The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography (6 page)

Still, I dined with him anyway, and I was favourably impressed by his knowledge of the builder’s art. And, I must admit, I was impressed by the man himself. He was perhaps in his fortieth year, with a large, open face, and intelligent eyes. During the meal, I showed him my plans for the
Grief
, and he was overwhelmed by its loveliness, saying it was the most beautiful plan for a sculpture he had ever seen. When I explained this was to be no sculpture, but was a mighty tower, he was astounded beyond belief.

“But I fear,” he said, “that we have no need for such a tower. Our town is adequately protected.”

“You hear tower and you think warfare,” I said. “Yet this need not be a mere fortification. The tower’s interior is divided into a multitude of rooms, and these might serve very nicely as dwellings, or even as small shops. Thus, this statue will replace the damaged section of your town.”

On hearing this, Eon Vulpine was overcome with joy, saying: “Then indeed, this must be built! It must! It must!” He drooled, and he clapped his hands together uncontrollably, so much was he enthralled by the prospect of this magnificent edifice becoming a part of his town.

Then he asked me why the king had a little tail sticking out of his mouth. I explained to him this building served not only to shelter and to beautify, but also to warn all who might behold it of the dangers of the
mouse.

“What dangers?” said he.

I then explained the dangers to him as I have already told it here. He was much alarmed to hear this news, for he, being ignorant of the threat, had given a gift of two caged mice to his children some months earlier.

“If you will take my advice, sir,” I said, “you will kill the creatures without delay, for not to do so will certainly bring about the untimely deaths of your own dear infants.”

This he promptly did, and he later told me he would be forever grateful to me for saving his children from so terrible a death. So, you see, even before it was built, my
Grief
was already fulfilling its worthy mission, although Vulpine’s gratitude brought me precious little reward, as you will see.

We met many times over the following month and discussed every aspect of the building. Vulpine’s excitement was hardly diminished since his first glimpse of the plans. And his pleasure was greatly increased when he asked me what it might cost to create such a wonder.

“For my last commission,” I told him, “I received gold and gifts totalling more than one thousand three hundred arrans. Though the nature of that task was very much simpler than this one, yet I would be willing to work for the same sum, provided I might be given assistants to help me with the more rudimentary elements of the construction, together with a quantity of slaves to carry stones.”

“One thousand three hundred arrans!” he exclaimed. “Come, sir! I may be no stonemage, but I know enough of architecture to know such a price would greatly undervalue the genius of your design alone. To ask such a pittance for both the design and the construction is absurd. No, I will insist you ask no less than five thousand arrans for this commission. In addition, I will see to it you are given builders of the highest skill to work under you.”

I was well pleased by these terms, for I had indeed set my price very low in my enthusiasm to win the commission. I was pleased also by this fellow’s recognition of the importance of my work. Nevertheless, I remained constantly mindful of my vision, and I watched Vulpine carefully for any sign of trickery or false dealing.

A few days later, I had picked out several builders who would help me with the job. Vulpine approved my choice, assuring me of their considerable talents and urging me to begin work without delay. But then he said a very curious thing. He said: “And if the citizens of this town are outraged that our time-honoured customs have been broken, let us care nothing for it, for we would do a far greater wrong by jeopardizing the construction of so worthy an artwork.”

These words disturbed me, for we folk of the
Cyprus Horn place a high value on custom, and so I asked him: “To which customs do you refer.”

“Oh,” he said, “it is the usual practice, for any great building such as this is, that the many stonemages of the area be summoned together and given the chance to submit designs of their own. Then a competition is held, and the winner’s design is used for the construction in question.”

“Well then,” I said, after some thought, “if that is the custom, let us abide by it.”

“No no,” he said, “I could not allow it. What if some other stonemage’s work were chosen? No, the
Grief
must be built.”

“Is the competition a fair one, unsullied by corruption or by prejudice towards the local stonemages?” I asked.

“Why certainly,” he said. “The submissions are judged solely on their integral beauty, with no thought for the background of the works’ creators.”

“And are its judges such people as would appreciate greatness in a building?”

“The judges are the members of the town’s council,” he replied. “None are stonemages, but I have shown sketches of your proposal to them all, and they were unanimous in declaring the
Grief
a work without equal in this land.”

“Well, then, there is nothing to be feared by this course of action,” I said. “I am confident no stonemage might create so lovely a structure as my own. And if, by some miracle, one should create a work still more marvellous, why then, let that person take the commission, for he or she will certainly have earned it.”

“I see you are a man of the most perfect integrity,” he said. “And perfect judgement too! Very well, then—we shall have the competition as you suggest. And I shall sleep soundly in the secure knowledge your mighty
Grief
will win the contest and be built.” And at this we both raised our glasses and drank a toast to my
Grief
.

So the competition was announced, and several score stonemages of East America were summoned to
Ramport for the purpose. On the assigned day, which was eight weeks after the conversation I have just recounted, exact models of the various designs, cast in plaster or lead, were placed in the Great Hall of the
Round Fortress, which houses the administrative chambers of Ramport. Each model was placed upon a separate table, and the stonemage responsible for the design remained in front of its table in order to answer questions from the many people who had come to view the proposals.

Truly there were some attractive designs—although it is one thing to create a pretty model, and quite another to execute the plan on a grand scale—and I watched carefully as the townspeople wandered past the tables, nodding or smiling at the miniatures, for they were pleased by them. But as they reached the
Grief
, which I had sculpted in platinum and gold and then painted in lifelike flesh tones, and which stood more than twelve feet high, all were astounded and impressed beyond measure.

There were many high officials of the region present, and I spoke to some of them. A powerful merchant by the name of
Ildreth told me he thought the design remarkable. The governor of
North Pocern was there, and he nodded at me in such a way as to convey, without any possibility of doubt, that he thought my
Grief
to be one of the new wonders of the world. Also, I spoke with the
Bishopa of Quebec, who had toured the hall with an entourage of several bishops and some thirty huge myrmidons. We talked very pleasantly, and she expressed her admiration for my daring model, saying that, in her opinion, it was certainly the finest design in the room, and she added that, if I ever sought work, I might presume upon her patronage.

Some hours later, before a large assembly, the winner of the competition was announced by the magistrate-in-chief. You will be astonished to hear that the council had selected not my design, but the design of a local architect. The work was a gaudy pastiche of the Far Western school, incorporating a fat central thimble-hall, surrounded by numerous nested towers, and various small houses, shops, and inns. As the magistrate read the decision, one could sense a great tension in the room, for it was clear to all present that a heinous injustice had been committed.

As you may imagine, I was outraged and insulted, and a mighty wave of fury rolled over me, for I knew who was behind this villainy—not only because of the warning in my vision, but also because Eon Vulpine was the only member of the council not present when the decision was announced, and this, I knew, was because his shame would not allow him to face the one he had wronged so grievously.

Therefore, I took my throwing-razor, which I carry always in my boot, and I placed it in my sleeve, then I quickly made my way to Eon Vulpine’s chambers, determined that, if his explanation of matters did not suit me, I should certainly take his life.

There I found him pacing back and forth in a state—so it seemed—of the utmost agitation. “Alas,” he said, as I entered the room, “what a disaster has befallen the town! To think we should have lost such a beautiful work.”

Now, this confused me and blunted my anger slightly, so I put aside my idea of killing him. Oh, what a cunning creature he was, for in speaking my own thoughts to me, as though he believed them himself, he made it seem as if my interests and his were one and the same.

I then asked him to explain why the competition had been won by a work which was so clearly inferior to my own. Could it be, I asked, the other officials had not in fact been as enthusiastically disposed towards my design as they had first pretended.

“Indeed, no,” he said. “The magistrate-in-chief, the purse warden, and the bishop all felt your design to be by far the finest. And as to my own feelings, you know them well.”

Here he broke into a powerful fit of weeping, so I was actually moved by sympathy for him, fool that I was, and I said: “This is a disaster for all. And yet, how do you explain this final verdict?”

“Our decision was overruled by a higher official,” he said. “The sentiment was expressed that it would be unwise to give so handsome a commission to a foreigner, particularly when many of our own stonemages, who have served us well, might relish the task.

“However,” he went on, “I was able to persuade the council to give you a commission of your own, a smaller version of the same magnificent design. It could be erected upon
Paddle Island, which is the little island you see in the centre of the river. There it will serve admirably as a lighthouse, warning ships during foggy weather.”

A lighthouse! As I think back on the suggestion now, my anger rises, for I see Eon Vulpine was mocking me, extending the indignity of my defeat. Would that I had strangled him then and there with my bare hands, for his blood was not worthy to be spilled by my throwing-razor. Yet at the time, my own anger and disappointment were tempered by compassion for this treacherous, miserable creature.

“This is very much less than I had hoped for, and indeed, than I had been promised,” said I. “For you told me the competition would not take into account the nationality of its participants.”

“I share your disappointment,” he said, and he was all sympathy and comforting arms. “And yet, consider this: once people see the beauty of the lighthouse, they will clamour to have greater structures built by your hand—and with such popular support, it will be impossible for any higher official to oppose the construction. Further, I shall personally see to it that you are paid handsomely for the work—let us say, one thousand arrans.”

Now, in my state at the time, this seemed a generous price, for I knew a small lighthouse would be very much simpler to build than the great statue-tower I had planned. I accepted on the spot, requesting the funds be paid to me in advance, as a token of goodwill.

“Alas! With the limited power I possess, it is quite impossible for me to pay you this sum from the town’s treasury without further delays,” he said. “Therefore, I shall pay you this sum immediately, and from my own purse, for such is my great trust in your genius and your talent.” And with that he opened a trunk and thrust into my arms a great bag of coins, containing the requested amount.

I was moved by this gesture—fool, simple-minded dolt that I was!—and thanked him profusely, with bows and touches to the head and kind words which dismissed as nothing the great work of which I had been unjustly deprived.

But then, at last, a measure of sense came to me, for I remembered once more my vision. Therefore, I determined to investigate the details of the account as he had relayed it to me.

“Sir,” I said, “may I be so bold as to ask you the precise identity of this higher official of whom you have spoken?”

“I fear I cannot say,” he said. “The details of conversations held at council meetings must be kept in the utmost confidence. I have perhaps breached that confidence already even by telling you what I have.”

“You may rely on me to keep my peace on the matter,” said I. “And, since you have already told me most of the tale, it would certainly do no harm to fill in this one small detail.”

“Yes, yes, that is true,” he said. “And perhaps you have a right to know, particularly considering the unusual nature of the decision. Very well, then—the truth of the matter is we were all most impressed by your glorious plan and were on the verge of putting the issue to the vote. Then the
Bishopa of Quebec entered the room, which is her right, for she is bishopa of all East America. Do you know of this woman?”

Although I had met her that very day, I said I did not know of her, for I wished to see what he would tell me.

“Oh, she is a treacherous creature,” said Vulpine. “And though she is a bishopa, yet she is evil and calculating, and much feared and despised throughout the continent. Upon hearing we were about to approve the expenditure, she spoke, insisting a local stonemage receive the commission, and commanding the bishop to reject your own application. This, naturally, he was obliged to do, although it was with the greatest unwillingness. But even so, the rest of us stood firm, for we believed yours was the finest of all the entries. Then the bishopa said she had made her views clear, and if we wished to oppose her, we would reap bitter consequences indeed. You may be assured the bishopa’s threats are not to be taken lightly, for she commands a great army, and it has often been used to wreak destruction in the towns of this region. Indeed it was that very army which burned the north section of our town, in retaliation for a previous offence against her. Therefore, we had little choice but to reject your proposal.”