“Notice first the wood of which the box is made. It’s not from a rajabaral; the grain is too beautiful. Notice how it’s carved. Notice the delicate metal chasing that binds the corners. Could our metal-makers corps do such fine work today?”
When they had examined the details, he opened the box. He brought out a large tome bound in heavy leather, tooled with an elaborate design.
“This I did myself, Mother. I rebound the book. It’s the inside that’s old.”
The pages inside were carefully, often elaborately, written by a number of different hands. Datnil Skar turned the pages rapidly, even now reluctant to reveal too much. But the women clearly saw dates, names, lists, and various entries and figures.
He looked up into their faces, smiling a grave smile. “In its way, this volume gives a history of Embruddock over the years. And each surviving corps has a similar volume, of that I am certain.”
“The past is gone. We’re trying now to look outward to the future,” said Vry. “We don’t want to be stuck in the past. We want to go out …”
Indecisively, she let the sentence die, regretting that in her excitement she had brought herself to their attention. Looking at the faces of the other two, she saw they were older and would never agree with her. Although their aims were in general agreement, a difference existed that could never be bridged.
“The clue to the future lies in the past,” Shay Tal said, comfortingly but dismissively, for she had made such remarks to Vry before. Turning to the old man, she said, “Master Datnil, we greatly appreciate your brave gesture in letting us look at the secret book. Perhaps some day we may examine it more thoroughly. Would you tell us how many masters there have been in your corps since records commenced?”
He closed the book and began packing it in its box. Saliva trickled from his old mouth, and his hands shook badly.
“The rats know the secrets of Oldorando … I’m in danger, bringing this book here. Just an old fool … Listen, my dears, there was a great king who ruled over all Campannlat in the old days, called King Denniss. He foresaw that the world—this world which the ancipitals call Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk—would lose its warmth, as a bucket slops water when you carry it down a lane. So he set about founding our corps, with iron rules to be enforced. All the makers corps were to preserve wisdom through dark times, until warmth returned.”
He spoke chantingly, as from memory.
“Our corps has survived since the good king’s time, though in some periods it had no wherewithal to tan leather. According to the record here, its numbers once sank to a master and an apprentice, who lived below ground a distance away… . Dreadful times. But we survived.”
As he was wiping his mouth, Shay Tal asked what period of time they were discussing.
Datnil Skar gazed at the darkening rectangle of window as if contemplating flight from the question.
“I don’t understand all the notations in our book. You know our confusions with the calendar. As we can understand from our own day, new calendars represent considerable dislocations… . Embruddock—forgive me, I fear telling you too much—it didn’t always belong to … our sort of people.”
He shook his head, darting his gaze nervously round the rooth. The women waited, motionless as phagors in the old dull room. He spoke again.
“Many people have died. There was a great plague, the Fat Death. Invasions … the Seven Blindnesses … tales of woe. We hope our present Lord—” again a glance round the room—”will prove as wise as King Denniss. The good king founded our corps in a year called 249 Before Nadir. We do not know who Nadir was. What we do know is that I—allowing for a break in the record—am the sixty-eighth master of the tanners and tawyers corps. The sixty-eighth …” He peered shortsightedly at Shay Tal.
“Sixty-eight …” Trying to hide her dismayed astonishment, she gathered her furs about her with a characteristic gesture. “That’s many generations, stretching back to antiquity.”
“Yes, yes, stretching right back.” Master Datnil nodded complacently, as if personally acquainted with vast stretches of time. “It’s nearly seven centuries since our corps was founded. Seven centuries, and still it freezes of nights.”