The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography (11 page)

The next town I came to, after my adventures in the forest, was
Molys, which lies on the river
Flite, a minor tributary of the Ram. As I crossed the Molys bridge with my army, I saw the gates of the town closing, and spears appearing along the outer wall, but then, it seemed, they further considered the great size of my army and the gates opened once again.

When I entered the gates, the town officials came forward to meet with me, and they told me what a great pleasure it was to have an archbishop of my stature pay a call upon them. These words, of course, were insincere: theirs was no pleasure at all, but a great terror, for every town tries to cheat its church of its rightful tithes, and all live in dread of the day when the church discovers their dishonesty and extracts payment by the blade.

In any case I quickly assuaged their fears.

“I come not as a tax collector, but in my capacities as a stonemage,” I said. “Your town, while clean and brightly coloured, lacks the spiritual element which a great cathedral would confer.”

Now, here they were full of promises that such a cathedral would certainly be built, and they sang the praises of the idea, saying: “It will be a sight to behold. By this time next year, a mighty cathedral will grace the very centre of the town.”

I said: “Next year can fly with the geese! The cathedral shall be completed by next month. Further, you will pay me two thousand arrans for the task.”

At this they were astonished, but they agreed readily enough, asking me if they might see the plans for the structure.

“You may not,” I said. “The cathedral will be built by divine inspiration. I shall use no plans.” Then I commanded them to set aside a suitable area in the centre of the town where I might commence my work.

Now here they hesitated and fussed about the difficulty of finding such a site, and they told me of the great value and age of, so it seemed, every building in the town. So, finally, I simply picked a building (which, as providence would have it, was the great mansion of one of those town officials, with its surrounding grounds) and I commanded my myrmidons to tear it down and dig a great pit in its place.

I instantly began my next construction, the design for which did not yet exist, although as I placed bindings and had my myrmidons move soil and stones, the shape slowly formed in my mind. I decided the cathedral would be in honour of
Saint Elifax the Mariner, and would be formed in the image of a great ship, complete with billowing sails and mighty crossbows. It would be more than three hundred feet long, with masts two hundred feet high.

Now, you are probably wondering why I wished to create such a wonderful structure in so short a time as a month.

Well, there were two reasons for this. First, I wished to challenge my talents. I was beginning to feel as if there were no design I might not transform into a building of some sort, and the challenge of attempting to complete the work in so absurdly short a time seemed to make the task more worthwhile.

Second, I was concerned the
Archbishop of Ulph might still be pursuing me, although it was more than five weeks since I had left
Quebec, and, technically, the town of Molys was fifty miles outside his diocese. I reasoned it would take at least a month for word of my presence to reach the Archbishop, and for him to send an army of sufficient size to tackle mine, so I had that long to build my new cathedral in safety.

As it happened, I need not have worried, for, after the death of the
bishopa, the archbishop was faced with more troubles from those terrible monks who lived in Quebec. He needed all of his myrmidons to keep the peace in Quebec, and he dared not send a large army in pursuit of me and my little band.

Only a few months later, I heard, there was a great uprising in Quebec, and Ulph had many people killed—not just monks, but also many innocent townspeople who did not deserve to meet an early end.

The following year, Ulph was made bishopa, and not long after, I am told, there were diseases in Quebec, and a sudden plague of big black flies, and also a fire which destroyed the famous egg shop near to the fountain.

Truly, then, it can be said that God left Quebec when I did, and if you go there today, you will find only the shell, the broken ruins of a once-great city. For while the place may be large and prosperous, with rich crops and many more people, yet any bishop who is honest (and these are a rare breed!) will tell you Quebec has lost its soul, and the great religious paintings and sculptures which are so common there today are merely a mask to hide the corruption beneath, as the corpse-painter’s pigments make skin appear to be pink and healthy, hiding the ghastly pallor of dead and rotting flesh. So it is, then, with Quebec, for God’s curse fell hard upon it.

And that curse fell also upon my enemy, the Archbishop of Ulph, now Bishopa of Quebec, who was forced to live a long life in these cursed surroundings. And if uneducated folk thought well of him, it is only because, as he sat shadowed from God’s love, he sought the love of people, sending paid rumour-mongers far and wide, spreading word of his good and charitable deeds and his great statesmanship. Yet those who knew the man personally must surely laugh at these tales, for the character in these stories is very far removed from the real man.

But this talk is mere flotsam, and bears little weight upon the true thrust of my account—unless it is to show that not only were all my actions just, they were also divinely guided, and those who opposed me placed themselves also in opposition to God.

So, there I was in Molys, and I believed pursuers would soon be close upon my heels. Therefore, I wasted not an hour before setting to work.

I will not explain the details of the construction, for I have already told much of my methods. I will tell you this, though: to look at the complex shape of the ship and its great billowing sails, most stonemages who understood my methods would guess hundreds of bindings had been used in their construction. In fact, I used only five
Yreth’s Transformations and eleven
Eternity Stakes for the principal structure, but these were used with the utmost efficiency.

Economy is one of the highest virtues any stonemage can attain in his designs. How easy it is to set massive grids of wefts, enchantments and bindings and toss rocks upon them like sand upon glue paper! Yet how much more elegant is the design which accomplishes the same end with but a few well chosen gossamers. And it is for this reason I hold the stonemages of the new school in such low regard, for they lay their enchantments like butter, and while their works are huge and impressive to the untrained eye, yet there is little real craft in it, as any true stonemage will tell you.

Now, an interesting thing happened while I was in Molys. One day, I felt thirsty, and, seeing a pail of water at a nearby doorway, I picked it up and took a drink. At this, the door burst open and the owner of the bucket came running out to challenge me.

At once, my
Behemoths, who always travelled with me, gave roars of anger, and bared their great teeth, but this fellow cared nothing for them, and walked towards me as bold as you please. He had a hunk of cheese, which was his luncheon, in one hand and a large stick in the other.

“Put down that pail,” he said. “Who do you think you are!”

“I am the
Archbishop Yreth,” I said. “And you would do well to stop where you are, my friend, for these stalwart companions of mine have short tempers.”

“So do I,” he said. “And I should give you a thrashing for stealing my water.” Then he tried to push past my Behemoths.

Well, they were having none of that! A Behemoth struck him with the back of its hand, and threw the fellow back a good six feet. But this just made him the angrier.

“So, Archbishop, you think you can steal the drink from a man’s lips!” he said. “Well, why not take my food too.” Then he threw his cheese at me, and it struck me hard upon the face, giving me a bloody nose, and causing my right eye to swell up.

When my Behemoths saw this, they instantly leaped towards this man, their claws out, desiring only to kill him and to tear his body into pieces.

I quickly bade them stop, and I walked to this man and spoke, saying: “But for my intervention, you would certainly be dead now. Do you wish to know why I spared your life?”

And he said, in a surly way, “I think you will tell me, whether I wish it or no. Why, then?”

I said, “Because, although your actions were foolish, driven by such false rumours about me as you may have heard through idle gossip, yet they were also most brave, and this is a quality I witness all too rarely in these sorry times. So, although I am a great archbishop and you are but a humble townsperson, I greet you now as an equal. You have earned my respect, and my friendship.”

On hearing these words, he was amazed. He said, “I had heard you were a greedy coward with no morals, Archbishop Yreth. But I see now these rumours were false, and you are actually great and compassionate. Well then, if you give me your friendship, I will give you mine. I am
Lyvell the merchant.”

Here we shook hands, both right and left, and we entered Lyvell’s shop, where we consumed much wine and ate much food. I soon discovered he was a good and honest man who had been cheated by many of the people of Molys—for this is the way of the world.

I realized his earlier anger at me, and his desire to injure me with the cheese, was born of an unsatisfied desire for vengeance. So I compiled a list of names of those who had done him wrong, and that very evening we paid visits upon them all, Lyvell and I and my army, and we punished them for their wicked deeds, tearing down their houses, and confiscating their property, and breaking knees and arms and even necks, according to the severity of each injustice.

It was a long and profitable night that passed before Lyvell’s desire for vengeance was finally satiated. In all, more than eighty people had been punished (or several hundreds, if their families were also counted) and the morning sun rose upon that sinful town to greet the sound of moaning and the smell of burning wood.

Now, you may say, “Yreth did right there, for it is good to help others who are in need.” Or perhaps you will say, “Yreth dealt too harshly with those townsfolk.” Yet, in either case, perhaps you wonder why this incident is worth the telling, for you have already heard, from other events I have recounted, that I am a righteous man, and a fierce man, and sometimes a bloodthirsty man, and above all a man with a great and charitable love for all people, be they distinguished or humble.

Well, here is why it is worth telling. It was because of that evening’s work that I made a great discovery. I became aware of a subtle yet irresistible force, a destiny guiding my life.

I realized, through my meeting with Lyvell, that the unfolding of my fortunes seemed to be following a great scheme, and every event was a part of some great tapestry, in which the removal of even a single thread would have caused the pattern to be ruined.

Some people may scoff at these ideas, yet I tell you, with the utmost certainty, a great destiny is at work in the world, although few people are as fortunate to see its effects in their own lives as I have been.

But enough. I will say not another word about the conclusions I reached only after much contemplation and bewilderment, and instead I shall reveal to you the facts upon which these conclusions were based.

I shall do this in a new chapter, since the matter is important enough to merit the break. And indeed, some might say the matter merits not a chapter but a book, and they are right, for this revelation is one of the reasons I am writing this very book which you are now reading.

The Seventh Part

In Which I Show How Every Single Event In Life Is Ruled By A Great Plan And Tell Certain Secrets I Have, Until Now, Hidden

After our night of vengeance,
Lyvell and I breakfasted together, and we told stories about the places we had been and the people we had met. I was astonished to discover this man Lyvell was no ordinary merchant, but, in the course of sixty years, he had travelled to all parts of the world, and knew many persons of great rank.

Naturally, then, I asked him whether he knew anyone from my own homeland,
Rowel, on the
Horn of Cyprus.

He said: “Rowel? No, I never went there. But on the Horn I knew Huriband, the
Duke of Oaster.”

Well, here I gave a cry of surprise, saying: “That duke was my first patron! I built for him a shrine outside
Chattan, the city of his birth.”

Lyvell, in his turn, marvelled at this, for he had by chance visited this very shrine. He remembered it well, for he thought it a pretty thing, and now here he was talking to its builder.

I then told Lyvell of my career with the duke.

I was just eighteen years old, fresh from the school at
Eopan, and I had gone to the duke to offer my services. The duke had stonemages of his own, but he magnanimously gave me the task of repairing the old shrine to the sprite
Denn. It was a crumbling ruin, visited by nobody and tended by a mad old priest. I set to work with great energy. I dismantled the old shrine, replacing it with a domed building, decorated in blue and white glaze, with narrow gold piping and delicate stone roses. It was a just a small structure, you understand, and the only real difficulty was the interference of the priest, who uttered vile curses and imprecations as I worked and tried to strike at me with his stick.

When I was done, it looked very pretty there in the heart of the woods, and pilgrims started to visit anew.

When the Duke of Oaster saw the shrine, he was so delighted with my work he set me to decorating his castle wall with gold tubing. I completed this task, too, to his utmost satisfaction, and so, quite naturally, he desired I should remain with him, building such other structures as he might desire.

During those happy years, I built the
baths at Oaster, and the hall for the
Ropemakers’ Guild, and the new barracks, and the
eastern watchtower. And in Chattan, in addition to the shrine, I built the
well-house, and the famous
North Bridge, and I improved the sewers, widening them and adding many statues and decorations. All of these structures still stand, except for the watchtower, which fell during a storm.

The duke paid me a fair salary for these tasks (five arrans a month), and he also granted me a commander’s post, setting me in charge of a body of myrmidons. I worked hard to learn the arts of war, and it has served me well ever since, as you have already seen.

The duke made me
Commander of the Night Watch. I had twenty myrmidons under me, and my duties were light, for the myrmidons were keen and disciplined, and they needed only occasional instruction.

When I was a little over thirty, the uprisings began in
Pheyos. Of all the regions of
Cyprus, the
Horn lies closest to Pheyos, and because
Oaster lies upon the tip of the Horn, I began to find myself spending more and more time tending to the demands of my military post, and less time working on my construction projects.

One night, a stranger arrived at the gate. When I asked him to identify himself, he spoke rudely and impertinently to me, ordering me to admit him at once. I told him if he did not identify himself, he would not pass the gate. He said, in a brusque tone, “I am the
Prince of Piapa.”

I said, “You are certainly ill-mannered enough to be the prince.”

Then he called me a scoundrel and a lover of whoreboys, and he told me to win a woman for myself, if one would have me.

I said “I have a woman, and a beautiful one too,” and this was true, for I was secretly courting
Setina, the Duke of Oaster’s second-youngest daughter.

He said he knew my woman, and he said that, even as we spoke, she was sharing her bed with a lively black hog.

This remark angered me, for he had insulted not only my own honour, but the honour of the woman I loved, and of the duke, her father. I instantly told the myrmidons to seize the gutter-mouthed scoundrel and to toss some sense into him. This they did, and they threw him from one to another, while he screamed the foulest insults I have ever heard.

Then, quite suddenly, the flow of insults ceased, and his body became loose as they threw it around. I commanded the myrmidons to stop, and, upon examining the body, I saw the man was dead, although his neck was not broken, and he had only a few small bruises from his ordeal. I was greatly mystified.

Of course, in the light of my later learning, I know his death at that moment had simply been God’s will—for He sets for each one of us a precise term, which may not be exceeded—and neither I nor my myrmidons were in any way responsible.

In any case, we threw the body on the dung hill by the west wall.

The next day, the duke came to me and told me to keep my eyes open for a man travelling alone and claiming to have business with him. This man, he said, was the Prince of Piapa, brother of
King Bellay. He was travelling incognito, and his arrival was expected very soon.

Here I was most afraid, and I told the duke I thought I might have killed the prince by accident.

With great trepidation, we went to the dung hill to look at the body and saw, to our dismay, that the stranger from the previous night had indeed been the Prince of Piapa.

The duke was very angry at me and said he would kill me, but then I told him what the prince had said about his own daughter, and how my actions had been in the defence of the duke’s own honour and of his daughter, and I told him of the love between myself and his daughter (for until that moment I had kept it a secret from the duke).

When the duke heard the truth of the matter, his anger was no longer towards me but towards the prince, and he said the prince’s rudeness had earned him death many times over, and it was fitting he should have ended up as a corpse on a dung hill.

Then the duke clutched me to him, saying, “My dear, loyal Yreth! What a wicked day this is. In my heart, I too wished you should marry my daughter, but now that is impossible. You must flee, my man, for the king will have a terrible end for you if ever you fall into his hands.”

“Could we not tell the king that the prince has simply disappeared?” I asked, for I was naive in those days.

“Ah, this would be my dearest wish,” said the duke, “but life is not so simple. For you see, honour demands I tell the king the truth.”

Then I asked him what would become of Setina, and he said he would never allow my love for her to be sullied by that of another man, and instead he would marry her off to some wealthy merchant. (And I heard later he had kept this promise to me.)

Then he gave me ten arrans and let me escape to the west, while he delayed the king’s pursuit of me.

Now, if you think back, you will remember, when I spoke of my first arrival in
Luthen, and at the court of
Gavor Hercules, I said I had travelled west seeking inspiration for new works of architecture. And this was true, but my travels were also inspired by Bellay, the King of Cyprus, who had offered a bounty of one hundred arrans—and later, I have heard, six hundred arrans—to any person who would deliver me to his justice over the death of his brother.

You will perhaps think I should have revealed my status as a fugitive at the outset of my tale. But I reasoned—wisely, as it seems to me—that, had I spoken of this at the start, such a tale of princely murder might have prejudiced any reader against me, making me appear brutal and ignoble. Yet now you have learned so many other things about me, it will be plain my involvement with the death of the Prince of Piapa and my hasty escape afterwards is by no means a reflection upon my own virtue or upon my strict code of honour.

The accidental killing of a royal personage is merely one of those events which happens, from time to time, to every one of us.

So there it is. The darkest secret of my early years is told, and now I may continue to tell of my meal with Lyvell.

As Lyvell and I discussed my adventures with the Duke of Oaster, I became nostalgic, for I owed the duke a great debt of gratitude. I wondered aloud about events in
Oaster, and about the fortunes of my first patron.

Here Lyvell was wonderstruck. “It is very strange you say this,” he said, “for not a week past I happened to meet a merchantwoman of my acquaintance who has lately returned from those very parts. The news is bad, for the duke was recently stripped of his title and driven from his own lands by the king.”

(Now, I should point out here that my companion had been misinformed. It was not the Duke of Oaster who had been driven from his lands, but that rogue the
Duke of Imandello. Still, I believed it was the Duke of Oaster, and it would be many years before I discovered the truth of the matter.)

“How did this horror come to be?” I asked.

He said he did not know, but it was often the way of kings to dispossess their most loyal nobles in this way.

Then I said, “It is very wrong for any king to dispossess one as noble as Duke Huriband. For I will tell you, that duke would make a better king than Bellay.”

Lyvell laughed here, saying, “Then go there with your myrmidons and see it so. You are already a builder of churches. You might become a builder of kingdoms. And a toppler of them too, if you desired it.”

Now, although he spoke this in jest, and we did not talk more upon the subject, still his words stayed in my mind, ringing like great bells, and they set me to thinking.

I spent the following days in meditation. Slowly, I began to become aware of a pattern behind the events of my life. I will explain this.

As a stonemage, I must work constantly from a plan. Even when I was young and newly out of school, I could look at a plan and see, in my mind’s eye, the image of the final construction. Of course, this is the very essence of my profession, and there is no good stonemage who would not be capable of the same thing.

As I became more experienced, however, I learned a new skill. I found I could look at a building and, even though I might have no previous knowledge of it, I would quickly understand the plan behind it. For example, when I first saw the newly finished
Arch of Lechittes, I saw not the great stone columns, nor the jewelled keystone, but the intricate network of bindings which holds the structure in place.

With the passage of time, this ability, which is based on keen observation, intelligent analysis, and divine guidance, became more acute. Gradually, I gained the ability to see the “plan” behind other things. So, if I was staying at an inn and the cook spat upon me while I was eating, I would not just shrug it off, but would instead think to myself “Ah, there is a reason for that!” and would instantly set my mind to analysing the cook’s motives. Only when these motives were clear to me would I settle the score with my throwing-razor.

Given my unusual abilities in discovering the plan behind all things, I suppose it was inevitable I would eventually attempt to deduce the plan behind my own life, and the great plan behind Life Itself. The first stages of this analysis are based in pure logic.

Let me now share with you my reasoning, and, since I am educated in these matters, I shall do so in the classical form demanded by the finest logicians. So:

The First Proposition: There is a reason to all things.

Proof: For the proposition to be false, either there is a reason to nothing or there is a reason to some things but not all things.

The first of these options we know to be false, for in everyday life we perform certain activities for which we can give good reasons. So at least some things have a reason.

Therefore, for the proposition to be false, there must be a reason to some things and no reason to others. A thing that happens for a reason can be said to have that reason as its cause. But what is the cause for a thing that comes about for no reason? We say it has "no reason" as its cause. It follows that "No reason" is itself a reason, so even a thing that happens for no reason in fact has a reason.

Since nothing can be reasonless, there must be a reason to all things. So the First Proposition is proved.

The Second Proposition: Every person’s life unfolds according to a single and coherent purpose.

Proof: We know from experience that life consists of a single series of events, and though we may profoundly wish some-and-such a thing had not occurred, or may wish some other fortune had fallen upon us, yet these wishes cannot be granted, for at each juncture where a decision must be made between several alternatives, there is only one alternative we can choose, no matter how we might desire them both.

This simple truth is summed up in such common phrases as “You cannot be in two towns at once.”

Secondly, we know that, in life, the passage of time is continuous. It is not possible to leap across the years, as the hero does in
The Adventure of Toe the Mariner
,
going from one’s third birthday to one’s thirtieth. Neither can a portion of one’s life be omitted, even though this may be desired (as it is, for example, by the victims of torture). Even while we sleep, time continues to pass steadily, and when we wake it might be the next morning, but it is never the previous morning.

From this we learn that every life has two important properties: it is single (consisting of only one series of events) and it is coherent (it is unbroken in time).

Since life itself is fundamentally single and coherent, it follows that all its attributes must also be single and coherent. One of those attributes is life's purpose. Therefore life unfolds according to a single and coherent purpose, and this proves the Second Proposition.

(It has been suggested to me the above argument might be misapplied, so one might say since life is violent, its purpose must also be violent. Or since an apple is green, its purpose must also be green. Such reasoning must be ignored, since its intention is not to enlighten but to confuse, for who ever heard of a “green purpose”? Let no one use the precious tool of logic for such flippant entertainment, but let it rather be used to uncover eternal verities, as I have used it in my reasoning, so people everywhere shall be enriched.)