A Shadow on the Glass (13 page)

The less faithful of his friends fell away one by one. The ostracism had the opposite effect on Thandiwe, however. Though she did not dare to speak to him in public, she smiled at him and met him several times in secret. It was heartwarming to know that he still had one friend, though knowing that he endangered her, Llian stopped seeing her as well. But worst of all, worse even than the loss of respect from his fellows, was being cut off from the Histories that were his life.

Finally Llian had to admit that he was defeated. He sought audience with Wistan.

“I am beaten,” he said. “What do you want of me?”

“No more man your word as a master chronicler that you will never tell this tale again, or even speak of it,” Wistan said.

“Very well, I will give you my word. All I ask is that you give me back my rights to the archives.” He tried to sound humble but was not entirely successful.

“Certainly.” Wistan picked up a pen, a magnificent thing with plumes like peacock feathers that trailed over his shoulder and danced with every twitch of his wrist He stabbed the nib at the ink bottle and drew a sheet of paper to him.

“And my proofs. I must have them back too.”

Wistan paused with his nib in the air. “They were submitted
for your mastership. I cannot return them. Besides, a true chronicler can read a thing once and remember it perfectly forever.”

“So I can, but the papers are more than just words. I need to see the documents.”

“Why?” asked Wistan.

“How can I not search for the truth? That is the essence of my training. Do you not see that there could be another Great Tale here? No one at
this
college has found a new Great Tale in a thousand years. Think of the honor, for the college as well as for me.”

He had found Wistan’s weak point and they both knew it. Wistan moved back and forth on his chair. Llian took a deep breath and continued, “I’m sure that the girl in the tower was murdered to cover something up.”

Wistan started, dropping the pen. Blue ink spattered the paper. “Worse and worse,” he said. “Anyway, you can’t have the proofs. They are locked away and I can’t recover them.” He fingered a bracelet of woven silver on his scrawny wrist. “No one can, save the new master after my death.”

“That might be sooner than you think,” Llian cried in fury, thinking that Wistan was making excuses. “Those proofs are mine—four years of my life. How dare you take them!”

Wistan cleaned the ink from the table, icily calm. “The only part of them that is yours is what you carry in your head. You will never see them again.”

“Damn you! Then give me my reference and what remains of my stipend and I will leave Chanthed forever.”

Wistan smiled, a gruesome sight. “Certainly. As soon as you give your word to say no more about this matter.”

“I can’t! If you refuse, I’ll go to Mendark!” A hollow threat and Llian knew it.

Wistan went so cold that Llian felt shivers of fear run up and down his back. “Mendark and I are on the Council together.
If you did so, I would have to advise him how you recklessly endanger the college and the Council.”

“The college has always stood for finding out the truth of the Histories, no matter what You are a coward and a hypocrite.”

Wistan had had enough. “You are banned from the library until after the festival. Give me any more trouble and you lose your telling. Now go away!”

Llian went.

Another week went by. It was festival time. People poured into Chanthed from all over the great island of Meldorin and even from beyond the Sea of Thurkad. Every bed in every inn was doubled up, and tent cities began to spring up in the park and on the common land.

Traditionally the festival began with minor tales given by the students of the college, building up to the Great Tales told by the masters on the last three nights of the second week. Of the twenty-two Great Tales only three were told at any festival. But the festival had grown so popular that there were now mini-tellings all over town, including less respectable tales from the romances, the tales of bawdry and the apocrypha—unproven tales from ancient times or unknown lands or the other of the Three Worlds. Some even told the frightful
Tales of the Void
. On the last night there was only one venue and everyone came to it The final night was given to the master who had told the best Great Tale at the previous Graduation Telling. And that right was Llian’s.

But this time not even the festival could cheer Llian up. He had lost everything except his name and even that was hanging by a hair. Impossible to continue here, nowhere to go. No money, no references, no friends. Well, if he was to go down, it might as well be for a major crime as for no crime at all.

* * *

The festival was well into the second week now. Llian decided to get into the library archives and take back his proofs, if he could find them. Then he would tell his tale and disappear from Chanthed forever. Without references his life as a chronicler was over, but no one could stop him being a teller. He knew that he was a good one. If he had to eke out his living as a miserable bard—what a come-down!—that is what he would do.

Wistan would be leaving any minute for the telling. Llian loitered down the corridor beyond the master’s offices, and when it was nearly time he walked past and stuck a piece of card over the latch hole. The door was the kind that locked when it was closed.

Wistan was a slave to routine. At precisely ten to seven he came out of his room, shrugging on a cloak. To distract him Llian dropped a stack of books with a clatter. Wistan looked up, scowled, then banged the door and swept past with his cloak trailing behind him. He nodded curtly as he passed.

“Not going to the telling tonight? Better get moving if you are.”

“I’ll be there,” Llian lied.

He busied himself with his books and when the corridor was empty again he pushed Wistan’s door. It swung open, the piece of card fluttering to the floor. Llian retrieved it and closed the door behind him with a hand that was trembling.

What was he afraid of? What could Wistan do to him that he had not already done? Almost nothing. Nonetheless, with pounding heart he went across the polished floorboards to the old cupboard on the wall where the keys to the college were kept. It was locked.

He had expected that. Taking a chisel out of his pocket he prised at the door. It came open with a splintery groan but a strip of wood split off the side. Llian swore: the damage would be noticed instantly. He found a pot of glue in a cupboard
and stuck the strip back on, but the damage was still obvious. Well, he’d just have to hope that Wistan did not come back after the telling.

Llian sorted through the keys—library, archives, office—and stuffed them in his pocket. Now I really am a criminal, he thought. He unlocked Wistan’s private office and slipped inside.

He searched the room for his proofs but did not find them. The only other place they could be was in the archives.

It was airless in the archives, so Llian propped open the doors at either end to provide a draught, though as the library was locked up this did not help very much. He spent half the night there but found nothing that was of any help.

Finally, to relieve his aching eyes, he got out the books of engravings from the time of the Forbidding, and the racks that contained paintings of that event. There were hundreds of pictures, for the hunting down of Shuthdar had been one of the great quests of the age. Every important race and nation had been represented there, and a dozen generals and monarchs had brought their court and their official artists to ensure that every detail was recorded, not least their own part in the victory. There were pictures in watercolors and oils and crayons, most so faded and damaged by the centuries that they were barely legible. But there were also many engravings and these were in better condition.

Llian had seen these pictures many times but he never tired of looking at them. Here was a painting that captured the very moment that the flute was destroyed, the deranged Shuthdar capering on top of the tower while in the background a storm rolled toward him like a tidal wave. Every detail of Shuthdar’s grotesque features could be seen—artistic license surely, since no one had dared to go within half a league of the tower while he was alive.

And here was a series of paintings in oil showing the aftermath of the destruction of the flute and the many foolish souls who went into the glowing ruins, each hoping to gain the flute for themselves. They got nothing; most died of a wasting sickness.

Here were the chief players of the age. Rulke the Charon, the architect of the flute and of the misfortunes of the Three Worlds ever after. He stood tall among the dozens jostling to get inside. By herself stood the enigmatic Yalkara, Mistress of Deceits, the other of the three Charon who came to San-thenar, and the only person ever to have escaped through the Forbidding. That was one of the greatest riddles in the Histories, but much later than the problem he was trying to solve here. This painting was in better condition than the others for most of the detail had survived, even to the gold on Yalkara’s wrist and throat and brow.

Another painting showed her coming out again, empty-handed, her clothes smoking and her hands burned. A third, much of the picture flaked off long ago, revealed Yalkara stripped naked to be searched in front of all the others, as was everyone who entered the ruins that day. But the flute was never found. It was destroyed, utterly gone.

Although Llian had seen these scenes many times before, today he had a feeling that they had something more to tell him-that there was something yet to be revealed, if he could only find it. But time was wasting and there was a lot more to do. He put the paintings and engravings back carefully and untied the next packet

This he had also looked at before, though only once. It contained the original sketches made in the field, hundreds of drawings by various artists, each numbered in order. Though the ink was faded to brown and the paper yellow and brittle, almost every detail could still be seen. All of the paintings and engravings were based on these drawings save
for a few watercolors that were also made in the field, but they did not concern him.

Llian put the sketches in order and went through them one by one. Here was a series of sketches, quite clearly the source of the later painting, that showed the people going into the ruined tower. And here, another longer series as they came out.

As he stared at the two sets, riffling back and forward in time, Llian was struck by the realization that there was something wrong. Some inconsistency, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was exhausted; it must be three in the morning at least. Or was it that the inconsistency was between the drawings and the paintings? He held one drawing up to the light, trying to extract truth out of the faded ink. Was that the trace of another number beneath the first? He examined it carefully. Yes, the number
had
been changed, almost perfectly. But what had it been changed from?

Just then he heard a door click somewhere across the library. Wistan! He must not be caught here. Llian thrust the drawings back in their box and put it on the shelf where it belonged. He snuffed his lantern and ducked across a couple of rows of shelves in case the light had been seen. Without it, it was pitch dark, but he could find his way out easily enough.

Thud! Someone cursed under their breath and a lantern appeared where he had been working. They were between him and the far door!

“He’s gone!” It was Trusco’s deep voice. “Spread out—guard the door!”

How many of them were there? Darting his head between the shelves he saw two lanterns, then a third. Llian ran silently back toward the entrance door but as he got there he realized that there was a fourth person waiting just beyond the door. He tried to slip through but the guard was too quick and grabbed him by the sleeve. He reeled Llian in effortlessly.

“Got him!” he shouted.

Llian made a desperate lunge and his head caught the guard under the chin. The guard gave a muffled cry and let go for a second, spitting blood from a badly bitten tongue.

It was just enough. Llian was out of his grasp like an eel and raced down the row for the back door that he had left propped open.

“Running your way, Wistan,” gurgled the guard.

Llian ducked through the rows and cannoned into a small man holding a lantern. It was Wistan. He went flying and the lantern smashed against the base of a bookshelf, sending a trickle of burning oil across the floor.

Wistan shouted, “Fire!” and stamped at the little flame.

That gave Llian a second chance. He scrabbled down the row on all fours, sprang up and just beat Trusco to the door, knocking out the prop as he went past. The door slammed closed on his cloak. He tore it free, slipped the bolt and ran around the archives toward the front of the library.

Then he had a horrible thought. What if they hadn’t put the fire out? Whatever the cost he couldn’t risk the library burning. At the other door he looked in and saw that Trusco was beating out the last of the flames. Nothing had been damaged. He made for the front door, dropped the now useless keys and set off to his room. Within ten minutes he was wrapped in his blankets, though he could not sleep. The escapade had been a total failure and he knew they would come for him before the night was out.