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After he finds the secret compartment in his writing-kit Cliopher spends a full night taking out all the contents and going over it, inch by inch, for other delights his lord might not have mentioned.
It does occur to him to ask his Radiancy about it. But that would be awkward for several reasons, not least being the fact that Cliopher’s chagrined he never noticed the little compartment before. Maybe his lord didn’t even realize it was hidden, and would only be bemused or annoyed by the inquiry…
No, not annoyed. His Serenity never gets annoyed. But Cliopher would feel foolish either way.
It’s a bit like a challenge – except more frustrating, because he’s not sure there is a challenge, nor anything to find.
This question only lasts until the storm.
Something Cliopher’s neglected to explain to his family is that it takes many, many months to journey between Solaara and the Vangavaye-ve. He generally saves up all of his leave for a decade or two to manage it, and then takes a good six months at a time. It’s about two and half months of travel either way, although he’s confusingly left with five or so weeks to spend with his family, even though you’d expect another year to pass in Solaara during that period -
But Cliopher isn’t supposed to think about time. The priests said it would be fine, anyway, and he’s always come back on the correct dates.
Anyway – it’s during the return ship that they hit a typhoon.
Cliopher usually arranges to sign on as a temporary hand when he makes these journeys. It saves money, it gives him something to do, and most importantly it keeps his skills sharp, even though this isn’t a proper Islander vessel. So he’s on deck every night through the howling winds and the rain, yet he fares much better than the others.
It is not, after all, Cliopher’s first typhoon – or second, or tenth, or possibly hundredth. By the time the storm starts to break they’ve lost one hand to drowning, which Cliopher knows will haunt his sleep.
But there’s a bigger problem; the mast has nearly broke away, and leans at an entirely unhelpful angle full of cracks and splinters. And they don’t have the materials to fix it.
The crew discuss options for a few days, and the other passengers – the half dozen people with no sea-skills – start getting very nervous. It’s a potential disaster in the making.
Cliopher finds himself sitting on the deck one day, contemplating this as they drift uselessly. That was one good thing about having his own ship. Oh, it’s nice to have help, to be able to depend on people – but not everyone is dependable. There’s a certain freedom that comes from living and dying by the work of your own two hands.
Though dying is more of a danger without others, he recognizes.
He finds himself thinking of Saya Ng as he digs through his writing kit. He’s mostly just looking for something to do, and it occurs to him that the kit might be waterproof. He could write some letters to his family, if they’re to die here, and his Radiancy; maybe it would find its way somewhere, like a message in a bottle.
A pity he doesn’t have magic like his Radiancy. He could send out a message and call for help…
Cliopher’s hand closes over something.
He frowns for a moment, not recognizing the object. He pulls it out and stares.
It reminds him faintly of a weapon he once saw on Ysthar – a horrible thing. His Radiancy banned it at once from Zunidh.
But it doesn’t look exactly like those, Cliopher thinks. It could just be a variation; but the nozzle of the instrument is a brilliant orange. It reminds him of some of the emergency kits at the Palace – Ludvic once explained that it helps to make emergency supplies stand out so people can find them even when panicking.
Cliopher hefts the instrument in his hands, finger finding a small trigger.
Farther down the deck one of the passengers loudly harangues the captain. “This is not what we paid for,” she scolds, while he only looks long-suffering. “And what are you doing about it? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!”
Hmm.
Cliopher lifts the instrument toward the sky and squeezes his finger.
All chatter on the ship falls silent as a brilliant hissing spark bursts from the end of the instrument. It makes a phenomenal arc in the air, brilliant in the fading evening sky. A trail of smoke wavers behind as it wails higher and higher, vanishing through the clouds, then slowly drifts down.
Cliopher feels a burst of strange delight as he watches it. What a phenomenal use for fire! He needs to learn how to make one immediately.
“What was that?” the indignant woman demands. But even after the bemused rescue-ship comes to find them, Cliopher doesn’t know.
He certainly didn’t put it in his kit.
“Oh,” says Conju sadly. “Do you know how I long I spent on this? And it’s going to be ruined.”
Conju doesn’t make all his own clothes – or many of them, even. He has a very excellent tailor; Cliopher knows because Conju keeps trying to coax him into using the same one.
But he does enjoy embroidery. And Cliopher knows he spent a long time embroidering these robes, so they’re both dismayed to see the fine threads at the end snarled and tangled in the iron decorations of a fence.
Conju studies it. “Even if I get this out it’ll be ruined,” he says glumly. He tries anyway, and finally shakes his head. Resigned: “Do you have any scissors?”
Cliopher does; he clicks open his writing-kit.
But what he pulls out -
“Oh! Even better,” Conju says, and ignores Cliopher’s bemusement to pluck the little tool away. Cliopher watches for awhile before realizing it’s a seam ripper.
Cliopher does not, in fact, own such a thing.
After a frustrating minute Conju makes a noise of triumph. “Very good! Neat enough I can fix it, I think. You know, I should really keep a nice little set of tools with me; it could always be useful. How practical of you.”
“Ah,” says Cliopher, considering his kit in consternation. “ - You can keep that one, actually.”
Ludvic stares meditatively as Cliopher applies a deliciously honey-and-apple scented ointment to the burn on his arm. He asks, “Do you always carry that around?”
“That is an excellent question," Cliopher muses.
Cliopher eventually decides that there might, maybe, possibly, be a portal in his writing-kit.
He’s not exactly sure how that could work. He knows, of course, that his Radiancy enchanted Cliopher’s kit to be bigger on the inside. It’s not unlike Fitzroy Angursell’s infamous Bag of Unusual Capacity (a comparison that privately delights Cliopher). But even Fitzroy Angursell, people are fairly sure, stocked his bag with bizarre items.
Cliopher has not. Yet he often finds himself pulling out strange, undeniably relevant objects at the times they’re most convenient. And he never knows where they’re from. No one could be putting them there, Cliopher is sure. Some of them beggar belief.
Like what happens at the Council meeting.
“You are becoming more and more impudent, Sayo Mdang,” Prince Rufus berates him. “The government does not need to legislate such minor things – we need to trust our people!” (This is an ironic statement, Cliopher notes, considering just an hour ago Prince Rufus was advocating for harsher penalties against theft) “You are nothing more than a greedy octopus sucking the life from every part of society, one province at a time."
Cliopher dutifully finishes his notations on this ramble, then reaches inside his kit for a fresh piece of paper. His hand, instead, grasps something cold and wet.
Cliopher smiles. He can’t resist.
“You know, octopi don’t even do that. Would you like an example?” And in front of the astonished council he drags a huge, dripping orange example of the species out of his writing-kit. It slides to the floor in its liquid way, blinking up blearily around the assembled royalty. Two long tentacles still cling to his case. Another remains wrapped around Cliopher’s arm. He considers it, and adds, “They don’t suck, I mean; you can see these spots are excellent for clinging though. I am sure you could manage more accurate insults with this knowledge, Prince Rufus?”
(His Radiancy, Cliopher notes, never asks why Cliopher had an octopus in his writing kit.
Which makes him unique among the entire court, unfortunately.)
Though bright, Leona has never been as scholarly as her brother Gaudy. She likes working with her hands, which is fine; it means there’s always a lot of fun activities they can do together when Cliopher visits home.
Cliopher was the one to teach her the first steps in Aōtētana, and how to tie knots and build small lean-tos (though she quickly outstripped him in the last, discovering a love for building). But her favorite hobby is fishing; they always take a little fishing-boat out for a few hours when he visits.
“Ugh,” says Leona pitifully, face buried in the sand. She has one arm twisted around her back, as though to shield it. Cliopher can see angry red welts over her spine, and the tide laps at her feet. “Why.”
“Shouldn’t have jumped after the fish,” says Cousin Bevu as Cliopher drags their boat onto the shore. His tone hovers between concern and amusement.
And it’s true, though a bit rude to say; their boat was plainly next to a small swarm of jellyfish. But Leona spent a long time coaxing that fish closer...
“I didn’t jump after it, I fell,” she blatantly lies.
“Oh, well, as long as it was sheer clumsiness instead of stupidity,” says Bevu cheerily. Leona mutters angrily against the sand. “I’m going to grab some coconuts, Kip,” to help the stings.
It won’t do much, but Cliopher nods; they all know the pain just needs time to fade. Leona’s lucky the jellyfish were a relatively harmless breed.
“Are you sure you want to wait on the beach?” he asks her. “I’m sure Cousin Iola would be happy to lend you her couch for the night.” Cliopher’s pretty sure that’s who owns the house he sees further down the beach.
Leona says “Ugh” again, and then, “it’s fine. I’m just going to die here, I think, so there’s no point moving.”
It occurs to Cliopher to wonder whether his writing-kit might have something useful for this situation.
He eyes it consideringly, then figures it’s worth a shot. Leona sulks while he opens his case. Cliopher turns his head before reaching inside; some experimenting has shown this has the best result.
What Cliopher pulls out does not initially seem unusual; he has plenty of books and pamphlets in his kit. Then he reads the title. His lip twitches.
“Perhaps I could read to you while we wait?” he suggests. Leona makes a vaguely-agreeing sound. “Chapter One: Controlling Our Impulses.”
Leona musters enough strength to kick him.
Cliopher is a little disappointed when he pulls out an odd purple ink during one of the Helma Council meetings. Most magically-materializing items in his kit are flashier, and more intriguing. But he shrugs; the kit is always useful. He takes notes with it, and splotches of purple ink inevitably come to stain the sides of his hands.
Later that day Ser Rhodin pulls Cliopher aside with some urgency, and he’s dragged to the Medical Wing. The doctor tells him, “You were affected by a contact-poison, but you clearly took an antidote. Also topical, based on what my magic picks up… how did you know? Where did you acquire it?"
- Ah. Well, at least he still has a sample.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Bertie complains, rolling his shoulders. “You know what? I need cushions.”
Cliopher snorts a little, glancing around the worn and very plain boat. “Really?”
Bertie wags a finger. “We don’t all sit in chairs every day – yes, I know, but it’s different,” he adds, as Cliopher rather pointedly looks Bertie up and down in his fishing-chair. “I really need to get a proper boat. Something nice, for longer trips…”
Cliopher hums.
Bertie’s been idly fishing all morning, but Cliopher has his writing-kit out. A few missives came by the Lights yesterday, and he wants to get his answers sent by nightfall. He reaches inside and pulls out -
A cushion.
“Oh – here,” says Cliopher, bemused.
He hands it to Bertie, who double-takes. “What? Where did you – do you just carry a random cushion all the time, in that great big box of yours?”
“Er – apparently,” Cliopher confesses.
Bertie holds it above his head, as though to see better. “This is silk.”
“...Yes.”
“With little unicorns and sheep,” continues Bertie, ever more dubious. Which is when Cliopher pulls out another cushion. This one’s covered with glittering gems arranged into rainbows.
They both stare. The gems are probably fake, Cliopher reasons.
Probably.
“Kip?” Bertie asks, baffled. Cliopher looks at Bertie, equally confused, and reaches into his kit again.
He brings out a long, lovely cylinder-shaped cushion with adorable green frogs embroidered all over. Beautiful peacocks merge in dizzying patterns on the next pillow. After that comes a huge monstrosity of a thing covered in wispy threads, blindingly white like a cloud.
Last is a circular cushion that is, disturbingly, bound in Imperial Yellow Silk. Cliopher and Bertie both contemplate this one a moment. Cliopher stuffs it back into his writing-kit, which accepts the intrusion without any issue.
“You’ve gotten a bit weird in the city, Kip,” says Bertie eventually. But it turns out the unicorn pillow is just the right size to support his shoulders, and he doesn’t complain.
Cliopher adapts.
It’s not like he minds having a writing-kit filled with magic and foresight and secrets. He frequently thinks about asking his Radiancy to explain how, exactly, it was enchanted. He does not. Some part of him wants to solve the riddle himself; some part of him doesn’t know how to ask.
Either way, Solaara soon comes to accept that Cliopher Sayo Mdang is simply prepared for every conceivable situation. There are worse reputations, he supposes.
But there’s one problem Cliopher can’t solve.
Cliopher knows his lord has never been, well. Happy. Not really.
Most people wouldn’t be surprised by this; the Sun-on-Earth is not supposed to be happy. Or to have human emotions at all.
Except he does. And Cliopher knows his lord well; he knows his Radiancy is getting slower, tired. He can tell the Lord of Rising Stars is…
Sad. Which is blasphemy to even think!
But a lot of things are both illegal and true; that’s why Cliopher has always been so determined to change the way the world works. And he’s done so, though it took many years; but he’s not sure how to bring his Radiancy joy.
Cliopher sits in his quarters thinking of this one night as the midnight bell rings. The problem, he supposes, is that his lord’s never been happy. There’s a great weight on his shoulders, the weight of an entire world. He is locked into this Palace by the taboos. There is no one he can truly call a friend, or confide in; it’s a lonely existence.
The Lord of Rising Stars has a bathing tub the size of a lagoon, the finest clothes in the realms, a bed draped in ahalo cloth. Rosewater perfumes and pillows made of the purest silk and goosefeathers. Any material thing he wants, he could get, and it would be both presumptuous and illegal for Cliopher to present anything more personal.
So how can he make his Radiancy happy?
Cliopher frowns down at the writing-kit on personal desk. Well, it’s never failed him before. He stands, closes his eyes, and sticks his hand in.
Cliopher gropes around with increasing despair. Nothing but paper, inkwells, pens – surely there must be something! Or perhaps even this strange and magical bag cannot find a solution for his Radiancy’s depression… it would make sense. It’s made of his Radiancy’s own power, after all, and the key to joy is a riddle that the Lord of Rising Stars has not yet solved.
But then Cliopher grabs something. It’s soft and wispy.
Cliopher tightens his fingers before it can fall away; this evokes faint sound of protest. Heart pounding, he pulls, and pulls, and -
What’s under his fingers isn’t heavy. It’s about as weighty as a bird.
It’s a man.
And he’s blue.
“Oh!” cries the figure that is, undeniably, Faleron the Blue. He sits sprawled happily on Cliopher’s floor, not seeming to mind the hand still clenched dumbly over his hair. His skin glimmers like the feathers of a kingfisher. “Why, I was just thinking how bored I was, and how much I wanted adventure, and here you have plucked me right out of Faerie - “
Oh, gods, thinks Cliopher. Does his writing-kit connect to the Faerie Realms??
“ - and here is one of Fitzroy’s magic bags, too!” cries Faleron, joyful. “So you must be a new friend. His magic is all about you; and very possessive. Oh, I have missed Fitzroy!”
Cliopher is in front of one of the Terrors of Astandalas – one of his personal heroes. And he cannot help but gape like a fool.
He has, apparently, found a solution to his Radiancy’s unhappiness.
And he has so, so many more questions...