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SABON, MARY. An aggressive and sometimes brilliant historian who built her reputation on the bones of older, love-struck historians. Five-ten. One-fifteen. Red hair. Green, green eyes. An elegant dresser. Smile like fire. Foe of James Lacond. In conversation can cut with a single word. Author of several books. See also: Lacond, James.
SAFE HOUSE. A place, usually controlled by Hoegbotton & Sons, where travelers could seek shelter during the Festival of the Freshwater Squid. Most safe houses provided little packets of useless products and information to assuage the fears of its temporary tenants. This packet usually included some insipid festival “story.” See: Verden, Louis.
SAINT PHILIP THE PHILANDERER. A Living Saint who was kicked out of the Order of Ejaculation because he bathed too regularly. See: Living Saints.
EXHIBIT 7: A REPRODUCTION OF THE CLASSIC SAFE HOUSE LETTER INCLUDED WITH SPORLENDER AND VERDEN’S FESTIVAL STORY, THE EXCHANGE.
SALTWATER BUZZARD. The main beneficiaries of battles between Stretcher Jones and the Kalif, the Kalif and Michael Brueghel, Michael Brueghel and Manzikert I, Manzikert I and the gray caps, the Brueghelites and the Gray Tribes, the Gray Tribes and the Arch Duke of Malid, the Arch Duke of Malid and the Kalif, the Kalif and Ambergris, Ambergris and the Haragck, the Haragck and Morrow. Scavengers, saltwater buzzards mate for life, have an average wing span of 10 feet, an average life span of 20 years, and are distinguished from other buzzards by the flashes of red and green on the tips of their otherwise black wings. See also: Brueghel, Michael; Gray Tribes, The; Kalif, The; Jones, Stretcher; Malid, Arch Duke of.
SAPHANT EMPIRE, THE. As empires go, this one made the Kalif’s holdings look pathetic. The Saphant Empire lasted for 1,500 years and encompassed most of two continents at its zenith. Its rulers, elected by an oligarchy, demonstrated an uncanny ability to mix negotiation and ruthless military force to consolidate their successes. Under the centralized stability of Empire, an unprecedented wealth of advances in technology and the arts threatened to make the Empire a permanent institution. However, a series of inbred, weak rulers coupled with crippling attacks on shipping by Aan pirates eventually broke the Empire into five pieces. The last Emperor’s chief advisor, Samuel Lewden, did his best to hold the central government together, but the five pieces became 30 autonomous regions and then splintered into even smaller kingdoms. Until finally only ghost-like cultural echoes remained of the once-great empire. For more information, read Mary Sabon’s one excellent book, The Saphant Legacy. See also: Bedlam Rovers; Frankwrithe & Lewden; Sabon, Mary.
SHADOW ART MOVEMENT, THE. Movement was actually anathema to the Shadow Artists, who, with their bodies and the late afternoon sun, created works of great beauty and grandeur in Trillian Square, shaming the Living Saints who also gathered there. See also: Gallery of Hidden Fascinations; Living Saints; New Art, The.
SHAPISM. A deviant branch of mushroom science that uses the shape of mushrooms to determine toxicity. Not very popular. See also: Fungus.
SHARP, MAXIMILLIAN. Possibly the most talented and yet most obnoxious writer ever produced by the South. Of all the infamous tales told about him by publishers and editors, the only one backed up by actual documentation concerns his association with Frankwrithe & Lewden. Sharp published his work regularly in F&L periodicals and as stand-alone books and pamphlets. On one occasion, he apparently did not appreciate Andrew Lewden (his editor) characterizing him at a dinner party as “somewhat arrogant” and sent Lewden the following missive (Lew- den, by all accounts, read it once, smiled, threw it away, and promptly remaindered all of Sharp’s books):
From: Lord Sharp I, Steward of the Sacred Word & Keeper of the Torch of Life.
To: Andrew Lewden, Lowly Knave, Steward of the Bottom Dollar & Keeper of Writers with No Alternative (currently)
Re: A Missive, To Whit, Responding to Andrew Lewden’s last letter and unworthy comment of last week, in the Year 34 of our Lord Sharp. Forthsooth and with haste herewith:
Dear Lewden:
(1) My Lord Sharp thanks you for your appreciated, if rather short and wretched letter of last week and begs me to tell you (as he is himself involved in Extremely Important Matters of Writing and Editing, and has no time to deal with editors hailing from squalid and distant corners of the world) that although he appreciates the copy of your latest magazine with His exalted story “The Glory That Was Me” printed therein, you have failed to place his name in large enough type on the cover—nor have you situated His name first and to the detriment of all other (lesser) names on said cover. Furthermore, His story was not published as the first story in the magazine, nor was it given an elaborate illustration, and, finally, the biography which accompanied the piece was not long enough, did not adequately cover Lord Sharp’s career, and did not state (as is common enough custom for Lord Sharp’s work, and certainly common knowledge) that Sharp is “The Premier Writer of His, or Any Other Generation.”
(2) These are grave misdeeds, Mr. Lewden, and Lord Sharp, while not altogether concerned, owing to the low circulation and low pay associated with your magazine, is perplexed as to why you should seek to draw His Lordship’s wrath upon you. Certainly deigning to present to you an Exalted Reprint from several years past, he has laid upon you the gravest of all duties: the proper representation not only of the Sharp Fiction but of the Sharp Image. If no illustration were available, Lord Sharp, through his many underlings, would have been glad to provide you with a glossy representation, in three-quarters profile, of His Famous Visage. This would not only have been adequate, it would have been more perfect, due to the marvelous perfections of the Sharp Visage, than any illustration (unless, of course, such mythical illustration had been of His Lordship).
(3) In any event, due to the Extreme Kindness of Lord Sharp, I am instructed by His Lordship to officially Forgive You Your Trespasses and to let you know that you may, if you ever visit Lord Sharp’s estate, be allowed to kiss His hand, and even to keep a crumpled piece of paper from one of His Lordship’s abortive rough drafts.
(4) Finally, as you say, Mr. Lewden, mere mortals may include appropriate return postage for a manuscript, but as your sentence implied, Lord Sharp is, like the unbroken string of Kalifs, most exceptionally Immortal, in that most enduring of ways: through the glory of the written word. Therefore, on a related topic, we ask that you immediately relinquish a tear sheet, to use a vulgar term, of the review of His Lordship’s Greatest Book, A Testament, for His perusal. (He will not, in fact, read it, but one of His many underlings may read it to Him; or, as is more likely, one of His underlings gifted in the Word shall rewrite the review so that it flows like liquid gold rather than liquid shit and thus shall not distress in any way His noble ears; there is nothing that harms his Lordship more than a badly-turned phrase.)
(5) In closing, I shall simply remind you, Mr. Lewden, that it will soon again be time to pay the annual tribute to His Lordship. This year, as you should know, it consists of three days of reading Lord Sharp’s works aloud, two days of studying them silently, and one day of transcribing them by Your Own hand, that you may more fully understand how Genius doth descend upon the World.
Your Obed. Ser.,
Gerold Bottek
(one of Lord Sharp’s many underlings)
P.S. His Lordship would like to convey to you His appreciation for your previous (if distant) kind words in various broadsheets which He has, through his underlings, perused; they have, I am told to tell you “a rough eloquence quite unlike the bastard, no doubt inspired by my works.” He so appreciates this attention that He has commanded me to tell you that you may skip one of the three days of reading His works aloud.
See also: Frankwrithe & Lewden.
SHRIEK, DUNCAN. An old historian, born in Stockton, who in his youth published several famous history books, since remaindered and savaged by critics who should have known better. His father, also an historian, died of joy; or, rather, from a heart-attack brought on by finding out he had won a major honor from
the Court of the Kalif. Duncan was 10 at the time. Since then, Duncan has never died from his honors, but was once banned by the Truffidian Antechamber. Also a renowned expert on the gray caps, although most reasonable citizens ignore even his least outlandish theories. Once lucky enough to meet the love of his life, but not lucky enough to keep her, or to keep her from pillaging his ideas and discrediting him. Still, he loves her, separated from her by the insurmountable gulf of empires, buzzards, bad science, and an arrogant writer. See also: Rats.
SIGNAL, CADIMON. A most curious man of religion who combined elements of common crime with the utmost respect for the spiritual life. He taught the most successful missionaries ever to graduate from the Morrow Religious Institute and spent 10 years studying with the monks of Zamilon. Famous for his fervent lectures on Living Saints and martyrs. See also: Morrow Religious Institute and Zamilon.
SIMPKIN, WILLIAM. The head of Ambergris’ labyrinthine centralized mental health facilities and the chief psychiatric interrogator for incoming cases. Simpkin wrote fiction on the side, publishing several volumes about an evil imaginary kingdom ruled by a mouse. At base, a heartless bastard. See also: Bedlam Rovers.
SIRIN. A writer and editor originally born near far-fabled Zamilon. He is primarily known for his series of fictions supposedly describing various aspects of Ambergris history. This excerpt from Janice Shriek’s memoirs provides a more complete view of the man:
Sirin’s fame as a fiction writer had just begun to spread when I signed on with Hoegbotton & Sons. He had, like the mythical beast from which he took his name, such generic and yet universal qualities as a person that I cannot accurately describe him here—short or tall? light or dark complexion? green eyes or brown?—and his physical appearance would not convey the weight of his personality anyway (which was mercurial, mischievous, all-knowing; one might have thought he had created us all, not just his recurring character X). Sirin brought to his editing the same qualities found in his writing: he could mimic any style, high or low, serious or comedic, mimetic or fabulist. It sometimes seemed the city had come from his pen—or at least made its inhabitants see the city in a different light. He thought too much of himself, but this arrogance was made tolerable by the depth and breadth of his talent. Which was matched only by his audacity. He once insulted the Antechamber to his face on a holy day. He published all manner of pamphlets early in his career, passing fiction off as nonfiction and nonfiction as fiction. When his readers could not tell the difference between the two, it filled him with a nonsensical glee. His most famous hoax was an essay entitled “The Early History of Ambergris,” which not only resulted in his employment at Hoegbotton & Sons, but eventually led to Hoegbotton commissioning a pamphlet on the city’s early history from my brother, Duncan—which he, in homage, wrote with Sirin’s original piece in mind. In short, Sirin was as apt to ape a novel in his essays as to mummify a treatise in his fancies. He was also a scrupulous rewriter and drove Duncan, if Sirin had only known, to near insanity with his relentless line edits.
Sirin’s office in his position as editor for Hoegbotton’s publishing wing—a haven for culture within the blunt instrument of greed that formed H&L Central—had a seasonal quality to it. In winter and early spring, Sirin’s desk would be buried in contracts, manuscripts, proposals, financial information, and related books, all in preparation for publication in the coming year. As the year progressed, his desk would slough off much of the clutter until by autumn all but the finished books had vanished, with magazines and broadsheets pregnant with reviews of his children, both light and dark, having taken their place. Then winter would once again obscure his desk with the weight of things promised and things promising. His office had the most wonderful smell, no matter what the season, of parchment pages, of ink, of newly-printed books.
One of the more distinctive aspects of Sirin’s office, beyond the sheer expansiveness of clutter on his opulent desk and the lingering odor of cigars and vanilla, was the tubular glass refuges a Morrow glassblower had made for him. They lay clustered on the table behind his desk, near an oval window that looked down onto Albumuth Boulevard. Each, tiny holes cut into the glass, contained a caterpillar, chrysalis, or fully-formed butterfly.
Many times I had seen him puttering over his charges as his secretary showed me in, but the time I best remember, Sirin stood there lamenting a dead butterfly. He had just returned from a forced vacation to the Southern Isles due to his role in the Citizen Fish Campaign. Sirin spun around at my approach, gaze bright but distracted behind the silver frames of his glasses. He fixed me with the famous stare that could see through walls and make even the most stubborn of Truffidian monks talk. Within three weeks, that elegant visage would betray H&S for a new position with Frankwrithe & Lewden. Within six months, he would once again walk the streets of Ambergris, as if his betrayal had never happened.
“Look at this,” he said. “My favorite sapphire cappan has been colonized by the emissaries of the gray caps.” His outstretched hands, smeared with fungus spores and bearing the crumpled corpse of his beloved butterfly, looked as if they belonged to a piano player, not an editor.
We met half-way between the door and his precious glass habitats. I stared at the creature in his hands. True enough—the dead butterfly was completely encrusted with an emerald-green fungus. The outstretched wings had sprouted a thousand fungal colonists, topped with red and resembling a confusion of antennae. It looked like some intricate wind-up toy covered in jewels. It looked more beautiful than it could have alive—not just a butterfly choked with fungus, but a completely new creature. Even the texture of its exoskeleton appeared to have changed, become more supple. I stared at it with a sudden nameless sense of fear. It seemed too akin to the process that had begun to claim my brother as he pursued his gray cap studies.
“It’s a terrible waste,” Sirin said. “A shame of Manzikertian proportions.”
“Yes,” I said, “it is,” but was not sure if he meant the butterfly or something more elusive, more dangerous.
See also: Citizen Fish Campaign; Fungus; Shriek, Duncan; Zamilon.
SKAMOO. A proud, aloof people well-adapted to the snow of the frozen northern regions. Some historians have tried to link the Skamoo to Zamilon, claiming that the forbearers of the Skamoo built the fortress-monastery. See also: Zamilon.
SOPHIA ISLAND. An island named after Manzikert I’s wife, located in the River Moth, to the north of Ambergris. Long ago ceded to Hoegbotton & Sons by Ambergris’ last Cappan, John Golinard, in exchange for much-needed monies, Sophia Island served for many years as a base for Hoegbotton mercantile operations. However, some 50 years ago, H&S leased the eastern half of the island to Frankwrithe & Lewden, in exchange for trading rights to Morrow markets. In recent years, the island has become a battleground between H&S and F&L forces, slowing traffic north and south as both sides exact ever-more ridiculous tariffs on boats wishing to pass through. See also: Frankwrithe & Lewden.
SPACKLENEST, EDGAR. Author of the cult novel Lord Hood & the Unseen Squid. Spacklenest came from “old money” and lived in a mansion in the marshes to the west of Ambergris with his mother, grandmother, and sister. From his third-story room overlooking the Moth, he would write for hours in a black notebook, every few months sending another tale to Dreadful Tales, which rejected his work because the editors did not understand it, or Burning Leaves, which rejected it because it was too traditional. Eventually, a friend of the family convinced the Ambergris Department of Broadsheet Licensing Publications to print Spacklenest’s first collection of stories, entitled Scars & Other Weapons. Published in hardcover, the collection sold only 25 copies and the Ambergris Department of Broadsheet Licensing Publications dropped Spacklenest from their stable of safety pamphlet authors. For several years, Spacklenest did not attempt publication again, instead pouring himself into writing the classic stories that would eventually be issued in the posthumous Frankwrithe & Lewden collections Nights Beyond Night and Dark Sings The Lark Beyond the Veil. F&L w
ould also publish his Lord Hood novel posthumously, a work which sold well and has led to Spacklenest’s current cult status. After writing Lord Hood, a dejected Spacklenest abandoned both fiction and his ancestral home, relocating to a small apartment off of Albumuth Boulevard and accepting an archival position at the Morhaim Museum. In later years, under the pseudonym “Anne Sneller,” Spacklenest published a number of nonfiction books, including A History of Traveling Medicine Shows & Nefarious Circi. Lord Hood and his short stories were discovered among his personal effects when he died of stab wounds inflicted by a Porfal coin knife during a particularly violent Festival. See also: Burning Leaves; Dreadful Tales; Frankwrithe & Lewden; Morhaim Museum; Porfal.
EXHIBIT 8: A FIRST EDITION OF EDGAR SPACKLENEST’S NIGHTS BEYOND NIGHT; ON DISPLAY IN THE MORHAIM MUSEUM’S “A HISTORY OF SOUTHERN PUBLISHING” WING.
SPORE OF THE GRAY CAP, THE. The tavern in which much of Duncan Shriek’s Early History was written. A marvelous hide-away more fully described in The Hoegbotton Guide to Bars, Pubs, Taverns, Inns, Restaurants, Brothels, and Safe Houses.
SPORLENDER, NICHOLAS. The author of over 100 books and instructional religious pamphlets, including Sarah and the Land of Sighs, Truffidian Votives for the Layperson, and A List of Daily Sacrifices for Members of the Church of the Seven-Edged Star. Many of Sporlender’s books incorporate the ideas of the “fighting philosopher” Richard Peterson. Sporlender frequently collaborated with the artist Louis Verden before a violent disagreement ended the relationship. In his memoirs, he wrote of the break up: “It’s not like we didn’t know when it started. It was Verden’s obstinence that started it. And his insipid obsession with Strattonism. He simply could not let it be. It was always Stratton this, Stratton that. I’d ask him, ‘Please—lay off the Strattonism. I’m trying to write.’ Eventually, I took up Peterson’s teachings just to block out the Strattonism. But he wouldn’t stop.” A five-time recipient of the Southern Cities’ most prestigious literary award, The Trillian, Sporlender moved to Morrow in later years with his wife and three cats. See also: Burning Leaves, Caroline of the Church of the Seven-Pointed Star; Dreadful Tales; New Art, The; Peterson, Richard; Strattonism; Verden, Louis.
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