Sebastian gestured at the three pillars behind them, which stood in for any number of settings, from palaces to graveyards. "To this day students of history call such visual deceits ‘Amalric gambits.' But although our own Stavian—long may he reign—does not mislead us so, there are always unscrupulous nobles with similar tricks. Not all Amalric gambits deceive the eye. Some are carefully placed rumors. Some are parades, with paupers paid to become admiring crowds. Some are tales of a noble's grudging charity, dressed up to appear like an epic of generosity. Sometimes lies look fine and grand, while truth looks ragged and weak."
Speaking of looking ...Gideon scanned the crowd in case Xeritian wasn't the only threat. There appeared upon the green behind Ozrif and Viridia a man dressed in rich blue silks, with ermine draped over his shoulders. He possessed a black hat upon which blazed the seal of some bureaucratic office: a fiery bird. The man himself looked uncomfortably cramped in his clothing, for he was both powerful looking and plump, like a street fighter softened by rich living. This was surely Matharic, Royal Adjunct Vice-Critic for Moral Suasion in the Fine Arts.
Sebastian noticed the man as well. Smiling, he appeared to direct his next words to the official. "That most of all is why art must serve society. Not to enslave artists. But to keep the purveyors of falsehoods from enslaving the people."
Matharic frowned, as if searching for sedition. Xeritian smiled, as if nothing could perturb an innocent gardener.
Gideon coughed, because he could.
Xeritian coughed too, in exactly the same tone, as if afflicted by exactly the same imaginary disease. What was the headmaster up to?
"If genuine art, with its truthful insights about life, does not serve society, then the unscrupulous propagandist will fill that void. We see the results around us—a Taldor given over to the animal within, whose nobles endlessly squabble for status, a realm that can't stand united against outside threats and internal decay. We need a national story, a drama, that will unite us again. And it can't be the hollow narratives of the deceivers, but something true to Taldor's spirit. Perhaps someone here will dream that story..."
Sebastian let the sentence drift into the aether, and slowly lowered his head.
Matharic grunted and nodded. Xeritian clipped. Gideon took a breath and bowed to Sebastian.
Gideon said, "What does the artist owe society?"
He let the question drift like a cloud, in imitation of Sebastian.
"Absolutely nothing."
Into the surprised silence that followed, Gideon lobbed his words like moonmelons.
"Now, before you string me up, let me elaborate. The artist, as an artist, owes nothing to society. As a citizen he may owe taxes. He may owe martial service. He may owe respect for the law. He may even owe a dollop of compassion to his neighbor. But art owes nothing. Let me tell you why."
Gideon spread his arms to take in the green, Taldor, the world. "We're born into a country. We have no choice about that. We're born into a family, and have no choice about that either. But we're also born into a world, a place of majesty and horror and madness and wonder."
Frowning, Matharic crossed his arms.
"But," Gideon said, "we're also opened by our senses to the patter of rain on the roof and the brush of wind across our faces and the cold of the morning dew on our feet. We know the boom of thunder and the crackle of a dry leaf clapped in our hands. There are no rules about such things. There is no etiquette for admiring a sunset, no code of laws for tasting a raindrop."
He kept Xeritian in the corner of his gaze. "Make no mistake. This connection to the natural world precedes our links to our fellow man."
Gideon looked to the sky.
"Imagine you're one of a flock of birds winging amid the clouds, and you and your fellows' survival depends upon finding shelter a thousand miles away. And imagine that instead of matters such as wind direction, star patterns, and the lay of the land, all your flock wants to talk about is who has the brightest plumage, or the sweetest song, or the largest beak. Thousands of square miles of glorious and treacherous landscape all around you, and the birds focus their whole attention on a flock no wider than a city block. From within the thick of the formation it may seem obvious that nothing but wings and feathers and birdsong matters."
Xeritian's clippers were now inching back toward the pillars and Aurestia. Gideon began to pace, to widen his natural field of action. He spread his arms again, in accord with his metaphor.
"Artists are like birds at the edge of the flock. We can't help but notice a larger world. We can't help but report it. But the flock may not like it, nor even believe what it hears. In Andoran, for example, my countrymen never like hearing that we might be in the wrong. Self-righteousness is in our blood. But the artists at the edge of the flock have to say it."
The cadence of Gideon's voice made a rapid gait seem natural, and when it subsided, Gideon was right in Xeritian's path. This became Gideon's new fulcrum, the point about which his feet would turn.
Xeritian sneezed.
Gideon had stuck to his prepared speech. But something in the crowd's response—their attention, a new ease in their postures—made him want to wander off the trail.
"When I was a drunk living on the Dog's Teeth in Cassomir—if you've been there you might have missed those little islands, but let me tell you they're as memorable as any soiree in Westpark! When I was a drunk, waking up by the surf and staring up at a sky much like this (although entirely too bright!) I could regard those clouds and see incredible details. They looked like the coastlines of islands in an archipelago carved of bone..."
Xeritian sneezed again and rasped, "Excuse me," clutching his chest but waving at Gideon to go on.
"I could have stared at that universe of white and blue for hours," Gideon said, with an ease he didn't feel, "had not I experienced an urgent need to retch, and a subsequent need for food. But in that interlude between waking and retching, there it was: a communion with the world. I recommend trying it, though without the binge. You may be surprised how calm you feel, talking with your old friend the universe. You might be surprised how much you've ignored your first companion over the years. But the universe is patient. It's always waiting. It's one of the few things you can count on. Life promises nothing except death. And maybe wonder, if you're paying attention before death arrives."
Xeritian was starting to quiver. If it was an act, it was a good act. Even Gideon was becoming concerned. He shifted toward Xeritian, putting concern into his voice but flexing his hands for a fight.
"That paying attention, seeing the world around you and alerting the flock—if there's a purpose for art, it's that. And for that reason art can't serve society. Not only for the artist's sake. But for society's sake too. Thank you. May I help you, groundskeeper?"
"That isn't your place, Mister Gull," said Aurestia. "It's time for the free-for-all. You and Mister Tambour will verbally fence until I call the time. You have the first jab. I'll help Xeritian."
Sneaky old devil, Gideon thought with admiration.
Gideon rarely looked heavenward for inspiration. For one thing, signs from Erastil were said to appear in things of wood and earth and beast. For another, he got distracted by things like clouds. Yet a hint of shadow sent his vision skyward, and there he saw a gull.
Seabirds were common in Oppara. But something about this one suggested an abnormal interest in this gathering. Gideon acted on a hunch.
Remembering Sebastian's argument, Gideon proclaimed, "Society is nothing without ordinary folk's happiness!"
His outburst startled Aurestia, and she halted.
Good.
Xeritian commenced a cacophony of coughing and retching.
Not so good.
Sebastian offered Gideon rhetorical rope with which to hang himself. "You can't truly mean that the legitimacy of a government flows from the individual?"
A fresh round of hacking wracked Xeritian. The groundskeeper staggered toward Aurestia. She stepped closer.
>
Gideon was now operating on instinct. Striding toward Xeritian (whose eyes widened fractionally) Gideon bellowed, "I do! The only way to resolve the conflict between art and state is for both to arise democratically from the people! For doesn't art come ultimately from the gods? Doesn't Taldor's authority ultimately arise from there as well? And don't the gods care for every mortal? Why, they care even for our poor, sick groundskeeper. Even now they might send him a messenger from Heaven itself!"
Gideon put a brotherly arm around Xeritian's shoulder and with the other arm waved grandly toward the sky. "Behold!"
A gasp from Aurestia and the assembled students told him he'd captured their full attention, and that he'd deflected the "assassin," at the bargain price of acting like a radical. At least he'd a letter to look forward to. The seagull descended, for it was surely a messenger from Corvine. Never mind that she usually sent her birds to a nearby tavern, not the green...
...or that it was Sebastian's arm it alighted upon.
As Gideon stared in surprise, Sebastian took note of the tiny scroll upon the gull's foot. He locked gazes with Gideon.
"Well, open it," Gideon called, nonplussed.
"Gentlemen!" Aurestia broke in, Xeritian's fake illness forgotten. "Out of order! It's still the free-for-all round. We haven't even reached character assassination."
"Let's move on, then," said Sebastian, freeing the scroll. "Gideon Gull's a lazy drunk."
"It's true," Gideon said. "For a whole year I've been too lazy to drink. That's the first honest thing Sebastian's ever said. You know, even as a newborn, he lied when he wailed for milk, in fact seeking only the nurse's breast—a habit I'm afraid he retains to this day. What does the message say?"
"You're supposed to perform ad hominem attacks!" Aurestia said. "Not trade meaningless insults! You're indeed lazy liars."
"What manner of insane school is this?" boomed Matharic, striding forward. The Royal Adjunct Vice-Critic for Moral Suasion in the Fine Arts had a deep voice, all the more threatening because there was a hint of gloating in it, as if he'd caught the artistic elite in their underclothes in broad daylight. Gideon could now see Matharic's seal of office more clearly. It was a phoenix clutching a scroll in one talon, a harp in the other. Both scroll and harp were burning.
"I think it says Cassomir's under threat," said Sebastian, squinting. "Corvine Gale is asking for help. Something about a fog..."
"I asked a question," said Matharic.
"And we didn't answer," Gideon said, irritated. "Aren't we supposed to save our character assassination for each other?"
"You must think you're so clever, Andoren, talking democracy, mocking your hosts to their faces. Well, you weren't so clever today, and you'll be hearing about that."
"Enough!" said Aurestia. "Gideon Gull, this disputation is ended. The Rhapsodic board will have to decide how to handle this irregularity."
Gideon nodded, but his eyes remained on the letter. He wondered what menace worried Corvine. And he couldn't help wondering why she'd contacted Sebastian first.
So much did he wonder that he forgot Xeritian. The hedge clippers tapped him on the shoulder.
"I'm afraid you're ‘dead' now, Gull. The residue of a certain leaf from the Mwangi Expanse is generally fatal in one minute. In this exercise you've protected your target but have perished, serving Taldor well from the shadows. But in the light, in reality, you've made yourself suspicious to the powers that be. Such is the paradox of the performer who's also a spy. A mixed outcome for your Shadow Taunt."
Gideon wanted to shrug and pretend it all meant nothing to him. But it was hard to lie to Headmaster Xeritian. "Also," he sighed, "a mixed performance on my disputation."
People were departing the green, some waving, some staring. Ozrif and Viridia had already gone, for his cell was due for training. It seemed strange, somehow, that no one noticed he was "dead."
Almost no one. Sebastian offered a shrug and a wink.
Matharic stalked away with Aurestia. Leothric waved his dragon puppet at Gideon. "Did you really just talk democracy with a government agent watching? May I have your harp if you're imprisoned?"
Gideon slowly shook his head, and Leothric shrugged and walked on.
Xeritian chuckled. "It was an interesting debate! But events tricked you into forgetting the mission, and into assuming I was quelled. You can assume nothing. There's an old saying of the Lion Blades: ‘The dagger of trust is the sharpest blade of all.'"
Gideon didn't know about that. All he knew was that today couldn't get any worse.
But the day of murder had only just begun.
Chapter Two
Chamber Music for Three Assassins
Taking leave of the headmaster, Gideon raced into the building upon whose roof he'd greeted the day. Footfalls echoed through halls of dwarf-cut stone from the World's Edge Mountains and timber from the grim druids of the Verduran Forest.
Even corridor acoustics concerned the Rhapsodic College.
Weaving and dodging, Gideon passed classrooms, recital halls, dance studios, practice rooms, and the big performance hall, until he reached twin oaken doors carved with musical notes.
The smells of paper, leather, vellum, and papyrus greeted his nose. A gruff "Howzit, Mister Gull?" from the gnome librarian greeted his ears. Wintry light glowed through stained-glass windows depicting the rainbow-tailed bird of the goddess Shelyn and the purple butterfly of the goddess Desna, two powers particularly admired by bards. In their light, bookshelves stretched all around him.
"Need work, Mister Gull?" The librarian's skin was as dark as the oiled wood of his desk, and his gray hair had highlights that matched the colors of the windows. "They say a ship's in port all the way from Vudra. Might have some new sitar tunes."
While the library couldn't match the rival Kitharodian Academy's collection for size and depth, the gnome was fanatical about competing in breadth. Students could make money scouting docks, gates, and markets on the librarian's behalf, hunting for anyone with a new scrap of music. When busking went dry, Gideon often worked for the librarian, expanding his own repertoire in the bargain.
"Not today, Master Spindlegrim. Late for...studying."
"It's winter exams, boy!" As one of the oldest students in the college, Gideon only had to endure the term boy from this ancient gnome; he didn't begrudge it. "You're a little late indeed!"
"Don't I know it!" Gideon retreated into the stacks. He was never sure if Spindlegrim was in on the secret of the Shadow School or not, but in any case Gideon couldn't give the game away.
A dark turn in one corner led to Antique Musicology, a dusty, mazelike nook. The ancient music discussed here preceded all notation, and its true sound could only be guessed at, never recorded with certainty. Most students were too practical-minded to venture here.
If they did—if they slipped around the absurdly narrow last turn and peered through the shadows at the farthest books—they might find a low, slim, volume titled Toward an Ethnomusicology of the Serpentfolk, with letters of onyx embossed on black. It took squinting to find it, and it appeared jammed between its bulkier neighbors.
But if you were a truly determined seeker, seizing knowledge in both hands, you could slide the book out...and in so doing discover it was no book at all, but a slab of stone.
Pulling it further, you'd trigger two silent mechanisms, one shifting the stacks to cut off this alcove, the other sliding the final shelf just a fraction, revealing a dark passageway. If bold enough, you might slip into that tunnel before the shelves slid closed again.
Now trapped in total darkness, you'd have no choice but to descend steep stairs to a landing where magical light suddenly sprang to life. When your eyes at last adjusted, you might notice the murder holes surrounding you, through which guardians might jab poisoned spears if they didn't like what stood revealed in the light.
But if you were Gideon Gull, you said, "The crab catch is catastrophic in Korvosa," giving the passphrase of the week. "And hurry,
I'm late."
Someone grunted and cranked a lever. A stone wall carved with notation from a requiem groaned aside and revealed the Shadow School.
It was not the only Shadow School, of course. Everyone knew there were others. It was guessed, but never admitted, that there was another beneath the rival Kitharodian Academy. Gideon suspected there were more, and there was even a rumor of one under Cassomir. The mastermind of the Lion Blades obviously liked both secrecy and redundancy. He also liked keeping his recruits on their feet.
Gideon moved as fast as he could without alarming the hooded guards that stood at attention like pieces of architecture. He passed quickly through a labyrinth of drab corridors whose only ornaments were slogans spelled out with magical glowing stones.
Speech is a sword, said one group of red stones, while Silence is a shield, answered another batch in blue. Around the bend, purple stones announced the silent pun No thieves aloud. Beyond another turn was a kind of mandala composed of green stones spelling out repetitions of Illusion Reality Illusion Reality in an ever-tightening spiral. Students argued as to what the innermost, tiniest message actually said. (Made You Look was Gideon's favorite guess.)
Gideon panted up to one particular slogan, Here lies truth. Gideon caught his breath and pressed the letter s. Stone rumbled.
His first time in the Shadow School had also been his first hazing, of sorts. Students were set loose alone into the maze, which apparently had no particular rhyme or reason, let alone classrooms.
Eventually he'd guessed that the slogans marked concealed doors. Gideon's first class had been behind Silence is a shield, where he'd met the other members of his cell. The instructor there, the Mistress of Lies and Memory, had claimed the particular slogan you first triggered said a lot about you, and determined which students you trained with. What exactly it said in their case, the Mistress never explained.
The Dagger of Trust Page 3