SOULWINDER — Chapter 1
I want to get some things down now, while the memory’s still fresh. So you’ll never forget the man your father was.
Tel had been waiting for twenty excruciating minutes. Never a good sign. He could feel his breaths getting shallower, his pulse ratcheting up. Calm, he told himself. As if thinking the word harder might help. As if a little self-talk could quell the growing certainty that this venture would be the last in a series of increasingly desperate dead-ends.
The bookmaker’s shopfront was tiny. An elbow-high counter and a high stool took up three quarters of the room. There were no lamps. Dim light filtered through the barred window above the door. It was weak and tired, dimmed by the slightly overcast sky and baffled by the narrow stairway and alley above. The interior door leading from shopfront to workshop—the door the assistant had disappeared through almost twenty minutes ago—was still closed.
There was a single bookcase behind the counter, locked with a wrought-iron grate and half empty. Some of the books inside had bindings of cloth, while others—the ones that interested Tel—had plain, dark-dyed leather covers. Every one was single-weight sharkskin dyed black and smelling of sturdy quality and practical serviceability. Probably account ledgers for counting houses or bound copies of official documents, all of them waiting to be picked up by those who had commissioned them.
Tel couldn’t criticize plain craftmanship tailored to Merks on the Second Octave. It was obviously working well enough for the bookmaker. But breaking into the market of nobles and mages on the First Octave was something every craftsman dreamed about. For that, the bookmaker needed something special. Something Tel could help him with.
That was the pitch, anyway. Tel took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and reached up for the little bell hanging above the door. If the bookmaker and his assistant had truly forgotten him, the sound of a customer entering would pull them from their distraction. If they were waiting for him to leave, the bell might convince them that he had.
Tel hesitated for a moment, his fingers inches from the dusty brass, and felt an all-too-familiar wave of despair tugging at his ankles. Who was he kidding? The bookmaker obviously wasn’t interested. Or, if he was, he was playing power games. Keeping Tel waiting, trying to set the stage for a better deal, showing how little he needed whatever Tel was selling.
Maybe he should just give up. Go home. It would be dark in an hour, and Dad didn’t like the dark. Besides, Tel hated bargaining and begging. Especially with someone who couldn’t be bothered to show his fellow craftspeople a modicum of respect.
But no. This wasn’t about what Tel liked. Do the hard thing, he reminded himself. Dad was depending on him.
Bracing himself, Tel flicked the bell.
His touch was too soft. The bell barely tinkled. Frustrated by his own timidity, Tel gave the bell a firm slap. This time the bell jangled loudly, bounced sideways, and nearly swung off its hook.
The silence after the brassy clatter was brittle. Dust dislodged by Tel’s blow drifted in the still air. Tel took another slow breath and pasted a patient, expectant smile on his face. The time for waiting was over. When the assistant came out, Tel was going in.
The handle on the inner door turned. The door swung open. Tel turned his patient smile into a grin.
Confidence. Self-assurance.
“Thank you, sir,” Tel said. He strode forward, as if the boy was holding the door open for him rather than standing directly in the path that led to the small hallway and the workshop beyond. The boy automatically sidestepped to avoid a collision. Tel pivoted neatly around him. The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Tel kept talking.
“Thank you so much for granting me a moment of your time. I know you’re both very busy.” He was past the boy now, walking backwards, bowing again. “I think your master will be very pleased with my master’s proposal.”
And then he was past the boy, down the hall, and into the workshop, which was many times larger than the storefront and lit brightly by whale-oil lamps. The bookmaker himself, leaning over a desk in the corner, glanced up at the sound of Tel’s voice. He raised his eyebrows and gave a wan smile.
“Ah, the saddler’s apprentice. Wait a moment. I’ll be just a few minutes more.”
The bookmaker’s resonant baritone surprised Tel. The man’s narrow frame and wispy beard would have paired better with a tremulous whisper.
“Certainly, sir.” Tel ducked his head to hide his annoyance. He felt suddenly certain that the long wait had indeed been intentional, a calculated move, a flexing of the bookmaker’s sense of self-importance.
“I’ll just lay out some things over here while I wait,” he said. “I know you’re a busy man, and my master is expecting me back soon. I won’t waste anyone’s time.”
That was good. Polite, but not obsequious. Carefully—but not too carefully—Tel placed his folio on a low table covered with small vials of glue and skeins of thread. He began to deliberately scoot tools and sheaves of paper. The bookmaker was a craftsman. He would not be able to smugly work while someone moved around his things and upset the delicate balance of his workshop.
“I think that should do it,” the bookmaker said, sliding a flat, dull blade of bone across a stack of pages and almost knocking over his stool in his haste to join Tel at the table. Tel hid a smile as the bookmaker reached around him and took a small bottle from his hand.
“Allow me.”
“Of course.” Tel stepped back and began undoing the binding on his leather folio. The assistant was standing in the hallway with a slightly sour look on his face. The bookmaker dismissed him with a wave, and he stalked back towards the shopfront.
Tel finished unwinding the leather thong on his folio, then laid it carefully on the table, pausing just long enough to let the bookmaker catch a glimpse of the fine tooling on the cover. Then he flipped the folio open as if the work on its front was of no interest compared to what lay within.
In truth, the folio cover was one of the last pieces he and Dad still had in their possession. Once there had been dozens of samples: tooled and dyed leather with floral designs, geometric patterns, and stylized renderings of birds in flight or leaping fish. Once, long ago, Dad himself would have presented the packed folio and pointed proudly at the work he could do.
Now Dad didn’t go anywhere. All the samples were gone, sold as novelties to pay for sacks of cheap rice and loaves of plain bread.
But Tel had made rubbings of each sample before he sold it, carefully using the side of a charcoal stick to transfer the designs onto sheaves of sturdy paper. The paper itself had cost him dearly, but the cost had been necessary. Without samples of some kind, his hope of getting more work for Dad would have gone from slim to nonexistent.
So here he was, showing rubbings instead of tooled leather. He had grown good at covering his shame with an air of brusque competence. Sometimes he apologized for the rubbings, explaining that his father had needed the real samples for another presentation. But that lie always stuck in his throat a little. It made him think of Before.
“I was able to study your work in the front room,” Tel said, leafing slowly through the pages of rubbings, giving the bookmaker time to see the variety of Dad’s work while he spoke. “I am no expert, but to me the volumes appeared very fine. I surmised that you are a man who takes pride in his work, and I knew I had come to the right place.”
“My assistant said you had a proposal,” the bookmaker said. “If you could make it soon, I would very much like to return to my work.”
Tel decided to ignore this comment. The bookmaker was still feigning disinterest, but Tel could sense the man’s fascination. He continued his pitch as if there had been no interruption.
“My father takes a similar pride in his work,” he said. “But precision was not what allowed him to begin selling saddles on the First Octave. He has always said that success is eight tenths hard work and one tenth ingenuity. I am here to speak to you about the latter.”
At least, that was what Dad had used to say. It had been almost ten years now since he had said anything at all.
“And the other tenth?” the bookmaker said, raising an eyebrow. Tel couldn’t tell whether the expression was contempt for Tel’s mathematical error or shrewd recognition of deliberate bait. Either way, he was willing to play along. That seemed like a good sign.
Tel grinned. “The other tenth is luck.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“But luck is fickle, as you know. In these times, it is better to meet her halfway. Which brings me to my proposal.”
Tel stopped absently on a page that showed some of Dad’s most intricate tooling. It was a pattern of intertwining leaves and vines that wove small knots as they wound across the page. The patterns were interesting to look at, but not especially impressive. Until, that was, one realized that the twisting leaves and trailing vines formed the running rivulets and swirling eddies of a waterfall. It usually took ten or fifteen seconds for someone to notice.
“My father is a saddler,” Tel said, turning his back to the folio and leaning against the table. The bookmaker was still looking at the page. Perfect. “In the past, he confined himself to saddles, but in recent times we have begun to diversify. We would like to work with you on our first foray into books.”
“Books.” The bookmaker furrowed his brow, still studying the rubbing in the folio.
“Books. I notice that you bind many of your volumes in single-weight sharkskin, mainly dyed black. An elegant choice, to be sure, but not one that draws attention. As you know, it is becoming more important than ever to make one’s work stand out.”
The bookmaker’s eyes widened—he had seen the waterfall—and Tel suppressed a grin. Looking back over his shoulder at the folio, he pretended to realize what the bookmaker had seen.
“Ah,” he said. “Yes. His work often rewards a closer inspection. I wish you could have seen the original. A rubbing is a poor substitute.”
The bookmaker nodded slowly, then narrowed his eyes and looked up at Tel.
“Your proposal?”
“Of course.” Tel turned back to the folio and quickly flipped to the back, where he had drawn a sketch for this pitch.
“The problem with single-weight leather is, of course, that it takes very little in the way of tooling and embossment. It makes for a serviceable ledger or ship captain’s logbook, but based on my father’s experience with Venerati in the realm of saddle work, we suspect that the average mage or noble looking for a new volume in his collection wants to see something… special. His friends will not come battering down your door to get their own serviceable ledger. But for something unusual, something extraordinary, they might. Do I miss my guess?”
The bookmaker shrugged. Tel continued.
“What I’ve drawn here is a concept. We are proposing a collaboration. My father and I know leather. We know where to source it, how it must be stored and maintained, how it can be manipulated and shaped and conditioned to last longer than the pages it contains. And we know how to tool it, to give it depth, to make it seem alive.”
Tel turned the folio over briefly, tracing the deep patterns Dad had carved into the thick eight-weight porpoise skin of the cover.
“You know the art of making books. From what I hear, you know it better than most.” Tel had heard no such thing, but a little flattery never hurt. “Think, for a moment, of a book of sheet magic commissioned by a master in the Magistry, bound with the finest paper and most skilled illuminations. The spine itself might be of supple single-weight leather like you are accustomed to working with, to maintain flexibility. But that spine could blend almost seamlessly into front and back covers of thick leather, tooled by one of the finest saddlers in the city with a beautiful pattern of flowers, or waves, or racing birds, or whatever exotic theme captures your client’s fancy.”
Tel flipped through the pages of the folio again. Was he overdoing it? Some people appreciated a little drama. Others found it off-putting. Too late to change now.
“Think of leather dyed and finished to your specifications,” he said. “Of the extra weight and depth of the cover, conveying superior quality and longevity…”
“Yes,” the bookmaker said.
Tel paused.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes,” the bookmaker repeated. “I have just such a project. This collaboration sounds like an excellent idea.”
“Well.” Tel quickly gathered himself and tried to remember the terms he had begun to hash out in what had seemed, at the time, like a daydream. “Well. Excellent. Let’s talk details. What is the size of your project? Who is it for?”
For ten minutes Tel and the bookmaker discussed specifications, types of leather, the size of the text block, the extra material that must be added to the spine for optimum folding, the lack of finish on the flesh side of the leather to allow better bonding with the adhesives the bookmaker used.
“And the design?” Tel asked. “You said the volume is for a mage. Might I see some of the pages, to advise my father on an appropriate theme?”
“A student in the Magistry,” the bookmaker said, “and no. It is to be a journal. The pages will be blank.”
“Ah. Then you must be my judge of the client. Would he or she prefer intricacy, perhaps a floral pattern? Or something bolder and more geometric? Or perhaps figures of some favorite…”
“I think,” the bookmaker said, “that my client prefers to leave art to the artist. If the design is as beautiful as the waterfall of vines—and if I can say that it is a unique, original piece—that will be sufficient.”
“Say no more.” Tel bowed to hide his excitement. “Such pieces are more difficult and time consuming, but they are my master’s specialty.”
He checked once more over the notes he had scribbled in tiny print on the corner of the sketch page.
“Well,” he said, “I think we have discussed everything except terms.”
“Payment,” said the bookmaker. “I will give you one silver gate for the cover, upon delivery.”
Tel pursed his lips and tried to contain himself. He was not excited beyond all reason at the prospect of an entire silver gate. He was regretful. Slightly affronted, even.
“Sir,” he said. “A single gate will hardly cover material costs. The labor involved in this project is significant. My father would be furious if I took less than three silver gates, and that only if it were paid up front.”
“Out of the question,” the bookmaker said. “Payment after delivery. It is the way I receive my pay, and it is the only way I will do business.”
Tel blinked, then frowned in earnest. He hadn’t expected to get the entire commission up front, but he had been expecting at least a small portion. Even a quarter of the silver gate would be enough to scrape by on for another month, pay off the guild-taxes, and replenish their materials.
But the bookmaker had only balked at the timing of the payment, not at the exorbitant three silver gates Tel had proposed. Interesting.
“We must have enough to cover the costs of materials,” Tel said. “Plus losses from the delays your strict timeline will cause to our other clients. One gate up front would be the minimum…”
“No gates up front,” said the bookmaker. “Not a single tid. I am not haggling. I am stating fact. I will not pay until I have received the work. And you want gold for this? Three silver gates is ridiculous. I will pay two, and that is the most I will offer.”
Three silver gates was equal to one gold gate, and it was ridiculous. Two was also ridiculous, but the bookmaker seemed willing to pay it. The thought of that much money made Tel almost giddy.
Still, delaying the payment until after the work made Tel uneasy. He allowed his frown to deepen and stood silent. For some people, the uncomfortableness of a long silence was enough to make them break, or explain, or give some opening.
The bookmaker was not one of those people.
At last Tel sighed. “My master will be furious,” he repeated, “but I truly believe in this project, and in the mutually beneficial relationship it will lead to. We will accept two silver gates, and we will bear the initial costs on this first venture. But I will need to draw up an agreement, with your seal. A formality, of course, but one I cannot do without in this case.”
The bookmaker did not look pleased, but he waited while Tel withdrew another precious piece of paper from his folio. In a moment he had written the terms and timeline in a smooth hand. The cover was due only a week from today. He had pretended to see the tight schedule as a burden, but in truth it was for the best. They wouldn’t last much longer than a week without some kind of income.
Tel stepped aside so that the bookmaker could read the terms while the ink dried. The wiry man leaned forward, scowling, and then held out his hand for Tel’s pen. Tel cocked an eyebrow, but he handed over the chisel-tipped bamboo and leaned over the old man’s shoulder to see what he had missed.
The bookmaker was adding a line to the end of the agreement, just after the amount to be paid in full upon delivery. He finished quickly—his handwriting was much more beautiful than Tel’s, if a little harder to read—and stepped aside to let Tel see.
Tel read out loud. “Payment will be tendered if the work is deemed to be of satisfactory quality and craftsmanship, at the payer’s full discretion.”
He pursed his lips again and stared at the line. He did not like it. It gave the bookmaker full rights to abandon the deal and refuse payment altogether, which meant that Tel would have to use the last of their material on a project they might never be paid for. He did not want to think about what they would do with no money, no work, and no leather.
But what choice did he have? If he refused this deal, he might be selling the leather back to the tanner anyway. No one had ever complained about the quality of Dad’s work. The bookmaker, though wary, seemed almost as excited about the project as Tel was. Surely the risk was minimal.
“Very well,” Tel said.
The bookmaker went to get his seal. Tel sprinkled sand on the page, corked his ink bottle, and packed up his writing kit. A moment later the agreement was tucked carefully in Tel’s folio and he was bowing his way out. His mind buzzed so loudly with mingled excitement and trepidation that he didn’t notice the darkness until he had ascended the stairs to the street level.
There, in the alley, he froze for a moment, trying to calculate how long he had been with the bookmaker. Then he walked quickly to the alley’s edge where he could get a view west.
The arms of the island cradled the Second Octave in shadow. The sun had sunk behind the rice terraces. The colors of sunset were glowing behind the cliff edges. By the time Tel got home, it would be full dark.
Clutching the folio tight and bracing his writing kit against his hip, Tel abandoned dignity and began to run.
The bookmaker’s shopfront was tiny. An elbow-high counter and a high stool took up three quarters of the room. There were no lamps. Dim light filtered through the barred window above the door. It was weak and tired, dimmed by the slightly overcast sky and baffled by the narrow stairway and alley above. The interior door leading from shopfront to workshop—the door the assistant had disappeared through almost twenty minutes ago—was still closed.
There was a single bookcase behind the counter, locked with a wrought-iron grate and half empty. Some of the books inside had bindings of cloth, while others—the ones that interested Tel—had plain, dark-dyed leather covers. Every one was single-weight sharkskin dyed black and smelling of sturdy quality and practical serviceability. Probably account ledgers for counting houses or bound copies of official documents, all of them waiting to be picked up by those who had commissioned them.
Tel couldn’t criticize plain craftmanship tailored to Merks on the Second Octave. It was obviously working well enough for the bookmaker. But breaking into the market of nobles and mages on the First Octave was something every craftsman dreamed about. For that, the bookmaker needed something special. Something Tel could help him with.
That was the pitch, anyway. Tel took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and reached up for the little bell hanging above the door. If the bookmaker and his assistant had truly forgotten him, the sound of a customer entering would pull them from their distraction. If they were waiting for him to leave, the bell might convince them that he had.
Tel hesitated for a moment, his fingers inches from the dusty brass, and felt an all-too-familiar wave of despair tugging at his ankles. Who was he kidding? The bookmaker obviously wasn’t interested. Or, if he was, he was playing power games. Keeping Tel waiting, trying to set the stage for a better deal, showing how little he needed whatever Tel was selling.
Maybe he should just give up. Go home. It would be dark in an hour, and Dad didn’t like the dark. Besides, Tel hated bargaining and begging. Especially with someone who couldn’t be bothered to show his fellow craftspeople a modicum of respect.
But no. This wasn’t about what Tel liked. Do the hard thing, he reminded himself. Dad was depending on him.
Bracing himself, Tel flicked the bell.
His touch was too soft. The bell barely tinkled. Frustrated by his own timidity, Tel gave the bell a firm slap. This time the bell jangled loudly, bounced sideways, and nearly swung off its hook.
The silence after the brassy clatter was brittle. Dust dislodged by Tel’s blow drifted in the still air. Tel took another slow breath and pasted a patient, expectant smile on his face. The time for waiting was over. When the assistant came out, Tel was going in.
The handle on the inner door turned. The door swung open. Tel turned his patient smile into a grin.
Confidence. Self-assurance.
“Thank you, sir,” Tel said. He strode forward, as if the boy was holding the door open for him rather than standing directly in the path that led to the small hallway and the workshop beyond. The boy automatically sidestepped to avoid a collision. Tel pivoted neatly around him. The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Tel kept talking.
“Thank you so much for granting me a moment of your time. I know you’re both very busy.” He was past the boy now, walking backwards, bowing again. “I think your master will be very pleased with my master’s proposal.”
And then he was past the boy, down the hall, and into the workshop, which was many times larger than the storefront and lit brightly by whale-oil lamps. The bookmaker himself, leaning over a desk in the corner, glanced up at the sound of Tel’s voice. He raised his eyebrows and gave a wan smile.
“Ah, the saddler’s apprentice. Wait a moment. I’ll be just a few minutes more.”
The bookmaker’s resonant baritone surprised Tel. The man’s narrow frame and wispy beard would have paired better with a tremulous whisper.
“Certainly, sir.” Tel ducked his head to hide his annoyance. He felt suddenly certain that the long wait had indeed been intentional, a calculated move, a flexing of the bookmaker’s sense of self-importance.
“I’ll just lay out some things over here while I wait,” he said. “I know you’re a busy man, and my master is expecting me back soon. I won’t waste anyone’s time.”
That was good. Polite, but not obsequious. Carefully—but not too carefully—Tel placed his folio on a low table covered with small vials of glue and skeins of thread. He began to deliberately scoot tools and sheaves of paper. The bookmaker was a craftsman. He would not be able to smugly work while someone moved around his things and upset the delicate balance of his workshop.
“I think that should do it,” the bookmaker said, sliding a flat, dull blade of bone across a stack of pages and almost knocking over his stool in his haste to join Tel at the table. Tel hid a smile as the bookmaker reached around him and took a small bottle from his hand.
“Allow me.”
“Of course.” Tel stepped back and began undoing the binding on his leather folio. The assistant was standing in the hallway with a slightly sour look on his face. The bookmaker dismissed him with a wave, and he stalked back towards the shopfront.
Tel finished unwinding the leather thong on his folio, then laid it carefully on the table, pausing just long enough to let the bookmaker catch a glimpse of the fine tooling on the cover. Then he flipped the folio open as if the work on its front was of no interest compared to what lay within.
In truth, the folio cover was one of the last pieces he and Dad still had in their possession. Once there had been dozens of samples: tooled and dyed leather with floral designs, geometric patterns, and stylized renderings of birds in flight or leaping fish. Once, long ago, Dad himself would have presented the packed folio and pointed proudly at the work he could do.
Now Dad didn’t go anywhere. All the samples were gone, sold as novelties to pay for sacks of cheap rice and loaves of plain bread.
But Tel had made rubbings of each sample before he sold it, carefully using the side of a charcoal stick to transfer the designs onto sheaves of sturdy paper. The paper itself had cost him dearly, but the cost had been necessary. Without samples of some kind, his hope of getting more work for Dad would have gone from slim to nonexistent.
So here he was, showing rubbings instead of tooled leather. He had grown good at covering his shame with an air of brusque competence. Sometimes he apologized for the rubbings, explaining that his father had needed the real samples for another presentation. But that lie always stuck in his throat a little. It made him think of Before.
“I was able to study your work in the front room,” Tel said, leafing slowly through the pages of rubbings, giving the bookmaker time to see the variety of Dad’s work while he spoke. “I am no expert, but to me the volumes appeared very fine. I surmised that you are a man who takes pride in his work, and I knew I had come to the right place.”
“My assistant said you had a proposal,” the bookmaker said. “If you could make it soon, I would very much like to return to my work.”
Tel decided to ignore this comment. The bookmaker was still feigning disinterest, but Tel could sense the man’s fascination. He continued his pitch as if there had been no interruption.
“My father takes a similar pride in his work,” he said. “But precision was not what allowed him to begin selling saddles on the First Octave. He has always said that success is eight tenths hard work and one tenth ingenuity. I am here to speak to you about the latter.”
At least, that was what Dad had used to say. It had been almost ten years now since he had said anything at all.
“And the other tenth?” the bookmaker said, raising an eyebrow. Tel couldn’t tell whether the expression was contempt for Tel’s mathematical error or shrewd recognition of deliberate bait. Either way, he was willing to play along. That seemed like a good sign.
Tel grinned. “The other tenth is luck.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“But luck is fickle, as you know. In these times, it is better to meet her halfway. Which brings me to my proposal.”
Tel stopped absently on a page that showed some of Dad’s most intricate tooling. It was a pattern of intertwining leaves and vines that wove small knots as they wound across the page. The patterns were interesting to look at, but not especially impressive. Until, that was, one realized that the twisting leaves and trailing vines formed the running rivulets and swirling eddies of a waterfall. It usually took ten or fifteen seconds for someone to notice.
“My father is a saddler,” Tel said, turning his back to the folio and leaning against the table. The bookmaker was still looking at the page. Perfect. “In the past, he confined himself to saddles, but in recent times we have begun to diversify. We would like to work with you on our first foray into books.”
“Books.” The bookmaker furrowed his brow, still studying the rubbing in the folio.
“Books. I notice that you bind many of your volumes in single-weight sharkskin, mainly dyed black. An elegant choice, to be sure, but not one that draws attention. As you know, it is becoming more important than ever to make one’s work stand out.”
The bookmaker’s eyes widened—he had seen the waterfall—and Tel suppressed a grin. Looking back over his shoulder at the folio, he pretended to realize what the bookmaker had seen.
“Ah,” he said. “Yes. His work often rewards a closer inspection. I wish you could have seen the original. A rubbing is a poor substitute.”
The bookmaker nodded slowly, then narrowed his eyes and looked up at Tel.
“Your proposal?”
“Of course.” Tel turned back to the folio and quickly flipped to the back, where he had drawn a sketch for this pitch.
“The problem with single-weight leather is, of course, that it takes very little in the way of tooling and embossment. It makes for a serviceable ledger or ship captain’s logbook, but based on my father’s experience with Venerati in the realm of saddle work, we suspect that the average mage or noble looking for a new volume in his collection wants to see something… special. His friends will not come battering down your door to get their own serviceable ledger. But for something unusual, something extraordinary, they might. Do I miss my guess?”
The bookmaker shrugged. Tel continued.
“What I’ve drawn here is a concept. We are proposing a collaboration. My father and I know leather. We know where to source it, how it must be stored and maintained, how it can be manipulated and shaped and conditioned to last longer than the pages it contains. And we know how to tool it, to give it depth, to make it seem alive.”
Tel turned the folio over briefly, tracing the deep patterns Dad had carved into the thick eight-weight porpoise skin of the cover.
“You know the art of making books. From what I hear, you know it better than most.” Tel had heard no such thing, but a little flattery never hurt. “Think, for a moment, of a book of sheet magic commissioned by a master in the Magistry, bound with the finest paper and most skilled illuminations. The spine itself might be of supple single-weight leather like you are accustomed to working with, to maintain flexibility. But that spine could blend almost seamlessly into front and back covers of thick leather, tooled by one of the finest saddlers in the city with a beautiful pattern of flowers, or waves, or racing birds, or whatever exotic theme captures your client’s fancy.”
Tel flipped through the pages of the folio again. Was he overdoing it? Some people appreciated a little drama. Others found it off-putting. Too late to change now.
“Think of leather dyed and finished to your specifications,” he said. “Of the extra weight and depth of the cover, conveying superior quality and longevity…”
“Yes,” the bookmaker said.
Tel paused.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes,” the bookmaker repeated. “I have just such a project. This collaboration sounds like an excellent idea.”
“Well.” Tel quickly gathered himself and tried to remember the terms he had begun to hash out in what had seemed, at the time, like a daydream. “Well. Excellent. Let’s talk details. What is the size of your project? Who is it for?”
For ten minutes Tel and the bookmaker discussed specifications, types of leather, the size of the text block, the extra material that must be added to the spine for optimum folding, the lack of finish on the flesh side of the leather to allow better bonding with the adhesives the bookmaker used.
“And the design?” Tel asked. “You said the volume is for a mage. Might I see some of the pages, to advise my father on an appropriate theme?”
“A student in the Magistry,” the bookmaker said, “and no. It is to be a journal. The pages will be blank.”
“Ah. Then you must be my judge of the client. Would he or she prefer intricacy, perhaps a floral pattern? Or something bolder and more geometric? Or perhaps figures of some favorite…”
“I think,” the bookmaker said, “that my client prefers to leave art to the artist. If the design is as beautiful as the waterfall of vines—and if I can say that it is a unique, original piece—that will be sufficient.”
“Say no more.” Tel bowed to hide his excitement. “Such pieces are more difficult and time consuming, but they are my master’s specialty.”
He checked once more over the notes he had scribbled in tiny print on the corner of the sketch page.
“Well,” he said, “I think we have discussed everything except terms.”
“Payment,” said the bookmaker. “I will give you one silver gate for the cover, upon delivery.”
Tel pursed his lips and tried to contain himself. He was not excited beyond all reason at the prospect of an entire silver gate. He was regretful. Slightly affronted, even.
“Sir,” he said. “A single gate will hardly cover material costs. The labor involved in this project is significant. My father would be furious if I took less than three silver gates, and that only if it were paid up front.”
“Out of the question,” the bookmaker said. “Payment after delivery. It is the way I receive my pay, and it is the only way I will do business.”
Tel blinked, then frowned in earnest. He hadn’t expected to get the entire commission up front, but he had been expecting at least a small portion. Even a quarter of the silver gate would be enough to scrape by on for another month, pay off the guild-taxes, and replenish their materials.
But the bookmaker had only balked at the timing of the payment, not at the exorbitant three silver gates Tel had proposed. Interesting.
“We must have enough to cover the costs of materials,” Tel said. “Plus losses from the delays your strict timeline will cause to our other clients. One gate up front would be the minimum…”
“No gates up front,” said the bookmaker. “Not a single tid. I am not haggling. I am stating fact. I will not pay until I have received the work. And you want gold for this? Three silver gates is ridiculous. I will pay two, and that is the most I will offer.”
Three silver gates was equal to one gold gate, and it was ridiculous. Two was also ridiculous, but the bookmaker seemed willing to pay it. The thought of that much money made Tel almost giddy.
Still, delaying the payment until after the work made Tel uneasy. He allowed his frown to deepen and stood silent. For some people, the uncomfortableness of a long silence was enough to make them break, or explain, or give some opening.
The bookmaker was not one of those people.
At last Tel sighed. “My master will be furious,” he repeated, “but I truly believe in this project, and in the mutually beneficial relationship it will lead to. We will accept two silver gates, and we will bear the initial costs on this first venture. But I will need to draw up an agreement, with your seal. A formality, of course, but one I cannot do without in this case.”
The bookmaker did not look pleased, but he waited while Tel withdrew another precious piece of paper from his folio. In a moment he had written the terms and timeline in a smooth hand. The cover was due only a week from today. He had pretended to see the tight schedule as a burden, but in truth it was for the best. They wouldn’t last much longer than a week without some kind of income.
Tel stepped aside so that the bookmaker could read the terms while the ink dried. The wiry man leaned forward, scowling, and then held out his hand for Tel’s pen. Tel cocked an eyebrow, but he handed over the chisel-tipped bamboo and leaned over the old man’s shoulder to see what he had missed.
The bookmaker was adding a line to the end of the agreement, just after the amount to be paid in full upon delivery. He finished quickly—his handwriting was much more beautiful than Tel’s, if a little harder to read—and stepped aside to let Tel see.
Tel read out loud. “Payment will be tendered if the work is deemed to be of satisfactory quality and craftsmanship, at the payer’s full discretion.”
He pursed his lips again and stared at the line. He did not like it. It gave the bookmaker full rights to abandon the deal and refuse payment altogether, which meant that Tel would have to use the last of their material on a project they might never be paid for. He did not want to think about what they would do with no money, no work, and no leather.
But what choice did he have? If he refused this deal, he might be selling the leather back to the tanner anyway. No one had ever complained about the quality of Dad’s work. The bookmaker, though wary, seemed almost as excited about the project as Tel was. Surely the risk was minimal.
“Very well,” Tel said.
The bookmaker went to get his seal. Tel sprinkled sand on the page, corked his ink bottle, and packed up his writing kit. A moment later the agreement was tucked carefully in Tel’s folio and he was bowing his way out. His mind buzzed so loudly with mingled excitement and trepidation that he didn’t notice the darkness until he had ascended the stairs to the street level.
There, in the alley, he froze for a moment, trying to calculate how long he had been with the bookmaker. Then he walked quickly to the alley’s edge where he could get a view west.
The arms of the island cradled the Second Octave in shadow. The sun had sunk behind the rice terraces. The colors of sunset were glowing behind the cliff edges. By the time Tel got home, it would be full dark.
Clutching the folio tight and bracing his writing kit against his hip, Tel abandoned dignity and began to run.