“You must not become careless now, Piwano,” the old man warned. “They have flown off and won’t be back for two years. But the Guild is still looking for you.”
Months passed. Piwano soon rediscovered his old virtuosity. He sat for hours in his hideaway and played the classical pieces, honed his technique, and attempted variations; he was tireless and eager. Opur sometimes sat with him and just listened; sometimes they played together. Besides, there was hardly anything more he could teach him.
Piwano beamed with excitement. Soon he was ready to try the most difficult pieces—pieces that had always been problematic even for Opur. And to the utter amazement of the old flutemaster, the boy even succeeded in mastering the Ha-Kao-Ta, one of the classical pieces generally regarded as unplayable.
“What are those words below the notes?” Piwano asked when Opur placed an old manuscript in front of him.
“Transcriptions of a lost language,” the master said. “The classical triflute pieces are all very old, some of them hundreds of thousands of years and more. Some flutemasters say that the triflute is older than the stars and that the world was created out of its music. But, of course, that’s nonsense.”
“Does anyone know what the words mean?”
Opur nodded. “Come with me.”
They climbed up from the cellar to the lesson room. Opur went to a small table beneath the street-side window and, from the top of it, he picked up a case decorated with worn wood carvings.
“The old flute pieces are actually stories, written in an ancient, forgotten language. The words of that language are not words like the ones we speak, but rather motifs of notes on the triflute. In this chest, I have the key to this language in safekeeping. It is the secret of the flutemasters.”
He opened the lid of the case. His own flute lay inside, along with a stack of old papers, note transcriptions, and handwritten notations … some of them yellowed and brittle.
Piwano took the manuscripts Opur handed to him and examined them. He nodded slightly when he had understood the principle: the length of the notes, the rhythm and the accent were determined by the requirements of the music, but the sequences of note motifs and chord rows represented words and concepts.
“I have deciphered some of the stories. The oldest of the classical pieces are about a lost Golden Age of wealth and happiness in which wise, generous kings ruled. Other pieces tell of a terrible war, which ushered in the dark epoch, and they tell of the last king, who lives imprisoned in his palace for a thousand years, doing nothing but shedding tears for his people.”
He replaced the papers and closed the lid again.
“Before my death, I will pass this chest along to you, because you will be my heir,” he declared.
* * *
The end of the year arrived, bringing with it the preparations for the annual student concert. Opur wondered if the circle of triflute players and the handful of listeners—most of them relatives or friends—would ever be large enough that he’d lack for space to accommodate them in his lesson room. In recent years, this performance had seemed to attract a smaller and smaller audience. But the concert was important, because it gave his students a goal, and the competition with others provided them with perspective.
Shortly before the concert, Piwano confessed his desire to perform, as well.
“No,” said Opur firmly. “It’s much too risky.”
“Why?” Piwano persisted stubbornly. “Do you think the Guild will plant a spy in the audience? You have known all the people who will be here for years.”
“Don’t you realize how quickly the word will get around that someone can play the Ha-Kao-Ta? Don’t be foolhardy, Piwano.”
Piwano clenched his fists. “Master, I must play. I can’t sit in the cellar forever and make music for myself. It’s not … not complete. Do you understand? It only becomes art if it touches other people. If I play with nobody listening, then it makes no difference whether I play at all.”
The flutemaster felt irritation rising inside him, and also fear for the boy. But he knew him well enough to realize that Piwano would always do in the end what he believed was right, even if it might cost him his life.
“Okay, I’ll allow it,” he relented. “But only on one condition: You won’t play any difficult pieces, nothing that might draw attention. You will play easy polyphonic pieces that others have mastered, as well. Nothing above the level of the Shen-Ta-No.” He was absolutely serious. He was prepared to threaten Piwano with being thrown out on the street if he didn’t agree.
But Piwano nodded thankfully. “Agreed, Master.”
In spite of that, Opur had an uneasy feeling as the concert approached. His anxiety spread to his other students and made them nervous. Never before had he found the necessary preparations so difficult. He rearranged the performance order endlessly and, just as often, the seating. He became dissatisfied with the pillow covers and almost got into an argument with the cook from the soup-kitchen, who was supposed to provide the refreshments.
Then the evening of the concert arrived. Opur greeted all the visitors personally at the door; upstairs one of the students showed them to their seats. All of them arrived in their best clothes, which, of course, didn’t mean much for people living in this part of town. As a small boy, Opur had once experienced a concert his own master had given in the Upper Town: sometimes he suspected that he was always trying to copy the wasteful splendor of that day with the concerts he presented—but without ever managing more than a parody of a great festival.
As was customary, the flutemaster said a few words at the beginning. He reviewed the past year and commented on a few of the pieces on the program. Then the youngest beginners started first—a practice that had proved practical since they suffered the most from stage fright, and he didn’t want to make them wait too long.
The beginning was tough. The first student forgot a repetition and got off beat when he realized it. Then he played faster and faster in an attempt to get it over with more quickly. There were some indulgent smiles and he still got applause when he bowed his scarlet face. The second student, an older woman, surprised even Opur with the unusual fluency of her playing; it seemed that this time she really had practiced. Gradually, the concert smoothed out, even became quite good, and Opur felt the worry that had gripped him in recent days slowly subside.
Then Piwano began to play.
As soon as he put the triflute to his lips and blew the first note, a jolt passed through the audience. Suddenly, there was electricity in the room. Heads raised and backs straightened, as though pulled up by invisible cords. The instant the first note rang out from the flute, it was clear that a star was rising. Everything else was in shades of gray; here was color. Everything else was successful effort; here was effortless perfection. It was as though the cloud cover had suddenly opened to allow a ray of pure light to break through.
Piwano played the Pau-No-Kao, an easy polyphonic piece that one of the other students had already played. He played nothing but what those before him had played—but the way he played it!
Even Opur, who had heard him play immeasurably more difficult things and had the highest possible regard for his talent, was awestruck. It was a revelation. With this simple piece, the willowy blond boy had completely outdone himself; he had attained a new level of triflute virtuosity as though in a quantum leap. With this simple piece, he outclassed everyone around him, showed them their place, and made it clear once and for all who in this room was a beginner and who was a master. No one would later remember any of the other pieces, and everyone would remember this one.
His fingers danced over the flutes as lightly and with as little effort as others need to breathe or speak, to laugh or love. Simply playing the polyphony of the piece was not enough for him. He exploited the fact that precisely the same note on the metal flute had a different timbre when played on the wooden flute, and he interchanged notes between the flutes to create contraposed, subliminal movement in the music. He used th
e glass flute’s tendency to slip into a sharp treble when blown too hard in order to imbue some passages with a sense of drama that no one had ever made audible in that way before.
The others played their triflutes—this boy become one with his and forgot himself completely in absolute devotion.
Most of the listeners didn’t understand what he was actually doing, but everyone sensed that something unheard of was happening, that here in this humble little room they were seeing into a wondrous, forgotten world. God was here. God was revealed. He danced within music that had been unheard by humans for thousands of years, and everyone held his breath.
And after it was over and Piwano had accepted the applause with a transfigured smile, Opur was gripped by fear.
* * *
They came two days later, shortly before sunrise. Without warning, they kicked in the entry door, and before Opur had jumped from his bed, the whole house was already filled with soldiers, with barked commands and the stomping of boots.
A black-bearded giant in the leather uniform of the Guild Patrol stepped toward the flutemaster.
“Are you Opur?” he asked imperiously.
“Yes.”
“You are under suspicion of hiding a shipsman who has deserted the Emperor’s service.”
Although everything inside him was trembling, he met the eyes of the soldier with courageous calm. “I know nothing about a shipsman,” he declared.
“So?” The bearded soldier closed one eye and gave him an evil look with the other. “Well, we’ll see about that. My men are searching the house.”
He couldn’t voice an objection. Opur focused all his energy on maintaining his composure and appearing unconcerned. Maybe they would be lucky.
But they weren’t lucky. Two soldiers brought a terrified Piwano up the steps and presented him to the commandant, who laughed triumphantly.
“Well, then,” he shouted. “This must be Cargo Loader Piwano from the Third Loading Brigade of the Kara. Sooner or later, we get them all. And all of them regret it—every one.”
The flutemaster stepped up to the patrol commandant and fell to his knees.
“I beg you, be merciful,” he implored. “He is a poor shipsman, but a good flutist. His gifts in this life are not an Imperial Shipsman’s strong shoulders, but his flute fingers.…”
The commandant looked down at the old man scornfully. “If his flute fingers hinder him in his service for our Lord, the Emperor, then it is our duty to help him out,” he mocked, and grabbed Piwano’s right hand to force it roughly against the balustrade of the steps. Then he reached for his heavy wooden cudgel.
Sudden horror shot through Opur when he realized that the man intended to break Piwano’s fingers. Without thinking, he sprang to his feet and rammed the soldier’s stomach with all his strength, which was multiplied by his fear for Piwano. The commandant, who had never imagined he would be physically attacked by the aged flutemaster, doubled over with a wheezing sound, stumbled, and fell. Piwano pulled free.
“Run!”
Suddenly Piwano moved with the agile speed of a rabbit, a quality Opur had never seen in his starry-eyed pupil, except when he was playing his flute. The boy sprang in one courageous leap over the edge of the balustrade and disappeared below, before even one of the soldiers could react.
Opur pulled himself together and flew to the window; he tore it open and grabbed the chest containing his own flute. Below, Piwano was just rushing out of the house.
“Master Piwano!” Opur yelled, and threw the chest down to him.
Piwano paused, caught it, and gave his master a last, irrationally roguish smile. Then he sprinted off and disappeared into the broad doorway of the laundry.
The soldiers were already on his heels. They paused in front of the laundry building, one of them issued commands, and they split up and ran to seal off the nearby alleys, hoping in this way to entrap the escapee.
Opur felt the heavy hand of a soldier on his shoulder and closed his eyes in resignation. The light had been preserved and passed on to the next generation. There was no more he could have done.
X
The Emperor’s Archivist
ONCE, THIS HAD BEEN his realm. Once, when the Emperor was still alive. Back then, silence had reigned in the great marble halls containing the documents of the glorious history of the Empire, and he had not had to hear any sounds but the shuffling of his own steps and the rush of his own breathing. Here he had spent his days, his years, and had grown old in the service of the Emperor.
The most exalted hours were when the Emperor himself came—came to him here in the Archive he guarded for the Divine One. He always had the giant steel entry doors thrown wide open and all the lamps brightly illuminated, and then he waited on the lowest step of the semicircular staircase until the Emperor’s sedan drove up. And after that, he stood modestly in the entry hall, somewhat to the side, near one of the columns; he kept his eyes directed humbly toward the floor, and his greatest reward was when the Emperor walked past and nodded regally at him, just slightly, but in view of everyone else. Nodded to him, the hunchback. To him, Emparak, his most faithful servant. To him, who knew the Empire better than any other mortal.
But then the new lords had arrived and degraded him to a messenger boy, to an unprivileged administrator of an unappreciated heritage. Just good enough to polish the costly marble, to clean the glass cases, and to change the burned-out lighting elements. How he hated them! Deputies of the Provisional Council for the Investigation of the Imperial Archives. They could come and go as they pleased, could rummage through all the documents and archive cabinets, and defile the silence of millennia with their bickering chatter. Nothing was sacred to them. And when they spoke to him, it was always in a manner that made it clear that they were young and beautiful and powerful, and he was old and ugly and powerless.
Of course, it was intentional that they stationed two women right here in front of him. They wanted to humiliate him. The women dressed in the new fashion, the fashion of the Rebellion, which revealed much and suggested even more. And they always pressed so close to him that even with his shortsighted old eyes, he couldn’t miss seeing the curves of their seductive bodies, close enough to touch, but still unattainable for a limping old cripple like himself.
Just now they had arrived, unannounced as usual, and had spread out their papers in the Great Reading Room, the center point of the Archive. Emparak stood in the shadow of the columns in the entryway and observed them. The red-haired woman sat in the middle. Rhuna Orlona Pernautan. How they put on airs, these rebels, with their triple names! Beside her stood the woman with blond hair that never seemed to end; as far as he understood it, the assistant to the redhead. Lamita Terget Utmanasalen. And they had brought a man along whom Emparak had never seen before. But he knew him from government documents. Borlid Ewo Kenneken, Member of the Committee for the Administration of the Imperial Estate.
“We’re way behind on this!” the redhead shouted. “He’s arriving in two hours, and we haven’t even developed a theory yet. How do you intend to pull this off?”
The man opened a large satchel and pulled out a stack of files. “There has to be a way. And it doesn’t have to be perfect. He just needs a clear, concise report, so that he has some basis for a decision.”
“How much time will he have for us?” the blond woman asked.
“At most, an hour,” the man replied. “We’ll have to limit ourselves to the essentials.”
Emparak knew they considered him simpleminded and senile. Each gesture, each word directed at him told him that. So, fine. Let them think it. His time would come.
Oh, he knew exactly how things looked in the Empire today. Nothing was a secret from the Emperor’s archivist. He had sources and channels, through which everything he needed to know came to him. He still had that, at least.
“What does he know about the background of the Gheera Expedition?”
“He knows about the discovery of the star maps on Eswerlund.
He was one of the councilors who voted to send out the expedition.”
“Good. That means we can forget about that much of it. What does he know about the reports up until now?”
“Almost nothing.” The blond woman looked to her colleague for help. “As far as I know.”
“As far as I know, too,” she responded. “It’s best if we present a chronology of the events, a summary of about, say, a quarter of an hour. Then he will have time for questions—”
“For which we should be prepared, of course!” the man interjected.
“Yes.”
“Let’s start,” the redhead suggested. “Lamita, you could make a list of possible questions, things that occur to us about each of the individual points.”
Emparak observed the blond woman, the way she reached for a writing pad and pen and the way her hair fell forward when she bent over to make notes. He found her attractive, of course, and, in the past, he would … But she was so young. So ignorant. Sat here in the middle of tens of thousands of years of momentous history and didn’t feel it at all. And he couldn’t forgive that in anyone.
Didn’t she know that once he used to sit there? Emparak saw everything before his eyes again, as though no time had passed. There at the oval table sat the Emperor and studied documents the archivist had brought him. Nobody else was present. Emparak stood submissively in the shadow of the columns that stretched high up above the hall to support the glass cupola, from which pale light streamed down, bathing the scene in a shimmering glow that elicited thoughts of eternity. The Emperor turned the pages in his inimitable, graceful manner, which arose from his quiet confidence in his own power, and he read calmly and attentively. Surrounding him, ten tall dark doors led to ten radial hallways, along which ranged bookshelves, data storage units, and archive capsules. On the ten wall surfaces between the doors hung the portraits of the Emperor’s ten predecessors. No place had been reserved for his own portrait, because he had said he would rule until the end of time.…
The Carpet Makers Page 13
