Raccciman’s World

Chapter One

Allma stared at the polished teak of Master Bectus's door, wondering why the bard had sent for him. Had Bectus finally realized that the piglets in the pantry had been more than an accident? Surely not--no one had mentioned the incident for some time. Allma's gaze slipped downward to the dun and coral floor tiles, and tried to think of some other fault he had committed. Nothing came to mind. He had been on his best behavior for ages, ever since he'd missed Lord Varr's last feast and Master Bectus had threatened to make him stay home from the High-day Festival at Atisva.

There were only twenty-nine more days to High-day, and he hadn't gotten into trouble yet. Unless he was in trouble now. He eyed the door uneasily while he straightened his loincloth, and smoothed his dark curls. Then, taking a deep breath, he knocked sharply.

“Come in, come in!” Bectus sounded impatient, but not particularly cross. Slowly, casually, Allma swung the door open and walked into his master's study.

“You're late!” Bectus snapped. Dark eyes glared at Allma from beneath grizzled brows.

“Many pardons, O beloved master,” Allma replied. “A stranger was standing in the path of this most careless of students. It was only what politeness demanded to help collect his belongings.”

Bectus studied the surface of his writing desk. His fingertips passed over a couple blue and scarlet quills to linger on a folded packet marked with a large broken seal. “I have just received a letter from the King of Ilam.”

Allma eyed the latter curiously and hastily tried to remember his geography lessons. “Ilam?”

“Yes, boy. The Kingdom of Ilam.” Bectus slipped one hand inside his toga and put on his lecturing voice. “It was founded a mere three hundred cycles ago, after the last great war, in what the elves call the Valley of the Morning.

Allma resisted an urge to yawn. He eyed the rug under Bectus's feet. If I pulled hard enough, I could send him and everything else in the room flying. He grinned at the thought of sheets of parchment whirling about he room like storm-stripped leaves. He imagined heavy books thudding to the floor, and his dignified master sprawled in a heap of lute, lute stand and harp, with brightly colored quill pens sprouting from his hair and clothes. It was with great difficulty that he brought his attention back to the lecture.

Master Bectus had pulled his hand out of his toga in order to illustrate his words with a few sweeping gestures. ”The Valley is approximately one hundred and twenty flites in length, and both ends border on the edge of the world. Measuring as the Tamuls do, one flite equaling one day's travel it would take four degrees to traverse the whole, and twenty days to cross it at its widest point.”

Allma's eyes widened. “But that's huge! The King of Ilam must be very powerful!”