Night Winds (11 page)

"And what is perfection to your mind?" queried Kane sardonically, thinking that this conversation in one form or another had dried their throats on more nights than this.

"A perfect poem," declared the other without faltering, "is one which completely involves its audience in the totality of the poem. It should be a total sensory and emotional projection of the artist's mind into the mind of the listener. He should identify fully with the perspective, the reality of the poem--share the thoughts, sense the atmosphere, see the visions, unite with the mood. Any foot clever with words can create a poem that any fool can listen to; a good poet can create a poem so that a sensitive mind can share and be stirred by his thoughts... But to create a poem that can totally draw any dull imagination into its spell--that, Kane, is perfect art, and that is the creation of true genius!"

"An intriguing theory of art," Kane commented after a slight pause. "But I think you'll destroy yourself emotionally if you keep up this quest for an unobtainable perfection. I have a high regard for your talents, Opyros, but it seems to me the genius you've proposed transcends human limitations."

"Don't tell me Kane is suddenly preaching that pious doctrine of man's inevitable failure whenever he dares challenge those heights to which only gods may aspire!" sneered Opyros--and immediately regretted his words.

Kane's baleful eyes held him in cold speculation for a moment, wondering how much of this was a chance taunt. "That wasn't what I said, or what I meant, as you must know," he returned with icy calm. "More bluntly, can you realistically consider your own 'genius' equal to this goal?"

Opyros stared at his clenched hands. "I don't know," he confessed, wishing to escape Kane's gaze. "That's what tortures me! Technically I know how to do it--rhyme, meter, the words, the notes. I understand how the material should be woven... only I still can't grasp the substance! I need inspiration--a flash of insight--something that will lift my imagination from where it's mired down in commonplace ideas. What use to waste my creativity in turning out another poem like all the rest--the same tired images, the same dull emotions. There has to be some new vitality to my poem--I must create it from ideas and images that are unique, not simply the rewritten thoughts of past artists."

He muttered fitfully under his breath and reached again for the pitcher. Surprisingly, someone had emptied it already.

Thoughtfully Kane considered the slouched figure of his friend. Unbidden, a serving girl replaced the pitcher with a brimming one. Deciding to leave Opyros with his mood for the moment, Kane was reaching to refill his half-emptied mug when he noticed someone moving toward them.

The thickset figure of Eberhos, First Assistant to Damatjyst the alchemist, drew to a nervous halt across the table from him. His sweaty face showed lines of strain, and his deep-set eyes darted about uneasily, sensing that others across the crowded room were watching his course with interest. Though the other was not a frequent visitor to Stanchek's, Kane knew Eberhos through his dealings with Damatjyst. Leaning back in his chair, Kane waited for the man to speak.

"I've come to ask a favor of you, Kane," Eberhos began, licking his pale lips. "A favor that will be repaid in double this same night!"

"I think you want to borrow money," Kane returned dryly.

The alchemist's assistant wiped his hands across his beefy thighs. The wool of his trousers was adorned with bits of strange powders and stains from his work at his master's forges. "I do," he admitted, "but you might think of it more as an investment. The dice go against me for a moment, and I've temporarily lost all my holdings. A few more tosses, and my luck will change. However, these bastards will give me no credit."

"Nor do I blame them. You've lost ten times the year's earnings of a merchant prince. Why accept a note from a pauper--an unlucky one, at that? Instead of throwing away more good coin, why not consider how to explain matters to the rightful owner of this gold you've gambled away--since I doubt it came from your savings."

Eberhos blanched. "I'm no thief," he growled.

"Well, you're certainly no gambler."

Ignoring Kane's obvious dismissal, Eberhos dropped into the seat opposite him and leaned forward confidentially. "Listen, Kane! I'm only telling you this because there's no one else I can look to to back me in a game at these stakes. I've planned for tonight--this isn't a sudden spree. I've read the stars carefully for weeks, ever since I foresaw this conjunction--yes, and I've made augury by all the signs Damatjyst has taught me. The answer is always the same--tonight is the night that fortune obeys me! In any game of chance, I cannot lose!"

"And now we know you're no astrologer," Kane commented cruelly. He had never cared for Damatjyst's assistant. The man was obsequious and fawning with his master, a sullen bully toward his inferiors; Kane discerned the grasping, malignant spirit that lay beneath his ingratiating facade.

Desperation squeezed the anger from the other's face. "Scoff all you want--I admit fortune hasn't seemed to favor me since coming into Stanchek's. But this isn't my first stop tonight. You think I begged or stole the money I lost here? Well, that's only one of your mistakes. I entered the Hound and Leopard this evening with ten gold sarmkes and some silver, hoarded from the pittance Damatjyst pays me. Once I was down to just the silver, but I stayed with it, and when I left, the others were broke and I had Dearly a hundred sarmkes in gold. At the Yardarm it was the same; they thought to clean me out at one point, but soon no one would play against me, and I had over half a thousand in gold and silver. So I came to where I might play for higher stakes, and once more I seem to be finished. But lend me what I need now, Kane, and I'll need two slaves to carry away my winnings. Let me have fifty sarmkes now, and I'll return a hundred this same night."

Kane laughed scornfully in reply.

Desperately Eberhos looked toward Opyros, who stared hypnotically at something in his stein. The poet had wealth, but he never carried more than a few coins on his person. Seeing only dismissal, the alchemist's assistant made a final play, "What if I offer collateral?"

"What do you have against fifty sarmkes?" asked Kane without interest.

With unsteady fingers Eberhos removed a packet from a scrip at his belt. Wordlessly he passed it to Kane.

His manner one of skeptical curiosity, Kane unwrapped the soft leather. A gleaming flash of light rolled darkly upon his broad palm. Kane's eyes narrowed for an instant, then widened.

"The dark muse," he breathed in surprise.

"What?" asked Opyros, coming awake. He craned his neck.

Held in Kane's hand lay the figurine of a nude girl, carven of black onyx and in length about five inches. The stone was flawless, the artistry exquisite. She lay supine, in an attitude of repose, though awake. Her head rested upon her left hand and a mass of flowing tresses; the other arm was lifted in a beckoning gesture; the legs were flexed and slightly apart. The eyes were compelling, and her lips were open in a secret smile--a suggestion of mystery to the obvious invitation. For there was a note of cruelty about the face that underlay the smiling promise, so that another might wonder to what pleasures she summoned him. The shifting fight licked soft caresses upon the aristocratic features, rounded breasts, slim hips, and long limbs. She looked to be a goddess, frozen in ebon miniature.

"You know it, then," grinned Eberhos nervously.

"It's Klinure, the muse of dream, whom some call the dark muse," Kane stated. "More specifically, the simulacrum of Klinure, from a set of the sixteen muses sculpted centuries ago by the mage Amderin. His workmanship is unmistakable, and the carvings are legendary, although most of them are believed lost. I had heard rumor that one or more were held by Damatjyst... but then you're no thief." Eberhos bit his lip. "Its absence won't be noticed at once. I only slipped it from its case because I thought this situation might arise. The figurine is priceless, you know that. Will you lend me one hundred sarmkes against it? I'll return you twice that in an hour."

Kane shrugged his heavy shoulders. "I have no reason to cross the threshold of dream, nor do I care to pile up stolen objets d'art at the moment."

"Advance him the money, Kane," interceded Opyros with sudden interest. "I'll cover it if he loses."

"Make it fifty, then," said Kane, after a surprised glance at the poet. "That way you'll feel only half the regret when you come to your senses."

Eberhos squirmed in protest, but kept silent fearing that his patron would change his mind. Ten heavy gold coins slid across the table, streaking through the spilled ale. The alchemist scooped them up and hastened back to his game.

"Tell me about her, Kane," demanded Opyros. "When you said, 'cross the threshold of dream,' I seemed to remember something. What is the figurine's history?"

Kane passed the onyx carving to the poet and adjusted the fastenings of his almoner. "Well, Amderin was one of the more brilliant sorcerers of Carsultyal's declining years, and a sculptor of tremendous talent as well. He wished to excel in every aspect of human potentiality, so he created simulacra of the sixteen muses. With them he could evoke the muse, appropriate to any endeavor his interests might direct. He might well have become the first truly universal genius."

"Why didn't he?"

"Be died not long after the project was completed."

"Suicide?"

Kane glanced at him sharply. "Strange guess. No, though his death was an inexplicable one. His body was found across his bed--crushed and broken as if he had fallen from a very great height. Afterward the set of carvings passed through many hands, became scattered, so that today only a few are known to exist."

"And this is Klinure," murmured Opyros, turning the statuette all about with reverent touch. "The muse of dream."

"The dark muse," Kane went on. "Carved from onyx, black as the starless night of sleep, the night she dwells within, the night from which she calls. She lives in the shadow of unfinished dreams--the dreams from which we awaken and never return to. Their ghosts wait forever in limbo, incomplete visions that man will never realize."

"Her attitude is one of beckoning."

"She invites you to cross the portals of dream."

"Her face has a strange smile."

"She suggests the secret wisdom that lies hidden within the veil of dream." "I see mockery, too."

"For the false wisdom and inchoate images that delude the dreamer as truth."

"There is cruelty in her eyes."

Kane laughed bitterly. "Cruelty? Yes--for much of dream is nightmare. Join her in her embrace, and instead of the wonders she seems to promise, the dark muse may draw you into some fathomless vortex of black terror."

He glanced toward the doorway. Slipping past the smoky entrance came the three men who had been with him earlier. Of the outlander there was no sign. Casually they crossed the crowded floor to the corner table, where they dropped into chairs and became busy with the ale pitcher. Opyros, who had met them often before, exchanged mumbled greetings.

"Any problems, Levardos?" asked Kane.

His cadaverous lieutenant shook his head. "No trouble. Want to see it?"

"Not right now. Stanchek know it's here?"

"Yeah. Brought it through the back. He looked it over. Seems satisfied with the deal."

Kane nodded and left the subject.

His face pensive, Opyros continued to examine the onyx figurine. Webbre and Haigan, half-brothers from some anonymous mountain settlement, leaned forward curiously to see the object. It struck a chord in their memories, and Webbre, the younger of the two, wandered off down the stairs to reclaim the dancing girl.

Presently he reappeared with the girl in tow, her face flushed and costume disarrayed. The knuckles of his right hand were raw, and when he displayed his fist to Haigan, they broke into laughter. Uneasily the girl protested she could not dance without music, at which the grinning brothers produced panpipes and began to blow a discordant melody. Sighing helplessly, the dark-haired girl danced to the near tuneless notes.

Opyros tried to speak through the discord, and Kane gestured for the two to move away. Without pausing in their tune, Webbre and Haigan arose and stomped into the corner, where they stood about the entrapped dancing girl and continued their fierce piping. Levardos shook his head and remained seated, his expression as usual one of aloof watchfulness.

Opyros hunched forward. "I said, did Amderin's secret die with him?"

"Secret?"

"The evocation of the muses through their simulacra."

"Oh, that. No, it didn't. Actually the evocation is a simple enough spell. Amderin's genius lay in the creation of the simulacra; with them any competent student of the occult can perform the evocation." "Do you know the spell?" asked the poet in a strained voice.

Pressing his lips together thoughtfully, Kane stared at his friend, wondering how much he had guessed. "I do," he stated.

Opyros remained silent for a long pause. The cacophonic piping waited on, punctuated by chattering bells and the girl's hoarse breathing. The noise of the tavern seemed driven back by an unseen wall; the sharp exclamations from the dice table were drowned and distant.

"If I could cross the threshold of dream," intoned Opyros in a low voice, "if I could witness the birth of a dream, follow the ghosts of dreams from whose spell the awakened mind of the dreamer was torn... By the Seven Eyes of Lord Thro'ellet, Kane! Can you imagine the torrent of inspiration that would engulf my soul!"

"And likely annihilate your soul!" warned Kane grimly. "Assuming your spirit wasn't blasted instantly by its plunge into a world of free-form thought and prechaotic images, what if Klinure should lead you into the realm of nightmare? What if instead of some long-dead artist's never-finished vision of unearthly beauty, you found yourself trapped in an unhallowed nightmare from which some fever-poisoned madman awoke shrieking? The dark muse cares not whether her dreams portray ethereal beauty or mindless horror."