There were clear glowing reds and pale pulsing scarlets, shimmering faint silver-rose with flecks of colorless gray in it, razor-intense deep burgundy, living cherry. The orbs—greater in size than a man, or tiny like jewels—hung like blood drops over the district. And the surrounding colorless black shadows, refusing to be fully dispelled, danced continuously, pulsing to the rhythm of the human hearts in their pleasure. Day and night, the Red Quarter glowed, opening its arms to the City.
Who knows why red is chosen to represent human lusts? Another mystery whose truth had been lost at the time of the Fall.
At ten o’clock, lying next to the Red Quarter, the Northwest Quarter belonged to the Artisans of Tronaelend-Lis. The Artisan Guild was a powerful major Guild, with as many trade secrets as the Light Guild, on which it bordered, and equally inaccessible. Here were hundreds of various workshops, where all imaginable crafts were practiced. The Artisan Quarter rang under hammer blows, clicked under chisels, hissed with fire-torches, whispered with the shifting of folds of silk and rough linen and gossamer-fine gauze, trembled under the tuning of instruments and pounding of dancers’ feet, thrilled to the sound of singing, heeded in awe the quiet voices of the poets reciting to themselves in solitude, and waited in sublime ecstasy for the last lifting stroke of an artist’s fine paintbrush creating a masterpiece of pallor upon black, or black on pallor.
In this vibrant place—more alive, in a sense, than its neighboring Red Quarter—dwelled the creative power in all its earthly forms. And minor Guilds, for every nuance of an art, were housed within its guarded walls.
There were, in fact, more little secrets here, secrets of a craftsman’s skill, than in the Northern neighbor, the Light Quarter, which contained but one secret. The Light Guild, however, made it possible for the Artisans to produce those mysterious things called “dyes,” substances that, when illuminated by very strong desaturated monochromes, appeared to actually “hold” and display the energy of one particular color. Thus, objects such as clothing of the aristocrats, or certain parts of inner decor, when treated by the “dye,” and then lit, appeared to retain a hue of its own, no matter what color light was shining upon the object. Such were the miracles the two Guilds in collaboration were capable of achieving.
But the Artisan Guild relied less upon the hints dropped from the Inner City than upon its own abilities. For here, working under the pale illumination of monochromes, were more willful, eccentric persons of genius than in all of Tronaelend-Lis.
Such were the eight Quarters of the City, like eight capricious men and women of character and distinction, living together, yet remaining apart. But there were two more divisions in Tronaelend-Lis.
Imagine the great eight-spoked wheel, with the hub-center being the Dirvan, and around it, like a small narrow hoop, spinning the swift Arata. Now, beyond the Arata, draw yet another much wider circumference. These were the great City Markets, sponsored by the Guilds, where they sold their wares and services, and over it watched the Merchant Guild. Long ago, the original eight boundary walls had stretched all the way from the outside wall of the City to the circular Canal. Yet upon common agreement—probably the only unanimous decision in ages—the Quarters tore down the walls closest to the Canal and made a common area for the sake of trade. New walls were erected to clearly define this new outer circumference, and to close in, once again, the Quarters and their secrets, only starting farther out. The Markets, containing more than half of all the City’s stores, chaotic and wonderful, prospered, to further the trade success of the City.
The last of the divisions of Tronaelend-Lis was more abstract. A great common road spanned the City in a roughly circular manner, its circumference closer to the outer edge than the center, cutting across all the Quarters. It was the Fringes Thoroughfare, and its generous width allowed larger traffic to move freely in both directions about the City. Twelve large carts could be placed on it, side by side, and yet there would be room enough for a smaller carriage to pass.
The Thoroughfare was a marvelous roadway, a roundabout. For, like the Arata Canal, and the tendency of many other things in the City, it returned upon itself, having no beginning or end, going around in an eternal circle. There were smaller roads and streets cutting across it from everywhere, and that’s how one got onto it. The paved Fringes Thoroughfare went past low clay houses with thatched roofs, tall walled villas, gardens of all kinds. It opened upon large cobblestoned and tiny padded-dirt side streets crossing it. It ran by slums and smells of decay, past aromatic tavern-houses and little shops which did not dare take on the competition of the Markets, hiding here safely. It continued past open squares and empty stretches of ivy-covered wall on both sides. All along were placed Guild-regulated toll gates, the only nuisance, and they demanded their own set fees to enter each Quarter.
Now, about the Fringes themselves. They were the general City area, away from the Dirvan center, and starting on the outer side of the Fringes Thoroughfare. The Fringes included all the Quarters of Tronaelend-Lis, and their only distinction from the rest of the City was that they tended to be more residential. They also tended to be poor, which is quite sensible, considering that the richest was the heart of the City. The Southern Fringes of the Free Quarter held the largest slum area, with filth and decay predominating. So filthy it was, that it was an insult to imply that one’s origins were from the Southern Fringes. This was the “Sore” on the face of the graceful timeless City.
Thus appeared Tronaelend-Lis, City of elusive dreams, organized in perfect circularity—with the last outer circumference beyond the city walls being that second veil over your senses which you have just cast aside. . . .
Yet all order meant ultimately nothing, for this was a place of seething change. Even the seemingly eternal walls between the eight Quarters will someday come down—torn down irreverently without consideration of their historic antiquity—to be replaced by something else. . . . But until then, such was the City.
Everyone who lived in the great West Lands—forested and remote, and even by their name suggesting that, being west of something, they were a part of a greater whole—everyone had at least once in a lifetime visited the oldest City in these parts. They came, whether to bring their trade to the bursting Markets, or to seek work with the Guilds. They came to visit such “sights” as the outer Dirvan (where at least once in their life they could see the glittering aristocracy) with its cultivated Gardens, its sunlit lawns and marble statuary, its private villas where cool sparkling fountains ran silver in the gray sunlight. There, the magnificent marble Dome of the Mausoleum stood aloof in a grove of black cedar and cypress, and within it, under the semi-opaque roof of glass-crystal, upon an upraised dais, lay the ancient glass Casket with the last King.
They came to learn from the Masters of the Lyceum, to seek, and steal, and worship, and serve, and be served. And some of them came simply to sit in the shade of the great Temples, and to look at the life around them, and think. . . .
The people of the City were proud. Certainly they had good reasons even for arrogance, having built a place of artful dreams. Only—this kind of pride is not exactly arrogance but patriotism.
And patriotic they were. Always, ready welcome was there for all newcomers, but it took quite some time for the shy newcomer to become like them, and even then, never quite. One had to be born here. For the City shaped its own dreaming kind from the moment of birth, with every inhaled breath, every swallowed drop of water and every intake of food.
The people of Tronaelend-Lis walked within a silver dream. So occupied they were with life that often it seemed to recent outsiders that they were blind to something very essential.
The very name “Tronaelend-Lis” had a dream quality about it, like the Old Tongue, hinting of things insubstantial—thus spoke the old-timers. The actual word ceased to have any meaning in this Tongue of ours.
Tro . . . na . . . e . . . lend-Lis. The syllables extended into a soft temple chant, musical birdsong, the patter of aftern
oon rain upon smooth cobblestones. It prompted the mind with empty hints of something old, true, and fine like vapor curling over a porcelain cup of hot tea.
In those days long gone, when there had been that impossibility called Rainbow, then maybe, had folk known the original source of the name of the City that held in it everything.
Tronaelend-Lis. . . . spoke another poet, this one humble, with not enough arrogance to let his words be heard too loud. His words were never recited in the Markets, nor mouthed in the lilting song of an erotene, nor even remembered with inebriation in high Dirvan, no. These words only the wind witnessed, and the hueless stones, and one true man’s solitude.
Tronaelend-Lis. When I die, let me dissolve into you. Then, only, will I know life’s color. Let me dissolve. . . .
And through the dream motion of its living silver, the boundless City will, in that final hour, hear him.
* * *
“Move along now, hurry! You brainless, flea-spawning filth! Gather your trash, your worthless garbage, your rusted pots and pans! Hurry, in the name of all the existent and nonexistent gods! Let them strike you with their scalding breath! Let them fry your kirihk, until it turns black and falls off, if you don’t gather yourself and be gone before I can count to three! One, two, three! Let them—”
With a look of utmost boredom, Ranhé stood holding the reins of the two horses, as they waited their turn in traffic to pass the Southwest Gate of the City. Their carriage was second in line, but had the misfortune to come just after a small cart belonging to a traveling tinker, who had the gall to have his cart accidentally collapse at the exact moment of entering the Gates. The guard who checked all passing traffic was singing an aria of abuse at the unfortunate man, his subdued mule, and the pile of metallic utensils scattered on the ground, effectively blocking the entrance. It was uncertain what had happened, except that now all traffic was held up until the tinker could clear the way.
The guard was not an original fellow. “You, worst enemy of mine,” he continued haranguing the tinker automatically. “You are a mule! Your mother was a mule, your father was a mule, and your mule is less than a mule! The whole lot of you are mangy! And your merchandise is like the droppings of the gods, a blessing I never asked for! May you be blessed likewise!”
The timid tinker hurriedly piled pots and kettles, in a wild disarray, upon his broken cart, at the same time apologizing profusely.
Sitting in the driver’s seat above where Ranhé stood, Pheyl Milhas grumbled a curse, low in his breath, and spat out a wad of tobacco on the roadside.
Much good you are, thought Ranhé, glancing at the slow apathetic man whom Elas hired to drive the carriage. You can’t even be trusted to control the horses well enough in this busy place, so that I have to help you lead them.
Out loud she said, “Not much longer, I hope.”
In answer, Milhas only rolled his eyes. He wasn’t bad really, simply boredom incarnate.
She’d had to dismount and lead the horses here at the Gates, because, although trained excellently, they were not used to a strange and incompetent driver and could not be risked in this strong traffic.
A few steps away Elasand sat atop his own horse, his face and form cloaked in the gray, keeping back.
So aloof. . . .
Ranhé’s thoughts of Elas were a blend of sarcasm and guesswork. There was that constant sheen of superiority, of lordly disdain upon him even now, as he watched and waited.
Their ride to the City had taken them half the day, but was not as uneventful as they expected. Although none of it had called for Ranhé’s sword skill. In the middle of the journey, one of the horses’ shoes came loose, so they had to stop.
Pheyl Milhas announced dully that he knew nothing of re-shoeing horses, only of driving, and that was what he’d been hired for. And he began to argue in that apathetic but relentless way that this was outside his duties.
It was then that Ranhé, to her secret amusement, saw a yet another side of her lordly employer.
Elas said a curt profanity.
“I know exactly whose fault it is,” he then continued, his lips trembling with an angry controlled smile. “Let’s blame all of this crap on a certain brother and sister pair of the Grelias. None of it would even be, if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get to this City of glorious—” And then he went silent, not wishing to say more before his hirelings.
“I myself have some knowledge of shoeing horses,” he said when his aunt’s worried face looked out of the carriage window. “However, I value this fine animal too highly to trust myself not to damage him.”
Ranhé had been waiting quietly, watching with some interest, a bemused observer. Finally, it became obvious that no one would find a solution.
“M’lord, if you have the necessary tools, I’ll fix the horseshoe. Even if none are at hand I can attempt it with a knife, but the damage to your horse might be irreparable.”
Everyone turned to her. The two noblewomen fidgeted, but by now had almost gotten used to the idea of this tall masculine woman capable not only of guarding them and cracking bad jokes, but of a great number of other things.
Elas was not as easily impressed. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
Ranhé shrugged. “I was letting Master Pheyl earn his pay.”
“I am only a driver—” began Milhas angrily.
“Yes, we know that now,” said Elas, cutting him off in midsentence. He watched Ranhé unblinkingly, as she dismounted and proceeded to do the job with a light-handed skill of a professional. A few blows of the hammer that had been retrieved from the tool compartment on the bottom of the driver’s seat, and new nails were driven into the hoof, tightening the iron shoe. The horse took this docilely, because Ranhé’s touch was so light.
“Thank you,” said Elasand, looking straight in her eyes. “I will pay you extra.”
“That would be unnecessary. My lord might prefer to squander coins in some other fashion.”
At this he laughed, a pleasant sound, but with that fine touch of condescension. “Ah, freewoman, how did I ever earn such loyalty? I should employ you permanently.”
His words were flippant.
Ranhé said nothing. The rest of their ride was uneventful. And now they stood at the Gates of Tronaelend-Lis.
At last the tinker’s cart was filled again with his wares, hitched to a tow-wagon, and rolled away through the monolithic iron arches of the Gates.
Ranhé glanced up meanwhile, admiring the sleek outer walls of pale granite stone, worn smooth by time. Even for the hundredth time, the City never failed to impress.
The afternoon sun’s gray light was momentarily hidden by a cobweb haze of cloud. The dark and light splendor of rising and falling shadows, as glimpsed from beyond the City walls, was now like a forest of vapor-shades, never geometric, but flowing, curving. As always, all outlines became vague, blurred, with the decreased visibility. And somehow, as always, that bothered her.
Ranhé felt she was missing something, an element, a finer deeper clarity of things, every time there was a haze which obscured the sun. Really, it took so little to make all things blend into themselves. A little less light, as at sundown, and the world blurred and was lost completely into absolute blackness.
The sun, damn it! she thought. Come out, shine so I can see this place properly, like a connoisseur. Every first glimpse has always been memorable to me. . . .
As if hearing her, the sun shone bright suddenly, and the blurred splatter-bits of the world raced back together into razor-fine focus. Ranhé blinked at the intensity of blacks and pale grays superimposed, the metallic surfaces catching the light like mirrors. And suddenly, thousands of spires and turrets blazed from afar, while the other matte surfaces remained subdued, to frame the gray day-fire. Tronaelend-Lis came alive, forming, in the panoramic distance of its interior.
* * *
Postulate Nine: Rainbow is Multidimensional.
* * *
Silver sunlight and wind cam
e and went easily through the tall arched window in an opulent room where a man sat, bathed in the metallic day-glow, elbows leaning on the table, all attention upon the pile of rocks spread out before him on the tabletop. The man was in his late middle years, bearded, with even strong features and calm shrewd eyes. His looks epitomized the wealthy merchant. For indeed, he was one of the Prada, and trade ran in his veins, alongside the so-called noble blood that had given his Great Family, one of the Ten, a somewhat sullied name.
Gilimas Prada was not just a merchant. For if he were, he’d be now stationed in a fine house in the Merchant Quarter, not in a fine Palace Villa in Dirvan, as he was now. And if he were but a merchant, the pile of rocks on his tabletop might’ve consisted of amber, carnelian, agate, garnet, rose quartz, and some lapis-lazuli, as opposed to what lay before his intent gaze at the moment—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and at least five varieties of diamond.
Gilimas Prada was not just a merchant. Like a man hypnotized, he stared vacantly at the immeasurable riches scattered before him, but all his sight registered was the dancing rays of sun, split, shimmering, and fragmented, upon the various polished surfaces of the gems. He did not at that moment think of the inherent carat value of the largest diamond in that pile, deep and smoky, and cut in the hexagonal pattern of a snowflake. Nor did he appear to care that the seven rubies in this hoard had been carefully chosen from hundreds upon hundreds presented to his astute appraisers by the foreign tradesmen that had come within these last five years to Tronaelend-Lis. The rubies had been chosen because each one was of the very shade of translucent blackness that was human blood. And each was faultless in its center, abysmally perfect underneath the gleaming facet work.
Gilimas watched the stones. That watching of his was neither in appraisal, nor admiration. It had long ceased to matter to him what each stone was. Indeed, only long practice forced upon him, somewhere deep in the background of his conscious thoughts, the awareness of each stone, the minute distinctions. That one, for example, held in it a trace of the ebony sea, a ripple of water-depth darkness, and was therefore an aquamarine, as opposed to the equally deep-shadowed sapphire which instead contained in it the airy late-evening sky.