when the gods lowered the boom on Istar twenty-two years
ago and left without telling anyone their next address, but I
guess you know that part, since you’re a historian.
I looked over at the wall mirror then and saw all three
feet nine inches of me in the candlelight, with my dark
brown hair combed out and bound in a high tassel and my
gray robes with the nice silver borders and my writing paper
and once-holy symbol and official steel pen. It was strange,
because I didn’t look like me, and that made me feel funny.
I looked like a kender I didn’t quite know.
Ark stood behind me, and in the candlelight he looked
old, and that made me feel funny, too. He’s about average
in size for a human and is almost bald and has a hooked
nose and a potbelly, and I knew who he was, but just then
he didn’t look much like the man who had raised me and
told me funny stories when I was sick and took me fishing
and bailed me out of jail every so often. Maybe it was the
hour, but he looked old and tired, like something was both
ering him. I worry about him sometimes.
Ark sighed after a moment and said, “Well, let’s get
started. I’ve got a lot of work to do today – and so do you,
of course.” Then he put his hand on my head and used
some big words that I didn’t know, but you probably do,
and when he was done, he said, “Walnut, you are now my
official field recorder. Your mission is to go out among the
people of Newshore and record all things of importance. I
know I can trust you to do a good job. Don’t come back
until sundown, stay out of jail, take lots of notes, don’t
upset anyone, and let me get my correspondence done. I’m
a little behind, and Astinus will use my skin for book
covers if I don’t get those reports to him.”
(I should say here that I certainly hope you do not
intend to skin Ark, Astinus, especially not for book covers.
You may skin me instead if you have to, as Ark is late with
his correspondence only because I made paper fishing
boats out of his last reports. I thought they were just waste
paper, like when he writes letters to you when he’s mad
and tells you to jump off the roof of your library but then
never sends them. He says it makes him feel better, and he
gives the letters to me to make boats out of them. I grabbed
the wrong stack and am sorry.)
Anyway, I am now a field recorder, which Ark tells me
is the first step toward becoming a real-live scribe and
eventually an amanuensis, which is the most incredible
word, isn’t it? I’ve wanted to be a scribe for years, ever
since Ark taught me to read and write, and I’ve learned
almost every word there is, except the biggest ones (except
for “amanuensis”) and I’ve practiced and practiced at my
writing until Ark says that if I write on the walls or
furniture one more time, he will put me in jail himself, but I
think he was only kidding, except maybe once or twice.
I am determined to make Ark proud of me, and after
the ceremony, I said, “Ark, I will be the best field recorder
ever, and you are going to be so proud of me that you will
bust.”
Ark smiled without looking happy and said, “Good, good.
Just stay out of jail.” Then he hurried me toward the door
and gave me a pouch with some hard rolls and cheese and
dried bacon and raisins and other stuff in it, which I
dropped when I cut through the Wylmeens’ garden on the
way into town and their big brown mastiff, Mud, chased me
out. Stupid dog.
I tried to get my pouch back, but Mud tore it apart and
ate it, so I went back to the shoe shop after that to get
another bag for breakfast, and when I went in, Ark was