Wherein alliances are tested (Ch. 26)

 Every night, there was a checklist. It wasn’t extraordinarily long, which helped the diligence with which it was upkept. The first item was the room – should any mess remain; it must be tidied. The second item was the grand order, a rather pompous name for what amounted to an ever-growing leviathan of contractual obligations, though of course he only had a copy. Completed items were to be checked off, new items entered into work plans, duties shuffled around between archivists and servants almost at random. At the very least, the instant synchronization with the document of the grand order itself was gratifying. He wondered whether there was some vetting process between his copy and the central document, for as far as he knew his entries were ever respected. As the old priorities were no longer upheld, he could’ve just asked the central archivist. But the official freedoms seemed a pale thing when compared to centuries of organization.

The third item was his health; cleaning of the body and mouth, verification of optical and sonic capabilities. This was where others would either go to bed, go to their families, or take part in some religious service. But as a proper man of Tellyphill, there was but one occupation fit to end the day – a chronicle. But a chronicle upkept every day, and the subject matter a single man, and moreover should that single man be the author, why, such a chronicle is called something rather more prosaic; a diary.

“Eighth day of the second week of first summer.

Morning bell and morning crow raised the hair on my neck, as slowly I realize that there’s not half a week until the summer prophecy. That once again I should look forwards to the day is truly the strangest of turns. Am I a boy once more, suspended in anticipation for a day of festivity and freedom? Am I the young man, lost in duties on a day of celebration? Am I the man of influence, scared of the day to come, for we have rejected our duties? I am none of these, so what could the day hold?

Work continued at the archives. ‘The Legacy of the Guard’ is mostly ready for transport, and handwritten copies are ready for substitution. That a document such as the legacy can even be transported is a sign we are not yet lost, no matter the air. For surely, no northern army could compare with the mess that four hundred years of shifting archival standards cause. An army is just an army, people of the age. The archives are not so kind as to leave a target behind.”

He left the sardonic note in; his diary having grown to contain many of them. He considered rewriting for interpretabilities sake but decided against it – he wanted himself remembered as he was, not as he thought he ought to be.

“It just so happened that other documents, those of a more practical nature, had also been moved. I’ve noted last week that Prance and Anabo were to keep the order of the archives updated, though it seems they’ve been either compromised or lazy, I don’t know which is worse.

The most embarrassing thing happened thanks to their laxity. A brown cloak requested some population statistics of the Mophell region. Confidently, I walked to the census corner to withdraw the old orange book, when to my shock and horror I realized it wasn’t there! Old gray, stout white, yellow fever, and daring green all were present, but not old orange. Did he suspect me? Did he think I’d lost control as I feebly searched for excuse? I blamed my rotting mind, my stretched resources, the great work of copying that must be undertaken before the battle. He seemed to believe that.”

Owls hooted outside the low window, a hint of sickening moonlight painting the room as sickening a shade of white as he was sure his cowardice was. And he swallowed it: the same boldness that drove him to defeat the Khazar’s heavy riders at the Bellot ridge now drove him to honesty in recollection.

“It was far more than embarrassing; it was terrifying. The brown cloaks are the only ones Captain seems to trust, which I’ve complained about at length before. So, thoughts swirled: had Prance turned tail? Had he told Captain? Was I to be caught in a lie and banished? I was sure that must be the case, but an old dent in the shield doesn’t sink in the quicksand so easily. I rallied. I obfuscated. I mixed in details of routine archival work with some of the less concealable elements of the transfer. I told him a good story, for all that a brown cloak cares for that.

He seemed to think it was funny, which made things all the worse. He told me a story of his own, one as true as the one I told him. He spoke of the wood and of the plains. First he spoke of agriculture. About the great volume of people in Tellyphill, the eternal flux of all the productive mass of the empire into the city. It was wistful, I could tell there was a hint of genuine longing for such grandiosity. He threw some questionable numbers around, citing populations just as the deluge began.

I tried to lead him to other topics, for I could tell that no good would come of such things. But he was not to be dissuaded, and I was led to walk with him down corridors he had no right to see, let alone walk down. Why, oh why could no one have stopped us?”

Souls possessed of the slightest social instinct could’ve deduced exactly why no one had stopped him. For who would stop a senior official in deep discussion with a foreign dignitary of a valuable ally? Who but Captain knew enough of the workings of the city to bound the different responsibilities and obligations of all the branches?

“His story wasn’t a very good one, and it ended on just that most sour of notes – the population statistics. He wondered aloud at what possible accuracy the old orange book could’ve had – a census four centuries old is not typically useful, he said. And in that moment I hated him for saying it. I knew he was goading me! For what is typical? What other census are there to compare it to? Distant rumors of lands beyond the seas? The Khazar’s barbaric head tax? Or maybe the paltry grasping of the fledgling statelets of the west, counting every goat so they can bribe a two speared halfling to fight all the other two speared halfling? Surely even a ranger knows that the old orange book is the last of the ancient works, the best understood.

And I told him so, in no uncertain terms, which he found all the funnier! He said ‘yes, it’s a very impressive old tome, but it’s not working anymore anyways. Nothing else of the ancient works is. The ever-blue forest is back, the roads are nothing bur roads again, and the words of the Pontiac are just the words of one woman.’

I now see how Introducing the Pontiac to the conversation was a clever gambit. And it undoubtedly worked, for indignation fled before the shame that even now I feel.”

Here he stopped writing for a while, whatever a while may be. The meaning of the last line unclear, even to him. Was he ashamed, even at that very moment, for having overthrown empire? For fighting the Khazar, not for the future and for divinity, but for Tellyphill?

“So he turned to muse, as we looked upon statues and specimens, all organized and displayed for the great pleasure of none but us archivists. And he mused upon that most unpleasant of subjects, the exodus.

He spoke as if he knew rather a lot. First it was sly comments, mentioning that the pilgrimage season is well underway. The roads must be clogged with the pious, humbly making the trek to the holy woman nearest them, to hear of the future just revealed to the Pontiac. There was something of anger in his voice as he got to that last point, though at Tellyphill it didn’t seem to be aimed.

Soon he switched tack, talking of the Khazar’s patrols, of the press gangs and service orders pressed upon Tellyphillians who strode too far south. Long have I wearied of bandying words with provocateurs, the instinct to silence heavy upon me. I am confident I cut a commendable figure, the old willow lightly bending in the gale of my companion’s increasingly harried assault. It was much like that silent confidence I have felt only with the lives of men on the line. When time’s judgement is clear in your eye, the present moment immortal testimony to your place in the great tapestry of empire.”

His loquacity pleased him, as did the thought that some chronicler might one day discover his words. Idly, he thought he’d like to be remembered alongside the great wordsmiths and poets. The thought was quickly dismissed, whether it was because there were greater achievements to remember him by, or merely because every great wordsmith and poet he could think of were either men of the Khazar or women of the marsh.

“I could keep him occupied only so long. He left, saying he’d be back and that he was most grateful for my time. In response, I could only sway in the passing breeze.”

He continued to chronicle, but the passion had left him, the rest of the day summarized in brief adages and routine turn of phrase. Then he turned to bed, his home little more than an old memory.

Captain could only wish for such a fate. Over the years of war and peace, there had been much recourse to discourse with foreign parties. And more exhausting, flippant, confusing partners than the rangers, he could not imagine. These thoughts and others ran through his head as Kalin, the latest in a long line of envoys, opened the evening discussions.

“The archive itself was very rude today. It’s as if its forgotten why it’s there!”

This statement hinted at the first of the rangers’ foibles – insistence on old rights. There was no need to calm himself, (as Captain’s affect ranged between deadpan to dead anyways) as he answered.

“The archive is there. Don’t ascribe it a purpose. You can use it, as you can use sand to make glass, but the sand isn’t there to facilitate anything. The sand simply is.”

Either the table was shocked into silence, or no one present was actually listening, because not a word followed this pronouncement. A table full of silent rangers wasn’t unheard of, but a table full of silent rangers of the diplomatic corps was unusual to say the least. As a stalking owl, Captain pounced on this most elusive of prey.

“I’ve heard no news of the mustering. Have eyes been set north of Mophell? Have thunder-tails been purchased and broken? Have the trip lines been established along the likely routes? Talk of the archives when these have been sorted out.”

Kalin had recovered, or perhaps he had never been shocked, for it was not shame but indignation that colored his reply. “The ranger corps must uphold its sacred duties, and now is the most crucial time of all. Escorting pilgrims, negotiating passage and tribute with the warlords -” here he looked askance, as if shamed to be undercutting Tellyphill’s privilege as securer of prophecy. No one took it seriously, and Kalin’s reputation as a provocative half-wit was further cemented to all present. “and of course, the routine work of auditing preachers and missionaries is as important and ever.”

Had this been an attempt to draw Captain’s attention away from the ranger corps’ negligence, it was a poor one. Captain saw no issue with dismissing the question outright.

“Security, for all, is as ever the mission and duty of Tellyphill’s shield.” Sharp ears might’ve discerned the lack of an appeal to divinity in that mission statement. “The ranger corps has ample reason to uphold its part in all agreements, for surely their goddess has something to say about oath breakers?”

Another would’ve let the statement hang, but Kalin seemed to relish any opportunity for a confrontation. This was to his great detriment in his task, as not only did this make him rather unpolitic, but it also reminded the shield of Chy’s preachy insistence. “An oath to the hubris is no oath at all. To hear reproach from you, the greatest of usurpers? The greatest of thieves, of desecraters? You’ll have your army when the Corps is ready to give it to you, and even then, I’m not sure I’ll be praying for your victory”

Coughs and mutters of light disagreement filled the room. Kalin was insisting on either obstruction or martyrdom. There’d be no progress tonight, not that there seemed to be much progress any night. Captain called for the session to close, and none could miss the relish with which he exiled the rangers from the conference room. Perhaps he just wanted to sleep.