Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  The woman continued staring out the window, watching the graceful cloaked noble—for all appearances, a man—smooth out the cloak with bejeweled gloved hands, then head for the storefront entrance. And she softly, negatively shook her head.

  “And not even that,” she said. “That one is not what you think, a eunuch, nor a boy-lover, nor a woman who loves other women. That is neither man nor woman.”

  The little girl’s expression was totally uncomprehending, wide-eyed, while the boy’s brow narrowed in confusion.

  “What do you mean?” he snorted. “Are you trying to kid me, Ma? If it ain’t a man and ain’t a woman, what else’s left?”

  The woman took a deep breath, letting memories rush to her, seeing herself back then, a face in the crowd.

  “I have seen that one once before, long ago,” she said. “That is Carliserall Lirr. They call that one the Phoenix, because of the Gold of Lirr. And Carliserall is neither a man nor a woman. No one knows which that one is.”

  “But—how can that be?” breathed the boy, suddenly innocent as his true age. “Tell us!”

  “I will tell you of Carliserall Lirr, then,” continued the woman. “For that is one mystery in this world that is so well obscured, so hidden, that no one will ever solve it and live to tell about it.

  “No one knows, children, what Carliserall Lirr truly is. One day Carliserall is a man—like today. And as you can see, Carliserall makes a fine man, for all appearances. Truly, you would never doubt it, unless you know.”

  “Know what?” exclaimed the boy.

  “Hush, wait. Carliserall, they say, on the day that it chooses to appear as a man, does so. He then is even known to love a woman properly. . . . Now, on other days, they say, Carliserall chooses to appear as a woman, dressing like one, styling the hair in a feminine manner, even wearing a revealing décolleté which shows a woman’s breast—”

  “Then it’s gotta be a woman!” cried the boy. “No man I heard of can pretend that!” And he laughed crudely.

  “Wait, listen! On the days when Carliserall is a woman, she flirts and makes love to men. And yet, I’ve heard, when Carliserall is a man, he had once loved a woman, and a result, the woman had borne a baby son!”

  “From some other real man, no doubt!” said the boy. “Nah, I still don’t believe this. It’s gotta be a woman!”

  His mother tiredly shook her head. “I’ll not argue with you, think what you will, boy. But I’ll just tell you that according to folks who’re a hundred times better ‘n smarter than us, folks who’d tried to find out in many ways, even men and women who’d claimed to have bodily loved this Carliserall Lirr—they all say different things! And you know what? They all swear to have real proof!”

  In the meantime, angry voices arose from the street below. Another carriage—this one dark and unmarked—stopped before the storefront. Liveried servants of the House Lirr who attended Carliserall’s carriage with an attitude of bored insolence started an altercation with the attendants of the other equipage. Supposedly, it was blocking their path.

  The others, in turn, began yelling that it was Lirr that blocked their path. And besides, the Lirr carriage wasn’t going anywhere at the moment while the high and mighty lord was inside the building.

  “Who’s your master anyway?” cried one of the attendants of the other carriage. “Is he man enough to hold back his own, to give you what’s best deserved, a good whippin’?”

  “Our master, Carliserall Lirr, knows what’s best to be done with rabid scum like you.”

  “Oh, it’s the Phoenix, is it? You mean mistress, then! Well, we don’t want to disturb any ladies now! So very sorry!”

  The servants of Lirr were by now well used to such taunts. Their answer was cool, bored, impeccable:

  “Our master Carliserall, who is man today, will deal with you shortly. And now, out of our way, begone, scum!”

  Exaggerated neighing laughter came from the servants of the unmarked carriage. “O-o-o-oh! O-o-o-oh! We’re so scared!” they cried, cringing in mock terror, and gesturing phallic obscenities at Lirr.

  In that instant, the tall figure of Carliserall strode quickly from the building.

  “Here it comes!” cried someone, “Here it comes, the Phoenix whore!” And they waited to see what Carliserall would answer.

  Three stories above, the three who watched also waited.

  Carliserall, tall, cloaked, with hair that was magnificent, metallic-fire in the gray sun, and elfin beautiful features, paused only for a moment before ascending the carriage. Carliserall’s eyes stopped to rest on the one whose insult was heard last. Such pale lodestones, those eyes. . . . And on the lips, a flicker of a smile.

  Never once did Carliserall blink. And the footman averted his gaze first. The man had to look away, because to meet the honest intensity of those clear eyes took far more manliness than he could muster.

  Well? those eyes seemed to speak. Now that I look at you, now what?

  And as the footman pondered that wordless question that he thought he saw there, that radiant look, Carliserall—lithe and strong as a leopard—was gone inside the carriage.

  Never was anything spoken, not a word.

  The Lirr carriage was moving, was gone.

  The attendants of the unmarked equipage remained silent. They had been moved to silence because it had seemed to them all, as Carliserall had passed, that a sense of justice passed also, a rightness. A charm was now upon them, making them unable to mock, only to let things be.

  In the small window, three floors above, the boy continued to stare, as the mother, knitting, turned away, and the little girl also.

  “How—beautiful that Carliserall was, Ma,” he whispered. “Did you see, Ma, those strange eyes? What a great fine lord—or whatever it was.”

  “Yes,” said the woman with a brief note of sadness, then apathy, “I saw the eyes . . . again.” And she spoke nothing more.

  “I feel sorry for it, Ma!” said the little girl suddenly. “Neither man nor woman—no matter how beautiful, I wouldn’t wanna be like tha’! And I’m scared, Ma! I’m scared of it!”

  But the mother silently continued her task, seemingly forgetting what they had just witnessed. And after a little while, the girl forgot too, and went to play in her grubby corner.

  Only the boy continued to stand at the window and watch. Unlike his sister, he had seen the lodestone eyes of the Phoenix, and like all the rest, would never now forget.

  While far away, in the quickly moving carriage that bore the Crescents of Lirr, Carliserall, sitting alone, also could not forget.

  The same mocking taunts, no matter where. They were the only eternal companions. To these taunts, Carliserall had learned to show the same awful light flickering smile. And always, a direct look.

  Nothing less, nothing more. And because it was so direct, it also appeared ambiguous. No matter what, it will always appear thus to all of these others, they who would never leave Carliserall alone.

  And yet, despite all, Carliserall never pretended, and always offered them the same truth. It might have been the truth of the moment, but it was truth nevertheless.

  Truth of a man, truth of a woman.

  CHAPTER 9

  Postulate Twelve: Rainbow is a State of Mind.

  * * *

  Somewhere in the secret womb of Tronaelend-Lis—not Dirvan, but the womb which rests within the confines of the Light Guild and is sometimes called the Inner City—somewhere existed a large cold chamber of pale grays, dun silvers and flickering shadows. The room was airy and chill, bare of adornment, and ironically, unlit by any sorcerous color monochromes, only by the dying steel sunset.

  Silhouetted against the sunset were three forms, three men of singular power and bearing.

  Present among them was the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild, the infernal Bilhaar. Also within this company of three was a Minister of the Regents. And one of the three was the Guildmaster of the Light Guild himself.

  Two of these were
diplomats of the highest class.

  One was of a class outside diplomacy.

  Two of these hated the Grelias with a dispassionate intensity that would put all of the eloquent Caexis vitriol to shame.

  One of these would stand to love the Regent Grelias despite all odds, unto death.

  And all three were loyal to the City Tronaelend-Lis, and would lay down their lives for it, if they must.

  The three men stood in silence. Two of them were tall, elegant, very much alike in some ways, and yet as different as sun and night.

  The one that was night had exceedingly dark long hair with a pale streak running through it, a silver albino lock on his right side, and opaque eyes, so beautiful and pale that they too could capture in them the sun, like clouded crystal, like ice. His pale wax-fine skin stood in sharp contrast with his raven locks.

  The other man—he whose hair was like the sun, a bright long shocking mane—was tall and well formed like his dark counterpart. He stood motionless, waiting, it appeared, for someone else to respond.

  The third man was shorter and older than the first two, and with a receding hairline. Poised and calm, with a gaze of warm intelligence, he looked from one to the other patiently, for it appeared that a decision was based upon these two agreeing, while he had already finished his argument.

  “It appears,” said Elasand Vaeste, “that I must bring up the idea of the Guilds Council carefully, first with the Regentrix, if I manage, and then with Hestiam. I can rely upon the consistency of her responses more so than his. . . . That way, she will probe his mood, prime him for my Audience of two evenings hence.”

  “Undoubtedly he will never be as receptive as she is to you,” said the man with the sun-hair. He had well-defined eyebrows that were unusually dark for someone so pale-haired, lending him a vivid intensity. However, his eyes were lazy and half-lidded, possibly hiding repressed laughter.

  Elasand watched him blankly, saying nothing.

  “It is settled then,” said the third, older man, almost with relief, and to dispel the tension. “You, my dear Elasand-re, will be the first to bring this up tomorrow, when you see Deileala.” His voice was soothing, pleasant, and yet only a very close observer would note the traces of nervous exhaustion that made his expression more than usually mask-like.

  “You see,” the older man continued, “I find that at this point, I am simply in no position to suggest it myself first. I have worked for months to produce the degree of equilibrium at Dirvan that we are all enjoying. So it’s vital that it must be someone like you, Lord Vaeste, someone who has—shall we say—a ready listener in Deileala.”

  Elasand ignored the older man, watching instead the other with the pale hair. “You still have not acknowledged,” he said to the blond, “that a Bilhaar dozen has been dispatched against me. My lord, I would like to know why.”

  The half-lidded eyes never changed their expression. “You are mistaken,” said the blond man. “There is no logical reason I would want to snuff out your valued life, my Lord Vaeste. Ridiculous, when you are who you are, and so needed. You know that very well. Besides, you and I both know those I send always finish the job.”

  “We also both know that Bilhaar never act on their own. If not you, then is someone else in the Guild giving orders in your name and without your knowledge? Well? Is it Marihke, your right-hand man, or is it Feran the so-called Butcher of the Fringes? Is there a power fracture in the Guild?” Elasand’s eyes were alive with sarcasm and anger.

  “The matter is closed, Elasand-re,” replied the Guildmaster of Bilhaar in the same soft deep voice, never changing the lazy expression of his eyes, never turning away. “I will not make an accounting of the Guild to you. Nor will I continue on the subject.”

  “But you will continue trying to eliminate me.”

  The blond man laughed softly. “Nonsense, Elasand-re. You have grown paranoid like the Grelias. You insult my intelligence. Don’t you realize that if I wanted you dead you would have been dead?”

  “Not unless you are playing a complex game,” said Elasand. “In which case, I will be taunted with ‘failed’ attempts long before the final one is made, so that the ultimate blame will not repose on you.”

  “Ah, the blame, always we are handed the blame,” recited the blond master assassin, turning away with a light smile still on his lips. His profile, silhouetted against the swooning sun, suggested an artist rather than a murderer.

  “My lords,” the older man said in a conciliatory manner. “May we forget differences for the moment and return to the matter at hand?”

  “Fine,” said Elasand. “If you, my Lord Chancellor, will back me, and if the Bilhaar will agree to refrain from anything for the duration of these two days, I may have success with the Grelias. In which case we will all have a chance at the much-needed reorganization of power. I believe it’ll benefit all the Guilds immeasurably, not to mention the rest of the City.”

  “Fine with me, also,” said the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild. “We will do nothing. But only for the two days. If, Vaeste, you do not succeed in convincing the Regent that after a hundred years it is high time to hold an official meeting of the Council of Guilds, I promise we will act in our own way.”

  “Which means—” began the older man gently.

  “Which means war, naturally,” interrupted the blond man, his eyes coming into hard focus. “Guild war, civil war, chaos, and bloody apocalypse. We all know what it would take to wipe the Grelias stagnation off the face of Tronaelend-Lis.”

  “Yes, the beginning of the end. What it would take, according to you, would be hell for the rest of us,” said Elasand darkly.

  “Please, my lords!” began the older man, now despairingly. He looked from one to the other—both proud, both angry, both hating the other, despite their outward equilibrium. “Please,” he continued, looking at the one who was the Guildmaster of Bilhaar. “War is the one thing we must not ever consider! There are always other alternatives—”

  The Guildmaster of Bilhaar directed his look at the older man for the first time. “Sometimes,” he said, “there are no alternatives to war. Even now as we speak—of Guilds and petty internal politics, of restructuring—there is one who comes knocking on our door. ‘Lord Vorn’ you call him—Oh, don’t be afraid, my Lord Chancellor, I know all about that, since I know everything. Well, let me tell you. I have a strange little feeling about this one, this peculiar Lord Vorn of yours. . . .”

  “What do you mean?” said the older man in a wooden voice.

  “I have a feeling,” the blond man said, watching him from underneath heavy-lidded eyes, “that what you are most afraid of in the political sense is about to fall upon our heads. Something quite greater than a meeting between Grelias and the Council of Guilds.”

  Elasand watched him intently.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, of course,” continued the blond man. “I, like all of you, will not benefit from any external interference. I do not welcome a foreign invasion—yes, Lord Chancellor, do not cringe, I’ve pronounced the very words you cannot seem to face, the words that give you nightmares—”

  “A foreign invasion!” exclaimed Elasand. “What in the world?”

  “I’ll explain later,” whispered the Lord Chancellor.

  “And not only will my Guild resent any act of aggression against this City,” went on the master assassin, “but we may be counted upon to negotiate a joining of certain forces—”

  “Enough! What are you talking about?” said Elasand. “Have I been away so long from this wretched City that I do not know?”

  In response, the Lord Chancellor briefly related the incident at the Inner Gates of the Palace. He spoke of the dark twelve, of the strange deaths.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all of this immediately, lord?” said Elasand in a rising voice. “Because it changes everything!”

  “How so?” The Chancellor no longer bothered to hide his worry.

  “It should in no way change your plans for
Deileala and her brother,” said the blond assassin with a smile. “Rather, I think it now makes everything much easier. You need only allow the Guilds Council idea to be swept in with the general momentum of panic in which Hestiam is now wallowing. Terrified as he is now, the Regent will listen to anyone who offers advice. Thus, we will ‘restructure’ and get ready for war at the same time. Quite efficient.”

  “Please,” the Lord Chancellor said. “In the name of everything we hold sacred, we must not think that way! Do not even begin to think of war. Despite what you insist, there are always alternatives, even now. Now, everything is so delicate, at such early stages . . . I can see perfectly beneficial opportunities stemming from this Lord Vorn and his country—things like trade, an injection of new energy, something even more wonderful—”

  “You are deceiving yourself, Chancellor,” said the Guildmaster of Bilhaar. “What kind of a beginning is it when these strangers come uninvited and mysteriously eliminate our Palace guards? How can you possibly trust them at all?”

  “My dear, I am an optimist by virtue of my extensive political experience.”

  “And yet, you are an idiot,” said the blond. “Despite your diplomatic finesse, your years of shrewd excellence, you’ve never had to take significant military steps. Or argue your political cause while being faced by a relentless enemy.”

  “I am afraid in this case my lord is right,” said Elasand. “Lord Chancellor, this new matter is more serious than anything this City ever had to face. In truth, I’ve had an uneasy feeling on my way here, as though somehow I knew a misfortune was about to pass, something dark and sad—a premonition. Of night, of all things. Of twilight.”

  “You realize, by the way, that the Summons from Grelias had been signed and sealed by me and Deileala, and not Hestiam,” said the Lord Chancellor. “The Regent had in fact barely acknowledged my suggestion that it was time Lord Vaeste showed himself at Dirvan after an absence of months. Lately, Hestiam has been immersed more than usual in his dark moods, oblivious to all but himself.”