Greetings to you, and I hope this finds you well. The ship that will take me to Nabban and then on to Kwanitupul leaves this afternoon, so I will try to finish this in time to give it to the royal post before I embark.
The first part of my journey was largely uneventful, but I fear I will never make a traveler. The trip down the Gleniwent had a most grievous effect on my innards, though the river pilot kept assuring me that the waters were unusually smooth and it must have been something I ate. That is not impossible, because what I was given to eat on board the river-ship seemed to be as much beetle parts as biscuit, but I fear I may suffer from a more general indisposition to traveling on water. I am not looking forward to the longer trip, although the abbot here at St. Sallimo’s has kindly informed me that, except for an unusual amount of activity among the kilpa, the seas are calm at this time of year and my journey should be a good one.
I have never seen a kilpa, but I confess that after hearing some of the rivermen’s tales, I am in no hurry to end my ignorance.
Lest you think that I have nothing but complaints to share, my lord, Meremund is a very goodly city, and I am pleased to have finally seen it. As we approached it I could see its white towers from a great distance, standing high above the walls. The harbor is very large, with cunning canals to allow the ships to come very close to the warehouses where most of them load and unload cargo. I could not disembark immediately because my own small pile of belongings had somehow been put behind a large quantity of barrels, and my guide, your friend Madi, was nowhere to be found. Remembering what you said about experiencing more of the world, I should mention that as I waited I was able to learn a number of new words that, although common among rivermen and dockside laborers, are not generally heard among the monks of St. Sutrin’s.
At last my belongings were found and cheerfully tossed out onto the dock. As I stood beside them, waiting to see if Madi would be thrown onto the dock as well, I was accosted by two of the dirtiest children I have ever seen. So ill-kempt and filthy were they that at first I thought they might be southern apes, such as I hear the mariners sometimes make pets of, and even dress in clothes. In fact, I doubt many sailors dress their apes as poorly as these children. Even as I looked them over, these two creatures ran at me and, evidently mistaking me for someone else, began to paw and embrace me, all the time calling me “Good old uncle!” although I had never seen them before in my life. When I noticed that the smaller of the two, a girl, somehow had her hand deep in the pocket inside my robe and was attempting to lift my purse from it, while the boy had hooked one of my small trunks with his foot and was pushing it away from me even as he hugged and petted me, I realized that not only were they not confusing me with someone else, they actually meant to steal my possessions! I engaged in a struggle with the girl, and though she was but a slight thing with a wrist no wider than a Halfmansa candle, while I arrested her removal of my purse, I could not induce her to let go of it.
We stood there for long moments, and to an outsider it must have looked like some strange dance—me clutching one child by the arm while trying to yank the other back from the trunk he was trying to shove beyond my reach. At last someone called, ‘Children, stop that,’ and to my relief, they did, but not before the girl child made one last attempt to slip the purse out, which I thwarted forcefully enough that she kicked my shin.
My rescuer turned out to be Madi, and instead of telling me where he’d vanished to, he said, ‘I see you’ve met my lovely young ones. Plek, Parlip, give His Worship room to breathe, my dear little fleas, or I’ll smack the skin off you.’
I was a bit taken aback to learn these apes were his. He told me their full names were Plekto and Parlippa—the latter, I assume, named after beloved Saint Pelippa. I was even more startled when Madi let slip the information that they would be accompanying us on the journey to Nabban. When I said, and rather firmly, that you had told me nothing of any children, Madi sadly bowed his head and said that he had no choice, that the children’s mother had demanded it. ‘She’s ill with the summer ague, my darling,’ he explained, ‘and cannot even get out of her bed. The older ones are trial enough, she says, and I’m to bring these two with me.’
I feel I must note that among his other habits, my guide refers to everyone he meets as ‘darling,’ ‘my dear,’ ‘sweetness,’ or ‘my love.’ Perhaps it is common among the Hyrka, but it seems to me an odd way to address strangers.
So it was that I was led away from the Meremund docks by Madi and his two young charges, and although the children helped me to carry my belongings, they also made free with my possessions when their father was not looking, which seemed to be often. I still have not found my candles.
Instead of leading me to Meremund’s main Agarine abbey, where I had planned to spend the night and where you told me the abbot was expecting me, Madi insisted on bringing me to his own house, a ramshackle dwelling in a neighborhood called the Stews, to meet his family. This despite the apparently dreadful illness suffered by his wife—I call her such because charity demands it, but I suspect no Aedonite vows were ever exchanged. Once inside, I was reminded again of my first impression, that the children were in fact apes. The rest of the children at home were larger, but no better dressed and no better in their manners. The oldest, a homuncule of Madi himself but with wispier whiskers, asked me what terrible secrets I learned by listening to rich women giving their confessions. Madi asked me for the loan of a few coppers so that he could buy some meat for the pot, but after I gave it to him he was gone a long time, leaving me with the loud, boisterous children—their mother remained under the covers, groaning that she was dying, though with such a strong voice that I doubted it. And when he returned home he had the distinct semblance of someone who has drunken several beers. Nor did I ever see any sign of meat in the soup I was served, although the bread was hard enough, I was just as grateful not having anything else to chew, for fear my teeth would not survive the meal.
A bed was made for me in the middle of the floor, the blankets so flea-ridden that I could scarcely sleep at all. In the middle of the night I was awakened by a small hand touching my face, and when I sat up in alarm, discovered the boy Plekto, who told me that he thought there were robbers trying to get in. Worried for the family, I roused myself and looked around, but found no sign of intruders. When I returned, I found the boy rooting through my possessions again. When I demanded that he stop, he saucily asked me what I was hiding, that I was so secretive.
My good lord Tiamak, I think that your trusted guide Madi is not so trustworthy as you thought, or at least his family is not. Should I find another guide instead? I fear we will have to leave Meremund before this will reach you, but perhaps you can send a letter for me to Kwanitupul advising me what to do.
Against Madi’s urging, I moved the second night to St. Agar’s and found there much more comfortable surroundings. In fact, I have been at the abbey since, and this letter is written in the refectory, which is wonderfully free of vermin. Best of all, the abbot kindly gave me permission to use the abbey’s library, and I found something of interest there.
The book of which we spoke before I left the Hayholt is not to be found here, of course, but I did discover a volume by Tertissis of Gemmia that discusses it. He says of it, ‘the great sin of Fortis is not that he describes the devilish methods of the Old Ones’—by this he means the Norns and their cousins, the Sithi—‘but that he speaks of those methods as though they can teach something to Godly men. These snares of the Devil have driven men mad before. It is said they drove Bishop Fortis himself mad, and it is rumored that he spent his last days in confinement in his own abbey.’ I tell you this, Lord Tiamak, not because I think you do not know the dangers already, but because I fear for any others who might come into contact with it. Have you told the king and queen? I know they would be most anxious for any knowledge of their son, even this, but I would feel very sad if they were exposed to this dreadful book because of me.
Also, although I went to the Princess Idela to examine Prince John Josua’s books on Lord Pasevalles’ behalf, in the course of many distractions and worries in those days I never told Pasevalles what I found. I leave it to you whether he should know about it.
Do please advise me whether I should seek a new guide when I reach Kwanitupul. I remain your servant in God.
Etan Fratilis Ercestris
? ? ?
“Well?” said Aengas.
Tiamak looked up, more than a little startled. Although he had been reading aloud, he had all but forgotten that he had company. “Well what? Am I going to tell Lord Pasevalles about the Treatise? I think not. I think that I will speak only to those who need to know.”