General rules: read and weep. Bottom earliest.
The 16th
My stay at Goaršad has been cut short by developments in the capital. The empress's return galvanised the entire court nicely, and I had to bid farewell to the quaint town and its easy ways. Sahwanna seems to think well enough of me after a week of conversation; perhaps we will be good friends. There was a small celebration held in the square on the third night of my stay there, and even Kihš-ngen showed up to see it after I sent word. He has an easy way with people that I envy, and was instantly liked by the townsfolk. For my part, I kept my head down, helped with the carrying, and observed. Many here are fond of dancing, particularly in pairs, though the more skippy tunes drew large rings of men and women flowing around the centrepost. I joined in after a while, and although I was a little troubled, and not capable of my best, it was enough to draw grins, so I am satisfied. Kihš-ngen left in the early morning, headed back to the capital. I joined him only yesterday, summoned, as I implied, by the empress.
The state of things at court was grim. I got the distinct feeling that I had fallen out of favour, though frankly I find myself wondering now if I was ever favoured in the first place. The jester, too, had told one joke too many; and all this culminated in our fleeing the city under cover of darkness. The events leading up to this decision are too complex and misty to outline here. Suffice to say that the love of a liege is fickle. In any case, Kihš-ngen met us on the road to the Gate of the Southern Cross, and being the steadfast companion that he is, insisted on coming with us, because he has grown tired of the squalor and the heat, and wants for wind and rain again. So it was that dawn found us safely underway, passing the lesser town of Mansaaja. A storm caught us on its outskirts, and we were forced through its gate, though not before bribing the night wardens.
Mansaaja is a workers' town, old and tired in that sad, forgotten way that belies a lack of appreciation for its history. But then its people are busy with more mundane things than recalling past days. Its houses are of stone, brick, and mortar, rarely ever wood; its streets are confusing - doubly so in a downpour - and all lead to a small central square flanked by cracking walls and sagging roofs. This central place is, at the least, decently kept, and there are guards who keep the peace at night, though they oft seem busier with their rations and games of chance.
It was here, under the lazy gaze of two such night wards, that we discussed our next moves. The jester was set on heading back to his people, among whom he claimed he was a man of considerable influence; but I was less driven by a need for familiarity, and had a desire to set out and see things; and Kihš-ngen agreed. So we spent our last night together drinking, complaining, and badmouthing people of power, and in the morning we parted ways.
I have written that, but perhaps that is not entirely true. Before I leave I will stop by a few old haunts - see the baroness again, for one. Then I will go north.
The 9th
I went out from the city yesterday, and followed a path through the fields. It was early morning, and the grasses and crops were still half-hidden in their rags of low mists, crawling past like old, slow reptiles. I had a mood to see the next town over, since I had never been there before. Black cats watched me from the dew, and deer poked up their heads as I went by. Nothing in the sky except clouds and the pallid light of dawn. The trip was quiet, and soon I could see the wooden palisade peeking through the groves. I met an old woman on the road, and she was already bent almost in half under a basket that was still empty. She stopped as I approached, and looked up, and let the basket slip from her shoulders as she straightened; but there was only mild disinterest in her eyes. I asked what the place was called, and she said it was Goaršad, that is Waywere. I said I could not see a gate in, and she said it was on the other side. I asked: Is there only one gate? She said so. Why, I asked? And she was getting impatient now. She hefted the basket, and bent down under it again, and casting a sharp glare at me from beneath her brows as she passed she muttered something about bad things coming from this way.
I entered the town, and its thatched roofs struck me at once, because along their spines they were spiked every which way with sharp sticks and branches. To keep the fat rain-snake from slithering along them, one man told me. Another said that it was for some reason or other, and had always been done so, and that storks liked it that way. The houses in Goaršad are made with light wood that is pleasing to the eye in the daytime, and soothes the heart at night; and their sides are painted with soot and ochre in patterns that resemble the jagged Greek meander, but sharper at the edges, and spiked. Red goes up, and black stabs down. Most striking of all, there are many houses on stilts, which struck me as odd when I saw, since these lands are not prone to flooding. A child playing with a painted bird explained that they are good for running under, unless there are animal pens there, and that I should go see Sahwanna, because she knew the stories, and they were very long and he had no time to recount them all to me, because his bird was hungry.
Sahwanna lives in a stilted house of considerable age, small though it may be. She likes to sit under it, where there is shade, and mix her herbs and teas on the grass and flowers that she keeps there. The stilts are good because they let air into the town, and there is much air needed in this town to help with the stench of pig. No, of course that is not the only reason - there was a flood, and the elders came up with it, but that was long ago, and no new floods have come. It is not easy to build houses on stilts, so not many practice it; but she likes the extra space. The bees come to her house, and the bugs, because of the tatru - the stilts. Drunks come too sometimes, in the early morning, and piss in her flowers; but she has a second dog now, and they have not dared to try it yet. They are mastiffs, both male. No, they will not bite, unless I were to waste her time. She was just joking. But I am not from here, and I ask a lot of questions, and that is funny. If I am from the capital then I must be hungry - that is a long walk. There is a baker's just up the street.
I thanked her, and wished her a good day, and went on. Her green eyes followed.
The 6th.
I was wrong! It was not too late to make something worth giving. Granted, I am a few days late, but the occasion is favourable today, perhaps moreso than before, and I think the time well spent. You see, I found during my wanderings a certain shop, not far from my old haunts, that had much to offer in the way of various beads, gems, and stones; and they sold chalcedony. Now I am not much learned in such things, and so this was the first time that name and nature were matched for me, but chalcedony is exquisite. I cannot understand why it was priced so cheaply there. There are not many stones that are as beautiful alone as they are when used with other fine materials, but chalcedony is assuredly one of them. The subtle tinted grey, sometimes broken by glazed, milky streaks of crystal-glass, and glowing in the light of dawn and dusk alike, betrays a mellow but high nature. It is to stones as a birch may seem to oaks - graceful, delicate, noble, and proud in that reserved, slender way that counterweighs the pride of might. If I have the chance, I must buy more of it. In any case, I bought as much as I could, and five large eggs of morganite as well, to serve as the centrepiece; and all of them I arranged in such a way upon a black string as to grant the gift some meaning. The colours are not particularly in my taste, though the chalcedony elevates the whole of it to pinnacles of style and beauty... but I think it will be cherished.
Much has happened in the time since I last wrote, and I have learned more unsavoury details of the whole affair at court which do not lend me confidence in this bond that I have cultivated. The jester was as much a victim of it as I, so the time we spent together served us both well, and we found in each other some reassurance that we were not alone. I am not one for hasty judgements, nor do I dismiss harshly or cruelly those who for so long have been my friends, even if the evidence against them is mounting; so now I must wait five days, and then one more. A new acquaintance is throwing a party of sorts, and the empress will be attending, but I will only have a chance to get to the bottom of it all on the next day, when we are alone. So the plan is simple: no false smiles! I will warn her outright that we must talk, and only then exchange pleasantries. And on the following morning, well... We will see.
It is growing hot again. Yesterday as I went out into the woods with Kihš-ngen we chanced upon a bitter thing, scarce half the size of us, but fearsome; and he said we were intruding, and could not pass. Kihš-ngen turned to me then, and we conferred, and agreed it was unfair that our path be blocked in such a manner, and in a place held by most to belong to no-one; and we made this clear to our hinderer. It was then that we were attacked, our words evidently having displeased our enemy, but though I myself am no fighter, he found Kihš-ngen to be more than his match, and was beaten so soundly that he mewled for mercy. We left him there, but I do not think he learned his lesson.
The 2nd.
In the spirit of it all, would you like to hear a lie? I'm good at those, the little ones that make no difference and turn the world into a safer place for the one that tells them. Today, as I was walking through the city, I was acting out a lie; and before and after all of that I told small lies as well, to keep the big one company. They say that eventually it becomes hard to tell how much of what one does is real, and how much is a lie. I do not think that is the case. The world is true until proven false, and what difference does it make if it has not made a difference?
I exchanged correspondence with the empress today, and learned much, and nothing good. The issues are three: firstly, that her lover is not fond of me, and made that fact publically known; second, that she has been feeling a lack of attention from me; and the final problem, that much has been going on behind my back that I was unaware of. How to tackle this? I have plenty of time to get to the bottom of it. A list:
In any case, once she has set her yoke on the islands of the sea-peoples, and when she returns to her city, I will have my answers ready.
Another cold day today. That is good. I will go for a run.
The 1st.
Colder today, and windy. I met some people who had a tree fall on their house in the storm last night. Simply bad luck. It wasn't much of a storm. But it is colder, and that has given me as much joy as the oppressive heat of yesterday, though arguably it is of a more constant quality, fuelled by comfort, not nostalgia. I walked up a tall hill and looked out at the grey and green, and all the other hues that we have put between them. But the view gave me nothing. Rather, on my way up I saw tall yellow grasses, and dreamed of the dry steppe under a shawled sky, and a strong, cold, mountain wind to blow across them.
Recently I met again with an old friend, a baroness of sorts, though her holdings leave much to be desired. But she took me back despite our cold parting, and my letters all being lost in their journey to her somewhere between the cranium and the index. She, more than most, understands the significance of silence. Yet I cannot help but feel that she sees in me something which I do not, and much that I see and do not wish was seen as well. Are we good friends? I cannot say, but she can.
There was a fox in the night. Regal as always, lithe, long, bright and with a confident bearing. We only glanced at each other, and then the sun was rising, and it was time to go. But I cannot help thinking he had something to say before I left.
The 30th.
I'm not known for my ability to share personal details. I'm not an open person, though my aptitude at portioning out little snippets that build the illusion of transparency may at first point seemingly to the opposite. A second thing I am not known for is sticking to a project I have begun. With those two facts laid bare there will no doubt come gasps of shock and horror at this unveiling of such a daring new plan. But calm yourselves. What business is it of yours? And I mean that in the non-aggressive way. The net is a net and even if one hole gets clogged by seaweed and other sea-filth, there are others around it that might yet be looked through.
Besides, I am bored, and my head is full, and so if I can shove some clutter from that puddle into this my little patch of holes, and either plug them full of it, or force it through and out the other side to watch it sinking down into the depths, I will be content. I've gone far too long without spewing out what my eyes and ears have gathered.
I passed a man upon the road that I had chosen yesterday, and we talked a little in the shade. He was on foot, and had hunted eyes that flicked so often left and right to scan the green horizon. A deserter, I knew at once. These lands are not his, though his people hold them, and in fact he said as much when I pulled him by the tongue a little. He praised the hospitality, but regretted the language; and he said that even friends were hard to see beneath their masks of smiles. The women at least are hospitable, or at least the one that lives alone and with two children at the nearest town - a widow, he said, a little to the north of here, and that I'll know her by the tall house. And outside the town and through the woods there is a fishmonger by a shallow lake that deals in fish and many things besides, and he is good for work, if you do not stick around too long. I wished him well, and left him behind. He was going west.
Today, on the other hand, I heard of a prince: an energetic man, and driven, though young and inexperienced and lacking the bearing of nobility. I am told the rats came for him, and that that was his end, along with all his family. The queen mother alone predicted it, lamenting her fate. A very Popiel-esque tale, that.
The heat today is not as oppressive as I thought it would be. I will make good progress. Once I reach the city I must look around for something thoughtful. Her hands are as deft as mine in many regards, so it is best to let them work her mind, and only gift materials; and anyway it is too late now to make anything of quality myself.