Then, the girl went to the bobbin-maker, who was a man who made all sorts of things. Bedposts, but not the beds. Stakes for tents, but not the poles. Even corks for bottles, but not the wine. He was a sad man whose daughter had died in a fire and he did not like young women. "Go to the rock-breaker. He will know someone."
So the girl went to the rock-breaker, who worked long days breaking chunks out of cold greatstones. His skin was tea-stained parchment and his mouth was a parched little bow. His muscles roiled under his skin. He never found ore, but that was not his job, because he was a rock-breaker. "Why you askin' me, kid? Ask the wordsmith back in town."
And finally, she went to the wordsmith, who most everyone had forgotten in Myrkentown because words were not important anymore. She knocked upon his door until her knuckles went numb. He answered, half-drunk, reeking of whiskey and paper. She split almost in half at the waist with a curtsey, and said, "I am Gloria. I heard you are a man of languages. I am looking for a man who knows some words."
"Nobody knows words anymore, Gertrude. Nobody knows nothing about words. I burn books to make my fire blaze."
The girl said, "My name is Gloria, and I am looking for a man who speaks the Jerno tongue. My tongue. I will sew you anything, but I have a very important letter to write. You see? And my hands are like spider-fingers on paper. They are bad with this language. If you do as people I know say you do, then you were once a scholar of Jernoan literature. I will pay you handsomely in sewing if you write to parchment what I dictate in Jernoan." She smiled and was almost resplendent with glee, because that was how Jernos asked for favors.
"You smell like onions. I think that my brain is tired from words I used to write," he said.
"I will pay you handsomely in sewing," she repeated.
"If it will make you go away faster, I will write your letter as you speak it, and you can stop stinking up my compost yard."
So the girl drank tea in his little library. He bent over an old journal, putting ink to paper and occasionally slapping away the silverfish that crawled in and out of the pages. The young seamstress paced back and forth in front of his bureau, the wood for which had been chopped down by the rock-breaker, carved by the bobbin-maker, and engraved by the needle-maker. Her tongue trilled and lilted in the language of Jernoah, and the old professor did his best to keep up, transcribing into Standard the young woman's lofty proclamation.
And that was how the letter came to be, delivered to the Meetinghouse by way of a rock-breaker who had been promised a new pair of socks, though maybe he realized only too late that seamstress did not mean knitter, and that the reward would not be proper compensation for the walk he had made.
An Epistle to the Esteemed Regent Glenn Bernstein,
My Name is Gloria Wynsee. I thought that I might dictate this Decree to you, first to follow up upon our fine Conversation from the other day, in speaking about the Wonders of Tyranny and the Freedom it affords Lowly Peasants, for which I was most grateful. Secondly, it has come to my Attention that there are Matters far above my Head that I would wish to better understand.
If you will peace please: my friend-brother Master C-----, my Student of Thread, a hard-working Millworker, and Fine Young Lad, was recently taken Sick with Arrow, and my Heart has been torn quite to Tiny Pieces by his Pain. Also, my esteemed friend Mister C----, who Many do not like, has been deeply erected affected by this Tragedy perpetrated upon a Young and Healthy Hard-Working Boy.
You See, Miser Messa, this is an Insult to me that such Things have happened at all, and because we see very Eye to Eye on Politics, Reason, and Wit, I wish to make a Request: I have heard through Channels that the Arrow-Shooter of Myrken is currently resting under the Glory of Fine Guards in the Remedial Egg Factory Hospital, and because I am hungry for Knowledge to inquire, as any Good Jerno might inquire, into the Nature of the Badness of Bad Things, I wish to ask for Privy Private Audience with this Criminal, to bring a Plea to her regarding the Harm she has Done to Two Very Dear Friends, that she might levy Apology to them through Myself, a Neutral Party.
Sincerely, your Loyal Subject and Dignified New Associate, and One of Many Commoners Peacefully Digsusted by a Base Criminal,
Signed,
- Menna Gloria (Glour'eya) Winsee, Fair Seamstress, Citizen of Bridlespear, Jernoah, and newly of Myrkentown, roomed quite comfortably in the Broken Dagger, happily awaiting your Response by Visit or Courier