The Books Of Ressor Fanion - Book I - Chapter 1

when mother is daughter ~ when father is son one shall be all ~ all shall be one

Tabra Tal’s Writ of Time, Book of Mysteries, Canto 16::Verse 16

Sharpe – The Books of Ressor Fanion

Book One Harona

Ressor Fanion said :: 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. That particular ink is a formulation that I have not prepared in an age of 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 clots in an unstoppered inkhorn. Exceedingly useful properties—I should think you would agree—to combine in a single kind of ink. 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 that could eliminate it. The offensive odor you see is an intrinsic of the evaporative—an essence— and is therefore immune to the influences of a subtractive substance. When I tried additives of adequate potency—by which I mean masking fragrances—I found only a handful of aromatic oils up to the task. But experimentation soon convinced me that the introduction of an oil even in trace proportions would produce an imbalance in the solution that could not be compensated without sacrificing the very properties I sought by which I mean the ink’s variable rates of desiccation— Oh no. No no no—certainly this is no way to begin. Variable rates of 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 beg your pardon. So shall we begin again—though it is curious is it not? Quite strange how 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 otherwise slumbering memories are in this manner, of a sudden, made fully

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vivid and vital again. It is a phenomenon that I have had occasions in my life to make great use of. The odor of that ink transports me directly to my earliest days at the 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. It is surely a thing to be marveled at. That one can—that I can—return again to my rooms in the Burrows of Athalan simply because this air is 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 that merits a revisitation. Do remind me to return to it. The Burrows, I should explain, had by time and tradition been given over by the city of Athalan to serve as the students’ quarter, an enclave fully deserving of whatever reputation that your imagination may entertain. The

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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 grain of half-used paper for the sake of economy. 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 dormitories and crumbling courtyards. Oh certainly, the courtyards. The heart of Athalan beats in its cherished courts—and so on. It’s a verse from an ancient song that has been passed down intact—and in parody I might add—through generations of students. Some claim it was composed by Tabra Tal himself. Which is ridiculous, of course. There was no Athalan, no Burrows, no Academy in the days of our Teacher. But it is certainly true that life in Athalan was lived in its courtyards. I myself passed many an hour—idle as well as industrious—in the multitude of courtyards which punctuated every neighborhood in the Burrows. The courtyard in the cluster of dormitories where the botanists lodged appealed particularly to 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 available to my mortar and pestle. Such is the world. As Tabra Tal rightly says, an unopened gate prevents two paths’ passing. So thus improved, the botanists’ courtyard became my preferred 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 utterly unbearable places. Being accustomed to a much more temperate climate, I 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 Library, a sanctuary of inherent pleasure compounded by the decision of its

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architect to pierce the apex of the dome with a great oculus to provide all of the light one needed with the ventilation that one desired. 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 courtyards were coveted as haunts—of a different sort—even in those dark 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? Would it be unexpected to cross the desultory path of an exiled insomniac or 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 avian eyes of the moons? I mistake myself for a poet at times. My apologies to you and to poets. I 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 another and became hotbeds of disputation and contention. For you see, Athalan was—and always had been as far as can be reckoned—absolutely polluted with debating societies. Astonishingly so. I 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 taking such a census. Indeed, it could well be doubted whether any event could be said to have actually transpired in Athalan unless the causes and circumstances of its occurrence were duly debated. For with sufficient friction applied, anything and everything that happened—no matter how frivolous—seemed to spark 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! An admirable improvement! Proposition: The pranks lately pulled by the students

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of law cannot be dismissed as mere high-spirited amusement. They’re ill-bred scoundrels of no account and—mark my words—will get what’s coming to ‘em! You’re a lot of precious talk, ain’t you, lackbrain! 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 our nature was in full voice. Where was I? Evening, courtyards, infestation of debating clubs—oh 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 reexamination of the day’s lectures and a discussion of assigned readings. 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 form for the nightly debates. So in theory and mostly in practice, the debating clubs operated as organized study groups and undoubtedly it would have been the policy of the

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Academy administration to encourage them even if the existence of these societies were not already so inextricably entrenched by tradition. Mentors, as I mentioned, would also attend the debates if they had a mind to but were under no obligation by the Academy. When I became a mentor, however, I continued 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 conversation to the injustice of marks received or when another would try to curry favor through shameless flattery of my teaching methods. But on the whole, I believe I benefited by taking part as much as my students. I sense your disappointment in my description. It is hardly consonant with my prologue to it. How, you may well wonder, does a study group rate as a hotbed of contentiousness? Let me continue. 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 Academy administration may say—without discipline. These societies engaged in fiery oratory for its own sake and practiced rhetoric in its purest and most perditious form. Thus, the topics of debate were always a combustible combination—politics, religion, natural philosophy, ethics, poetics—all the more volatile when agitated by the earnestness of youth.

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Many of these societies boasted an incorporation predating the founding of the Academy itself. Thus, much to the chagrin and chronic consternation of the administration, these societies maintained a defiant—insolent is the better 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 battles—there is not a better word—among these societies were not 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 would assemble in a tight, murmuring knot in the center of a courtyard, 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 would be received like dry wood pitched upon a bonfire. 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 introductions. It has been said—indeed certain historians have convincingly 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 Athalan. Speaking for myself, I cannot refute it. 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 thrifty inhabitants of early Athalan took good advantage of nature’s masonry and carted the blocks of stone away for use in various reconstructions in the shaken and presumably grieving village. 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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rock set in the courtyard of the theologians’ neighborhood of the Burrows. By tradition the stone is a piece of that rubble and by appearances it is a memorial to 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, was reason. Such rubbish! I talk as if times had changed. 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 speakers’ platform in The Court, the name—pretentious in its simplicity—given to the theologians’ courtyard in which they debated. Entrance to both societies was strictly by election or by connections and each administered their own elaborate initiation rites—so solemn, so secret, and so silly. 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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debates—without question or qualification—the debates between these rival 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 determined to leave no flame unfanned. Do though consider our predicament. Surely we were the first generation 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 saddled us with. We questioned everything but our brilliance. We were spectacular. We were— We were young. We were a spectacle. And we would have been 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 lamps. So full of myself and empty.

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I well remember my arrival in Athalan. Shall I tell you of my grand entrance? I arrived—not at a gallop I assure you—but in the back of a busklor cart. After four days and four nights plodding across the desert—the final leg of a very long journey—the busklor and I were in seeming competition as to which 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 there, encompassed by the concentric stacks of countless books and manuscripts, 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. Of course, the best books and manuscripts—the most ancient and obscure—could not be taken from the Library. I would have to transcribe them. So I devised an exceptionally efficient method of writing that allowed me to take

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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 strokes. Obviously I would need an ink that dried instantaneously so that my trailing left hand would not smudge the marks made by the right. But this is no way to begin. I must go farther back to where my memory 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 most determined designs, the tale tells itself.

[End of First Session]

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