Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 12

My teachers, I thought, were correct: the greater the poet, the harder it is to find the proper audience.

"A true artist, then," he countered. "Is your compositional skill as ready as your wit?"

I nodded with appropriate humility.

"On the ninth day of this zhent I'm arranging entertainment for nine of the Kaim'eri and chosen members of their Houses-about forty in all. I would like an original piece, dutifully inoffensive, strictly apolitical. Something violent would be appropriate. Keep it generally appealing; some of my guests are not known for subtlety." He paused dramatically. "There'll be time enough for that later if you do this one well."

I ignored the promise in his voice as his discretionary under-mode cautioned me to. "I'll need a guest list," I offered hesitantly. I had been uncertain as to whether or not this was a reasonable request, but his smile told me he was pleased.

"I'll have one sent. You are staying. . . ."

I looked at the gold before me and decided to move. "Kurat-Seret, at the Dekor'va."

"I know the house. It will be forwarded. Have you any further business with me?"

"No," I said, my speech mode indicating: yes.

"Good." His promised: later.

I almost danced home.

Five nights-nine Kaim'eri-by the G.o.ds who abandoned us, it was not possible!

Anything is possible, whispered my poet's soul (in the speech mode of doubt).

Let me tell you the tale of a poet who hanged himself with promises. . . .

Zatar's list arrived promptly and it was as thorough a guide as one could ask for.

Nine Kaim'eri with no tastes in common and Householders with less. What do you say to a Braxana who expects insolence, yet will not tolerate it-who expects to be praised, yet sneers at sycophancy? And how did I get myself committed to finding a solution?

I chose and discarded enough themes to stock a library with literature-tapes.

Most were too subtle-some were not subtle enough-a few were simply rotten ideas to start with. My rented floor was littered with a carpet of discarded thoughts. I would have been satisfied to have a theme and be incapable of finding the proper words to express it; that was a poet's lot in life. But to be entirely bereft of a theme: that was a fate I would not wish upon an Azean!

History I discarded early. Such images were fine for amateurs, but history was a subjective science at best and every recorded incident was seen in different ways by different people. There is no worse torture for a poet than to hear "Yes, it was a fair performance, but weren't there four hundred and thirty-six Azeans taken at the battle of Kos-Torr, as opposed to four hundred and thirty-two?"

Likewise I discarded all tales of s.e.xual desire. The variance in taste among my audience-to-be was enough to give a poet nightmares, and it did. I couldn't even use the amateurish last resort of throwing in a bit of everything, for Kaim'era Retev's Mistress found s.e.xual experimentation distasteful.

Taz'hein! I couldn't have designed a worse situation if someone had commissioned me to do so.

Then I considered, and I recalled my oath of frustration. Taz'hein-the unconcerned traitor-G.o.d-father of the Braxana. Did I have the nerve to present a religious theme to a people who scorned nothing more than active religion? Why not?

Far into the night I scribbled and dictated. Once I had to run out with my recorder to pick up a new charge; while on the streets I narrowly avoided a male figure on the prowl for satisfaction. Did my time count as work-time enough that I had Just Cause to refuse him? I was unwilling to test the point. True, it's not impossible to compose poetry while serving as a receptacle for some stranger's l.u.s.t, but it's blessed difficult.

Dawn broke over my first outline. By mid-aftemoon of the second day I began to see the promise of a masterpiece. What had begun as a tale of glory had become twisted with subtle brilliance into something of far greater scope, and I could feel it happening as I worked. Level after level of meaning was added: something for everybody. For the simple, on the surface, a b.l.o.o.d.y tale of the divine origin of the tribe of the Braxana. For Zatar and his kind, who are the men a poet lives to serve, a thousand layers of meaning to uncover, a touch of macabre humor here and there which would tell a second, third, even a fourth tale simultaneously, as only a mistress of the Art could do it.

By the fourth day it was woven, a verbal mesh of war, l.u.s.t, and-of course-The Ultimate Treachery. I will tell you of the death of the Creator, I chanted as I fell asleep on my desk, and my mind used the opportunity to dream the thousand subtleties which that one line could contain, given the speech modes of the Braxana.

"The poet, Lanst'va."

I bowed deeply, my heart beating wildly. I knew two of these people were at least moderately hostile to my Art; them I must win over if I valued my life. The rest must be pleased, seduced . . . manipulated. That was the true art which such poetry as mine involved.

1 I will tell you of the death of the Creator (Triumph/satisfaction/finality) 2 And you who choose to mourn G.o.ds will be moved (Superiority tinged with amus.e.m.e.nt) 3 And all who would accord folly worship (Emphasized superiority) 4 Fall down upon bended knee before the fate of the heavens (Mocking command) 5 And raise not your unworthy eyes to the Void of the living G.o.ds.

By the thirtieth line I had captured them, and I edited my work as their almost imperceptible responses advised. That is one of the challenges of spoken poetry; the best preparation still cannot antic.i.p.ate an audience, and many poets have failed to communicate through unwillingness to adapt a treasured text. I saw my script as a living, vital thing, and as it reached out to these Braxana I helped it to grow into something greater than the pre-prepared word could ever be.

In strong words I drew a glorious picture of the Creator. My images came from the mythology of other peoples, to whom no G.o.d was greater than that responsible for the creation of All. This was as it should be, in order that the magnitude of his fall might be all the more dramatic. Beneath the story, and far beneath the underlayer of irony which was the prevalent mode for this potion, I laced the work with enough subtle implications to allow them to laugh at my expense-for Avra-Salos, creator of the universe and all that he placed in it, my creator, was not the father of the Braxana.

I let my voice darken in foreboding as I spoke of the creation of Taz'hein as a suitable companion for the One. Delicately I shadowed my speech with chaos as Ar was born, the mate of the First and the mold for womankind, whose birth left no thought free in the heavens, thereafter known as the Void of Consciousness.

They were mine, these Braxana, and I knew it. I worked by instinct, reciting from memory in some parts and improvising in others. And as far as I could judge, I was choosing correctly.

Ar in her dire glory swept over my audience, a G.o.ddess of chaos whose freedom decreed the bondage of man to the will of woman. I knew that in that moment, as I spoke to them, as I controlled them, that they feared that G.o.ddess as they would never have rationally chosen to do, these men who played falsely at atheism.

Though most of them could not understand every layer of meaning I presented to them, unconsciously they absorbed it all. I saw this clearly reflected in their eyes and mannerisms as I continued.

The war of the sister worlds enveloped them then, and my voice praised Taz'hein for betraying and destroying his Creator even as I lamented the betrayal in pseudo-religious grief. Worlds shook-human blood ran in rivers-is this enough violence for you, Kaim'era Zatar?

Then, switching to the modes which imply s.e.xuality and power, I spoke of Taz'hein's manifestation on Braxi and the begetting of the Braxana. It seemed to please them so I lingered on that point, improvising more detailed description that I had originally intended.

With a sudden adjustment in tone I moved to the conditional bondage of Ar. I kept the implication of threat to a minimum; the mythological promise of her freedom in the event of female dominance would be too strong, coming as it did from a woman, if not handled carefully. I sensed that these men who had once scorned even that myth were not quite as certain of their own atheism by the time I was done.

My closing encompa.s.sed a view of the Braxana barbarian, in whose ruthlessness resided the promise of future power. More would be cheap sycophancy. The Braxana mythology already supports both the Social Codes and the Braxana right to power. It can be enough when the poet presents it, rendering each word in a different mode, giving each phrase a thousand meanings.

There was silence.

Then Zatar nodded slowly, a sign that I had succeeded and should leave without word. Bowing deeply, I obeyed.

Before I had reached the outer door, his Mistress caught up with me.

"He would have you wait," she said. I stopped walking. "In here." She indicated a small sitting room off the entrance hall. It was decorated lavishly in the Central Braxana style. Not being accustomed to sitting on the floor, cushions or no, I perched on the ege of a lowtable.

Some short time later the Kaim'era himself entered. I stood, that I might bow.

"An excellent performance."

"I thank you, Magnificent One."

"And it was not an easy a.s.signment."

I let amus.e.m.e.nt color my voice. "I am very aware of that, Kaim'era."

"It was intentional. You've earned your business time the hard way, poet. I'm listening."

My heart was pounding. This was already farther than any of my kind had ever gotten with him, I knew, and Zatar's verbal reputation had attracted many a skilled poet.

"Your House lacks my Art, Great One."

"My House has its Master," he responded dryly.

1 indicated my deep respect for his verbal skill. "But has it a poet? Doubtless your politics are rendered with unequaled skill, but have you an artist to choose the words which will give maximum play to the beauty of our tongue?" He said nothing and I continued without pause, lest I lose courage. "I can provide pleasure-pain-instruction. I'm trained to make any audience feel whatever I wish. I lay that skill at your feet. I will bring you simple pleasure, Kaim'era, or I will build you legends. You have but to choose."

I had run out of words. In silence he regarded me, his emotions masked by a stone exterior I knew I would never penetrate.

"Let's review your motives." I trembled but nodded.

"You are a woman. As such, you cannot support yourself in any field requiring authority over men. The arts entail a special risk, since being independent of authority you have no way of demanding payment if such is refused."

"This is true, Kaim'era." And hit home, painfully.

"As an artist you are apart from the Braxin cla.s.s structure. In the eyes of common society you are the lowest of all. Becoming part of a purebred House would grant you legitimacy and a second cla.s.s designation."

"True, Kaim'era, but-"

"And you are a rebel. Did you think I wouldn't research your past? You inspired a crowd nearly to rebellion on Vreski as an 'exercise in oratory manipulation.'

Only when you renounced your cla.s.s privileges to devote yourself to more harmless artistic pursuits was your life spared-and even that by a close vote."

I felt a chill rising in the depths of my soul. I had changed my name, my appearance, and all other personal essentials since then. I had never realized he would be so thorough.

"In addition, I find it clear by your presentation that you revel in the manipulation of men." He raised a hand to silence my protest. "Just as the mistress of our language can work on a subconscious level, so can its master read as deeply. So. You want cla.s.s, money, security. And you, a Braxin woman, would play a manipulative game with the Master Race, hoping someday to understand that nature which we keep secret from your kind and to command it under the guise of poetry. Understand that under the best of circ.u.mstances you would have to abandon your freedom at my door. Your every move would be watched. Your every word would be recorded and sent to me. Your poetry would be censored.

And if your poetic approach ever disturbed me, I would have you killed without a second thought-perhaps slowly." He regarded me with a steadiness which made me shudder, and in silence made me reconsider just what I wanted to get myself into. Ultimate folly! What had I known of Braxana ways, I who had thought only of my Art, and my pleasure?

A strange satisfaction crossed his face, almost as if he were aware of the humility his speech had fostered within me. He turned to go-but merely to reject my service, or to punish me for past rebellion?

He glanced back once before leaving, and his expression was again unreadable.

"Come to this estate tomorrow evening." His deep voice was shaded with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Your Mistress will see to rooms and wages. Ask for her when you arrive."

I could say nothing, for he was gone too quickly.

Taz'hein!

Thus I entered the House of Zatar-I, artist and instigator, poet and revolutionary.

Doubtless had I been born male my life would have been different. I can imagine myself dying in the front lines of a premature revolution, fighting for the excitement of commanding the actions of others while striving to throw off the yoke of the Pale Ones' rule. But instead I was born a woman, and so must fulfill my dreams in a mode suitable to that s.e.x. It was a hard fate to bear. I didn't mind the forced accessibility which most women waste time condemning, nor the chil- dren whose unexpected arrival cost me time and health. But the soul of a manipulator was in me from my birth, and that is a cruel misalignment of interests among such a people as mine.

So I turned to language. It allowed me to combine my creative and commanding instincts so subtly that few men realized the manipulative power of my Art. And when the Braxana, who are more sensitive than most on this point, arrested me for my audacity, they labeled me shem'Ar rather than revolutionary-a woman in command of men, a servant of the G.o.ddess of Chaos Incarnate: the ultimate Braxin taboo.

I think it was my Art that saved me. The Braxana show little mercy toward those that defy them, but that which pleases them is often safe from their rage. I pleaded for my life in a glorious display of their language which brought me the right to survive, once they had stripped me of the right to do anything but speak.

And now the House of Zatar! The thrill of it overwhelmed me; at the same time, I was filled with dread. Zatar had claimed my life and willingly I gave it to him.

But how long before the essence of the shem'Ar arose again to vibrant life and cast me into danger through his displeasure?

When I was not obsessed by such fears as this my life was one of challenge and pleasure. The young Kaim'era whom I served was indeed a master of his tongue and it took all my talent and training to please him. But oh, the rapture of performing for a Braxana audience! No s.e.xual contact could bring such pleasure, no wine such intoxication.

It was my duty to instruct Ni'en in the delicate nuances of our language, and because it was Zatar's will she tried to be a good pupil. But even as she learned a speech mode it betrayed her; for each instance in which she applied it constructively there were another five in which she unconsciously allowed it to flavor her language, revealing more of her inner self than any Mistress of a Braxana House could afford. Fully half of our drills were designed to strip the obvious from her communication, to teach her to express herself not as her cla.s.s does, to express its feelings, but as his cla.s.s does, to support an image and communicate acceptable emotions.

And how she worked to please him! Was her devotion wholly inspired by those emotions which we strive to deny (but which, the poet knows, persist in the human heart nonetheless)? Or because she was an outsider in his upper-cla.s.s world, who must serve him or know complete isolation? Braxana society shunned us both-her for her brand, me for my past. Where else could we have found fulfillment but at his side?

Few men in the House showed any s.e.xual interest in me and many of those who did were sterile; a fringe benefit of service to the Braxana. Such a situation allowed me to express sensuality in my work as I had not dared before, and I know this development both pleased and amused my Master even as it pleased and confused me.

My work was censored, as he had warned me it would be. But this was merely necessity on his part, a careful control over what his House presented to the others of his Race. He himself had no fear of anything I had to say. Often he called me forth for private performances and in such situations I might choose any subject matter and experiment with any manner of treatment. Others found him harsh and intolerant: this was his public image. Toward me he was demanding, yes, but also indulgent. Providing I labored with his pleasure in mind, I might do so in unorthodox manners.

I grew more bold. His alert black eyes seemed always to reach into my soul and read my motives, yet he never voiced any displeasure regarding my newfound poetic audacity. I had been preparing a major work, a masterpiece of subtlety which ultimately questioned Braxi's devotion to the Endless War; its presentation would be dangerous in the most tolerant of company. I did not imagine I would ever have the courage-or foolhardiness-to actually perform it. But a true artisan never wholly discipline his need for creative expression; thus it was that one day I caught my Master up in a stirring tale of war and intrigue which had for its underlayer a disturbing new view of the Braxin-Azean conflict.

He regarded me for some time in silence when I had finished. "Interesting," he said finally.

I trembled. Had I gone too far? The long piece I had slaved over was a masterpiece of language, but I would not have dared to perform it for any other man. Had I misjudged him?

"You have quite a mind, woman." He was pensive. "Quite a mind, indeed. I watched your audience the last time, you know. I always do. You sway their minds as no man ever could. There is real power in you. Power to influence men."

I was very still.

"Come to me tonight," he ordered.

I knew him well enough to recognize that for the dismissal it was. I was grateful for the exit; it allowed me to camouflage my fear with movement.

Control of men-wasn't that, in essence, what he had ascribed to me?

Absolutely forbidden by any Braxin standard, intolerable in a Braxana Household: punishable, as all infractions of the Braxin social order were, with death.

If he acknowledged me as a shem'Ar I would die; no pleasure I had brought him could buy me out of that fate. The potential had always been within me, of course, and such a master of language could not have failed to notice it, but if he saw it fully manifesting itself he would have no choice but to pluck the errant weed up by its roots.

It was with a cold heart that I went to him that night.

I had never tasted a purebred Braxana; it was unexpectedly sweet. I found so little relationship between that lingering pleasure and the desperate arousal and release of the lower cla.s.ses that they seemed to be two entirely different acts. I must say that in the face of death I knew great pleasure, and though my nature had disturbed him I do not think my body did so. He had me sleep by him; this is a Braxana custom in which I had not indulged before and I found it disturbing.

Rather than sleep I observed him, his fine features relaxed in slumber, one naked hand rising and falling upon his chest with the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Three delicate golden rings adorned his fingers so lightly that even under the tight gloves of his traditional costume I had never noticed them; now they drew my eye to his long-fingered, perfectly manicured hand, which I had never before seen revealed in such a manner. I would try to remember the image for future poetry. If there were to be any future poetry.

He awoke when dawn's first light poured through the windows; fearful and unrested, I prepared myself for the worst. Yet he said nothing as he dressed. I could not help but watch him as he applied the Braxana layers to his lean form; gray over gray over gray, and on top of it all a black shortcloak, gloves, and boots.

Not until the choking high collar was tight about his neck and his medallion of rank lay golden upon his chest did he speak to me, or even acknowledge my presence.

"So you would command the ways of men," he stated simply, smoothing his long black glove-cuffs over his forearms.

"I will not dispute your judgement, Kaim'era."

He looked at me sharply. "Then speak openly. You enjoy manipulation."

Weakly I nodded.

"Of men."