Liavek 3

by Will Shetterly

  Aritoli glanced over at a display of what appeared to be clumps of string on wooden frames. As he tried to make out what they were, he became aware of someone on his right, staring at him. He turned and found his way blocked by a small, thin man with challenging brown eyes.

  "Master ola Silba, so-called Advisor to Patrons of the Arts?"

  "I am." Aritoli narrowed his eyes and studied the man a moment. "Freneza, isn't it? Student of the Shatter-Eye School of so-called art?"

  The small man's nostrils flared and his eyes blazed, but he maintained his composure. "The very same. I have news for you, Master ola Silba, of myself and my school which I think you may find interesting. If you care to hear it."

  "Certainly, sir. I always appreciate the opportunity for a good laugh."

  Freneza bared his teeth and growled, "You may think you're the talk of the town now, you bed-hopping fop, but wait until you read this!" He pulled out from beneath his plain, stained brown tunic a rolled-up copy of the Cat Street Crier. "In this paper, it is announced who was assigned to repaint the Council Chamber mural. Yes, that's right—the project you've been trying to grab for one of your trite, traditional paint-daubers. Well, Master Artist-Hater, guess who was chosen? Me! Freneza of the Shatter-Eye School! Despite all your scoffing in your filthy little gossip-sheet columns. Put that in your bed and fuck it, ola Silba!" Flinging down the paper like a dueling glove, Freneza stalked away.

  Aritoli stood stunned for a moment, then slowly bent down and picked up the Cat Street Crier.

  "What a dreadful little man," Tafiya said.

  "Tafi, do you know if this is true? Has Ezvi mentioned it to you?"

  "I recall Ezvi mentioning something of that sort, but what of it? You aren't going to let that artist's taunts upset you, are you?"

  "You don't understand, Tafi. My recommendation for artist for the Levar's Council was the most important opportunity of my career. My reputation could suffer severely for this."

  ''I'm very sorry, Ari. Is there something I can do? Shall I speak to Ezvi for you?"

  "No, Tafi. There's no need for you to be involved. With any luck, it is all a mistake or a sick joke on Freneza's part. But I must find out for certain. I'm sorry, Tafi, but I must part from your charming company for today." Motioning to a footcab runner, Aritoli helped Tafiya into the seat and paid the runner for her fare home.

  "Oh, but Ari! Must you go now? There was something I wanted to show you—"

  "I am sorry, Tafi, but my mind will not be at ease until I sort this out. Another time, I assure you."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Very well. Tomorrow. Afternoon. I promise." Kissing her hand warmly, Aritoli took his leave and called another footcab for himself. This he took directly to the source of the offending information—the offices of the Cat Street Crier.

  •

  Said offices were located, with typical Liavekan logic, slightly east of Cat Street, roughly halfway between the Fountain of the Three Temples and Wizard's Row. The footcab let Aritoli off on Kit's Alley, where a white stuccoed archway led him into a small courtyard filled with flowering shrubs. Aritoli scarcely noticed their perfume as he entered another archway to the left. Passing by two printing presses that stood idle, he proceeded up a set of stairs and through a beaded curtain into the office of the publisher.

  In the center of the room, a round, balding little man sat on a floor-cushion at a low desk, idly puffing on a hookah as he gazed at the papers scattered on his desk. As Aritoli strode toward him, the man looked up with a quick smile.

  "Ah, Aritoli! We had not been expecting your next piece for days yet. Please, come sit. Would you like some kaf?"

  "I regret, Fatar, I am not here to deliver a manuscript. I am here concerning this!" The advisor waved Freneza's paper under the publisher's nose.

  Slowly taking the paper in hand, Fatar frowned at it in confusion. "What? Our latest issue? What concerns you, Ari?"

  "Is this copy genuine?"

  "It would appear to be."

  "And that article about the Council mural, is that genuine?"

  "Yes, we received the information from Chancellor ola Thinoli's secretary yesterday afternoon. Say, weren't you involved in that project? Is there some problem with the way we presented the news?"

  "The problem, my dear Fatar Shimuuz, is that it is news to me! This is the first I have heard that the assignment was awarded to the Shatter-Eye School!"

  "Dear me, that does seem a bit short-sighted of the First Lord."

  "Short-sighted? It is a slap in the face, I tell you! How could he select an artist from a school that throws paint at canvas and dares to call it art! And when I have offered the names of the finest artists in Liavek! It is an insult! An outrage!"

  "Ari, calm yourself. Aren't you taking this just a bit too personally?"

  The advisor took a few breaths, then sat, sighing, on a cushion. "This assignment was important to me, Fatar. I was virtually assured that one of my recommendations would be selected. Now, to have it snatched out from under me and given to...to..."

  "Yes, a disappointment, to be sure."

  "Perhaps I should speak to Chancellor ola Thinoli."

  "A good idea, but not possible currently. We wanted to get a statement from him and learned that he was away on a diplomatic mission to Gold Harbor, date of return unknown."

  "How convenient," murmured Aritoli.

  "As to why the Shatter-Eye School was selected, perhaps it has changed direction since the Church of Truth became its patron."

  Aritoli sat up. "Church of Truth? Those sorcerous white-robes who teach that 'reality is illusion' or some such nonsense? When did this happen?"

  "Not long ago, from the sound of things. Let me see, in our article here it mentions a Sister Vanta who has become headmistress of the school."

  "What would those half-mad mystics want with an art school?"

  "How would I know?" Fatar shrugged. "Perhaps you should talk to this Sister Vanta yourself."

  "An excellent idea, Fatar. Have you any idea what would be the best time to call on her?"

  "Well, I assume she keeps an ascetic's hours. Dawn to dusk, you know."

  Aritoli glanced out the window at the setting sun and knew that what had to be done would mean enduring the worst. It meant getting up early in the morning .

  •

  Aritoli cursed his curiosity as he stood shivering outside a rickety wooden building in the Canal District, on a street incongruously named Paradise Alley. Trying to keep his eyes open, he peered through the morning fog until he saw it—a shingle painted with an abstract eye, hanging from the second story.

  He tightened his grip on his walking stick, a black cane with a raven's head of gold in which his luck was stored. Dealing with sorcerous priests could be touchy business at best. He sincerely hoped his magic would not be needed. Pulling his cloak tightly around him, he went inside.

  The ground floor of the building had apparently been a shop. But now the walls and floor were bare, only nail holes and dents showing where furnishings had been. The wooden slats and beams were gray with neglect.

  Next to a door at the far end of the area, in marked contrast to the pale decay around him, stood a large, brightly dressed man. His ebony skin gleamed and muscles rippled across his bare arms and chest as Aritoli approached the door.

  "Do you have an appointment, sir?" said the doorman in a deep, cultured voice.

  "Ah, as it happens, my good man, no. But I'm sure Sister Vanta will see me."

  'I'm sorry, sir. I can let no one pass who does not have an appointment."

  "Do you know whom you address, sir?"

  "Yes. You are Master Aritoli Montanija Galifavi ola Silba, Vavasor of Silversea and Advisor to Patrons of the Arts. And· I still cannot let you pass."

  Aritoli rested his hand lightly on his coin purse. "Surely you would not let protocol interfere with important business?"

  "Important business is generally conducted by appointment. And gold will not pave your
way through this door."

  "Indeed'!" Aritoli paused, impressed. "Are you sure we couldn't make some...arrangement, perhaps?" He stroked the doorman's upper arm.

  "I prefer the talents of women. sir." The doorman removed Aritoli's hand, nearly crushing it in the process.

  Wincing in pain, Aritoli growled, "Since you refuse to be civil, how would you like to spend the day as a camel'!" He allowed a magical cascade of light-motes to fall from his fingertips, just for effect.

  "Not much," replied the doorman, fingering an enormous belt buckle at his waist. "How about yourself?"

  Blast it! thought Aritoli. They're even hiring wizard doormen these days. He was about to despair of ever entering when a voice came from behind the door. "Who calls at this hour?"

  The doorman replied, "It is Master Aritoli ola Silba, Sister Vanta. Shall I send him away?"

  There was a pause, then the door opened to reveal a dark-haired woman wearing a floor-length, hooded white robe, tied at the waist with a white cord. Knotted onto one end of the cord was a small, spherical construction of sticks and string. Her left hand idly toyed with the sphere as she spoke.

  "Have your critiques become so unpopular, Master ola Silba, that you must now do them unannounced?" Her voice was low and hollow, and her deep-set eyes seemed slightly vacant.

  "I came to offer congratulations, Sister Vanta, for your excellent good fortune on the assignment of the Levar's Council mural. Also, there are some matters I believe we ought to discuss, if you are willing."

  "We are not yet open for the day. But since you have already disturbed my meditations, you may as well come up." Beckoning Aritoli to follow, she turned and ascended a staircase behind the door. With a smug nod to the doorman, the advisor passed and went on, up stairs that groaned beneath his feet.

  At the top was a long room, mostly bare. The floor and walls were splattered with all colors of paint, and a few easels stood empty.

  "Come into my office," said Sister Vanta. She led him into a room which contained only one wooden chair. "Please, sit down."

  "Have you no desk or chair for yourself?"

  "I have no need of one. Now, what is it you wish to say?"

  Aritoli sat, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. "Well, as you might imagine, I was quite surprised that Freneza was chosen to paint the mural. I decided it was time I learned more about your school."

  "I understand that our work is not to your taste."

  "It may be that I lack sufficient experience to judge."

  "There are those who would say so. What is it that you do not understand?"

  "For one thing, your emphasis on deviation from realistic representation of your subject."

  "Of course. That is our intention. Reality is an illusion. There is no need to create an image of an illusion. It merely perpetuates the lie."

  "I see. And there is no discipline—"

  "Discipline, as you call it, is merely a tool for the repetition of illusion. We have no need of it."

  "But all that is left is chaos."

  "Yes." Sister Vanta smiled.

  Aritoli paused and scratched one side of his mustache. "And the sorcery?"

  "Is a means to an end."

  "What end?"

  "The end of illusion."

  "I...see. And is the mural also to benefit from this 'means to an end'?"

  The priest's smile vanished and her eyes grew wary. "Do not concern yourself with the mural. You could not possibly understand it. Do not attempt to."

  "But your words intrigue me, Sister Vanta. Understanding is, in part, my reason for coming here. I believe I must see this mural. Perhaps tonight, or some other time when I will not inconvenience Freneza at his work."

  "That would be ill-advised, Master ola Silba. Unenlightened as you are, the mural would no doubt disturb you."

  "Then what of the unenlightened council members who shall sit beneath it? Clearly, if I am to gain enlightenment, I must see more examples of your school's work. 'Reality is an illusion'...I take it this is a tenet of the Church of Truth? It sounds...fascinating. Please tell me more."

  "Master ola Silba, I can see you will accept neither my advice nor our philosophy. I suggest we part company before we waste any more of each other's time."

  "Ah, but time itself is an illusion, is it not?"

  "In that case, we should not give it credence by appearing to spend it. Good day."

  •

  Aritoli wandered the Merchant's Quarter for the rest of the morning, attempting to clear his mind. Sister Vanta had impressed him—not pleasantly. He was certain that Freneza's mural would not be what it seemed.

  But what to do about it?

  He was still contemplating this as he was shown into Tafiya's study at midday.

  She came out from behind her cluttered desk and rushed to take Aritoli's hands. Drawing him into the center of the room, she said, "Ari, darling! Earlier than expected! You are, as one of my caravaneers would say, like a mirage in the desert that turns out to be real. Come, sit."

  Tafiya guided him to some plush cushions, where he sat, setting his walking stick aside. '''Like a springtime breeze, you ease my mind of winter's burdens,'" said Aritoli, kissing her hand.

  "That's from one of Nimelli's poems, isn't it? The Tichenese can be so romantic when they aren't being stuffy."

  "Er, yes. I believe you said you had something to show me?"

  Tafiya smiled ecstatically. "You remembered! Yes, I'll go get it now. I'll have my maid bring you tea while you're waiting." She rushed off, whispering directions at a servant.

  Aritoli settled back on the pillows, trying to put this morning's interview out of his mind. But as his gaze wandered about the room, it fell upon something that immediately reminded him of Sister Vanta. On a small side table of carved bloodwood sat a familiar construction of sticks and string. Aritoli picked it up and examined it closely. The maid placed a pot of apple and herb tea before him and left before he was aware she was there. In another moment, Tafiya returned, carrying a bundle of white velvet that clearly had an easel and canvas beneath it.

  Aritoli sat up, unsure of what to expect. "I had not known you were a collector, Tafi."

  "Not a collector, my dear Ari. I've become an artist. And this is my latest and, may I humbly say, my best piece. I wanted you to be the first to see it."

  Aritoli shook his head ruefully. "I can never escape my profession."

  "And you love it. You needn't do anything more than tell me what you think."

  Aritoli sighed. "Very well. Let us see this masterpiece."

  As Tafiya removed the cloth, Aritoli stared at the painting in disappointment. Her "masterpiece" was a still life of flowers, done in a painfully primitive style. "Well?" Tafiya prompted.

  "You are an excellent businesswoman, Tafi."

  "But a terrible artist, eh?" She gave him a wry smile. "Well, at least you're honest." She covered the painting with the velvet once more. "My tutor says I've a long way to go, too. But I enjoy it, and with practice I expect I'll get somewhere."

  "Undoubtedly. Tafi, what is this object I found on your table?"

  "Oh, that's what I was trying to show you at the Market. It's a shiribi puzzle. My company imports them from a village somewhere west of Ombaya."

  "A toy? How odd. Sister Vanta wore one this morning."

  "Sister who?"

  Aritoli told her what he had learned from Fatar Shimuuz. "I went to congratulate her and to learn more about the school."

  "Ah. Well, it's not surprising she had one. A retailer of mine told me he had sold a large number of the puzzles to the Church of Truth."

  "Indeed? What would the white-robes want with a child's toy?"

  "The retailer said they'd adopted the shiribi puzzle as some sort of holy symbol. And it's hardly for children. It's actually quite a sophisticated mind-teaser. Here, I'll show you how it works."

  Taking the puzzle from him, Tafiya tossed the sphere between her hands. "Seems solid enough, doesn't it? No
w watch." She found a particular loop of string and lifted it off its stick. The sphere immediately fell into a jumbled pile on the floor. "The puzzle is, of course, to put it back together."

  "Order into chaos," Aritoli murmured, finding the symbolism obvious and disturbing. "But reassembly is possible?"

  "Naturally." With the ease of long practice, Tafiya connected strings to sticks as Aritoli watched closely. Before long, she again held a sphere in her hand.

  "I see."

  "You seem concerned, Ari. Is the puzzle important?"

  "Perhaps. It's...oh, I don't know, Tafi."

  "Poor dear. Sad enough that you lose the mural assignment without becoming burdened with more worry. Well, if my artistic talents do not interest you, is there some other way I may distract you?" Tafiya reclined on the pillows beside him.

  Aritoli gazed at her and smiled.

  •

  "What a lovely evening!" said Tafi as she leaned over the marble basin of the Fountain of the Three Temples.

  "Indeed," agreed Aritoli. The cool wind blew a fine spray off the plume of water that rose from the ancient fountain's central pillar. "In truth, Tafi, if I had known you had such a passion for long walks, I would have begun exercising long before I began to keep company with you." He smiled but found himself eyeing the vast, bare facade of the Church of Truth with disquiet.

  "My mother was an Ombayan trader," explained Tafi.

  "Ah, yes. Ombayan merchants are legendary for the distances they will walk to a good market. And your father?"

  Tafiya laughed. "He was some Farlander my mother took a brief liking to."

  "I see." Aritoli felt a tugging on his sleeve and looked down to see a wide-eyed little girl, perhaps eight years of age, dressed in rags. Just behind her stood a slightly older boy, looking equally bedraggled.

  "Please, sir," lisped the little girl, "give us a coin."

  Aritoli smiled paternally. Beggar waifs were common as pigeons near the fountain, but the Guard usually cleared them out by this hour.

  "Please, sir?" the boy begged softly.

  Aritoli rested his raven's-head cane against the basin wall and began to open his coin purse. Suddenly, the boy snatched the walking stick, and he and the girl dashed away toward an alley beside the Church of Truth.