On the Oceans of Eternity

It was chilly and rainy outside, rather than actually cold; but the interior of Rivendell's main hall was warm and brilliantly lit. Part of that was excellent lanterns; much of it was a half dozen wrought-iron candelabra hanging by hand-forged chains from the rafters. Those were elaborately carved, in varying styles; the walls were done with murals that Barbara Martins probably thought were Tolkienesque, but actually owed a good deal more to Disney.

Tacky beyond words, Ian Arnstein thought, taking a pull at the mulled wine. Especially the big eyes.

The ironwork wasn't, though. Not the candelabra, done in the shape of phoenixlike birds holding the candles in their beaks, nor the elaborate curvilinear dragons whose claws clamped the roaring pine logs of the hearths on either side. Floridly romantic, yes, but it had the integrity of a craftsman who worked with a skill that let him precisely realize in the real world the vision he saw alone with himself.

You took Martins a good deal more seriously, after you'd seen his work, or seen him work. That seemed to apply to his second, unauthorized occupation as well.

A roar went up from the dozen or so adults sitting down the long table as the food came in-several turkeys bred up from imports via Tartessos, and a small roast pig, with mounds of bread and vegetables on the side. The strong good smell spilled into the hall, mixing with the resin scent of the burning wood and an undertone of damp dog and wool and silt from the tumbling stream outside. A fresh warm scent of evergreen underlay it, from the big fifteen-foot fir standing amid a pile of presents in one corner.

All of the men here had the startling muscle definition that Martins showed; it went with the trade. All were younger as well, several much bulkier, but he didn't think any of them was much stronger. An equal number of women sat among them, and a round dozen children of toddler age and above tumbled about on the flagstone floor amid the dogs. Martins had his son on his lap and a daughter beside him in the big chair at the head of the table; he and his wife seemed to have adopted a good many more-a good many even by Nantucket's post-Event standard-and his followers were breeding enthusiastically as well.

"Yeah, man," he said quietly to Arnstein. "Came in about an hour ago-didn't want to mention it, while, like, you-know-who was here. Don't want to tempt him to pile up any more bad karma, you know? Figure he's used to you staying over on visits by now."

Arnstein fought down trembling eagerness while he ate, the food sitting leaden on his stomach.

"Hey, you dudes gotta remember to eat your vegetables," Martins went on earnestly, looking down-table at his followers. "Natural fibers're essential to, like, cleaning out your impurities. Too bad we ain't got any brown rice."

The journeymen and apprentices looked a little bewildered. Vegetables were poverty foods here; the great nobles ate meat and some bread and fruit, and success was defined by how closely you could imitate them. They obediently shoveled down steamed cauliflower and broccoli with cheese sauce nonetheless.

If he suggested they paint themselves blue, they'd probably do that too, Ian thought whimsically. It was interesting to speculate on what the blacksmith subculture was going to be like here in a generation or two.

He managed to make himself wait until the ice cream was carried in-even then he couldn't resist snagging a bowl-and headed up the stairs. His anticipation was enough to overcome his usual revulsion at the long-bearded carved dwarves who upbore the balustrade. In his room he turned up the lanterns on the working table and took up the leather satchel tossed carelessly on the quilt-hidden in plain sight.

The heavy coarse paper of the envelope crackled around his fingers as he broke the seals. Within was a sheet written in a hand he recognized; for a moment he simply sat with the letter in his hand. Then he set it down and read:

"King's pawn to…"

He smiled. Now, there's a cipher. A substitution code, based on their favorite responses to the listed chess moves. Cryptographers back up in the twentieth could probably break it fairly easily, with their supercomputers and staffs of experts. Walker-or even Mittler? I don't think so.

Further inside the packet was another, and he lifted out the infinitely precious treasure; not forgetting to put his ice-cream bowl on the other side of the room and wash and carefully dry his hands first with the jug-basin-towel set provided.

"Oh, excellent," he said softly.

The watermark was perfect; mainly because it was Great Achaea's royal watermark, and that of the Temple of the Threefold Hekate. The handwriting was near-perfect, too; Walker's smooth hand with the little extra pressure on the "t," a very occasional splotch where too much pressure was applied.

Got a bit of buried anger there, Walker-me-lad, bubbling under that smooth exterior. And Alice Hong's. Slants backward. Ooooh, look at those spiky i's and the little horns on the w's. Classic. Got some unassimilated trauma lurking around there, don't you, you monstrous little bitch?

"Well, come on now, Ian," he said. Now I'm cha