needed, but those born to some Ranger or wealthy patron. Why would these girls be huddled here in the mud? Not the type to snoop on the affairs of diplomacy that the Rangers dabbled in. Not the type to be given some secret mission. And most definitely not the type to take a liking to Wicker. She withered under their stare. She wished she was back at the compound, or better yet in the library preparing to receive the pigeons and their news that would constitute the basis of the coming afternoon study.

 

“Well? What materials do you need?” Asked one of the girls. Wicker looked at her, tried to form some opinion on her based on her appearance. She failed; the girls were all of the same haughty type. They all looked pretty in rather the same bland inoffensive way. Wicker hoped she wouldn’t have to learn any of their names. She gave the list of ingredients with little resistance. She hoped she wasn’t caught again.

 

 

“Things have deteriorated while I was gone, haven’t they?”

“Don’t go so far as to say that. We’ve just been… temporarily set back. Or maybe it’s just that someone has made progress. Isn’t that a far more positive way of looking at things? One man’s loss will always be another’s gain. So, it’s not that we’ve failed! It’s just that… others, have succeeded”

“Unbelievably, that fails to put me at ease. But don’t be ridiculous. You’ve given ground. Sometimes we must give ground, but it’s not really our way. Please enlighten me, what’s different this time?”

 

Finally, a brief pause in the conversation. Wicker’s eyes could barely keep up with the rapid-fire chatter, and Wicker’s mind was struggling to categorize all the new information. So she started simple: this is a conversation between two people in cahoots. One of them was Ruthela’s father. The other seemed to be part of some similar faction. He’s at ease, though the father isn’t. He’s concerned about something, but he’s working towards it. Why doesn’t he just say it outright? Or did she miss it in the rushing exchange?

 

“Nothing’s different this time. It’s all as tiring as ever. But the Eagle doesn’t get tired, does he? He’s as ruthless as ever. Determined, you know. He forced five resolutions through the council while you were gone. Five! Are we the Kargian bureaucracy to take this level of unprecedented action?”

 

This was met with a chortle, but rather a muffled one at that. Either the joke wasn’t very funny, or it was funny for all the wrong reasons. Wicker couldn’t even tell what the punchline was supposed to be. She wasn’t worried by this, as all her other worries about getting caught and failing her projects loomed far larger in her mind. Still, she let a thought rest deep in the bowels of her subconscious: an ironic bureaucracy.

 

“The Eagle has gotten tired, were you truly piqued by him. But you’re not, are you? Both of you have other things you want to ask. No one cares about this little… I don’t even know what to call it, schism? Power struggle? Prophetic dispute? And-”

 

The titan gets no further in his dismissal of the griffin’s worries when he gets cut off. Her thoughts catch on themselves a moment: Griffin? Titan? Why was that what came to mind when she viewed this subdued conversation between the greying scholar and the scarred messenger?

 

“You’re wrong about that. We do care. Some of us care deeply. And we care more deeply now than we did when you left. I don’t know what you do care about, Dolstoy. If you don’t care about the Carrington pamphlet you’re all alone! You’re as good as a merchant who cares for nothing but his margin!”

 

And yet she could think of no other way to describe the two men. The messenger was a titan, even if the manner of his titanity was beyond her. Even though she could not name in her mind where the term came from, she knew it fit this man.

 

“The Carrington pamphlet is the most ridiculous thing to get excited over. Who cares if the warlord of Meyrkopp thinks the scarred prophecies are about him? Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. It’s antithetical to everything we stand for to even consider passing judgement on the matter. If it was prophesized, it’ll come to pass. Why not now? Why never now? Why is no age ever fit to be the culmination of that which was set to happen? The Carrington pamphlet is ridiculous, as if we should take a stand one way or the other on supporting claims of prophecy. Didn’t Getty himself say that a prophecy come true would be as known to the babe as to the Pontiac herself? The only good thing this stupid squabble has done is stay the hand of both factions. And if it’s the only way, I suppose it’s good that you keep on squabbling. But rest assured, the minute one side nets some official approval to act in either affirmation or denial of the prophetic veracity of the Meyrkopp warlords I’m going straight to the Eagle and making all his dreams come true.”

 

The titan had gotten rather flustered as he came to this pronouncement. So much so that the calm demeanor that had characterized the conversation so far had faded into a tense attentiveness towards every word, as if kings and prophets would live and die by each one. To Wicker it seemed a good thing that such import was being placed on each word, else the chore of decoding each one wouldn’t be worth the trouble. As it was, Wicker determined she would understand what each was saying, what they actually meant behind their codes and allusions, though it reminded her all too terribly of endless hours poring over incomprehensibly dense analyses of the simplest lines of prophecy. She looked over at scroll her eye was linked to, realized to her horror that it hadn’t been writing the details of the conversation for some time now, and proceeded to hold in a shriek by only the most heroic of efforts. Gone! It was gone! How had the eye failed her so horribly so quickly? She had recorded entire sermons and study sessions using just such eyes!

 

Upon closer inspection of the parchment, her mind finally reasserted its reason. The eye had not failed, at least not in the way that amateur eyes tended to fail. Instead, it had rewritten the Titan’s tirade in language both ruder and somehow less likely to get him into trouble. The gist was there, but somehow came off as the uncomprehending ramblings of a simpleton rather than the carful scorn of a sharp wit. She marveled at it, tempted beyond temptation to tear the scroll away from the mechanism that worked the eye there and then. But once more, at the thought of the girls that had forced her there and her own precarious position and her own endless curiosity, she stayed her hand, and contented herself to study the still writing scroll. In her contemplation of the scroll she had missed some of the conversation. Speedily she read through a paragraph of response by the Griffin, noting in the back of her mind that this text too could’ve been altered just as the Titan’s had been.

 

“You’d do no such thing. It sickens me even to imagine you would. Come now, calm down just a tad. You haven’t been back here at Goddess’ crown for a week and already you threaten… what, a civil war? Please! Sit down. Think about what you’re saying. The very fact you’re saying it puts you at risk.”

“It don’t do that mister librarian, I assure you. We’d be in such a scram if I said your fine title, and my fine name, now wouldn’a it? But I’m no threat, just a messenger ain’t I?”

 

Wicker was baffled for a moment, trying to puzzle through the low form of language. Why was conversation so difficult? Why couldn’t she just hear what people said and know what they meant? It was hard enough when they talked to her face! Downright impossible when scrambled like this! It was almost like a code!

 

A code. That’s it. This was encoded. But in a dastardly clever way. The words were all there, but they weren’t, not really. In the conversation he used allusion and shared context to talk about the dangerous political topics, but in the recordings that wouldn’t be near good enough. Instead, he relied on any listening eye to be analyzed well after the conversation. No one would question what their eye had written down!

 

Wicker took it all in: This man, Ruthela’s father, had known, or at least suspected that an eye or a set of eyes would be recording this room. He had somehow crafted a hex that manipulated how the eyes recorded the conversation in such a way that… what? He came off as a bumpkin? But who would that fool? It couldn’t possibly fool someone that knew he was the one talking. They would know he had somehow masked what he had said. But would they know what he had really said? Maybe they wouldn’t. Ruthela wouldn’t count on it. That wasn’t how he had alluded to the possibility of discovery. No, he was counting on this meeting being secret and yet still being recorded! He thought, or rather knew, that every room in the great library was under constant supervision by any number of eyes!

 

But he hadn’t counted on a skinny girl like Wicker to be here between the rafters, physically hearing the conversation as well as recording it. Why? Why was that the one opportunity he had disregarded? Worse yet, how had the girls known he’d be here at this hour?

 

Maybe she was wrong about it all. Maybe the scrambling had some other purpose. But-

Oh hell! Her mind was still spinning, and the conversation hadn’t slowed to match her mental contortions. Hurriedly, she turned her attention back to the still droning voices, a tug of war of ideas or egos she couldn’t hope to guess. It was the Titan’s turn now, the topic having moved somewhat since the conversation was last observed.

 

“And that’s just what the Orphic traders hope to make us think! Did you know they used to be three different trading guilds? I certainly didn’t. None of the records I ever dug up about them showed it. They have political parties within the leadership! That’s why the delegates keep getting shuffled around cities! It’s not a political stratagem, at least not in the sense we always used to think. It’s just the ascendent putting their people near centers of power and putting political opponents as far away from it as they can possibly imagine.”

 

The Griffin turns his head towards a tower of musty old tome stacked nearly to the height of a librarian’s pride – that is to say just slightly taller than seemed safe. He turned his head back to the Titan, still leaning back in the massive cushion that could only very charitably be called a chair. He had given both the tower and the Titan the same, slightly nervous look of shame at having let the problem get this far. Nevertheless, the Griffin remained quiet.

 

“And this… this is just too obvious. How had we not pieced it together years ago? Scratch that, this wasn’t even a secret. They publicly campaign! They go around the population hubs of the basin and advertise! And no one here knew? How little does the library know about the world around it?”

At this the Griffin did respond, his voice booming and icy cold all at once, like the howling shriek of a gale on a frozen sea.

 

“The library knows much, Sir Ranger. I’d be careful about slandering it.”

 

The Titan sat up, looked into the Griffin’s eyes intently, and sank right back down into the cushions, a grin on his face.

 

“Of course, the library knows everything. What doesn’t it know? Its dominion of the mind is as complete as the Pontiac’s dominion of the soul and spirit. And that’s why I have special dispensation, straight from the Eagle”

 

He had obviously relished this reveal, though again it was couched in so much insider language that Wicker didn’t even try to guess what it meant. Perhaps if she did, she’d have gone as mad as every other purveyor of wisdom. And perhaps she’d have cracked the code. But she didn’t.

 

However, she could tell the Griffin was aghast at the reveal. His face had gone pitch white, the eyes now peering out of a hollow shell instead of a lively, every so slightly rotund, face. The Titan went on, a quiet forcefulness now permeating each of his words, as if lives hinged on each utterance and syllable.

 

“Yes, I do. The Eagle and the ranger Corps are on rather good terms, at least since I’ve been making the effort. Are the library and the holy men on such good terms as we are? I somehow doubt it. So yes, I know all you know about the Orphic traders. I know even more though since I bothered to visit! Wonders what talking to people reveals! The Library is either wretchedly complacent, or actively undermined in more than one area. The small details? Affairs and rulings of kings and generals? You know all of that. I’d bet you knew the latest in Tilping rulings and Kadyp cooking. But you don’t know how a master storyteller is really selected, do you? And there can only be a few reasons for such a gap in your knowledge. List them for me.”

 

The Griffin looked on, horrified. Then he snapped back to his senses with an almost alarming vigor.

 

“I don’t think I will. I think I positively won’t. I think you’ve teased me long enough, and that you can go have your fun with someone else.”

 

He stood up and opened the door to what seemed to be a dungeonlike hallway. Pausing for nothing more than dramatic effect, and without looking back, the finale of the strange and baffling interaction was no clearer than anything that came before it.

 

“And if I did list the reasons out, do you know what I think I’d discover? That you’ve only been covering for yourself this whole time. Oh, you rascal! I’ve noticed! You’re not nearly as slick as you used to be. Still, there may be some truth to what you say. There’ll have to be an audit of the department of structural investigations. And a hundred other restructurings. Oh, you’ve come back only to tell me how messy I’ve left my home!”

 

With that, the door slammed shut, leaving only the Titan, still drowning in a mound of fluff. And he spoke, seemingly to himself.

 

“There better be some observations. Why else would I spend so long so far away?”

 

 

It was only Wicker now, her head bursting with ideas and thoughts. But two of them came to the forefront: If this meeting was really so secret, why had Jen made such a spectacle where everyone could see them? And how had the girls known about it?

 

There should have been a third thought. A quick glance at what her eye had scrawled would’ve revealed a far more intriguing third thought. She could've glanced.

 

But she didn’t.