Of course, we see none of that.
And how, Milon, do you achieve such vibrant colours in your pictures?
It is in the application of materials, Grand Sycophant Oroestes. It is all in the application of materials.
It is strange that you must look upon a ruin where I see what once was, a city overflowing with beauty and fat with plenty. Those few who scratch a living here now mourn the days when every stall was overflowing with produce brought from all over the world. A man who is hungry quickly forgets fear, just as a man who is frightened quickly forgets hunger. We forget too quickly in any case, and quicker than ever in the case of Hattaran of Murast. Oh, he is seen as a monster, and he was a terrible thing to behold, but he loved beauty also. For a time, Murast was a wonderful place to be, though few books from his reign survive to tell us different.
Of course, we had books, friend. Of course.
When I was young, the libraries of Murast were famed, they were ripe with knowledge. It is said the tribesman who once travelled the forests around Murast, bringing us the food and milk from their beasts, all died on the sword because Hattaran needed vellum. Huge herds of goats were driven through the city to provide enough vellum for our writers, playwrights, and poets to scrawl their thoughts upon. One could not go past a street corner without encountering a poet or writer reading from their latest opus. We had so many writers in Murast that some of the greatest names to have ever written starved on our streets, ignored. No, we had no shortage of books in our time, but all that is lost now, burned.
I see you bring me no vellum to paint upon. Do you not have any in this huge city?
No, Milon, for a writer found a form of poetry that was beautiful while making no sense, and King Hattaran could not understand this, and he thought on it for days and weeks until he decided that if he did not understand, then the people would not understand, and he decreed no one should write these poems any more. But the poets did not listen and tracts lampooning Hattaran appeared on the walls. For that, he had a great pyre made of all the books and scrolls in the city's libraries and gathered together all the writers and threw them into it. You will struggle to find vellum here now as it is the sign of a writer, and writers in Murast are burned alive.
No mind, Grand Sycophant Oroestes, I will source my own materials.
Now, are you thirsty, friend? You will hear the running of water and you may follow that to find a spring. Cup your hands and drink deep for water is scarce in the ruins of Murast. The sun beats down and steals the moisture from even our skin. Pots? Oh, once we had such pots. Hattaran worked a hundred thousand slaves to death to build a causeway across the bay of Urlay and lay waste to the land of Beckan so he had access to their clay mines. What was done with that clay was astounding, my friend. Porcelain so fine and thin you could see your hand through it. The pots were made to look like every animal you can imagine. Clever jugs of birds, which spouted water from their beaks, snakes, cats, fish, and more. Our potters competed to make the tallest and thinnest vessels imaginable. Such fine handles you have never seen, clay made to do things that seemed impossible: bowls that rang like bells when touched and likenesses of men and women that, if they had not been so still, you would have taken to be real. In fact, I knew a man who fell in love with a clay likeness of a woman. It was a famous story but, of course, it is lost now.
By the well are some shards and hollowed bones that may hold water if you do not wish to use your hands. I would be grateful if you brought me a little water, for to talk makes me thirst.
Ah no, we have nothing to put your paints in. See the path we walk along? Well, Hattaran found himself displeased with the potters. He believed they were mocking his manhood with their new shapes. He had learnt from his experience with the poets and did not give the potters time to turn on him. He is a great man who is not afraid to make hard decisions. He had every pot in Murast smashed on this road. Then he had horses drag the potters over the road of shards to flay skin from their backs. When he was satisfied that the blood and screams had taught the artists of the city to appreciate him, the potters were thrown into their own kilns to roast. It was a very fine lesson our king taught us.
No mind, Grand Sycophant Oroestes, I will source my own materials.
You say you are starved of colour and your eyes thirst to see the famed colours of Milon's painting, though it is a terrible thing? I understand that need, sand and crumbling sandstone provide little for the eye to feast upon.
So little was left of beautiful Murast when her enemies fell upon her, my friend, though I do not blame them for their anger. How could I? Once Murast was a riot of colour, beauty was everywhere. Our king even loved to paint himself. So much so that the great and terrible Hattaran besieged the city of Varim purely for its painters. He stood his army outside the city for three months until the starving people overthrew the government and opened the gates for him. You will hear he murdered everyone in the city, but it is not true. Hattaran was not a man to waste anything, and although he only wanted the painters, he did not abandon the rest of the city. Those who were well enough, he sent to mine clay, and the rest he did kill, out of mercy, deeming it cruel to leave them to starve in the empty city. The artists he brought back, and they painted our city in honour of their redeemer. It was a magical place then, huge vats of paint kept in the central courtyard before the Palace of Skulls. Pools of every colour under the sun, and the stories of Hattaran's conquests did bloody dances across the walls of Murast. It was said, even those taken in war and brought in chains to die before the palace were thankful for their fate because they had at least lived to see the walls of Murast.
I do not doubt there was some truth in that.
Paints? Ah, the great sadness of Murast is that some of the painters King Hattaran was kind enough to bring to his city became decadent. They created art of such strangeness that it bothered the king, worried at him like a dog will worry at a corpse, and so the king, in his great and terrible wisdom, had them drowned in the paint vats and all the paint was spoiled.
No mind, Grand Sycophant Oroestes, I will source my own materials.
Do you carry an instrument, friend? Many who ply the arts also love music. I do, and I miss it. Murast once sang as loudly as any city. Great halls were built, which threw sound from their gates, sending it echoing through the streets until it mixed with the sound of instruments that fell from the many other halls. At each and every corner in Murast, a man could hear a different symphony, and the birds themselves wept with jealousy over Murast and her songs. Every type of instrument was played here, friend. King Hattaran loved music so much that he brought down the great forest, which once surrounded Murast, to build his fleet and take the island of Voisi where the greatest harpists lived.
But do not take up your instrument for me, friend, it may be best not to play, lest you wake ghosts, which sleep in the ruins, and that would be a terrible thing.
Music? Ah, sadly not, the wise and mighty Hattaran decreed his people must be happy and, as such, all music played in Murast must also be happy. But the Harpists of Voisi could not obey, and they betrayed great Hattaran by loving their old home more than they loved Murast. Their songs wept out minor keys, and Hattaran, in his righteous anger, had all the musicians of Murast strangled with harp strings and forbid any to as much as whistle on pain of death. You will have seen the street of hanging on your way here, of course. It is difficult for a man not to make any music.
No mind, Grand Sycophant Oroestes, I will make my own music.
But Hattaran...
Will make allowances, I am sure.
The stone feet, friend?
You will find many such things in the ruins of Murast. Hattaran brought artists from every land he conquered but he had no need to bring sculptors. Murast was always a city of sculpture, our buildings were decked with faces and figures, our squares with glorious statues that reached for the sky. In the early days of Hattaran's rule, we celebrated his conquests in marble and quartz, in bronze an
d iron. We beat our enemies’ weapons into images of their subjugation, we destroyed cities, made their people slaves, and had them bring the stones of their homes to us so we could create a huge likeness of our warrior leader. Vast it was, throwing a shadow over the whole city like a sundial, and you could tell the time wherever you were by looking for Hattaran's shadow. But it was cold in that shadow, friend, and it had a weight we never realised until it was too late. Sculpture was the only artform he did not destroy as he became older. I think he could not stand to see himself maimed in any way. We had to wait for our enemies to truly bring down Hattaran and banish his shadow. But the sculpture here was astounding once, friend. We had started to leave behind the human form and experiment in more and more abstract forms but...well…
That ended.
The sculptors of Murast? Oh, they live, but they no longer sculpt I am afraid. Hattaran found their more experimental forms difficult to understand, and then found his own meaning in it, found mockery in it. He had their eyes put out, as punishment.
And yet they live?
My son was a sculptor, Milon. I begged for his life.
And now, you bring me to paint your king?
I am the Grand Sycophant of Hattaran, Milon of Honsa, and I have heard much of your work. You are the greatest at what you do, are you not?
Oh yes, Oroestes, yes, I am that.
I have heard it said, friend, that the screams from Hattaran's chambers went on for a week but no one dared intrude. After all, screams from Hattaran's chambers were nothing new. Only when there had been silence for another week did anyone dare enter the king's bedchamber. Oroestes led them in, and of the painter, Milon of Honsa, there was no sign. All that remained of King Hattaran was his throne, sticky with dried blood and discarded flesh, and the painting. Of course, all know of the flesh portraiture of Honsa now, how the artists take apart the subject to create a likeness of his soul. Paint bowls made from bones, paint from flesh, canvas from skin, music from screams, sculptures of agony, a history written in blood; but none did then.
None except Oroestes.
What became of him?
He died when Murast fell, like most did. The victors knew of Hattaran's cruelty, so all who were well or able-bodied, they put to death, and all who were not, they judged as victims of Hattaran's cruelty and took them away from this place. All except me. I remained to guard a painting I have never seen and never will. Hattaran put out my eyes for my craft, you see, and only my father's begging kept me alive. So, I stay here to guard his vengeance.
Now, are you sure you wish to see it? Absolutely sure? For I am assured it is a terrible thing.
The Fox and the Bowman
Sebastien de Castell
The faint creak of the bow let Thomas know he’d drawn it as far as the yew would allow before breaking. Two hundred yards at least, he thought, and prayed his position atop the hill would help him bridge the distance. If he couldn’t hit Sir Hamond’s armoured hide from here, then all of his sacrifice would have been for nought. Thomas squinted, just barely able to make out the golden eagle crest on Sir Hamond’s tabard. Letting out one last breath, he aimed for the dead centre of that eagle and hoped a sudden wind didn’t take his arrow astray.
“That’s an odd sort of bird you’re hunting tonight,” a voice called out.
Thomas spun around. “Who’s there?” He trained his bow on a man of middle years stepping out from behind the trees.
“I’m not entirely sure it’s legal to shoot a bird of that particular type, and I’m positive it won’t taste very good.” The man’s hair and short, neatly trimmed beard were reddish brown, almost russet in colour, framing angular features and a cocky smile. His long leather coat fringed in silver fur at the collar marked him as a foreigner, at least from these parts. Glinting rings, each bearing colourful gemstones, decorated long, manicured fingers. The man might have been a wealthy merchant, or perhaps a minor noble, but what mattered most was that he was a witness to Thomas’s impending crime.
“Don’t come any closer!” Thomas said. “Go back the way you came, forget you were ever here, and I’ll let you live.” He did his best to muster the tone of an angry soldier, but what came out was a quivering mess.
“Now why on earth would I want to do that?” the nobleman asked. He walked casually over to the edge of the outcropping next to where Thomas knelt, seemingly unconcerned that he might soon find an arrow in his belly. “It’s not the worst plan I’ve ever seen,” he said, idly looking down at the scene below. “Sir Hamond goes down to that little cottage every evening, I imagine? Perhaps to meet with a secret lover?” Without turning his gaze, the nobleman reached out a finger and casually brushed the tip of Thomas’s arrow. “Shooting from this height might even give you enough speed and force to pierce that armour.” He removed his finger and tapped it against his lips. “Good thinking. I always say, ‘if you’re going to commit a murder, a hill makes a very discrete accomplice.’”
“Who said anything about murder? I’m just out here—”
The nobleman held up a hand. “Please, Thomas, let’s have no lies between us. Lies are the least elegant form of deception.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name?”
The man bowed low and said, “You may call me Master Reynard.”
“Reynard? Sounds French.”
“Well, I’m not, so let that be some consolation. Funny you should mention the French, though, as they’re a key part of our new plan.”
“Plan? What plan?”
“You want revenge, don’t you? This Sir Hamond of the dependable virility just confiscated some small portion of your family’s farmland, didn’t he?”
“He’s taken more than half!” Thomas cried. His arm was growing stiff and tired from trying to keep the bow drawn. He took a few steps back away from the man and eased the tension on the bow, keeping the arrow nocked and ready. “He’s ruined my father.”
Reynard nodded sagely, though not particularly sympathetically. “Yes, that is the way of knights, isn’t it? They take whatever they want under the authority of the king or some earl or even God when they feel the need.”
Thomas had to blink the tears from his eyes. He didn’t want to show weakness in front of this Reynard, whoever he was, but the wound was still too fresh. His father had always been such a strong man. Fearless, or so Thomas had always believed. To see him on his knees, begging and pleading like a child… “Please, sir, may we keep just a little bit more, grace be to God?”
“It was a trick,” Thomas said. “A dirty trick. They changed the day the taxes were due and said my father was late in paying. There would be a fine. But we had nothing left to give so they took over half our land.”
“Well then, perhaps you and I should play our own.”
“I don’t care about tricks. I want revenge on the knight.”
Reynard tilted his head as though his hearing was impaired. “What’s that, you say?”
Thomas knew this might be some kind of trap, and yet, it would be cowardice to deny the vow he had made only days ago. “I want revenge on the knight.”
Reynard seemed to mutter to himself, repeating Thomas’s words one syllable at a time as if trying to decipher a foreign language. “I have this…friend,” he said at last. “His name is Wetiko.”
“Wet-tea-who?”
“Close enough. Anyway, my…let’s call him my colleague. He’s quite taken with knights like Sir Hamond, with their armour and their big swords and their lances.” Reynard began fanning himself with his hand like a nobleman’s wife threatening to faint from the summer heat. “They’re oh so mighty. So very daunting. Practically indestructible.”
The man made it seem like a joke, but Thomas had seen how imposing Sir Hamond had been, standing over everyone in the village in his armour. He might as well have been a hundred men. “Your friend isn’t far wrong.”
Reynard arched an eyebrow. “Whose side are you on? No, wait, don’t answer that yet.” He closed his eyes an
d waved a hand in the air as if dismissing a thought. “The point is, they offend me.”
“Offend you?”
He nodded vigorously. “Bad enough when they were wandering around in chain mail. Now they’ve started in with full plate!” He placed his fists on his hips and turned his head, striking a majestic pose. “They look like pompous metal statues of themselves.”
Thomas wasn’t sure how to respond. Statues or not, those steel breastplates could resist an archer’s arrow, which was what made Thomas’s plan to revenge himself against Sir Hammond so precarious. “I suppose the armourer’s art progresses like anything else."
Reynard seized on the words. "Progress! Progress! Progress!” He shouted, and began thumping one foot after the other in a rhythmic march. “Always this progress plods on and on, day after day, year after year, century after…” He stopped and turned to Thomas. “It’s just so boring, isn’t it?"
“I’m not sure there’s anything you can do to stop it. New things almost always win against older things, don’t they?”
“You sound like Wetiko,” Reynard said, drawing himself up haughtily. “It doesn’t suit you. Perhaps you want to take his side of the wager?”
“What wager?”
Reynard’s dropped the pose and smiled. “He made a wager with me. About you, in fact.”
“About me? Why would this Weah-tee…whatever his name is, why would he care about me? Or Sir Hamond for that matter?”
Reynard winked conspiratorially as if he and Thomas were suddenly back on the same side. “Well, it’s possible I might have led him into it. Regardless, he bet me that you would never kill the knight. He thinks men like your Sir Hamond down there will rule the battlefield for hundreds of years.”
“Sir Hamond won’t be ruling anything for long,” Thomas replied, anger flashing hot inside his chest. “I’m going to kill him.”
Art of War Page 9