The Mazer (10 page)

“Do you have any leaves from Old Elm the Wishing Tree?” asked Harold.

“Oh, no, my boy.” A pair of twinkling eyes looked up at him. “Old Elm is up by Northernwood, not a place any of us visit very often these days, unfortunately. A written leaf from Old Elm would be very valuable indeed. ’Course nobody knows whether he really listens to anything anybody asks. My wife went up there a few years ago, made a wish, and received some completely meaningless answer. I’ve no idea what she wished for, but between you and me, I think she’s still waiting to get it!”

Harold checked that the parchment was in his shirt pocket. So his leaf was valuable. That was good! He heaved his sack onto his shoulder, and turned to see Trevello crossing Papery Bridge, still talking to Filibert.

Today the bridge was free of the stench from the papery. Heading into Skeps Wood, however, there was no escaping the firesmoke that swirled through the trees.

“Let me take you to one of the worst affected places!” shouted Bassan against the wind. “It’s not far from the bridge, and that worries me. The rot could easily cross the river if there’s a strong southerly, and then our Great Aspen will be at risk!”

He headed into the wood, and the rest of the company followed. They clambered over the blackened trunks of fallen aspens, crossed a small stream, and arrived at the top of a sharp bank which led down to a hollow.

“This is where it all began,” panted Bassan, slithering down the bank. “The fire seems to have spread from this spot. I think this is where Rath stirred up his evil. Cleverly hidden in the woods, yet not too far from the Albatorium. Look! The smoke rises from here up into the leaves of the trees that still stand. If you check, you’ll see other areas between the trees where the same rot has set in.”

“I still cannot understand why Rath would want to kill off the trees around Southernwood,” said Filibert. “Why not just try to attack Great Aspen and have done with it? Why, the man lived for years in the Albatorium, right next to the most important tree of all! If this were, indeed, some evil plan of revenge, it’s a rather complicated way to execute it. This is far too risky, if you ask me.”

Harold recognized the expression on Bassan’s face. So Bassan thought Filibert was stupid, too.

“Filibert,” said Bassan. “This traitor puts his own freedom first. He hides in the woods. Sets fire and fungus. Then he waits. He has time. He’ll stir up some discontent, get people into a state of panic, then do whatever he plans to do. This is why we need to double the guard at the Albatorium, bring the guard back from Oakenwood and Ashenwood, and protect the city. Nothing else will help us against this red-haired rascal!”

Red-haired rascal? So that’s who the man in the kitchen had been! Rath, escaped prisoner, murderer of Zossimo. How could this be? The man had seemed an outcast, yes, but a kind one. Indeed, he’d given Harold Old Elm’s leaf. Or maybe Rath had stolen the leaf, and it had never been his to give. But something stopped Harold from saying anything. It could have been the honest glint in the stranger’s eye. It could have been the mealtime gossip of the guards, who had often shaken their heads and wondered how such a man had come to commit such a crime. It could be the bread that Rath had given back when he could so easily have taken it for himself. Or, thought Harold, looking at Bassan, it was the man in front of him whom he didn’t believe.

The Librarian got up and led them farther into the wood. Here and there he pointed to areas where the fungus had taken hold, foul mists shrouding groups of trees before blowing thickly on to other parts of the wood.

They came out onto the beach. The air was fresher, although there were still some trails of smoke crossing the bay. Filibert took off his cloak, laid it on the sand, and opened his sack.

“Lunchtime! Bassan, would you also like to stop and eat now?”

“No,” said Bassan shortly. He gazed out to sea. “I’ve no appetite. Perhaps Trevello and Harold would care to join you?” The Librarian marched off, tucking his bag under one arm. He passed Silva’s cabin, then disappeared into the trees towards Quagfen.

***

It was evening. Bassan’s stomach growled; it had been a long day. He entered the Great Hall of the Albatorium. Filibert was sitting at one of the tables, beckoning to him. He could hardly refuse, although he didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

“What’s the news from Quagfen?” asked Filibert. He didn’t offer any of the meat or bread on his board to the Librarian, but carried on eating, his mouth open, strips of lamb caught between his neat teeth, breadcrumbs littering the table.

“Not good, Filibert,” said Bassan. “The fishermen can hardly see what they’re doing over there this evening. This smoke stings the eyes and itches the skin. The whole wood is aglow. I’ve tried to remedy the rot,” and he patted his bag, “with this fungus medicine, but I don’t expect it’ll do much good. This blight has really taken hold.”

“For which it seems you wish to blame the Treasury,” said Filibert, pouring himself a cup of blackberry wine.

Bassan put his bag on the floor and sat opposite Filibert. Lisette bustled about, carrying food and drink to a group of scribes here, some of the guard there. Harold walked through the hall, into the kitchen, and back out again, munching, chatting to the guard, laughing with one of the scribes, casting a glance in their direction.

“Filibert, you and I have been here long enough to know how the Albatorium works. Wystan’s had his chance. He’s been a good Legator, but he should have taken action earlier against the poison attacking our trees, simple as that.”

“So you thought that you would make a more suitable Legator.”

“Not at all! I’ve never wanted such a position. I’m already Librarian, am I not?”

“Because of course, if you had won the election, if the tree had named you, Bassan, who would you have picked to be Librarian?”

“My dear Treasurer, I’ve never imagined myself as Legator. So I’ve never had to think about choosing a Librarian.”

Filibert finished his wine and plonked his cup on the table. “Maybe you’ve never had to think about choosing a Librarian because you would’ve chosen yourself. Now, that would be interesting. But you’re spared from such a decision, as Silva is to be our Legator. And what do you think about that?”

Clever old Filibert! What else did he have to do all day but hide behind his number scrolls in his cellar next to Trevello’s office, adding, subtracting, eating, listening, watching, thinking?

“Silva is Zossimo’s daughter. She will have my full support. I’ll do all in my power to help her become a Legator as memorable as her father.”

Filibert reached for a basin of rosewater. He dipped his greasy fingers into it, then dried his hands on the tablecloth.

There was a commotion outside. An officer of the guard ran into the Great Hall, shouting “Guards, to your horses! Fetch the buckets! There are flames in Skeps Wood! They’ve almost reached Silva’s cabin!” and he ran up to Filibert and Bassan.

“Sires, I come from Skeps Wood, there are flames—”

“Yes, we heard,” said Bassan, standing up. “Calm down, man! How bad is it? Do you think you can control the fire?”

“Oh, I think so, with enough men, but the cabin is in danger. We’ll douse the trees over there. It’s the only thing we can do. We’ll be working through the night.”

“Good!” said Bassan, watching some of the guards leave their table and hurry out of the hall. Silva’s cabin wouldn’t be much of a loss. He’d searched it, of course, a long time ago, looking for the missing chapter of the
Arboral
, but had found nothing. “Where’s Trevello?”

“He’s down in the wood, too, sir. One of the guard thought he saw Rath hanging around the Albatorium today, and what with this fire, Trevello joined the search for Rath in the woods.”

Even better. “Then I shall leave the matter in your hands.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the guard, and he turned and left the Great Hall.

“It’s getting late,” said Bassan. “I think I’ll go to my laboratory. There’s not much we can do at the moment.”

“You’re right,” said Filibert, pushing back his bench and getting to his feet. “Wystan and Medrella are preparing the Session room and the Legator’s chamber for tomorrow. It looks like Trevello is going to be busy tonight. I hope Winifred and Silva have reached Yewlith safely. The wind is fierce this evening. I’ll be in my cellar later if you need me.”

Bassan sat and poured himself some wine. Lisette came over with a platter of lamb and onion sauce. The sauce was lumpy and slightly burned, but it wasn’t worth complaining about. He wanted to get downstairs. He ate quickly, left the hall, and descended the steps to the underfloor. Once in his laboratory, he went straight into his chamber, drew the curtain shut, sat at his desk, and opened the lid of his writing box.

The Mazer, this cup, this beautiful thing, Zossimo’s secret, and now his. He’d found the Mazer in Zossimo’s bag that terrible day. He’d got back from Oakenwood, unseen. Nobody had had the slightest suspicion he’d been there. He’d taken the empty bag and Zossimo’s cloak, ridden out to the Homesteads, and dumped the lot in an overgrown wood-bank next to Rath’s cottage. He’d even soaked part of the cloak with his own blood. And the stupid guard had fallen for it. They’d arrested Rath the next morning.

Bassan had hidden the Mazer well. It was the only thing that might have connected him to Zossimo’s death. But he’d never seen it in the laboratory during his time as an apprentice, and he’d found no mention of it in the library or even in the
Arboral
. Had Silva, her mother, or any of the Session known of it? Only after he was appointed Librarian did Bassan have the opportunity to observe the Mazer fully, and now he examined it again, striving to see if there was any change, for it must, surely, be aware that Great Aspen had chosen a new Legator?

The Mazer was a broader, shallower cup than other drinking vessels he’d seen. Bassan shook his head; he had never understood how the cup and the stand were molded as one. There was no join, no difference of material between them, no nicks or scratches. It was completely smooth. Bassan took the Mazer out of the writing box and set it in front of him. The outside of this cup was interesting enough. But inside, ah! He would never try to illustrate this. Nobody would have the skill to recreate the world he saw in there.

The base of the Mazer’s interior held a circular boss, made of metal, but Bassan was not sure of what sort. Something like silver, except that it never tarnished. Five circles were inscribed therein, one in the middle containing an outline of an ash leaf, and four surrounding it, in compass point fashion.

To the north, a maple leaf; to the south, aspen; to the east, an oak leaf; and, to the west, a yew branch. Straight lines had been chiseled from the ash to the four circles around it as well as between the outer pictures themselves, so that these four were connected to three other trees, the ash being connected to them all. This was surely how Zossimo had learned about the island’s master trees. Zossimo may even have found the tunnel to Oakenwood because of the Mazer, and although Bassan suspected there had once been tunnels between the other master trees, he had never found any of them.

Bassan’s eyes softened as the inner surface of the Mazer glistened, its transparent blackness turning dusky blue, the silver boss glowing green. He moved closer to look just over the rim of the cup, from where he could see the tiniest particles of light—at least, they had to be light, as he’d tried to touch them and there was nothing to feel—swirling around, creating a mist of blues, browns, greens, which then stilled.

Within the bowl stood four tiny master trees, each standing where its leaf was inscribed, the Yew, bending its branches to the ground, gleaming brighter than usual it seemed, the Maple, floating above its base—how clever that was—the trembling Aspen here in Southernwood, oh yes, that was still there, but not for long, and the Oak, slowly rocking back and forth. Only the Ash hadn’t grown, its leaf symbol barely glowing. Around the shimmering boss of the island glittered a silver sea, crowned by an evening sky.

Bassan hardly dared breathe. The whole effect lasted only a minute or so, and you could never tell when it would happen. This world, his world, fashioned in a bowl with such artistry! And now, at night, the Mazer began its dance of light, the island bathed in milky white, the trees casting miniature shadows onto the sides of the Mazer, where stars twinkled around a waxing moon as the island darkened, and a shooting star raced across the sky around the Mazer sides.

He shivered. His shoulders were cold; his mouth was dry; and the backs of his hands prickled with a strange sweat he’d never felt before. Perhaps he was getting old. Perhaps time had gone on without him and was accompanying Silva to Yewlith, readying her for legatorship, pushing forward, ever onward, forgetting the old men of the Albatorium?

Oh, no, he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d grab his time back, he would; he’d get rid of this new Legator much more effectively than he’d removed Wystan. If Great Aspen thought Silva was the answer to their problems, he’d soon prove him wrong, and there was nothing any of the trees could do to stop him. What had Master Ash told him? Fungus, fig, fire, fell! He’d have all these upstart trees at his beck and call before long. But he’d curse the day he was born if he were left to rot in the laboratory with its dead leaves and dry books written by dead men and the strawberry writing box of his dead mother, containing the most beautiful thing left in this building: the Mazer, whose life, if forced to, he would also destroy.