I had written the letter to the head of Tahal's family, offering my assistance in the rescue of their son should it become possible. I resolved to put it with the official dispatches in the morning. I was still curious about what, if anything, the Samant family were doing to come to the aid of their son, Tahal. They appeared to be doing nothing, and that was not right. True, they were a small family and no longer wealthy. I could not remember the last time a Samant had been consul, for example, but it was impossible that they be doing nothing. Could they be so poor that they could not raise any troops at all? I tried to remember the family members but could not. Was Tahal the only man left of the line? Was Irian Samant recently dead and I hadn't heard? Were his female relatives reliant on friends and blood ties? Orelia had asked me to intervene because her family would not, on the premise that Tahal was merely her betrothed and not her husband, but what were his own family doing? Well, the letter was written and they might confide in me.
Meran cleared his throat and then stepped inside the tent. “Larner Harrat wants you to join him for the evening meal. He has that shaman with him.”
I gave a nod. “You met him? Strange isn't he?”
“His eyes. Yes. Reminds me of how my people describe the druids.”
“Druids?” I was a moment remembering the word.
“Your people killed them all centuries ago, but our stories persist.”
Priests. I remembered the word now, druid was just another word for shaman or priest. Though I now knew what Dubaku would say to that.
“What stories?”
“Stories of what they could do, what powers the spirits gave them. How they looked as though they saw another world than the one we do.”
Maybe that was it. Maybe his expressionless eyes looked into another world.
“Hmmm. Sapphire?”
“He has weird eyes too.”
He did actually. Cold and indifferent. But that isn't what I'd meant. “What has he been up to?”
“Putting himself about. Talking to people. Nothing I could hear and I can hardly ask.”
“Talking to whom?”
“Everyone. Healers, battle mages, your men, although I can tell from watching that they don't talk back. Tonight he's getting cozy with your mercenaries.”
“Thanks,” I said distractedly.
He looked just surprised enough that I noticed. “You're welcome, master.”
“I don't reward you enough, Meran. When this campaign is over I will.”
He actually bowed, perhaps a little ironically, then asked if there was anything else. When I indicated not, he left without another word. I knew he would be close by, on hand if I should need anything and for the most part anticipating my needs before I voiced them. He was a good slave. Familiar to the point of rudeness, but I'd never minded that as long as he took care of the things I didn't want to waste time on.
I realized I was standing there doing nothing and left to join the battle mages for dinner. I was tired. It had been a long day in the saddle and my body ached like hell, but not as much as the day before. My trousers were a little looser and soon I'd have to get a new belt, and maybe a new wardrobe. Maybe I should give Meran some cash and send him ahead to attend to that. But then, he had the money and maybe he already had. It wouldn't surprise me, and I decided to wait and find out.
Dubaku was already installed when I arrived, and eating like he had been fasting. I gave a greeting, and took the spare seat around the small fire that served mainly as centerpiece.
“What do the spirits tell you?” Abrat said.
I raised an eyebrow, but assumed that this was half way through a conversation I'd missed. The question seemed a bit pointed to me.
“I cannot understand them.”
“They don't speak your language?!”
Dubaku looked at him, and Abrat seemed to quail slightly.
“They use the words we have but mean different things. They do not see the world as we see it.”
“Without eyes, I'm not surprised!”
I expected Dubaku to be sharp and was wrong.
“Exactly.”
Larner leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Their understanding of the world is not ours. They are looking at it from a different place. What they know they cannot tell.”
“Why not?”
Dubaku was silent for a moment. “The world is made up of small things, smaller than the smallest thing you can image, so many that even in a grain of sand there are more parts than there are grains of sand on a beach.”
Larner and Hettar exchanged a significant glance and I was suddenly attentive.
“Even water is made up of these things. Now imagine you stand on such a small thing. It is on a ripple in a puddle of rainwater and it is the world. And you ask an ancient spirit, 'What is the universe?' How would the spirit answer?”
“It is a puddle of water?” I asked
Dubaku was no longer looking at Abrat. “It is a ripple on a puddle of water. And you would ask?”
I answered. “What is a puddle, what is a ripple, what is water?”
“And the spirit might say water is made up of the world you stand on, many the same and a ripple is caused by rain falling into the puddle and a puddle is where water collects in a depression.”
“And I would say, what is rain, what is a depression?”
Dubaku nodded. “Just so, and be none the wiser when he answered.”
“That's just a metaphor,” Abrat scorned.
“A metaphor may be a lie,” Larner said thoughtfully, “but it can also be a useful lie.”
“One day we will see things as they see them and know what they know. Until then there is nothing to be learned from spirits.”
“Life is for the living,” Larner said.
It was a city saying.
I doubted Dubaku told the whole truth. Surely a spirit must have memory of life? There would be things to learn from them. Perhaps much more than Dubaku was intimating. Perhaps he wanted to disarm these sorcerers, make himself seem nonthreatening.
“How do spirits do what they do? Affect the world.” Larner sounded genuinely interested, and for that reason so was I.
“They say the universe is empty. I do not know what that means.”
Unfortunately neither did I.
Larner also looked a little disappointed. “Empty? But they also say that everything is made up of particles?”
“Yes. You see? They contradict each other and themselves. I long since gave up trying to understand the how and contented myself that they could come to my aid if they chose.”
Particles. I kept my face absolutely neutral and reached casually for a drink. Larner had used the word naturally. He had already known about the 'small things that everything was made up of' and he called them particles. That mattered. Sorcerers manipulated particles. I sipped my drink and leaned back, focusing my memory on what small magics I knew and how they worked. Shapes and movements were what a spell most resembled when you thought of it, or shapes in movement overlaying the place you wanted the thing to happen. If I could see particles would I recognize something of those shapes and movements? The patterns are non-intuitive. Were the patterns and movements so non-intuitive because we couldn't see what they related to? Because the things they related to were very small?
I resolved to find a lens maker as soon as I had enough money and the time.
“You are thoughtful, Sumto. What are you thinking about?”
“I was wondering if what we do as sorcerers, pardon the presumption, might be similar in any way to what spirits do to perform their effects.”
All four sorcerers laughed. But I noticed that Dubaku did not.