by Steven Brust
“Yes,” said Verra. “On reflection, I am inclined to agree with you.”
“There is something to be said,” observed Ordwynac, “for this Kâna. He is determined. Perhaps we should have supported his pretensions, rather than those of the Phoenix.”
“And the Cycle,” said Barlen. “What of that? Do we abandon it? For, I promise you, it will not abandon us. That is to say, it will continue to turn whether we approve of it or not.”
Ordwynac sighed. “Yes, you are right, old god.”
“As for taking it over,” said Barlen, “the Phoenix has done exactly that as far as the post is concerned, or at least much of it. Many of the best elements of Empire created by Kâna are now in the Empress’s hands, and she is working steadily to gain more. And the defection of the Duke of Galstan has crippled the Dragon’s intelligence service; that was a heavy blow.”
“Has he defected?” said Ordwynac.
“You didn’t know?” said Verra.
“Well, that is good, I think.”
“Oh, certainly.”
Kéurana spoke, then, saying, “Moranthë, my love.”
“Yes, dear sister?”
“You say that this Kâna desired you to manifest?”
“Certainly. And he had one of the older rituals, as well, and performed it admirably. I heard him call my name as clearly as I hear your words to me now.”
“I understand that, but—”
“Yes?”
“Why would he have called you?”
“I should imagine,” said Moranthë, “that he felt the assistance of a God would do him no harm. Perhaps I could have feigned to give him my assistance, and then betrayed him; but you know how difficult that is.”
“Truly. But that is not my question.”
“Well?”
“Why you of all of us?”
“Why not me? Am I not a goddess? Are you jealous at all, my love?”
“Not on this occasion, dearest one, though I have in the past been jealous of your beauty and skill; but who would not be?”
“Ah, you are kind.”
“But on this occasion, I am curious. What attribute, that is to say, which of the many skills and talents that you possess, might he have wished for, so that he desired you of all of us?”
“Now that you ask, dearest of siblings, I begin to wonder myself. Most of my worshipers are in the East. Indeed,” she said, addressing herself to Verra, “I was nearly hurt that you made a pact with that little Dragon of yours, as he was raised in the East, and studied the Eastern magical arts, which I am known to favor.”
“Because, adored sister,” said Verra, “I knew that he would go from the Eastern arts to those of the Empire—” Here she nodded at Kéurana. “—and that he will, someday, pass beyond those to the oldest of the magical arts, which are my province.”
“And yet,” observed Kéurana, “he has not the bloodlines to use such powers fully.”
“As to that,” said Verra, “we shall see.”
“But,” insisted Kéurana, “I say again, why you, Moranthë? What is he after?”
“I cannot guess,” said the goddess after a moment’s reflection. “And yet, since you introduce the subject—”
“Well?”
“I should very much like to know.”
Afterword
A Book Review, Issued in the Form of a Circulating
Document, Amplified and Enhanced with Observations
from Life and Several Precepts for the Wise
By Ilen, a Magian
The material from the University Press which accompanies A Mighty Thundering of Wisdom, Not One Word of Which Can Be Gainsaid: An Examination of the Failings, Ethical, Moral, Literary, Historical, Grammatical, Intellectual and Otherwise of the Work and Person of Paarfi of Roundwood, Formerly of this University—a Perfunctory Summary makes it clear that, while the University Press has rushed this six-volume tome into print at the same time as the printing of the second volume of The Viscount of Adrilankha, it in no wise feels that such a book can or should be seen as a sad case of acidulated fruit; for, it points out, within the space of a mere 3,700 pages are gathered together over a dozen of Paarfi’s former colleagues: professors of history, of literature, of viticulture, of folklore, of manners, and of several other disciplines, with one objective and one only, that being to demonstrate the failings of Paarfi of Roundwood.
Let it be said at the outset that, notwithstanding anything the University might say or refrain from saying, the overwhelming impression received by this reviewer is that the University, in publishing this volume, is convinced that the misguided souls who have been unfortunate enough to delude themselves into thinking that they enjoyed Paarfi of Roundwood’s books, will, upon reading the first of these volumes, stand dumbfounded, the scales fallen from their eyes, determined to eschew such dubious pleasures in the future. That if a serving man were to read, say, Volume Two, Chapters XXIV–XL, which share the heading On the Public Drunkenness of Paarfi, he would henceforth regard The Phoenix Guards as anathema; while no serious reader (or one who considered herself such) could, after reading Volume Four Chapters XC–CXXXIII, Common Historical Misconceptions Promulgated, Disseminated, Reinforced, or Permitted by Paarfi of Roundwood, with Additional Notes on Several Simple But Usual Misconceptions of Which Paarfi Failed to Use His Position of Trust and Responsibility to Disabuse the Public, and having learned that what Paarfi describes as “a polished exotic hardwood” has been conclusively demonstrated to be the wood of the blacknut tree, and thus neither exotic, nor, technically, a hardwood, nor polished (blacknut wood gains its patina and strength from being greased, buried in darkness, and greased once more), would henceforth swear a dark and binding oath that an author capable of perpetuating such dangerous fallacies is an author to be, in the future, avoided.
This reviewer’s contact at the University Press declared that the University had confidently expected A Mighty Thundering to sell in numbers commensurate with Paarfi’s own latest volume. Alas, the piles of unsold and unstolen volumes (except, curiously, Volume Five, On the Lecherous Behavior of Paarfi of Roundwood, Profusely and Extensively Illustrated with Engraved Plates, Many of Them in Color, Depicting Each of the Actresses, Mannequins, Warriors, Courtesans, Hired Sluts, and Promising Young Female Writers with Whom Paarfi’s Name Has Been Linked, Whether Conclusively Proved (Chapters I–LIV), or Merely Rumored, Either on Good Authority (Chapters LV–CIV) or Poor or No Authority at All (Chapters CV–CLX), which had entirely sold out at several locations when this reviewer went for his morning walk through the booksellers’ district) next to the depleted piles that were once towering stacks of the latest volume of The Viscount of Adrilankha, demonstrates that, while the reading public’s appetite for the romances of Paarfi of Roundwood outstrips the capacity of the printing presses to keep up, their desire to learn of the failings of their author of choice is not similarly favored.
Thus, this reviewer believes it his duty to summarize and comment upon the University’s volumes for those who shall not read them, that such prodigious (albeit, if the title is to be believed, preliminary) work may reach the audience for which it was intended. So. The thrust of the University’s argument is that Paarfi has taken a discipline and reduced it to the petty crowd-pleasing antics of a fat man and his squirrel in the public square; that Paarfi has failed his training and education and is merely a mountebank, no longer capable of being considered in any way a respected or respectable historian. There.
Strangely, for a book which professes itself to exist purely for reasons of historical accuracy, A Mighty Thundering is at its best when dealing with naked rumor. My favorite moments were those scattered through the various volumes which attempt, not to prove, but to smear, to imply, or to force the reader to infer, that Paarfi’s books were not written by Paarfi, but written by journeymen to Paarfi’s specifications, due either to Paarfi’s laziness or to his inability to write, and this latter probably caused by a misfortune of a venereal nature. There
is no effort to prove this, beyond third-hand supposition. And yet, while it is manifestly false in all particulars, there are, each day, more and more young writers who write like Paarfi.
This reviewer’s own encounters with Paarfi have been fewer and briefer than might have been hoped. Still, Paarfi of Roundwood gives his time unstintingly to those less fortunate than himself and in the advising of many on matters literary, and thus it was that this reviewer was, several days ago, able to encounter Paarfi at a gathering in this city of many artists and writers, in the upper room of a large tavern, and to overhear him in conversation with a young lady who had asked Paarfi if he would be willing to inspect and comment upon her manuscript, which she had with her. Following a most perfunctory inspection of the first page Paarfi announced that he could see that she was having difficulties with her conjunctions, and that there were several nouns both masculine-passive, feminine-active and (inclusive of a multiplicity of potential genders) couchant, that he saw immediately needed to be properly conjoined, perhaps with certain prepositions he had in mind. When the young lady suggested that they could repair to her chambers, with the manuscript, and revise her work together, Paarfi of Roundwood nodded his approval, and told her that while there was much to be said for that approach, he could not help but feel that her choice of verb was limiting and fundamentally incorrect, but that, with his help, together they would be able to find a verb that would prove perfectly satisfactory for both of them.
It was at this point, perceiving that Paarfi was preparing to leave the tavern, that this reviewer placed himself in front of the esteemed author and asked him directly about several of the matters alluded to in the Mighty Thundering—would Paarfi deign to respond to the accusation that he no longer wrote his books, but employed several journeymen in different capacities to research, outline, describe, limn, and revise the book, while he, for his part, merely oversaw the work; or that The Viscount of Adrilankha was, at bottom, a direct and obvious theft of, or at best an homage to, the bawdy street ballad, popular several hundred years back, “….And a Bandit’s Never Parted from His Sword.”
“Well,” boomed Paarfi, not looking one whit put out, “I have heard such a song, it’s true. I could even sing it to you, for I have what is reckoned by many to be a fine and melodious voice, particularly when accompanied on a stringed instrument that has been correctly tuned. But of course I hear songs. Unless we were deaf, how could we not hear songs?”
This reviewer agreed that this was so, and that indeed, the hearing of songs was something that none of us could avoid, try how we might; and was preparing to ask him a further question, when Paarfi ran a hand through his hair and looked around at those gathered there in the upper room of that tavern. The room fell silent.
“I trust that you will permit me to say two words about the University, the University Press, and their so-called concerns with accuracy and what they term scholarly values. And the two words are these: They are not and now, or conversely now and not. Does anyone here have a copy of The Phoenix Guards with him tonight? Come on, come on, I have scrawled my name in the front matter of several copies. There. Good. Now, I shall find Chapter the Eighth, titled “In Which it Is Shown That There Are No Police in Dragaera City,” and turn several pages until I find the place where our heroes find themselves outnumbered and in dire straits, but also in a disagreement over their best course of action, whether it be to stay or to go. Ahem:
“The numbers, while still not equal, were at least a little more balanced, so that the Dragonlords, of whom perhaps a dozen remained, standing, hesitated before attacking.
“ ‘I think,’ said Khaavren, ‘that it is not time to withdraw.’
“ ‘Bah,’ said Tazendra. ‘The game is only beginning to grow warm.’
“Aerich said, ‘I, for one, agree with Khaavren.’ ”
Then, his voice booming louder and louder, Paarfi said, “Not time to withdraw? Not time to withdraw? Now time to withdraw is what I wrote. Now. An obvious error, and one as easily repaired, or so we would think; and yet we would be mistaken, for as printing succeeded printing of The Phoenix Guards, and reader after reader was convinced of my own foolishness and of my deficiencies as a writer, I requested, I asked, I pleaded, I begged, I petitioned the University to change this, and to correct future printings. (I made no mention, I will have you know, of their stray comma in the first sentence I read to you, understanding that no publisher can fix every stray iota.) Each time I asked, they agreed; each time they did nothing. There are,” Paarfi continued, his white garments flickering orange from the firelight, “authors who have slain publishers for putting a not where there should have been a now (and, doubtless, vice versa), and not a guard or officer or juror in the land would punish or even reprimand such an author. However, we have slain nobody. Instead we have merely withdrawn our labor and our person from their shallow lives of nots and nows and not nows and not nots.
“Well, and we say to you all, now! And if not now, then when?”
If he said aught else to the crowd in the tavern that night, it was drowned out by the cheers of the company assembled,
including your reviewer, who has the honour to sign himself here,
Ilen, a Magian.
