‘You did well, Rafnee,’ he said.
‘We should be moving from here,’ replied Kysumu.
‘Indeed so.’
The cabin of the palanquin felt like a sanctuary as Matze Chai settled himself down on his cushions. Lightly striking the bell to signal the bearers to move on, he closed his eyes. He felt safe, secure, and almost immortal. Opening his eyes, he glanced out through the window and saw the setting sun blaze its dying light over the mountain peaks. Reaching up, he drew the curtains closed, his good-humour evaporating.
They made camp an hour later, and Matze Chai sat in his palanquin while his servants unloaded his night-time furniture from the wagons, assembling his gold-lacquered bed, and spreading upon it his satin sheets and thick goose-down quilt. After this they raised the poles and frame of his blue and gold silk tent, spreading out the black canvas sheet upon the ground, then unrolling his favourite silk rug to cover it. Lastly his two favourite chairs, both inlaid with gold and deeply cushioned with padded velvet, were placed in the tent entrance. When finally Matze Chai climbed from the palanquin the camp was almost prepared. His sixteen bearers were sitting together round two campfires set in a jumble of boulders, two of the six guards had taken up sentry positions to patrol the perimeter, and his cook was busy preparing a light supper of spiced rice and dried fish.
Matze Chai moved across the campground to his tent and sank gratefully into his chair. He was tired of living like a frontier nomad, at the mercy of the elements, and longed for the journey to be over. Six weeks of this harsh existence had drained his energy.
Kysumu was sitting cross-legged upon the ground close by, a section of parchment, pinned to a board of cork, resting on his knees. Using a shaped piece of charcoal Kysumu was sketching a tree. Matze Chai watched the little swordsman. Every evening he would fetch his leather folder from the supply wagon, take a fresh section of parchment, and sketch for an hour. Usually trees or plants, Matze Chai had noted.
Matze Chai had many such drawings in his own home, by some of the greatest Chiatze masters. Kysumu was talented, but by no means exceptional. His compositions lacked, in Matze Chai’s opinion, the harmony of emptiness. Kysumu’s work had too much passion. Art should be serene, devoid of human emotion. Stark and simple, it should encourage meditation. Even so, Matze Chai decided, he should – at journey’s end – offer to purchase one of the sketches. It would be impolite not to do so.
A servant brought him a cup of scented tisane and, with the temperature dropping, laid a fur-lined robe around Matze Chai’s thin shoulders. Then two of the bearers, using forked wooden poles, carried an iron brazier, glowing with coals, into Matze Chai’s tent, setting it down on a pewter base plate, to prevent cinders singeing the expensive rugs.
The incident with the robbers had proved spiritually uplifting. As the mountains spoke silently of the fleeting nature of man, the sudden peril had brought to the fore just how much Matze Chai enjoyed life. It made him aware of the sweetness of the air he breathed, and of the feel of silk upon his skin. Even the tisane he now sipped was almost unbearably fine upon the tongue.
Despite the discomforts of travel Matze Chai was forced to admit that he now felt better than he had in years. Wrapping himself in the fur-lined cloak he settled back and found himself thinking of Waylander. It had been six years since last they met, back in Namib. At that time, Matze Chai had recently returned from Drenan, where he had, upon Waylander’s instruction, purchased a skull from the Great Library. Waylander had then sold his home and journeyed north and east, seeking a new land and a new life.
Such a restless soul, thought Matze Chai. But, then, Waylander was a man on a mission that could never be completed, a quest born in despair and longing. At first Matze Chai had believed Waylander to be seeking redemption for past sins. This was only partly true. No, what the Grey Man sought was an impossibility.