The Mazer (6 page)

“Legator, Session members, the situation is, indeed, of the greatest concern. A foul pestilence affects many of the trees of Southernwood and shows no signs of abating. I’ve been hard at work experimenting with this fungus, which is extremely resistant to all my efforts at eradicating it. However, my esteemed Legator, I have suffered, as you know, severe budget cuts in the financing of my work and have not been able to employ all means possible and necessary to rid us of this frightening evil. I believe this delay may prove fatal. Oh, yes, Wystan, it might come to that,” as Wystan rose in protest, “for the fungus appears to be changing into an infection that could well lead to a plague of illness among our citizens.”

The Session burst into life.

“What? Plague?”

“A fatal delay? Whose fault is that?”

“Budget cuts? Since when did we ever have budget cuts?”

“Who cut the budget?”

“This air is, indeed, foul. We could all be carrying this thing around inside us, I tell you!”

“Session members, please!” shouted Bassan. “We simply must have order in here! You forget yourselves! Wystan, all this is true. Is it not also true that the murderer, Rath Forth, who escaped not six weeks gone, could be responsible for planting this contagion, an act of revenge upon those who sought justice for the death of Zossimo? Why was he not held more securely?”

“Bassan,” said Wystan, “I find it hard to believe that your research has come up with so poor a conclusion. We want answers, not excuses! And let me assure you, you have had my full backing financially, as Filibert would agree.”

Filibert nodded. “I would say your allocation—”

“We may have to agree to differ on that point, if you insist,” interrupted Bassan. “Nonetheless, this does not explain why you were arguing for Rath’s release, saying that his term of imprisonment was coming to an end, despite his having murdered your predecessor Zossimo, proven beyond any doubt in Trevello’s court at the time. Why would he flee, unless he were guilty! He knew we were reviewing his case. He feared the Session might vote to extend his custody. And now he’s jeopardizing us all with this plan of his to destroy Southernwood, the trees, our life, and you, too, Wystan, if you’re not careful.”

“This is utter nonsense!” barked Wystan. “What are you talking about? We all knew that Rath was due to be freed according to our law and the sentence decreed at the conclusion of his trial. That matter has nothing to do with the threat we face from the trees. Furthermore—”

“Really, Wystan? Under your roof, here, in the Albatorium, you have fed and watered a man guilty of removing the best Legator and Librarian this island has ever had, allowing him, no doubt, access to library documents and who knows what other information. I’ve even suspected him of bribing the guards to let him into my laboratory. There have been several disturbances there over the last year that I cannot explain, duly reported to the guardery, permitting him, secretly, to fashion his revenge and wreak it on an innocent, nay, ignorant, gullible set of fools such as us!”

“Fools? Us?”

“Gullible? Hah! Not me!”

“Bribing the guards? That wouldn’t be the first time, would it Trevello!”

Trevello immediately stood to defend the guardery, but Wystan spoke first. “What are you saying, Bassan? Are you accusing us all of foolery in the face of danger?”

“No,” said Bassan, slowly. “I suppose that what I’m saying is that
you
, Wystan, have been a fool in this matter. You never prioritized my work as you should, and you took no heed of the danger living in the jail below. Now we are faced with anarchy, pestilence, and death. I’ve searched my conscience with a heavy heart, Wystan—we are brothers, after all—but what my heart tells me is that you have broken your Legator’s pledge, and that we should vote for a stronger ruler to take your place.”

There was silence. Wystan sat down, his face taut. Trevello, still standing, addressed the Session.

“Over nineteen years ago, in the spring of 1126, I asked you, the Session, to inscribe your votes on the leaves of our Great Aspen. At that time, a terrible time, still mourning the death of Zossimo, we were, I can say, of one accord; we named Wystan as Legator, and the Aspen upheld our decision.

“Now Wystan’s rule has been challenged by Bassan, our Librarian. In accordance with our law, we must elect a new Legator. I will prepare the chamber above, those of you without offices shall sit here in silence and consider your choice. Filibert, Bassan, you shall retire to your own rooms. The guards will be called to ensure the proceedings are not interrupted. When the bell rings, you may come upstairs and vote. And then, we wait.”

***

The sticks in the fireplace had burned to a cinder. The brew in the fungus pot was ready. Bassan lay on his divan and breathed deeply. It had been easy to convince the old men that change was long overdue. Goodness, he’d expected a much more difficult confrontation. He’d timed things just right, it would seem. He’d waited long enough. Worked hard enough, certainly. Even Great Aspen would have to concede that he’d put his heart and soul into fulfilling his duty as Librarian.

The bell wouldn’t ring just yet; Trevello had to prepare treequills for those who had forgotten to bring them and open up the top door of the Albatorium roof that led to Great Aspen’s branches. He’d better think of someone worthy to vote for. It could be anyone from the Session or one of the city folk, a fisherman from Quagfen or a shipwright from Oakenwood. Why, he could even vote for the Almanagic!

During his time at the Albatorium, he’d never been able to find out very much about the Almanagic, a strange looking fellow, evidently not from these parts, with a close shaved head, and that thick, metal earring, very strange indeed, old, older than Bassan, maybe older than Trevello, cleverer than Filibert, lithe, and sly.

Not that Zossimo hadn’t had his sly side, of course. After all, he hadn’t told Bassan about the tunnel, had he? And after Bassan had discovered that little secret, it hadn’t taken much effort to sneak a look at Zossimo’s
Arboral
, still a work in progress at that time, to find an old tree map of the island. And what he’d read there… Well! No wonder Zossimo didn’t want anybody poking around in his laboratory.

What had he found out? Hah! Not only were the roots of Great Aspen in Southernwood joined to Great Oak’s roots in Oakenwood, but there were other trees marked on the map who also seemed to be involved in this mesh of root mystery. The Yew in the west, that had to be at Yewlith. Obvious enough. A Maple in the north. Many fine maples up there, but he’d found her, many years later, up by those ramshackle water gardens not far from Old Elm. The most interesting tree, however, was the Ash in the center of the island, for the legend of Master Ash was a favorite story among the children of Southernwood.

Bassan remembered the first book his mother had given him.
Tree Tales
it had been called, and the opening story was all about Master Ash, tree-ruler of Ashenwood and how the people came to live near him, built their city, then started to destroy the trees of the island. Master Ash became angry, ripped up his own roots, destroyed the city, and commanded the survivors to build anew around Great Aspen in Southernwood. And if they ever mistreated the trees again, the trees would tear the whole island apart, and the people, the city, even the trees themselves, all would be thrown into the sea, never to be heard of again.

What a frightening tale that seemed, mused Bassan, frowning at the memory and scratching his chin. But there was an element of truth in that story, as indeed, the city had been destroyed and the valley deserted.

He’d seen the place for himself as an apprentice. How excited he’d been! He’d felt, at last, that Zossimo was beginning to trust him enough to share the workload of librarianship. Their Legator had also wanted to spend more time at home with his wife and their daughter, Silva. Silva would have been a teenager by then, nearly grown up. Bassan had been more than ready to shoulder extra responsibility, relishing the opportunity to take charge of the guard on his first trip to Ashenwood. It was there that he’d met the Almanagic for the first time. He’d set off with ten men to the center of the island. Their task was to collect chunks of petrified wood that would be taken back to Southernwood and fashioned into coin. They’d traveled up the valley as far as they could on horseback and then continued on foot, leading the horses and carts along the river, picking their way past rotten tree stumps and the ruins of old stone buildings, skirting an old road, now torn up and useless, until they saw a low branch hut overhung by animal skins.

There they stopped. It was spring, but this part of the valley was almost invisible in the mist. The air had a vile chill to it. Southernwood River ran fresh and fast towards them, racing through a deep channel in the valley and onward to the city and the sea. Chunks of wood littered the ground: brown, red, gray, silver, orange, precious remains of trees from long ago and highly valued by the islanders not only for use as coin, but also jewelry and ornament.

Bassan approached the hut, crouched down, and peered inside. It stank of old animal, rotting wood, and lichen. How could anyone live here?

Behind him, a low voice offered, “Good day to you, Master Bassan.”

Bassan stood up and turned round. It was the Almanagic, a short, virile-looking man, used to the sun, living in the mist, his eyes silver, green, gold, an earring glistening despite the gloom, a staff in his hand, made of white wood. What sort of wood was that?

“Good day to you, sir,” said Bassan.

“I expect the guard know what to do,” said the Almanagic. He glanced at the men. “Is that not so?”

They nodded, respectfully. They started to remove their equipment from the carts, and the Almanagic turned back to face Bassan.

“Follow me to my home. It’s not far, and it’s warmer in there.”

He marched off. Bassan felt foolish. He’d thought it would be his job to tell the guard what to do, but it seemed they were perfectly capable of getting on with the job without his direction. There was nothing else for it but to traipse after the old man.

They didn’t walk far; the Almanagic’s house was just across the river, which was bridged by a construction of rope and planks. How nimbly the Almanagic skipped across! Bassan wobbled his way to the other side, gathered his cloak closer about him, and walked up to a doorway carved into the side of the hillock. Smoke billowed from a strangely crooked chimney protruding out of the rock farther up. This was nothing but a cave, surely! He looked back to the guard, who had begun to load smaller chunks of stone wood into the cart, then stooped down and entered the little house. The Almanagic took his cloak, pushed a wooden screen across the entrance, and motioned for him to sit by the fire.

So this was where the Almanagic lived. It was cozy for such a rough-hewn man. One room, if you could call it that. Lamps were set into recesses around the walls with ledges below them overflowing with scrolls, boxes of implements, and jars of herb and leaf. A straw mattress with pillows and blankets was neatly arranged on a lower ledge. There was a small window next to the door, framed by embroidered curtains, their thread of silver and gold twinkling in the glow from the fire. A rug lay on the floor, green as grass, and a low round table and two stools sat at the end of the room in front of the hearth where a pot of steaming water sat in the embers. The Almanagic took it and poured the contents into two mugs, adding pinches of thyme and mint.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” said Bassan. “I’ve met you many times in my life, but only through rumor or story. You are not quite as I expected.”

The Almanagic’s expression was soft. “And neither are you, Master Bassan. Zossimo has put his trust in you, I see. The honor is mine.”

So, the fellow was neither wild nor stupid.

“You’re right, sir. Zossimo has trusted me these past five years with the care and knowledge of trees, and I could ask for no greater trust than that from our Legator. I share his concern for the welfare of this island, and only wish to deepen my understanding. Now, sir, if you wish to tell me the story of this place you live in, my day’s reward would be greater than the worth of all the coin on the island.”

“Indeed it would,” replied the Almanagic.

“From what I have seen, there was nothing of the glory of Southernwood in this city,” said Bassan. “Why, the place looks hardly big enough to contain a village! Our history tells us that this valley was, however, prosperous, but nobody knows why the trees died and the city was destroyed.”

The Almanagic swirled the remnants of his tea around his mug.

“Knowledge, Master Bassan: the one thing we seek, and the one thing that destroys us. Come outside with me.”

They donned their coats and made their way back across the bridge. Once again Bassan found himself following the Almanagic, who took the path leading up a gentle slope that rose above the river. Bassan stopped and looked back down the valley. Some of the men were heaving a huge chunk of rock into the back of the cart, and the rest of the guardsmen were leaping about and no doubt shouting encouragement, but their voices were lost in the damp air. Ahead of him, the Almanagic had vanished into a clump of tangled trees, over which towered a colossal ash. The topmost branches of the ash disappeared into the mist, and Bassan trotted down the slope with excitement. This was a wonderful tree, almost as impressive as the Southernwood Aspen, and as he caught up with the Almanagic and they fought their way through the tangles to the center, he hoped with all his heart that the treasure within this leafless thicket would show some sign of life.