Authors: Vera Nazarian
The voice from the kitchen fluctuated in waves of deep-throated anguish, as Jirve Lan would say, a poet flung to the heights of inspired fool fervor. Maertella was equally well suited to lecturing from behind a Lyceum podium, as to supervising the basting of a hen. But then, she was the best cook the inn had ever had.
“
Let us pause then, for a while, and listen to her,” said Nilmet. His voice was surprisingly firm, compared to the softness of his smile.
“
Indeed. Maybe our thoughts will be enriched sufficiently to discover fresh new tracks for our respective arguments, eh, friend?” said the innkeeper, studying the game board, and picking at his teeth with his tongue. One of his front teeth was missing, in a strategic enough place to suggest bizarre infantility.
“
. . . omelet be hung and flayed! How many times must I tell you to watch the skillet, instead of counting the flies up there on the ceiling—I know you do that, don’t try to deny, I see you look up there—goodness, why must you sit like a moronic stuffed bird? Where is your mind, girl?” continued Maertella, while loud pot-clashing was heard. Her voice oscillated from pleading to strength, yet was never unkind. “Don’t you think it’s so much easier to do what you’re told? Why can’t you be responsible—”
“
She does talk too much, actually,” said Jirve Lan. “I wish you did. Then you’d tell me what you really know. All the secrets. And you’d tell me what’s really happening in the City. For example, just today they tell me, there are rumors about these strange dangerous visitors threatening the Regents’ Palace, and even the Guilds are afraid—”
Nilmet reached forward and placed on the board
Koerdis
, the lord of
blue
, of Harsh Truth, experience, and knowledge—in the next cell right after
Dersenne
. There were now three on the board.
Koerdis
was also the lord of pure effort, a symbol of eternal work, and the Opener of New Ways, and his tiny figurine held a jar of water in one hand, pouring it endlessly into a cup that was in the other hand.
“
I know less than you do,” said Nilmet. “You should ask tomorrow’s inn guests. Every day they pass through here and tell you the latest rumors and gossip. I just sit here with you.”
Jirve Lan snorted.
In the kitchen, Maertella continued her harangue.“. . . Don’t you think I was your age once? I know what it’s like to want to be somewhere else like the big City, somewhere where they have all these fancy monochromes and beautiful rich people, and the wondrous light comes from all directions in all these different impossible
colors
. . . . But never mind. See, I learned to care whether the omelet burns. Even if it’s not my own. All the wasted food of our good Master Jirve, oh, sweet gods!”
Jirve Lan selected
Fiadolmle
from her throne cell, and moved the
green
lady of Birth, Change, and Freedom to block
Koerdis
’s path.
Fiadolmle
was like the harvest—she symbolized a lifelong path of development, and was thus connected to all things of youth and old age. Her figurine was a woman holding a flowering branch.
“
But it’s not even the wasted food that matters—think of the hen who laid the egg, how she fussed over it, how much gentleness she took in warming her hatchling-to-be! How the little dark yolk and the pale outside, so delicious to us, could’ve been a little living creature! Don’t ever forget that! We’re taking a dear thing from these beasts. Sometimes I think we have no right—”
“
Indeed, that is one truth there,” said Nilmet softly, somewhat to himself. And then he selected
Werail
, who ruled
red
, the most violent
color
, and placed him on the board before
Fiadolmle
, so that she would have to jump or surrender in the next move, for she was blocked from both sides.
Werail
, he of the Will, was passion and desire, and in
red
lay the mystery of Intensity. Thus the figurine held a sword.
Master Jirve rolled his eyes heavenward. Dullness and boredom, like a slow beast, was within him, and allowed no deep meaning to be extrapolated from anything that he now heard. Especially not now—the rich pungent aroma of fried eggs drifted into the common room, spiced with fresh dill and chopped onions. Maybe that’s why he didn’t think and allowed
Fiadolmle
to end up without a free cell to jump. Back to the middle cell throne she went, out of the game, while Nilmet got to move
Koerdis
forward.
“
I just hope,” continued Maertella’s voice from the back, “that for your own sake, some of my words finally sink in.”
The girl, all this time guiltily silent, was now heard replying tentatively, “Yes ma’am, mistress. I’m truly really sorry . . . Awfully horrid sorry . . . I’ll never do it again, ma’am . . . It’s just that—”
“
Just that what? Oh, never mind. And I know you’ll do it again, several times, before you learn anything. Just clean up this mess now, or we’ll never get dinner finished. Make another omelet when you’re done—no, make three more. We might have extra company tonight.”
Soon they heard the hiss of creamy butter dashed against a hot skillet, and the sizzle of a new batch of omelet. The sweet aroma deepened.
“
You know,” said Jirve Lan, “I’ve
never
heard her scream at a serving wench. Even now—see how calm she is. Surprising, isn’t it? A marvelous woman, yes she is. Marvelous.”
“
Why don’t you marry her?” said Nilmet simply. “Hasn’t it been enough time now that you’ve known her and seen her worth—omelet and such aside?”
The innkeeper laughed nervously, as though he was somewhat naively puzzled at the idea. He then took Love herself,
Laelith
, the gentle Tilirreh of
violet
whose domain it was, both human and sacred, and placed her on the board to block
Dersenne
.
Laelith
also symbolized persistence, strength, and paradox, and was the lady of the Way Things Are. Her figurine stood artless, empty-handed and simple.
Nilmet gave another kind smile and shrug, and surrendered
Dersenne
back to his cell throne in the middle and out of the game.
Maertella seemed to have forgotten the unpleasant incident with the burned omelet, because now her voice soared in a completely different mood. The two men listened, locked in easy idleness, and inhaled the scent of freshly grated cucumber and yogurt soup that was being prepared as a side dish. It was the nature of the time, just preceding dinner, when thoughts stood in a haze, with nothing else left to do but wait.
And so they waited.
Orange
faces regarded each other across the counter,
orange
bodies leaned against the countertop which itself was
orange
, bordering on pale
rust
. The light streamed evenly from the large orb in the inner corner of the common room, touching all things. The orb-light itself, the source, was so very pale, so intensely desaturated, that it came close to
white
.
Or at least, so it was claimed. After all, who knew what
white
looked like? Not even the sorcerous light-technicians could aspire to that dream, although what they manufactured in the Light Guild was supposed to approximate it.
What the White Roads Inn possessed in terms of illumination was but a fine-quality desaturated
orange
monochrome. Jirve Lan had had it installed a couple of years ago, brought all the way from the City, the work of one of the best of Light Guild craftsmen.
Why had he chosen that particular monochrome,
orange
, rather than any other, he was often asked.
“
Well,” Jirve would reply. “
Orange
. To me it has always appealed in several ways. There is, first of all, something warming about it, don’t you think? Nice and cheerful and warm. Unlike the other
colors
. Seems to be quite appropriate for my sort of establishment. Warmth. Roadside cheer—It’s all up here, you see.”
And he would point at his temple and smile in that funny baby-toothed way of his. “I suppose you might say that I now have
Melixevven
, lady of Joy, watching over me and mine. In any case, here’s comfortable superstition for you.”
And then he’d turn practical, and his teeth would disappear behind the calm line of mouth. “Besides, I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but
orange
is associated nowadays, by the learned, not so much with traditional joy and all the Tilirr paraphernalia, but—with hunger. Yes, don’t look so surprised, I said, hunger! It’s supposed to awaken a ravenous appetite. Definitely, I’d like to make use of that. My customers would clamor for food, after an hour or so of being in an
orange
-lit room. And so far, it works. So, there. There’s your explanation. Everything else is nonsense, because I’m not religious, and besides, all monochromes of this level of craftsmanship cost alike.”
Ultimately, Jirve Lan always came down to the point.
Jirve was of an average build, middle-aged, with regular features, his skin tone barely silvered from the days spent indoors and away from the sun. He was also kind at times, but in a lukewarm way, and absentminded. However, he made no absentminded mistakes in keeping his inn accounts, nor did he ever overlook anything of the business side. He was quick to anger, quick to sentimental reminiscences; philosophy was his hobby.
But Jirve Lan, innkeeper of White Roads, did not have the least bit of tact when it came to proper argument.
The man sitting across from him was oh so different from the innkeeper. Nilmet Vallen was always utterly aware of everything. The finest nuance of his companion’s mood never escaped this one, whom they learned to call “the Philosopher.” He was of scholarly background, true, but his ideas had to have come from somewhere else. Nowhere were they taught, these odd things that he professed, and he had acquired a sage reputation.
People had that tendency, here in the West Lands, to respect ideas—no matter what kind—and individuals who were brimming with them. Hence, here was Nilmet, the Philosopher, who
knew
things, and who could
listen
and give advice. His time and purpose were ripe.
Dark and tall, awkwardly built, Nilmet had come from farther up west, originally, farther even than the City, and brought with him customs and concepts.
The innkeeper took him to heart immediately. Or rather, took to heart the opportunity for more philosophical banter. Nilmet was a godsend. He had stayed on here at the inn, at the gracious invitation of the owner, being in no hurry to continue anywhere in particular. He remained, to talk.
Nilmet had things to impart, new speculations.
But Nilmet also spoke of the Rainbow.
In many ways, that made him a disappointment. Only children talked of the Rainbow, and most outgrew that tendency by the age of five. The very expression “the day of the new Rainbow” was used when speaking of things that will never come to pass, and of things that had never been.
Occasionally, students of some lunatic scholars in the City were assigned to discuss the nature of Rainbow by way of a logic exercise. There was that board game. And occasionally, poets wrote silly verses, since most could never completely abandon its nostalgic charm. In short, it supplied fools with inspiration.
At this moment it also kept Jirve Lan intellectually entertained.
“
We were talking about—something, weren’t we?” said the innkeeper, yawning in apathy. Hunger made his thoughts desultory, and him even more careless. And the room was drowning in that unbearable mouthwatering smell of roasted onions.
“
Yes, I suppose,” replied Nilmet. And thinking how interesting it was that yawns were so catchy, he yawned also, and watched Master Jirve make his next move.
Jirve Lan had chosen
orange
as the
color
for his establishment.
Orange
was described as Joy, and she who was called
Melixevven
, Tilirreh of
orange
, stood as a symbol of happiness, and hence, purported good luck. And now Jirve Lan moved
Melixevven
the lady of Joy into the game, placing her in the empty cell just after
Andelas
.
The common room was a large airy room. Three long and sturdy wooden tables with antique-looking tall-backed chairs filled most of the space. Along one of the walls was a bar. From behind the counter, his favorite place, Jirve loved to serve good home-brewed beer and ale, and to the better customers, quality aged wine. (A tavernskeeper at heart, Jirve had once worked in a City tavern, before he had prospered and acquired his own place.)
It was a clean, well-kept place, the White Roads. The counter and the tabletops were always scrubbed clean, and the floors mopped often. There were sentimental pictures of pale silver flowers and smiling poised family dinners covering the walls—pictures which would glow with uniform
orange
as soon as the monochrome was turned on, and at which Maertella the cook used to laugh privately, and so did most of the customers. Those pictures, the cook used to say, “look exactly what they were worth.”
At the moment, there was only one man in the common room, besides Nilmet and the innkeeper. Present in body but not in spirit, he was a well-dressed aged merchant, asleep in a comfortable chair in the corner of the room.