“Burning shoulderboards…ridiculous. We need bloodier sports or something, to give the people something to talk about. I’ve not seen the boy since he was in cloths.”
Stendahl’s vivid image inside the bowl sat up. His hair was strangely white, his eyes a deep sea green. He was known to have meaningless visions that never came to anything, that never realized as an actual occurrence or bore any representation of true events. He monkeyed quickly across the gap to another shelf to find a book stored thereon.
There was once a time when Wentic’s father, Old Man Talgo, thundered and shaped the times in which he lived. He was unpleasant in his personal habits and a cruel general; but he was imaginative in war and broke paradigms that froze strategic thinking. As the Naraia world government was burning down around him, the old man threw his two sons against each other in competition from their earliest competencies as his own way of nurturing boldness and character. It’s important to know that only to understand the impatience and disappointment with which Wentic now was looking at Stendahl, buried in pointless volumes and chatting nonsense with Recorders.
“I’m a little early, Wentic.” A woman in the doorway interrupted. Peri was standing with military bearing, her uniform the color of almonds all proper and pressed as was appropriate for head of the watchmen. As Wentic nodded and waved her in, there was only a curt nod between her and Revin. She joined them in watching as Wentic idly scooped Stendahl’s image from the bowl with a folded piece of paper as if he were scooping soup in a ladle.
“I know how you feel about the tathlum testing, Peri; but I wanted you here for Revin’s update. He’s done some good work over there.”
Peri rolled her eyes and began a protest, which Wentic quickly interrupted, “I don’t need a power struggle between you two. Just sit.”
“It isn’t a power struggle, Wentic. It’s an embarrassing drain of resources and an irresponsible provocation.”
“None of your people agree with you, Peri.” Wentic dropped the folded paper into the obscura bowl as if in emphasis.
“Because he’s a con man who’s with you every day. I don’t blame them for feeding you junk.”
“That’s enough. Sit down, please. Revin, describe for Peri what we discussed this morning. Show her what you showed me.”
Revin’s polished descriptions began only when Peri had sat. In fact, it was common knowledge among Peri’s staff that Revin’s interest in experimental armaments faded following the selling of concepts. Testing was scattershot and biased; and his promised tathlum pods - transmitting projectiles fired into enemy vehicle armor which would embed themselves and inject artificial intelligence control signals - were unlikely at best.
“Peri, we think a lot of your frustration comes from not having a….you know…vision for what’s going to happen when it comes to full scale conflict with Cassian’s fleet…a fleet with more depth and firepower than we can face conventionally. Tathlum changes the game and…you know… turns their size against them.” He raised a hand to forestall a protest from her that she was no longer offering. Much of this seemed to be a show for Wentic, likely repeating with emphasis any pieces that took the judge’s fancy this morning, and targeted to hack at Peri’s reputation.
Revin unfolded and laid out a spread of three paper drawings: one engineering design and two artist conceptions, all in electronic ink. He held his thumb against a circle in one corner to boot them up; and the images animated. The tathlum launch was a nightmare in black graphite, with tank tracks and a forest of antennas, lumbering over a hill towards an intercept of a roughly sketched flatrunner. He pinched a section of the image and widened his fingers, enlarging the line drawings. Penciled notes and figures appeared alongside the images.
“We’re outgunned and outnumbered; and this is our chance to make nonsense of an invasion and turn Cassian’s own fleet…you know… against itself.”
“I know all this. What’s the new bit?”
“…We’ve designed an expansion of the concept to include tathlum shot…a smart buckshot capable of embedding in human skin and overriding nerve signals with the object of sending affected foot soldiers and exposed battlesuit drivers back into their own troops like madmen. It may be possible to…you know…synchronize the AI signals and form attack wedges that coordinate troops and equipment.” Revin’s hands motioned wildly in his passion.
The tathlum launch drawing sprouted a swivel mount cannon and sprayed coal-black shot into a crowd of stylized footsoldiers. Peri rubbed her forehead and chin restlessly. As Revin spoke, she looked pointedly into Wentic’s eyes with the expression of someone who was hearing a ridiculous fish story.
Peri looked at the Counselor as if he had defecated right there on the table, “What unnatural fear has you chasing such pipe dreams?” Both men nodded knowingly at each other, mumbling briefly about having foreseen her reaction at their earlier discussion.
“Wentic, do you respect my opinion?” Peri asked in a tone of old familiarity, recalling to mind years of commonality which Revin couldn’t match.
“I’ve known you a very long time, Peri.”
“This is absurd and unworkable. It’s unholy and desperate. The people of the salt flats fundamentally disagree with our way of life; and they’re landlocked without their own resources. It’s certain that they’re coming for us at their first chance. I can build a fourth squadron of ramships for the financing he’s urinating on your goodwill.”
“Give her the prototyping results on the pods.” Wentic waved his hand at Revin.
“Keep it. I’ve seen his fluff; and I have people inside his group.” Peri and Revin locked eyes for really the first time at this sitting. Wentic’s forehead creased, the discussion not having gone his way.
“Marshal, perhaps you should review the data in private so you’ll have more time to see the nuances.”
Wentic casted an angry glance toward Revin and cut him off sharply, “Stop trying to make her look stupid. It’s irritating. She’s smarter than you are. Now I expect you two to come to some sort of agreement about a way forward. This is good stuff. Peri.” The judge cast his greedy eyes back to the swirling ink; and Peri easily caught that his eyes and pointed finger were attracted to the image of the enemy arsenal ships in the background moreso than the intended prototype animation…his estranged brother’s toys.
In an awkward moment following, Wentic suddenly became aware that Stendahl was no longer in the camera obscura image. Strangely, he looked to the door and found Stendahl there, picking idly at his lip and listening. He was unnaturally tall and haunting.
“Little Wennie.”
Wentic lifted a puzzled eyebrow for this was a name he’d heard before albeit not from his young son, “Son, what are you doing? Are you asking to join us?”
There was only the muffled rush of an air vent from the corner, possibly some thin stray voices ghosting through a window from the protesters lining the courtyard. Revin lowered his head, rubbing a thumbnail idly against a pants leg, while Peri watched Stendahl closely. It wasn’t clear at whom he was looking; and it went on until it was quite awkward. Stendahl at last slid quietly back from view and presumably down the hallway without further interaction. When he was clearly out of earshot, although one never knew that for certain with him in those days, Peri stood and spoke first.
“I’m going to go see what that was about.” She pointed at the table, “You know how I feel about this. You’re provoking your brother by pursuing it.”
At last, she gestured toward Revin, “Ask this one who he’s been talking to at the government building in Sullion..”
Wentic’s eyes locked on Revin immediately at this, as Peri stepped through the doorway. She had some intelligence on amateur and unauthorized treaties Revin was negotiating with a cluster of small city-states beyond the Yagrada river, widely overstepping his authority. The judge would be displeased.
Around an old corner where a young prince used to hide behind the potted fountain blossom, Peri saw that S
tendahl was still close by, his pale hand rested on the iron railing as he watched two housecleaners arguing. He broke off suddenly, his deep green eyes suddenly meeting Peri’s.
“Joy and health, Marshal.”
“And to you.” She scanned him closely.
“What have you been asking the Recorders?”
Stendahl smiled, “About grandfather. He was intriguing and intelligent.”
“There are differing opinions on that.” Peri was careful what she said in reference to the old man, even in private.
“He mentioned you. As impressive. You reprimanded another cadet for crying during the gauntlet run; and your nose was bleeding. He liked your spirit.” Stendhal articulated each word oddly as if it were the only one he had to say.
Ignoring his reminiscence, “Have you talked to the protesters outside as we discussed?”
“No.”
She at once showed disgust, “Are you entirely devoid of leadership?”
His face was pale and emotionless, although possibly grinning very slightly.
“I don’t need you to be a punk or a weirdo. Your father is confronted with morons daily, every one more dangerous than the moron in line before him. Revin is the worst of them. You’re young; and people talk about you. Why can’t you use that? Go talk to them. Give them some idea we’re not setting their futures on fire. Say something inspiring. Am I really asking for that much?”
Stendahl was unearthly and odd. He moved his body and face slowly as if he were underwater. People of the time read about what he was wearing and bought merchandise in line with his passing interests. That odd fascination had swollen with his eccentricities in recent years. He was attractive in an entirely inexplicable way, and even here angry in this hallway and having known him from his birth, Peri still felt that distraction caused by his appearance.
“Let them rage. It creates.”
Dully, like a dottering old street vendor at the end of a hot evening, Stendahl began picking at his lip again idly. He slid a worn leather-bound journal from the bullnosed rim of the fountain blossom pot and turned to walk down the rose quartz corridor, away from her and away from the steps to the courtyard, whispering.
“He goes by a name that shakes the earth when it rolls across a poor man’s tongue…”
Shouting from outside was angry and in unison, although too thin to understand, almost as a melody only partially in remembrance. Peri shook her head while watching him leave, before descending the grand caparisoned staircase to head into the courtyard.
3 FIVE VISITATIONS
Rustic and boisterous like carnival people, those who lived in the tent city in those days were known for their cling to independence and freedom. In fact, the coarse fabric pavilions and collapsible apartments stretched thickly along the borderlands separating several principalities and city-states for the purpose of avoiding jurisdictions and tax districts. If disputes arose regarding such, the city simply moved in a marvelous night-time parade full of hearty mead songs and long, bright masks.
Misling at this point was shuffling quickly because he was hungry. His sponsor, Farmilion was laughing hard and staring at a soapstone statue the size of a thumb, seated across a freeform table from a fat fellow with the bohemian look of a tentman. Beyond them near a dropoff to the valley was a half-submerged rolling troop tower, rusted and stuck in the dirt as wreckage from a long forgotten siege.
“Farmilion, this Recorder has what was needed and is prepared to return home.”
The old fellow looked up with a slightly faded smile, eyes blanking quickly and evidently fuzzy on the details of what was being referenced. For just a blink, a very short moment that most would not have noticed at all, the Recorder’s face went very lifeless and sad.
“Joy and health, my little mystery talker…my bringer of enigmas. Surely someone in that cluttered curio of yours would turn a jug of sana with such disreputable alley cats as us!” The grinning fellow with whom Farmilion was drinking held forward a shining emerald bottle of the algae wine in offering, towards which Misling motioned his decline. As quickly as it had hardened, the Recorder’s expression softened and relaxed, for whatever had come over him had passed.
“And in there…in that magnificently laden globe, would young master Recorder have any helpful principles or mind-expanding enlightenments on the ritual awakening of a…of a whatchamacallit?”
“A carab, my friend”, the tentman said.
“Of course, I was just remembering that.” Farmilion shut one eye and poked the soapstone figurine to his open eye as he would a gunsight. The mountain cities were from their earliest settlements peppered with trappings of oracles and superstition, largely lubricated through the hallucinogenic wine grown on their hillside terraces. Carabs were small stone men only brought to life in fantasy, through long hours of staring and of imbibing.
“Surely my precious little professor can shine his white light of wisdom on a dottering seeker and explain how to make this blasted thing say something funny…or wise….or perhaps just to burp.”
The tentman joined Farmilion in a chuckle.
“Goodman Farmilion, perhaps there is an opportunity to discuss the carab in private during the return trip.”
“My invaluable and priceless hermit, dashing at a gallop to sit and stare at his fat benefactor! Surely a bright day in the tent city turning a jug with Goodman Hastine here and unlocking the intriguing mysteries of the mountain common folk edifies more than listening to the odd voices in your crowded interior. In fact, my sly and mischievous elf, it haunts me and has surely not slipped your crisp view that you are obligated and pledged by your very honorable identity, now that I have asked, to explain why this confounding thing won’t speak.”
Misling watched Farmilion’s smiling face, its puffed cheeks and wide nose shaded in pale pink from the drinking. It was a pause of almost awkward duration.
“Nothing in this Recorder’s pool qualifies him to speculate on such a ritual, nor is it appropriate for him to do so, sir.”
Farmilion’s wide shoulders shook as he laughed again.
“A sly elf, no doubt, Goodman Hastine! Pour me another while we discuss your views on the matter.”
Hastine’s thick fingers upturned another flashing jade bottle of sana into a glazed ceramic mug as he glanced up past Misling’s eyes to the Recorder’s decorated forehead.
“No intentions of being offensive to your Recorder, my friend, but his calling unsettles me.” Misling failed to sustain his neutral expression at the insight Hastine had provided Farmilion.
“I don’t feel good about anything common I might say being recited in a hundred years.”
“A fair though inelegant push, good sir. Certainly if my little elf could strike from the Record anything incautious you might let slip in an unguarded moment, I’m confident he would do so. Certainly the will is there, Hastine, though if not the liberty. I wonder if perhaps you could hold more closely to your bosom any further commentary which might upset young master Recorder. And on to this little beggar then…”
When it was clear Hastine and Farmilion would continue their winding discussion of the lifeless carab, Misling stepped back softly in his practiced fashion and sat cross-legged in the shade of a broad fountain blossom tree. Culturally in those days, a Recorder’s sudden appearance or departure weren’t events for which one spared concern or noticed. After a cautious scan for observers, he pulled from a pocket two umber sticks of bakas jerky and began chewing.
Misling watched the two fat men at their cups, absenting his gaze after a moment to linger on two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, riding their father’s shoulders at once with out-stretched arms as he ran playfully. Misling took a deeper breath and intentionally turned back to burn the image of Hastine and Farmilion into the Record before closing his eyes in meditation. Exactly how long he was inside the Record wasn’t something he could have answered thereafter.
At such times, when a young Recorder would unleash memories in his Pool an
d allow them to unwind, he would recall the intricate and exhaustive sensory details embedded in the crystalline precision of Mast and flesh those incredible descriptions into moments as like any true moments lived personally. It was an awesome and terrible exercise, held in deep reverence for millenia, and even so, was still among the most misunderstood of rites maintained by the Recorders. Flashes in the timing and narrative of dreams bundled years of living: falling in love, fearing for an ill parent, killing in war, giving birth and a train of other moments which were destined for eternality because of the presence at one time of a Recorder. Collectively, the pools of memories maintained by all the Recorders of a generation was referred to as the Record; and even in the days of this story, that idea was among the highest and most perfect of human achievements.
Misling at last opened his eyes, distressed and sweating and evidently with the waxing sense of having been watched. He saw the little boy and girl he’d noted earlier now staring curiously up at him only a hand’s width from his nose. He cocked his head, noting the girl’s key interest was his forehead tattoo while the boy seemed taken with his nose. Over by the table, Farmilion was absent although Hastine was there in a lively dialogue with Ring and a coarse looking woman with her hand on Hastine’s shoulder. Just as Ring noticed him and waved him over with a smile, the little girl tried to rub a smear on his tattoo with a tiny soft finger.
Tearing Down The Statues Page 3
