Chapter 15 - The Chimes

“And this, Ambassador,” said one of the Barthan clerks, presenting a leather box full of scrolls. “Shall these go as well?”

Odden looked up from a diagram of the embassy, which was laid out upon his table slab and weighed down by an inkstand in one corner, and a stone statue of a rat in the other. He said, “What, those? Oh yes. Burn them as well.”

The clerk did as instructed. He passed the box over to another man standing beside a large marble fireplace in Odden’s office. Thick yellow flames shone from the fireplace, packed full with boxes, papers, scrolls, books, ledgers, wood prints, and all other manner of bureaucratic records and articles. The clerk standing by the flame prodded occasionally at the huge pile with a long iron poker, trying to smush it smaller and make the newest pieces catch quicker. The leather box was placed on top with the others.

Odden stared back down at the diagram of his embassy. It displayed all three floors - a basement, first story, and second story, stacked beside one another - along with their dimensions in arms, hands, and fingers. There were two chambers on the basement level, and one on the second floor, for which there was no door; the entrances had been bricked over years ago.

“Theages,” Ostok called. The clerk stepped back to the desk. Ostok lifted the inkpot and the statuette of the rat, and the diagram rolled itself into a tube. “Burn this also.”

“Yes, setter.”

“Is that everything?”

“What about the soldiers’ records from before 3391? The ones we kept from the 6th Mantes army?”

“Yes. I mean no. I apologize, Theages. Take those down to the wagons. We shall return those to the Barthan archives.”

“Yes, setter.”

Odden stood from his table and walked over to the trellised window. He picked up a spouted cup from the corner and began to pour water along his planter of white and pink orchids. He stopped. He stared at his own hand as it passed through one of life’s innumerable daily routines. He finished watering the flowers and set the cup back where it always went. He looked beyond the window.

The small graveyard at the back of the barthan embassy was almost the same. An early fog lay upon the dewy grass of the cemetery hill this morning, for the hill was on the western side of the embassy, and still lay in the embassy’s columned shadow even as Theman’s Wounded Sun rose in the east. Over the evening of the 20th the air had taken an unexpected chill. Odden had heard one of his attachés (a man who worked double as a fieldhand during these months and was paid a wage of rings by a local Teironian farmer) worrying if the cold weather would affect the harvest.

Odden stood at the window for some moments. One hand rested in a tunic pocket, while the other unconsciously rubbed his arm. The clerks prodded at the fire behind him.

A knock came at the door. “I shall take the visitor,” said Odden. One of the clerks went and unbolted the door.

Milar Halas, elder on the Szem town council, entered with a hesitant step, and a rattle of his gods’ smallbones, carried in a sackcloth at his hip. The swarthy muira man rubbed the left side of his face, against the grain of his thick sideburn, with a sorrowful and distracted air. “This is all so hideous,” he said.

“Milar,” said Odden, a quietness in his own steady tone as well. “What ills befall you?”

“My dear fellow,” said the muira diplomat. He came to stand by the ambassador at the window. “I forgot, you haven’t a view of The Longclasp.”

“Is something wrong at the bridge?”

“It’s burned and fallen into the riverbed is all!”

Odden looked sharply at his colleague. “That cannot be. The bridge is made of strong stone.”

“Ah, but those piers are just a surface of brick, built around the trunks of tall spruce sawn down in Ahn. And the scaffold things under the span; those were timber as well.”

“Still… It seemed proof against fire when one stood on its flagstones.”

Milar shrugged. “Hardly the first fire in town these days.”

“Mmm.”

“More of Szem’s citizens threw their hearth goods in the burning river. The bridge is gone, Odden. It’s just gone.”

“That is a- it’s sad.”

“I had to take the roundabout way, down to Bad Tavaszi and cross there. Though I daresay I’ll have very little reason to cross to Aster soon.”

Odden cleared his throat. “Have you taken breakfast yet?”

“I’m not hungry this morning.”

“No, nor I.”

Milar Halas stood on his tiptoes and peered down through the window panes. “Your railing down there around the porch could do with a fresh coat of white.”

“The dyeworks were supposed to send someone at the close of the month to redo the whole back facade. I’m not sure if they’ll bother or not.” Looking down at the flaking painted railing at the edge of the misty headstones, which had stood out against the shiny marble stone of the embassy for at least three summers now, Odden had the sudden feeling of odd certainty that he would, for some unaccountable reason, remember that feature of the paint and the picture of its flakes for the rest of his life.

“For me,” Milar began, after a long moment without speech, during which the only sound was that of the two clerks prodding the burning papers, “the road leads all the way back to Bruna.”

“Your role?”

“If I’m fortunate the queen and her council will give me a period of leave. I want only a tenday, you understand. I want to see my hearth and my kinsmen. They live a day beyond the capital, in a little burg surrounded by the forested highlands of upper Ahn. The sounds! There is no music like the woods.”

Odden tapped his fingers on the sill. “I hope you find your hearth happy and well.”

“And you? Will you go home?”

Odden looked upon the misty hill behind the embassy. “I’ll return to Barthos.”

At that moment, the pair heard the sound of distant chimes.

“It cannot be fullmorn yet,” said Milar. He checked his pocket clock, then looked confusedly through the window.

A moment later another set joined the first. The peals were not uniform, as to ring in the span of the day, but broken and discordant.

“I have it,” said Odden.

“What?”

“The Wind Temples’ chimes are all expensive bronze.”

“Ahhhh,” Milar said at length, nodding.

“The priests will be taking them down and carting them to safer storage.”

“The muira will have done the same with our gods’ bones.” Milar shook his own sack of smallbones for emphasis.

“The temple chimes sound across Aster-Szem, a last farewell.”

“Setter,” one of clerks said behind. “The fire’s burning down now. Is there anything further?”

Odden turned and surveyed his office. The heavy shelves were nearly empty, but for a few decorative idols, and the residual coat of dust. “Nothing further,” he said. “Take those sacks down. And see how the other offices come along.”

The two clerks bowed and left the room. The fire had indeed burned through most of the unimportant incunabula which had been fed into it. Odden sighed.

Milar looked up into the face of his taller fellow-diplomat. “Ambassador, I would like to shake your hand.”

Odden pulled his hand from his pocket. They shook. Milar’s hand was cold, and slightly shaking.

“Oh Odden.” Milar’s voice suddenly cracked. His face broke into a look of deep grief, and he threw his other arm around the shoulder of Odden, wrapping the Barthan ambassador in a tight hug. “It’s all dreadful.”

“I know, my friend.”

“To leave Aster-Szem…”

Odden patted the muira man on the back. “They must not see you crying, Milar.”

“You’re right of course. But it’s hard. A nation can be neutral, but no man can be.”

“No,” Odden agreed. He gave his friend another pat. “Come. We should head down now.”

As the two stepped toward the door, Milar daubed at his eyes with a kerchief. He said, “I hope we’ll meet again in better days.”

Odden hitched his thumbs in his pockets as they left. “Stars and Wind, make it so.”