Reamde

During the last three months of Devin’s tenure, he had been almost disturbingly productive, leading to an email thread at Corporation 9592 (subject: “Devin Skraelin is an Edgar Allan Poe character”) spattered with links to websites about the psychiatric condition known as graphomania. This had led to a new piece of jargon: Canon Lag, in which the employees responsible for cross-checking Devin’s work and incorporating it into the Canon had been unable to keep pace with his output. According to one somewhat paranoid strain of thought, this had been a deliberate strategy on Devin’s part. Certainly it was the case that, as of this dinner, the only person who had the entire world in his head was Devin, since he had delivered a thousand pages of new material at one o’clock this morning, emailing it from his room in the North Tower of the Schloss, and no one had had time to do more than scan it. So he had everyone else at something of a disadvantage.

Talk of the Schloss led naturally to a conversation about Don Donald’s castle on the Isle of Man, which had also been the target of heavy renovation work. In that, Richard perceived an opening and made a gambit. “Is that where you anticipate doing most of the T’Rain work?”

Silence. Richard had probably crossed a boundary, or something, by mentioning “work.” He had found that barreling on ahead was better than apologizing. “Do you have a study there—a suitable place to write?”

“Most suitable!” the professor exclaimed. He went on to describe a certain room in a turret, “with prospects, on a fair day, west to Donaghadee and north to Cairngaan,” both of which he pronounced so authentically that visible frissons of pleasure radiated down the table. It had been fixed up, he said, in a manner that made it “both authentic and habitable, no easy balance to strike,” and it awaited his return.

“Devin’s given you a lot to work with,” said Geraldine Levy, who was the mistress of the Canon, seated down the table from Pluto. “I can’t help but wonder if there is any particular part of the story of T’Rain that you’d like to hone in on first.”

“Home in,” Cameron corrected her, after an awkward few seconds trying to make sense of it. “The question is perfectly reasonable. My answer must be indirect. My method of working, as you may know, is to compose the first draft in the language actually spoken by the characters. Only when this is finished do I begin the work of translating it into English.” Like a tank rotating its turret, he swung around to aim at Devin. “My collaborator, quite naturally, prefers a more … efficient and direct method.”

“I am in awe of what you do with all the languages and everything,” Devin said. “You’re right. I just … wing it.”

“So your world,” said D-squared, continuing the pivot until he was aimed at Richard, “has no languages at the moment. You are more fascinated by geology”—he nodded Pluto’s way—“and consider that to be fundamental. I would have started rather with words and language and constructed all upon that foundation.”

“You have a free hand in the matter now, Doctor Cameron,” Richard pointed out.

“Almost free. For there have been some”—Cameron turned his eyes back toward Devin—”coinages. I see words in Mr. Skraelin’s work that do not appear in English dictionaries. The very word T’Rain, of course. Then the names of the races: K’Shetriae. D’uinn. These I can work with—can incorporate into fictional languages whose grammar and lexicons I shall be happy to draw up and share with—Miss—Levy.” A hesitation before the “Miss” as he checked her left ring finger and found it vacant.

Miss Levy was only a “Miss” because lesbians couldn’t get married in the state of Washington, but she was willing to let it slide. “That would be huge for us,” she said. “That part of the Canon is just a gaping void right now.”

“Happy to be of service. Some questions, though.”

“Yes?”

“K’Shetriae. The name of the elven race. Strangely reminiscent of Kshatriya, is it not?”

Everyone at this end of the table drew a blank except for Nolan. Halfway down the table, though, Premjith Lal, who headed one of their Weird Stuff departments, had pricked up his ears.

“Yes!” Nolan exclaimed, nodding and smiling. “Now that you mention it—very similar.”

“Mind explaining it?” Richard asked.

“Premjith!” Nolan called out. “Are you Kshatriya?”

Premjith nodded. He was too far away to talk. He reached up with both hands, grabbed his ears, and pulled them up, making them pointy and elven.

“It is a Hindu caste,” Nolan explained. “The warrior caste.”

“One cannot help wondering if the person who coined that name might have heard the word ‘Kshatriya’ in some other context and later, when groping for an exotic-sounding sequence of phonemes, pulled it back up, as it were, from memory, thinking that it was an original idea.”