Wirt's First Letter to Elvir From The Scriptorium of Master Charles at the Court of Gartenfort being Part the First of ❦ A Day of Quills ❦
This entry continues from the events of the first, Arguments in the Scriptorium
Though the Court had authority to sack Master Enoch, it fell to the other Guildmasters at Elvir's scriptorium to find his replacement. They had no prospects, as the hamlet of Fyeth, despite the quality of its local saltpork and winter ales, was not the sort of place Master Scribes would tarry in if they were not already employed at the Scriptorium. So, until one could be summoned from the Court or perhaps left in a sack at their door by a kindly brigand, Enoch's post was filled by Hebdyn Morlon, the retired quartermaster from the nearest garrison. The remaining Guildmasters had reasoned that if they shared among them the actual scribing Enoch would have done, the remains of his work was that of managing cloisters full of Scribes' comings and goings, their duties and reportings, and their board and discipline, all of which resembled, at a distance on a foggy day, the operations of a provincial garrison. However, in the fourth week after Wirt's departure to the Court, the whole Scriptorium learned of one manner in which the operations of a military unit are an unfit replacement of the operations of a scriptorium. Garrisons, especially in Fyeth, are supplied with preserved meats and produce, so that they may be shifted or set aside with little notice should a battle draw near. In contrast, Scriptoria, notorious for their inability to move out of the way of advancing armies, feed their charges with provisions more recent from the market. Thus, when Acting Guildmaster Hebdyn followed his training and served the same stew at the canteen for ten days in a row, the whole of the Scriptorium of Fyeth, save the Guildmasters who ate in their own private hall, was rendered unproductive for a full two days with blighted bellies and bowels.
Thus it came to be that when Wirt's first letter from Court arrived, Elvir found himself reading it in its entirety while in the privy.
Dear Elvir,
he wrote, in walnut ink, with an embellished initial D,
I have been near a week now in the Royal Scriptorium under the command of Sir Charles himself, yet this is the first moment I have found myself free to pick up my quill for my own purpose. Perhaps you imagine me to be too tired-out by an infernal quantity of scrivening demanded by the Queen herself to think of scratching out a few words to my wretched, forgotten brethren toiling in the script cellars of Fyeth. at the pace of a sleepy bluebelly compared to what we serious scribes do at court. I tell you now you would be a fool to do so. My quill verily thirsts for ink; perhaps this leads me to take the long path to my point, but I fear I shall forget how to write even my own name if I am not soon made to produce some edict of landholding in triplicate some time soon, what with all the talk, endless talk, that fills the hours that, just a fortnight hence, I would have scribed in silence, broken only by your farts, oaths, and complaints. Here they are always a-meeting. Sometimes, yes, to talk of scribing or what has been or is to be scribed, but just as often to speak of such things as a visit from some Duke or Bishop, or the plans of our new cloisters being built, or even to plan the a-meeting we shall make next.
Here Elvir shook his head.
"Wirt," I can hear you mutter, "I shall see you again soon, as you surely will be given the sack for Failure to Produce." Again, though you speak sense, the mysterious ways of the Cart of Gartenfort and its well-fed courtiers have made you the fool. I am beginning to think that the most sackworthy thing I could do here would be to spend all day scribing words upon vellum at my desk in the Scriptorium that sent a full carriage to fetch me from Fyeth for the purpose of scribing, if only that it would confuse our guild keepers, who seem to prefer the stacks of new scrolls be even rather than high. Truth be told, I do not loathe the meeting together as much as you might surmise from my hand, as WIZARDS themselves will often sit among us to talk their trade as if it were the labor of a wheelright or a hide scraper. I have many a time all-ready shown myself to be a marsh goose among swans, but never so much as when I leapt from my chair when the first spell cast from a wand rather than a scroll in my presence was executed, in an instant, leaving the faint smell of gunpowder in the air. So it is not all trifles that we speak of when a-meeting. I have thrice heard discussed amendments to spells so famous you and I could write them in the dark (including your nemesis, Mage Hand), as they are wont to do, as the Scriptorium which first set them to vellum, three score years before you and I pressed our first batch of ink from the sole, miserly Hackberry tree in Lygnythwydd.
Verily, my every day and minute has been so strange and new, though I am among only those who find it all as plain as brown bread, I shall never convey the full picture before I too must grow numb to the wonders around me, but I shall endeavor to tell you tales that capture the peculiar nature of this place. If my work-load is to remain as it is now, I shall be able to set at least one episode to paper every fortnight for you.
The first shall be to explain how I came by the dozen fresh, fine quills which accompany this letter, provided no literate bandits have found this package on its way. My first day had no scribing at all, but rightfully so as it was filled with goings to and fro between offices and cloisters and keeps and filled with introductions to more scriveners and guildkeepers than there are people in all of Fyeth.
I was and am still sleeping in a carriage house given to the Scriptorium for to house its subjects and visitors when they are new, or too many, or at work on something so consuming that they would rather board there than journey home for the few hours they plan to sleep between working hours. (What this work may be remains mysterious to me, but it is certainly not scribing.) Thus I am bunked near three other new scribes, two Wizards obsessed with the new type of scroll Sir Charles works on, and the daughter of a Duke and her three miserable vassals.
Amidst the introductions and signing of documents, I was given leave to prepare my desk before supper (and the suppers are fine here indeed -- and additional to wages!). There is no room but to sleep in the carriage house, so I unpacked all of my supplies to my desk. Though no scribing was to be done until after break-fast the next day, I felt I must, as if to prove to myself that I did in-deed have a desk in a scriptorium at Court. Three fine quills and a jar of fresh hackberries were set for me already, but I of course brought my beloved quill, so I set those aside and left mine in the quill hole beside the empty well. Off I went to supper, where Sir Charles was made to briefly remember who I was before disappearing with a gaggle of Lords and Ladies, after which I slept unburdened by my materials and crushed by exhaustion and strangeness.
I missed the fine breakfast and potential camaraderie of the Scribe's Breakfast to chase yet more documents and signors, and arrived at my desk, gnawing a piece of saltpork I found at the market, after nearly every other scribe had begun work, fearing a rebuke from our guildmaster for tardiness that never came. Finally, I sat down to scribe.
Now, here, I give you leave to imagine the vexation I felt to find, in the place where I left my quill only fresh quills, which I have included with this letter, as you are the only soul who could know the depth of my pain in that moment.
Here Elvir swore an oath which was replied to with a rueful laugh from the next stall over.
Same, I can grant you the oaths upon my name you must be speaking aloud now, for letting out of my reach the quill you have known as long as you have known me. Given how the quill can muster coin but not arguments, you perhaps would be more pleased to have it returned to our old cloister than its owner. I assure you, I uttered similar oaths, but I bit my tongue before my fellow scribes could hear the worst of them.
For you see, another strangeness of this place is that the cloisters are not enclosed. Rather we all work as ants in a single, massive cloister, with simple partitions between us, so that the scratching of so many pens and quills rings louder than the timid conversations attempted in this so called "open-plot" scriptorium. It is said to be done to bring in the greatest amount of light or to air out the enchanted vapors better or some such excuse, but I gather it is done so that Sir Charles and his Guildmasters may strut among the rows of scribes as Dukes do among their peasants in the fields, and see at a glance which of their subjects might not be earning their keep. Just as the Duke's estate looming on the hill is suffice to cause his peasants to believe he is watching, this open-plot office cows these three-score of talented scribes into busy silence. Most stave off madness by wearing hoods enchanted to play, for their ears only, folksongs and the popular musics of the court, one of which I shall get for myself as soon as I receive my first pay, but some love scrivening more than anything else, especially the company of their fellow-scribes, and will work as daemons without comment or complaint, distracted by neither hoods nor ale, avoiding all a-meetings save those that are required under threat of sacking. These scribes I both fear and admire.
Once I had mastered my tongue, I hailed my neighbor, Scribe Neb. When she took down her hood, I saw she was as bald as a monk, with fine tattooing around the crown of her head in a script I have not seen heretorfore or hence, but have not yet had leave to ask about. She held me in a steady gaze until I remembered it was I who had called this standing-up-a-meeting.
"Good day, Scribe..."
"Neb."
"Good day, Scribe Neb, I am Scribe Wirt."
"I know," she said, and indicated my name-plate, truly the only thing giving me to claim as mine my small part of the continuous desk, like a table in a tavern, at which she and a dozen other scribes sat, now that my dear quill had gone.
"Ah, yes... I am newly arrived. I left my quill here yester, and was assured it would be sound to do so. But it has gone, and I have new quills. Did you perchance see where it went?"
"Servents replace all the quills and wash your nibs at night."
"But surely the quills are still good for many-days work?" I tried not to add "with how little you scribe in a day here."
Neb shrugged. "Maybe in Fynerth or wherever you're from. Fresh quills every day at Court."
"What is done with the old ones?"
"In the midden, I suppose. Or burned in the kitchens," said she, and I felt a prickle on my neck and a hotness in my throat.
"Ah, I see. My quill...well, my quill is not a common quill, and I would much like it back."
To this her eyes went wide and I saw something like a smile on her face, but the smile of a cat having found a particularly slow and stupid mouse. "Egads, leaning on enchantments in your first week? Tis almost... impressive."
I stammered in reply, and what followed was an exchange so tedious and embarassing I will not waste the ink for it, the result of which I was made to understand that another ambitious Master Scribe, in the Court of Gymldmyrrd, has begun selling quills which are enchanted to hold the memory of many a scribe's hand, and shall do much of the letterwork for you. These have become popular among apprentices, but working Scribes as ourselves find them more work than help, as they know strokes but not letters and surely not words, so the fight to keep them in order is oft more tiring than writing with a plain quill. The Queen's disgust for King Gymldmyrrd, and the tendency for these quills to repeat the most plain of strokes at all times has also put them out of favor in our lands, and a rumor abounds that if you use one enough you will see young scribes writing in your style next you go a-broad, as they seem to read as well as they write. Never-the-less, Neb tells, many Scribes by trade have begun using them "to meet dead-lines when there is too much scribing for one hand." I am as much interested to see these times of "too much scribing" as I am to see one of these enchanted quills. This I did not say, as my base ignorance of near everything Neb said in this conversation was amusing to her enough that we may become friends, and she sketched for me a route through the castle where I might find the midden-minders, which I have included here so that you may see her free-hand work, which includes letterforms novel and pleasing to me.
Elvir regarded the inclusion, which garnered some respect indeed. He should like to know more of this Neb.
"Thank you, Scribe Neb. When are we permitted leave next?"
She laughed. "This isn't a Fnythian dungeon. Come and go when you must as long as your in-box is empty at the end of the day and your out-box is full."
I spied two pamphlets in my in-box, and, misunderstanding her still, set down to copy them as quickly as I might without writing so hastily as to bring shame upon whatever reputation Scribes from Fneyth might retain.
When I finished, I looked up to see that my other neighbor-scribe, a ruddy fellow named Gabriel, had arrived while I worked, but had not yet started work, as he and Neb were staring a-gog at me in my fugue of scribbling. "Good day, Scribe... Gabriel," I said, as I reached to put my copies in the out-box so that I may go search out my dear quill. Neb stopped me with her hand over the box.
"Stay, stay good fellow. You send two of these to the initial-painter before lunch and they will be here past supper. Keep one aside until, say, an hour afore supper, and it shall safely be received by them to-morrow."
"What if a next document shall arrive while I seek my quill?"
At this, both Neb and Gabriel laughed. "Such a commotion of documents would first have to be justified by at least two a-meetings, and there is no time for those before lunch, so you are safe to go on your journey, dear Wirt," Neb explained.
And thus, having writ barely half-a-foot of ink twice for the day, I did leave my desk with as much haste as I could without giving cause for a-meeting. Gabriel, a friendly man, called out "Nice work, Scribe Wirt," as I fled out the door.
Here Elvir could read no more, for dehydration and crossed eyes, and collected himself to trudge back to his desk to pretend to work until he was dismissed or forgotten for the day, and vowed to read the remaining half of Wirt's letter when he was restored, or as a ghost should he be vanquished by the bad stew.