Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  What was it that allowed him to see the shadow of seawater in one, and the headiness of the twilight sky in the other? Both were but gradations of gray, resident somewhere between those two nonexisting absolutes, white and black.

  And why was it that sunlight, as it fell upon the polished surfaces, appeared to quiver, or do something that his vocabulary had no means of explaining, to fragment suddenly before it dissipated like a memory into the various depths of each stone?

  The more he watched this, the more varied nuances Gilimas saw in the interplay of jewel and light. Flat surfaces reacted differently than spherical to the caress of light. The former sent sunrays bouncing off, and then that mysterious “dissolution” took place as the light broke. The latter appeared to absorb the light into itself, somewhere deep within the sphere’s core, hoarding it to richness like some summer fruit bloating itself with sunlight and hence growth. . . .

  Gilimas had long ceased to ponder the value of each stone as he had been originally taught: The absolute value of precious jewels and metals is arrived at, in equal measure, by the purity or faultlessness of the native material, makeup, and by the illusion of light that it creates on the object’s worked surface.

  There was a hint of truth in that formula, knew Gilimas, who now did not need to know the value of his precious stones, for he already had more than enough to make him one of the richest men in Tronaelend-Lis. Indeed, it was not value that he sought.

  Rather, an elusive dancing mystery.

  That mystery, he knew, was partly expressed by the idea of illusion. And partly, it lay in the play of light.

  And thus he would stare for hours, being rich in time also, and sometimes, just sometimes, he could almost glimpse it, that infinitesimal difference in sparkle that made one stone an emerald and the other a diamond.

  And still the nature of that difference remained unfathomed, a dimension into another place of the mind unbreached. Something, he knew, was incomplete in such a perusal.

  Gilimas Prada—not just a merchant, but the richest of the rich—remained thus indefinitely a poor man.

  * * *

  They were at the Gates. Elasand rode forward to speak to the guards, and paid, with his usual disdain, the minor toll. The pikes were uncrossed before him, and without the least hassle they were now moving forward slowly, Ranhé leading the nervous but rigidly trained horses ahead. Her own was loyally close behind the carriage. She never doubted him; and yet she had made the precaution of tying the reins to the back of the carriage—here, thieves abounded.

  They had entered the Foreign Quarter, its Fringes.

  Like a flock of squawking birds, voices speaking different tongues blended from everywhere in tonal discord; there were creaking carts and equipages; people of all looks and manners greeted them like wine exploding from an uncorked bottle. Ranhé saw a stone-paved clearing, or square, beyond which were rows of simple houses, and little streets began branching off. The larger Gate-road they were on was swamped with traffic. The area looked ordinary. But these were the poorer Fringes, she knew. The wonders lay ahead.

  “Drive some more, to the right here, see the dark sign of the City House,” said Elas.

  Pheyl Milhas nodded, turning the horses around, while Ranhé handed him the extra reins she held, and ran around easily to mount her horse. They moved out of the main flow of traffic (which was on its way to the great Fringes Thoroughfare) and rode across the square to the large looming building of the City House which dealt with the matters of hire, under the regulation of the Servant Guild.

  The window curtain of the carriage moved, and Lixa’s face peeked out, with animated curiosity. Smiling, she nodded to Elas.

  “Stay here, I’ll return soon,” said Elas, dismounting. “When I return, with another hired driver, both of you’ll be reimbursed for your work.”

  “Fine with me, m’lord,” said Milhas sullenly, but with a bit more animation. He remained seated where he was, holding the reins, while Elas turned away to go.

  There was a hissing in the air.

  Her thoughts moving like quicksilver, recognizing the spinning of the arin sling, Ranhé made no sound, but leapt from her horse and threw herself at her retreating employer. The strong impact sent them both rolling to the cobblestones. And in another instant, on the wall of the City House just before them, quivered a small fist-sized metallic disk. It had eight razor-points, two of which had pierced the solid stone, and had stuck.

  “Gods . . .” breathed Elas, but Ranhé was already on her feet. She had spun about, seeing the shocked well-dressed merchant who had been the actual target of this attack, and then saw the dark retreating figure of a running man, already halfway across the square, dodging the carriages and screaming drivers.

  Almost in amusement she exclaimed, hissing through her teeth, “Damn this City!,” and then sped after the running man.

  Elasand, only slightly shaken by surprise, was up also, and his hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt.

  Within the carriage, Dame Molhveth Beis fainted.

  CHAPTER 7

  Postulate Ten: Rainbow is Inspiration.

  * * *

  Erin Khirmoel woke up one night from yet another instance of a recurring dream of a faraway place with a green sky.

  Green fireworks. . . .

  She lay against the matted covers of cool silk, her flesh misted over by sweat, her heartbeat quicker than normal, and her mind completely awake and trying to recall with hunger the startling intense experience of the dream that had followed her since childhood.

  Green fire. . . .

  Afterward, there were few words she could use to describe it. The nature of the green in that dream was itself something she could not put into words, much less explain how she could possibly visualize a green world.

  When she was a girl of six, Erin remembered having this dream for the first time. She had woken up, so intense, so happily fulfilled, and had told her grandmother:

  “The place was so good! There was a dimly muted warm land. . . . There was a sky, I remember a sky of black, and upon it, millions of fireworks—like those green orbs, Grandmother, but far more splendid, splintered and fragmented into pinpoint chips of broken stars. But no, the sky was not black—it was only rich, so rich in green, in little stars all clustered together, that I thought it was black. It was so rich and comforting, enveloping me from all sides, and I knew I was home, completely safe.

  “And there were crawling sparks going through my arm, and I woke up—”

  After a long while, her grandmother nodded, “Yes, child. You must’ve lain on your arm and cut off the flow of blood.”

  “But no, Grandma! That has nothing to do with it! Just listen! I mean, there was green everywhere! And mostly I saw the sky, and the green was a different kind than the one we see in orbs, it was somehow more real; it didn’t look like it was ‘pasted on’ to things, like the monochromes look. It actually blended! Yes, that’s the word, it blended like it was a part of things, and it was so solid and yet at the same time subdued.”

  “You’ve such a way with words, my girl, so like your uncle Baelinte.”

  The old one smiled, deepening her wrinkles, and Erin knew then, somehow, that Grandmother had not understood even half of what her meager words were meant to express. But she had to go on nevertheless, for her pupils were still dilated, her heartbeat racing, and the vision in her mind—although already receding—had not altogether cooled.

  “And there was more, Grandma, there was also a sun in my dream, and swan-birds flying by—but no, they did not matter, those swans, for I saw them only for a second, they didn’t matter. It was the sun . . . It was green, but different. Like a fireball that was green, and pale, and great, and almost flat, and it rose from the horizon. . . .”

  “Ah, my girl.” The grandmother sighed. “Who knows, maybe it is our creative blood speaking in you now, maybe that is some kind of omen for us to consider. How appropriate for a Khirmoel to have a dream like this, green bei
ng our color. . . . Maybe you ought to mention this marvelous dream of yours to someone who knows of such things, to a priest maybe, or to a mad poet such as your beloved uncle—” The old voice faded out in uncertainty.

  But the last remaining clarity of the dream had receded from Erin then. Receding, it had left a flavor of something that was far away and yet intimate. The flavor stayed with her, long afterwards, and for weeks, when she could no longer even remember the green of her dream, she could somehow yet remember how different it was, how it blended.

  And how far more real it was than any green she had seen in what she knew to be the present reality. For, in occasional blinks of memory, she thought she saw things now that were there before her, in the absolute black of the night outside the window, far beyond the many false flickering lights of city monochromes—now seeming to be only faraway scattered counterfeit jewels of vivid and somehow unpleasant intensity.

  Once—oh, how the monochromes had inspired her once with their garish unreal color! And how they paled into obscenity now, with her present honed perception.

  And sometimes, in the early shadowy silver of chill crisp dawns, as again she glanced outside the fine, latticed window, out to the gardens of the Khirmoel Villa, she would see glimpses of things she had no words for. Rich intimate ghosts of green flickered by her eyelids, as again depths of soul-sick longing and nostalgia swelled in her, only to recede when the first steel-edged sunray dispelled night’s ghosts and ended the dawn.

  Erin never again spoke of this dream to anyone, as she would never speak of her most intimate thoughts. And she never spoke of the things she almost saw in the shadows of day or of night. She merely lived her life, and not even knowing why, waited for the dream to manifest again. And when its haunting presence flooded her that night when she was twenty-seven, for the second time, striking her with a mad hope of something she could not even conceive, kindling her with inspiration, Erin suddenly knew with a certainty that there were more things in this world that she was not aware of, than there were silver leaves on trees. And it made her oddly happy to know that.

  For the boredom and the complacency that had been unconsciously eating away at her were suddenly and completely dispelled. What dispelled them was the affirmation of the existence of that otherworldly green.

  Her life had passed its second stage, and she, the dozing one, was now awake, fully.

  Erin knew that the next time she would experience this dream—for she was now as sure of that as anything—that next time would be the moment that she would act.

  * * *

  Ranhé was fleet-footed, but the man had gotten a head start on her. His pale darting form was about fifty feet in the distance, twisting around vehicles, and headed for a small side street up ahead. Her feet pounding against the cobblestones, she made good time, however, and despite nearly being run over at several points as she dodged wagon traffic, she narrowed the distance between them. She could see his figure better now, an ordinary-looking shabbily dressed vagrant (who however had an excellent way with the arin sling—too good to be just anyone, though not good enough to strike his intended target).

  “Stop that man!” she cried. “Thief!” (Knowing that if she said “murderer,” no one would dare.)

  In a group ahead, several heads turned her way, staring with little comprehension, and she realized, to her great annoyance, that they were foreigners who did not speak the Tongue.

  I am forgetting what district this is. Damn! So easy to lose a man here! No one would even understand.

  She was very close to him now, her breath catching in her throat, so she whipped out the dagger at her belt. People continued staring at her oddly, and at the other racing man-figure. Most moved out of their way.

  Just as the man reached the end of the square, and was about to enter the side street, a huge produce cart rolled slowly out of the street, but only after the man dodged by it, accompanied by the surprised curse of the driver. At least this one’s words were in the Tongue.

  Ranhé wanted to howl in frustration. The cart slowed, then stopped, obstructing her way.

  “Out of my way, son of mkharshak! I am a leper madwoman!” she cried at him, and brandished her dagger. The poor man’s eyes bulged in sudden fear, and he futilely attempted to speed up the cart.

  “Y-you! Don’t touch me!” he cried. “Get away! Get away from my fruit!”

  “I spit on your fruit!” she retorted, quickly edging past him, finding herself within the narrow street.

  Too late. There was no sign of the assassin. The alley had swallowed him. No matter how long she might search now, he could be hiding anywhere here, in any one of these crowded houses, or behind fences, with their millions of winding ways. Breathing heavily, Ranhé stood watching the gray-shadowed street, angry at herself more than anything. She had let the bastard get away.

  Ranhé replaced the dagger at her belt, then quickly made her way back to where they had stopped near the Gates, at the City House.

  And on the way back, she considered it. Yes, this was an unrelated accident. And yet, my lord has enemies. I wonder. . . .

  When she returned, it was, at first glance, as if nothing had happened. Elasand, with a closed expression, was paying off Milhas. Pheyl’s eyes, on the other hand, were still bulging fearfully, and he took his fifty dahr with the quickness of someone who wanted to run and relieve himself around the corner. He managed a crooked smile and a low nod to the aristocrat.

  Elas was gracious in parting. This made Pheyl Milhas smile wider, now that the money was all his. “Thank you, m’lord, thanks very much, ‘twas pleasure working for you.”

  But Elas had already turned away, seeing Ranhé.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was impossible to catch him.”

  He looked at her more closely, more seriously than ever before. She could see it in the way his eyes appeared fully awake, as though he had just seen her for the first time.

  For a moment, he did not speak. Then he said, “I didn’t expect you to catch him. After everything else you’ve done for me.”

  She watched him.

  “Do you realize,” he said, “that you saved my life just now? And that first time, yesterday—you have most probably saved my life also, and had surely saved my aunt and cousin. And earlier today, you’ve performed a service outside your duties.”

  Ranhé glanced away, seeing from the corner of her eye the carriage window curtains parted, and two faces watching them.

  She shrugged.

  “That man was not trying to kill me,” Elas continued, while fingering with disdain the murderous throw-disk. “And he is not associated with Bilhaar. There are no markings on this deadly thing that might give any clue. I just happened to be in his way, and his aim was bad. But—I have several different enemies.”

  “I inferred that much,” said Ranhé.

  He chose to ignore the sarcasm. There was that new earnest look on his face. He continued, “And with so much potential trouble, someone like myself needs particular loyalty. Well, then. You, Ranhéas Ylir, appear more trustworthy than anything I’ve encountered for a long time.”

  “Thank you, my lord. May I use you for references, in case I need to engage in self-adulation before my next employer?”

  She regretted it immediately. This was definitely not her customary polished manner.

  “I am glad I was able to please,” she continued, trying to regain her equilibrium. “But I’ve allowed that trash to escape. Inexcusable. I’ve kept you alive, but I can’t guarantee it for the future.”

  “Now, that’s ridiculous. Nothing can be guaranteed. My good Ranhé, you are a perfectionist,” said Elas, smiling. “Why don’t you relax? Especially that now I’m trying to offer you a more or less permanent employment.”

  Ranhé’s face lost all expression. “I am relaxed, just out of breath from chasing that son of a bitch,” she said. “And I don’t take permanent employment.” She spoke slowly, carefully, pronouncing every word with extra clarit
y.

  “Why?” he taunted, suddenly angry with her in the same animated way in which only moments ago he was expressing gratitude. “Do I distress you somehow? I’ve noticed, yes. Do I frighten you? What exactly is it about me?”

  Her strongest weapon at such instances had always been honesty.

  “In truth, I cannot say,” she replied, glancing away. When she returned to look at him again, she was changed.

  He watched, impassive, waiting.

  “I am,” said Ranhé, “a strange sort. You might not realize it yet, but I’m telling you now, in a way, warning you, not to estimate me in any normal way. I am—a self-proclaimed everything. At the moment, your hired guard. At another, I might be someone else. Anyone. Anything.”

  He watched her.

  “You don’t quite understand, I see,” she continued. “As I said, I don’t take permanent employment. Ever.”

  “Why not?” he said coldly.

  “Because I do as I please. I work to amuse myself. That’s the only stimulus. All is temporary, and I am fickle. I only work for people who amuse or interest me. Or for jobs that involve interesting complications.”

  He smiled. “Then I should be complimented that for a time I managed to amuse you enough, mistress Ylir.”

  “Ah . . .” she said. “Then maybe you’ll understand why I must refuse your offer.”

  “No, actually, I don’t,” he said, interested more than ever.