Miles to Babylon

IV: The Bildtrager Reel, part I

         I saved Lydia. I didn't hurt her. I healed her. Awen whispered the words, to see if they tasted true.

        The old man pushed himself to his feet with an ivory cane. "The young lady is recovering in the Holy City as we speak." He glanced at the sentry behind Awen, who silently returned to the front door.

        "Lydia is in Mesembria?" The capital was the last place Awen would expect a Darklander to go, not least one as young as herself. If her knowledge of Eldlore served, Mesembria's wall—higher than the tallest tower in Ehrnfeldt—had been built to prevent just that.

         "All in good time," the old man assured her. He had a comfortable sort of voice, like a pile of dry autumn leaves. "Why not sit with us?" He waved a hand toward the armchairs and sofa in front of the hearth, where Auntie Thea sat with the other two Mesembrians.

        One was a pale woman whose glassy face and prim white ensemble reminded Awen of a porcelain doll, her smile etched and painted. The other was a plump man with a plump mustache and dusty brown suit, who was either deep in concentration or nodding off to sleep.

        Awen took the chair Auntie Thea offered, leaving the guildlorist standing as the old man made his way back to his seat. Awen thought she saw her catch his eye as he passed. "Right," Auntie Thea said, her eyes darting around the group. "I'll just go and fetch our tea, shall I?"

        As the guildlorist left, the old man eased himself down to the sofa. "Now, then," he said, "I'm sure this looks quite the scene, my dear, but I can promise you we aren't here to harm you or Dr M'Lori."

        But harm or none, the sight of such people in her parlor was as surreal to Awen as anything she'd seen at the Sombrien Festival—well, almost. Auntie Thea had had visitors before, but none of this caliber. They even smelled Faithborn. "But—forgive me, sir—"

         "Jona Byrnholt. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fetherling." Awen noted how her name sounded in his Mesembrian accent: Fet-ter-ling-eh. She mouthed it under her breath.

         The pale woman giggled. She was at least a generation younger than the others, with thick dark hair wrestled into a tight bun. "Lord Arcanist Jona Byrnholt. Not a title to be modest about—don't you agree, love?" She smiled at Awen, who felt a twinge of excitement. An arcanist... She looked for the tell-tale weapon that might be glowing upon his wrist even now, but if one was there, it was concealed beneath his gold-hemmed sleeves.

          The arcanist chuckled softly. "But quite a mouthful, all the same. 'Father Byrnholt' will do just fine."

          The pale woman shrugged and crossed her arms. "As you will. I suppose that makes me Miss Lamm."

          The man in the other armchair made a sound that might have been a cough or a snore. He was resting his stubbly chin in his palm, and his badger-like spectacles shrank his eyes to the point it was hard to tell if they were open at all.

          Awen turned back to the arcanist. "I still don't understand, Father Byrnholt."

         "Oh?"

         "How can you know Lydia is cured?" To doubt was its own sin, she knew. But all the same...

          Byrnholt raised his grey eyebrows in light interest. "That's an excellent question, but I'm afraid it's beyond my expertise." He cleared his throat pointedly. "Dr Reilow, if you would?"

          The other man started like a student called on in class, then looked at Awen. With his noble features and thick chestnut hair, Dr Reilow was a man that might have been handsome if he'd had the time for it; instead, life had gifted him the drooping, bristly look Awen had seen amongst nearly all the lorekeeps of Ehrnfeldt. "Ah—yes," Reilow grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "But you know my witship is Alchemy, Lord Byrnholt, Alchemy. A fair jump from Medicine... know anything of Alchemy, child?"

          Awen shifted in her seat. "Not really, sir—Dr Reilow. It's to do with motes and things, and we aren't to learn about those yet."

         "Motes and things,'" Dr Reilow gave a gentle growl of a laugh. "Can't be helped, can't be helped... let's go right to the Cothe, then. I expect you know a little about that."

         Do I? she thought. But the alchemist was looking expectantly over the top of his spectacles. His eyes were far larger than they'd seemed, dark and wise. "No more than most people," she admitted. "I didn't think anyone knew much about it."

          Even Reilow's big mustache seemed to wilt.

         "I don't believe they teach that all the way out here, Dr Reilow," said Miss Lamm, lightly brushing the alchemist's hand. "Some subjects aren't to be learned by just anyone, after all, and without proper lorekeeps—" she looked over her shoulder toward the hall, where Auntie Thea was tip-tapping in with a tray of mugs balanced delicately in her hands, "well, forgive me, Thea, but you know the Concilium's view; all necessary lore is already being kept in Mesembria."

         Though Awen didn't know what they meant, the words still dug beneath her skin. There seemed to be a sneer under everything the woman said.

         Dr Reilow rubbed at his temple. "A waste," he murmured, then hauled himself to his feet. "Right, then; show-don't-tell, that's my rule. No, don't bother with the tray, Thea; we'll want your study. Do you still have the old bildtrager?"

         Awen watched Thea M'Lori's face change. A sudden, horrible realization pulled at her features, and there was a fleeting moment where Awen felt certain she would drop the tray. "You don't mean that you've brought it? Not here?"

        "It's for you as much as her," Reilow said. He bent down and drew a leather carrying bag from beside his chair, patting it gently. "This is more than we've ever had before. You wanted proof? Here it is."

        Awen watched the guildlorist's eyes sink to the bag in Reilow's hands. If she didn't know any better, she would have said Auntie Thea looked curious.