chamber walls. Outside, a few shouts, but no real signs of disorder. Not the freshest air out there, it was true, but nobody would come to any harm. He’d make sure of that. As for this chamber, the next occupant wouldn’t have any trouble settling in. Wystan had already removed his belongings from the desk. But who would wish to use this sorry looking place for anything?
He climbed up onto the roof to find Trevello waiting for him.
“Bassan. You are the last member to cast your vote. Once you’ve finished, you can leave. You’ve got your own treequill? Good. I’ll wait down in the Legator’s office.”
Trevello heaved himself through the opening in the roof. Bassan looked up. They usually wrote on leaves growing from a higher branch. There were a few little steps carved into the tree so that the Session members could reach them. The steps were well worn. In summer, the Albatorium Session opened its doors to the public, encouraging them to observe how the government of Southernwood was run, and there was always a queue to come up here and write a personal message on Great Aspen’s leaves. Each visitor was given a certificate, shaped like an aspen leaf, just as the island was, with the date and their name written on it by one of the scribes sitting at Wystan’s desk—what had been Wystan’s desk, of course.
Bassan took hold of a leaf, and started to write. The leaf glowed green; the name disappeared. Now the tree had all the names, and they would wait until morning for the result. But for him, his work this night was done.
***
The night was nearly gone; soon the sun would rise over Southernwood, and a new day, his day, would come. Bassan did not doubt that Great Aspen would agree with the majority of the Session and choose him as Legator.
He dozed in his chamber. The air was chilly, and he pulled another blanket over him, digging deep into his pillow to lay his head flatter and get some rest before the busy day ahead.
From the corridor came muffled shouts from the guards, bangs from the door of the icehouse and the thud and roll of barrels past the wall behind him. Soon the stairs around the tree trunk would bear the feet of the Albatorium staff, up and down and round and back up again.
He’d walked down those same stairs himself that evening long ago, just after sunset, and met Rath, Zossimo’s newest apprentice.
“Good evening, Rath. Have you seen our Legator? I need to ask him about the work for next week.”
“Zossimo rode to Oakenwood this afternoon,” said Rath. “He dismissed the guard and told me he’d return when the new Session begins. He asked me to tidy his laboratory, and leave the keys inside the door for the guard to lock up later.”
Zossimo trusted this young pup enough to let him into the laboratory alone, did he?
“Very good. So, do you happen to know what work is planned for us?”
“We’re going to check the root bridge in Skeps Wood,” said Rath. “It’s grown wild and dangerous with all the rain lately.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t Zossimo tell me before he left? That’s a dirty job, and we’ll need guardsmen to help us. Won’t be easy to organize over the next couple of days, will it?”
“The guard have been told, Master Bassan. I saw them myself earlier. They’ll meet us here to depart at dawn on the first day of Session.”
“I’m glad everything is so well organized, Rath. Then let us go home and rest. This past Session has tired me, and you too, I suppose.”
“Oh, Master Bassan, no, not at all. I’ve learned so much this year already, and I enjoy the work, to be honest with you.” Rath nodded enthusiastically, and continued up the stairs.
Bassan followed him up to the Albatorium entrance.
“Good evening to you, Master Bassan. Rest well!”
“Good evening to you, too, Rath,” said Bassan.
The young man ran down the steps and set off for the Homesteads. Bassan hastened back downstairs, entered the laboratory, and shut the
He climbed up onto the roof to find Trevello waiting for him.
“Bassan. You are the last member to cast your vote. Once you’ve finished, you can leave. You’ve got your own treequill? Good. I’ll wait down in the Legator’s office.”
Trevello heaved himself through the opening in the roof. Bassan looked up. They usually wrote on leaves growing from a higher branch. There were a few little steps carved into the tree so that the Session members could reach them. The steps were well worn. In summer, the Albatorium Session opened its doors to the public, encouraging them to observe how the government of Southernwood was run, and there was always a queue to come up here and write a personal message on Great Aspen’s leaves. Each visitor was given a certificate, shaped like an aspen leaf, just as the island was, with the date and their name written on it by one of the scribes sitting at Wystan’s desk—what had been Wystan’s desk, of course.
Bassan took hold of a leaf, and started to write. The leaf glowed green; the name disappeared. Now the tree had all the names, and they would wait until morning for the result. But for him, his work this night was done.
***
The night was nearly gone; soon the sun would rise over Southernwood, and a new day, his day, would come. Bassan did not doubt that Great Aspen would agree with the majority of the Session and choose him as Legator.
He dozed in his chamber. The air was chilly, and he pulled another blanket over him, digging deep into his pillow to lay his head flatter and get some rest before the busy day ahead.
From the corridor came muffled shouts from the guards, bangs from the door of the icehouse and the thud and roll of barrels past the wall behind him. Soon the stairs around the tree trunk would bear the feet of the Albatorium staff, up and down and round and back up again.
He’d walked down those same stairs himself that evening long ago, just after sunset, and met Rath, Zossimo’s newest apprentice.
“Good evening, Rath. Have you seen our Legator? I need to ask him about the work for next week.”
“Zossimo rode to Oakenwood this afternoon,” said Rath. “He dismissed the guard and told me he’d return when the new Session begins. He asked me to tidy his laboratory, and leave the keys inside the door for the guard to lock up later.”
Zossimo trusted this young pup enough to let him into the laboratory alone, did he?
“Very good. So, do you happen to know what work is planned for us?”
“We’re going to check the root bridge in Skeps Wood,” said Rath. “It’s grown wild and dangerous with all the rain lately.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t Zossimo tell me before he left? That’s a dirty job, and we’ll need guardsmen to help us. Won’t be easy to organize over the next couple of days, will it?”
“The guard have been told, Master Bassan. I saw them myself earlier. They’ll meet us here to depart at dawn on the first day of Session.”
“I’m glad everything is so well organized, Rath. Then let us go home and rest. This past Session has tired me, and you too, I suppose.”
“Oh, Master Bassan, no, not at all. I’ve learned so much this year already, and I enjoy the work, to be honest with you.” Rath nodded enthusiastically, and continued up the stairs.
Bassan followed him up to the Albatorium entrance.
“Good evening to you, Master Bassan. Rest well!”
“Good evening to you, too, Rath,” said Bassan.
The young man ran down the steps and set off for the Homesteads. Bassan hastened back downstairs, entered the laboratory, and shut the
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