Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Book One
Harona
Shall we begin then—but what of the ink? Do you find it to your liking?
Do tell me if you do not. It is barely a bother at all to get up another batch for
you.
ages. But I believe I have rediscovered the proper proportions. If indeed I have
you will find that the ink requires no blotting. Every stroke of the pen will dry
and fix onto the face of the paper the very instant it is applied. And yet the ink
will retain a near perfect fluidity on the nib of the pen and will not foul the point
even should the pen be laid aside many minutes at a time. Beyond better it never
The crux of the puzzle you see was striking upon a sufficiently energetic
evaporative for the solution. I must admit that in the end the perplexity was
unknotted by the bludgeon of tenacity and not by the blade of wit. Oh I just
bashed away at the problem with brute trial and error and I must have tried
four-times-forty different sorts of evaporatives before I hit upon the right one. Or
nearly right I should say. The hue of the dried ink has a dunnish cast that I find
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disagreeable. And then obviously there is the odor. A bit more than disagreeable
I think you would agree. But I could discover neither a method nor an admixture
found only a handful of aromatic oils up to the task. But experimentation soon
sacrificing the very properties I sought by which I mean the ink’s variable rates
of desiccation—
desiccation indeed! This nonsense about the concoction of inks is as dry as tinder
and who could be so desperately dull to read it? It won’t do—it won’t do at all. I
the nose so keenly catalyzes the memory. How the slightest of scents will send
one’s nose plowing through the mounds of time to snuffle a particular perfume
or pungency. How the prodding snout—blind and deaf, dumb and numb—
rouses the other faculties and wakens their sensibilities to scenes past. How
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vivid and vital again. It is a phenomenon that I have had occasions in my life to
Academy and deposits me back in my old lodgings in the Burrows. I shall tell
you what I see. I see the perpetual disorder—the toppled stacks of books, the
rumpled bed linens, the spatters of ink, the discarded stale crusts of ranzi, the
little scraps of paper scribbled with big thoughts. I see, in short, the studied
neglect which self-serious scholars are obliged to inflict upon their surroundings.
And my ears are filled with the old sounds once more. I shall tell you
what I hear. I hear the scratching of my pens, the bubbling of retorts, and the
crucibles’ hiss intermixing with the roister of the street passing below my
window.
transfused with the acridity of my ink that dries with a slightly dunnish tinge. I
can see that place, I can hear it, I can touch and taste it all now—that past made
present again. But enough of that for now. Though it is a most interesting subject
The Burrows, I should explain, had by time and tradition been given over
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Burrows formed the ragged northern extent of Athalan proper, separating the
city from the emptiness of desert beyond—like the untidy tear one makes across
The Burrows were built on and from the salvaged bones of the original
old settlement. Its walks were still paved with rough flags of native stone. The
hoary hide of its stucco buildings were rubbed raw at the joints, exposing the old
white rock made seemingly whiter by the crazed veins of grey and blue. The
dear, decrepit place! Such a venerable confusion of narrow alleyways and stuffy
courts—and so on. It’s a verse from an ancient song that has been passed down
it was composed by Tabra Tal himself. Which is ridiculous, of course. There was
But it is certainly true that life in Athalan was lived in its courtyards. I
me. Botanists are a patient but stubborn lot. I suppose it is the nature of their
studies that inclines them to be so. The garden in their courtyard was well
tended, of course, despite the absence of sundry grasses, roots, and herbs whose
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medicinal and other utilitarian properties should have been sufficient incentive
for the cultivation of such species. And yet I must say that it was only after I
contrived a rather efficient system of irrigation from the ruins of a fountain there
that I was indulged with a small plot of necessary botanicals and its yield made
Such is the world. As Tabra Tal rightly says, an unopened gate prevents two
retreat, particularly in the mild light of dawn before the combined rays of Pirsa
and Mirlu crested the mountaintops and turned the refreshing garden oppressive
with steam. I was able to make excellent progress in my studies there beneath the
green shade and the omnichromatic blossoms and my presence there became not
unwelcomed.
The overhead glare of the midday suns made the exposed courtyards
could not tolerate such stifling heat. One would think that over the years I would
have become more acclimated but I admit that such was not the case. But even
the locals seemed unapologetic when they too abandoned the courtyards and the
other open spaces of Athalan to the meridian swelter and sought out the interiors
of the taverns, the shops, and the hantohouses that lined Tal’s Way and its side
streets. I, of course, generally took my refuge under the soaring dome of the
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architect to pierce the apex of the dome with a great oculus to provide all of the
Where was I? Oh yes, the hours on either side of noontide were the only
times of the day when the courtyards approached a state of desertion. As I have
said, the clement light in the cool morning hours was wonderfully felicitous for
reading and reflection. It was the routine of most students and mentors alike to
start the day on a favorite bench in a favorite courtyard to pore over lecture notes
or enjoy the congenial company of friends or simply sit with hands wrapped
around a mug of hanto, with heads wrapped around some private riddle or
reverie.
It should really come as no surprise when I tell you that, even in the
deepest hours of the night, the courtyards were not unfrequented. For the
hours. Would you not expect to find a huddle of inebriates passing a bottle
bartered from a yawning barkeeper in exchange for their quitting the premises?
two? Where else would the furtive fumblings of fledgling love make a nest if not
in the covert courtyards, in the fluttering light of street lamps, under the silver
intended to explain what exactly gave rise to the renown accorded the
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courtyards of Athalan. It was not for the quietude of dawn. It was not for the
intolerable torridity of noontide. Nor was it for the dark doings of midnight.
None of that. No, the fame—or infamy if you prefer—of the courtyards rose from
what happened in the early evening hours as dusk descended on the Burrows.
With the settings of the suns as shadows gathered, as students gathered, and as
mentors sometimes gathered, the courtyards exchanged one type of warmth for
For you see, Athalan was—and always had been as far as can be
venture to say that if one tried to tally them up, the very attempt would have
spawned several new societies in its wake to thrash out the viability and value of
Indeed, it could well be doubted whether any event could be said to have
occurrence were duly debated. For with sufficient friction applied, anything and
incendiary dispute. Proposition: The portions and the geniality of the hantohouse
by South Gate have declined since the previous proprietor turned its
management over to the son-in-law. Yes! No! Proposition: The recent renovations
to the public baths were shoddily done at too great an expense. Without question!
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I make my point overmuch perhaps. But the commonly held notion that
the courtyards of Athalan were elevated pulpits for enlightened erudition is only
true by half. I assure you that they likewise stooped to farce and bluster. The
fuller truth is that the courtyards were equally the podiums for burnished
tongues and the arenas for bloody fists—for insights and insults, for fellowship
and faction, for virtue and vanity—for all that is contradictory in humankind. In
those hours between the light of day and the dark of night, the best and worst of
yes—it was usual for every field of study to be represented by at least one club.
Academic interests were best served when the topics were restricted to a
Needless to say, the interests of those students who had had more pressing
business than to attend that day’s lectures or to read the assignments were best
served by this agenda as well. And to be fair about it, this was the customary
organized study groups and undoubtedly it would have been the policy of the
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mentioned, would also attend the debates if they had a mind to but were under
the habit and attended one or more debates each evening whenever I was able.
Certainly my patience was sorely tested at times when a student would steer the
with my prologue to it. How, you may well wonder, does a study group rate as a
I said that in theory and mostly in practice, the debating clubs operated as
study groups. I turn now to those that did not. Unlike the clubs organized from
and by the students in a particular academic field, the debating societies that I
speak of now drew their membership from across disciplines. Or as some in the
fiery oratory for its own sake and practiced rhetoric in its purest and most
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of the Academy itself. Thus, much to the chagrin and chronic consternation of
word—an insolent posture in their standing with the Academy. These are the
societies for which the courtyards of Athalan are known and, by some, loathed.
the nightly improvised affairs of the studying clubs. Indeed, on the scheduled
occasions that two of these societies mustered for elocutionary engagement, the
other clubs disbanded for the evening in order to be witnesses to the event.
There was the wonderful atmosphere of the theatre about it all. A crowd
respectfully reserving the periphery for the slate of the speakers who paced
apart, mouthing the address they had prepared in private, still seasoning their
speeches in the seconds before they took the stage in the hope that their words
For you see, these courtyards were the round pens for such students who
aspired to a public station in life. Here the eloquent and ambitious could exercise
and display their talents and, as they hoped, make names for themselves. I dare
say you could thumb through any history and find its pages decorated with
these names. Notable names. Notorious names. Names first publicly pronounced
on some long ago evening in the Burrows as the next speakers of the night
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nervously stepped from the shadows and the moderator hushed the crowd with
argued—that all great deeds and all great disasters can be traced back to a
remark once uttered from atop a stump or a stone bench in a dim courtyard of
I would be remiss if I did not make particular mention of two such clubs:
the Clarion Bridge Society and its rival the Barred Gate Society. Interestingly,
both clubs claimed as their namesake the same ancient rock formation that once
stood—it is said—in the open expanse of desert west of city. It is also said that
the curious monolithic arch would wail in a passing gale, that its shrill keening
could even be detected on the far side of Four Peaks. The great bridge was finally
silenced by the violence of a quake that collapsed the center span into a heap
between two standing columns. At some time after, this pair of columns in turn
succumbed—it is said—to a second quake which reduced the thing in its entirety
to so much rubble scattered over the desert floor. Then, so the story goes, the
and carted the blocks of stone away for use in various reconstructions in the
Now mind you, there is not a scrap of historical evidence for the first
quake. Not a mention. The subsequent upheaval would likewise exist only in
legend were it not for a much worn inscription on a single block of incongruent
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an unfortunate victim of the latter quake. The legible portion of the inscription
reads: to the blessed Hearth our lost brother repairs ~ the muted bridge breached, the
barred gate broken ~ now worldly tumults no longer he bears ~ with his departing, a
reunion betoken.
Well, perhaps the telling of a tale makes it so. But I cannot make roots or
twigs of it. By which I mean that it is beyond my feeble comprehension how one
constructs arches and columns from the fragments of these lines. I grant you that
lore and logic are most content when in least contact. And granted, the legend
has been handed down forty-forty years or more, from a time when what was,
At any rate, that is how the inscribed stone block came to be the joint
inheritance of the Clarion Bridge and the Barred Gate clubs, serving as their
But their reputation for rhetoric of the highest order was justly deserved.
It was a reputation their memberships staunchly and hotly defended for they
held it as a sacred legacy vouchsafed by a long line of celebrated orators. And the
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societies were the most impressive, the most impassioned, and the most
inflammatory in all of Athalan. And how we lit up the night! For we were
to be burdened with such an imperfect and needful world. The times were dire
and if not so ignorant would have desperately cried out for our fire and intrepid
chatter. We had no choice but to respond. We had to be, though uncalled for,
heroes all the same. So we galloped into Athalan and, with braying throats,
swung ourselves onto a pedestal to unseat the corrupted world and fling off all
of the false doctrine, dogma, and institutions that our witless ancestors had
spectacular. We were—
unquestionably brilliant if we had left the courtyards to the merry drunks and
callow lovers.
You see that I do not except myself. I was no different then. I too was all
afire, hotter and hungrier than the white desert itself. How shall I describe me? A
conflated bladder. All puffed up with grand plans and the smolder of reading
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cart. After four days and four nights plodding across the desert—the final leg of
of us could reek of stale sweat more. By the snorting of the beast, I believe I won.
I entered the city through East Gate. With barely a glance toward the
Fount-in-the-Rock, I passed right by the shrine and drove straight up Tal’s Way,
traversing its entire length until I reached the foot of the steps of the Library
where I whistled the busklor to halt. I lowered myself from the cart and in an
odd sort of silence, for my ears still rang with the grating of the wheels and the
creaking of cart box, I strode—in my own fashion—up the stone steps and stood
at last under the great white dome. For the better part of an hour, I simply stood
encircled by the knowledge of the ages. In the shaft of light that shone down
from the oculus above, I stood there straddling two promises to myself—one
finally fulfilled and one finally within the reach of realization. I stood there until
I was convinced of the actuality of the moment—I stood in the Library of Athalan
at last and I would one day know everything under that dome.
obscure—could not be taken from the Library. I would have to transcribe them.
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advantage of having two hands. With a pen in each hand, I would make only the
vertical strokes of each character with my right hand and follow up with my left
hand which would complete the characters with the horizontal and oblique
trailing left hand would not smudge the marks made by the right.
itself begins. Back to the little blue cottage in the yellow tuskwood forest.
Oh dear me! That sounds like the start of a child’s hearthtale. Well, so be
it. We would do well to remember the words of Tabra Tal: In the end, despite our
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