The sisters went back to their people. They embraced Samšin with their wings; they embraced Nahri with their wings; they embraced Imalkit with their wings. They looked around, but they did not see Ektabr. Samšin said, “He remained in the underworld. The price of light was our brother.”
Together they mourned Ektabr. They made offerings to the underworld, and recited prayers, and performed rites, in memory of Ektabr. This was the beginning of such things in the world.
It was a time of many changes. Imalkit had created the shaping of metal, and because of her the people had tools of copper and bronze and iron in the days to come. She made for herself new wings, taking the place of those that had been broken by crawling through the underworld. Nahri had created the cultivation of plants, and because of her the people had wheat and barley and dates in the days to come. She made for herself and Imalkit healing poultices, mending the harm done to them by the fettra that guards the abyss. Samšin had created justice, and because of her the people had laws and punishments and righ teousness in the days to come. She made, not for herself but for all, a [. . .]
All these things began on that day. And they began [. . .]
[. . .] of the wild, beneath the leaves of the trees [. . .]
[. . .]
[. . .] at the heart of the people. In the underworld I passed through a chamber awash [. . .] in the underworld Nahri [. . .] passed by [. . .]
[. . .] Hastu [. . .]
[. . .] lands of the dead [. . .]
[. . .]
[. . .] our mother Peli [. . .]
[. . .] defeated [. . .] of ignorance [. . .]
[. . .] no longer the eyes that may be open [. . .] for who you are, šiknas [. . .]
[. . .]
[. . .]
[. . .] to the Crown of the Abyss with [. . .]
[. . .] people left [. . .]
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
4 Messis
There’s no hope for it; the eleventh tablet is just too badly damaged. We might puzzle out another sign here and there over time, at least to the point of an educated guess, but we’ll never be able to tell what the whole thing says.
(And I keep thinking, “But Cora has such good eyes; maybe she’ll be able to piece together a bit more.” Then I remember that she’s a spy and Gleinleigh is up to something and the only person here I can trust is Kudshayn. I’m not asking her for help.)
We can tell it’s something about Hastu, at least in part; we’ve got his name, and we’ve got that word šiknas again. When I asked Kudshayn what he thought, he said, “This might be the point at which that epithet is bestowed on him.”
To which I objected, “But the text has been using it all along.”
“Yes, but why should that matter? The invocation references the siblings long before they appear; the same might be true for this, especially since it allows the scribe to give Hastu four uses of his name, once alone and then with three epithets. Surrendering precision for the sake of a poetic device is hardly unusual.”
I felt like complaining that it might be poetic, but it was confusing—I think Cora has rubbed off on me. I was not about to tell Kudshayn that, though, because he mopes around being sad that I’m not talking to her anymore. (For someone who has often been on the receiving end of human untrustworthiness, he’s far more willing to forgive her than I am.) Instead I said, “I cannot shake the feeling that this section would explain that epithet. ‘For who you are, šiknas’—doesn’t that sound like they’re naming him somehow?”
Kudshayn only shrugged. “I will look at the next section and see if there is anything of use.”
But there isn’t. It’s clear even from a glance that the text continues on to something else entirely. Unless we stumble into a full repetition on some tablet in another collection, we’re out of luck—and I don’t think that’s likely.
Unless . . . wait.
All these things began on that day. Writing, and metallurgy, and planting crops—and justice. I read something about this, I know I did. The cliff inscription from Ma’ale Tizafim? No, not that; it was a law code, but not what I’m thinking of. A narrative bit, only I can’t remember the details. Why can’t I remember them? Why does my memory have as many holes as that tablet?
later
THE BEGINNING OF JUSTICE!
That was it. A fragment of tablet that told the story of “the first judgment spoken.” And the reason I can’t remember any more details is there weren’t any; the fragment is in the hands of a private collector. (Not Gleinleigh—someone else.) It’s never been properly studied and published, at least not that I remember; just a brief mention of it from somebody—Daniela Isaquez, I think—who was allowed to take a brief look at it. Where was that notice? In Studies in Ancient Jurisprudence no, that letter from Elias Eells. Two years ago, or thereabouts, because it was after I came back from the Broken Sea. Once I write to him—and I’ll take the letter to the post office myself this time, rather than trusting it to Cora to handle—I’ll know who has the fragment. Then we’ll find out which is stronger: Gleinleigh’s desire to control this information, or his desire to have the whole story of these tablets published. (I do still believe he wants them published, even if I don’t quite understand why.)
Good God, it’s three in the morning. I can’t do anything about this right now; I should try to go back to sleep. It isn’t quite worth waking Kudshayn over.
From: Marcus Fitzarthur, Lord Gleinleigh
To: Audrey Camherst
6 Messis
8 Wenbury Square, Falchester
Dear Miss Camherst,
Even an amateur like myself could see that some of my tablets were badly damaged; I had no particular hope of you being able to read much out of them, and do not blame you for your failure to do so. The fault lies with the man I hired to conserve them, who clearly made some sort of error with that one, as it was not in so bad a state when I found it.
But I confess I am not quite sure I follow what you mean about this fragmentary tablet in Mr. Lepperton’s collection: you are not claiming he somehow has the flakes that were knocked off the surface of this tablet, nor that he has a fragment from a copy of the same text, but rather that this is something entirely separate? And yet you believe it will shed light on my own tablets. In the same manner, perhaps, as studying the libretto of Eiskönigin would shed light on its source text, the Winterlied —would you say that is a fair comparison?
If so, then this is a most unexpected development. Some of my delay in responding is because I met with Mr. Lepperton and offered him a substantial sum for his tablet, but I’m afraid the man bears me a grudge due to a bidding war over some statuary a few years back, and he turned me down flat. (In hindsight, it might have been wiser to have Dr. Cavall at the Tomphries approach him on your behalf.) I am not at all certain you will have any better luck, but I must concede that it would be advantageous to have at least a guess at what the damaged text says before the whole translation is published.
That having been said, it is absurd for you to claim no forward progress can occur until this has been resolved. You have the rest of the tablets; surely they are enough to keep you occupied for quite some time. But I am sensible of your point that Mr. Lepperton is known to travel to Eiverheim in the summertime, and may not be available before long, so I suggest a compromise: you may come to Falchester and attempt to persuade him to grant you access to the tablet, while Kudshayn continues working at Stokesley. That way the translation does not halt entirely while you attempt to patch this hole.