The Sound of Broken Absolutes by Peter Orullian (fun to read .txt) 📗

fluid transitions in a piece most pleased his ear, so he didn’t mind spending extra time to craft a proper bow.

He was in the process of bending in the delicate centermost section when indelicate footsteps crossed the luthier shop threshold.

“You’d best have a powerful reason for charging in all clumsy-like,” he grumped. “You know this is delicate work up here.”

“I think you can take a rest,” came an unfamiliar voice. There was a calm but commanding tone in it, as from one who feels sure he’ll be obeyed.

Divad released the pressure on the camber and looked under his armpit to see three men from the League of Civility entering his workshop. They weren’t bustling, really. But they might as well have been, compared to the easy manner he instructed Descant members to use when coming into this place. The League liked to say of themselves that they served the common interest. Their emblem of four interlocking hands, each clasping the wrist of the next in a quadrangle-like circle, seemed comically obvious. Though the modest chestnut brown of their cloaks did just as good a job of conveying common while also setting them apart in uniform fashion.

He put the bow down gently and turned, wiping his hands on a dry cloth dusted with talc. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

The lead man slowed up, beginning to walk the line of instruments hanging from pegs in various states of repair. He ran a finger across each as he passed, the motion one part intimidation and another part casual familiarity. Close behind the other two Leaguemen came three Lyren, their arms outstretched as if they’d been beseeching their guests to slow down. Divad held up a hand for them to relax.

“Just some questions. Nothing that has to become contentious.” The Leagueman’s lips showed the barest of grins.

“Sounds harmless,” Divad replied. “Always glad to educate. Shall we go and have a seat. I can offer you some—”

“What is it you do here?” the man asked.

Divad looked around. “I should think it’s somewhat obvious. I repair instruments.”

The man offered a soft chuckle. “You’ve wit. Please answer the question you know I asked.”

“Fair enough.” Divad leaned back against his workbench. “I teach music. And for some—those who have the gift—I teach intentional music. Most likely you call these folks Lieholan. It’s as good a name as any, I guess.”

“And these Lieholan, their job is singing a song that you would have us believe keeps us safe from mythical races, yeah?”

“A rather cynical way to describe it.” Divad again wiped his hands of the sweat that had begun to rise in his palms. “If I look ahead of your questions, I suppose I’d say that what we believe on that score is ours to believe. And it doesn’t cause a wit of harm to the League, or the people for that matter. May even lend some hope to weary—”

“Ah, see, that’s the arrogance I expected.” The Leagueman crossed to a near bench—the one where the glued viola rested beside a mostly reconstructed new one.

The stranger’s nearness to the instrument made Divad panicky. “Does the regent know you’re here? Or is this less . . . official?”

Something changed subtly in the man’s face. And it surprised Divad. The Leagueman’s demeanor actually became less guarded, less scrutinizing, as he began to run his fingers along the unfinished viola. “Let me start over,” the man said. It was a masterful change in manner. One Divad would have fallen for if he hadn’t been changing the tone of his own voice to color vocal performance for the better part of thirty years.

Divad played along. “I’d like that. I’ll admit to being a mite weary. So, truly, how can I help you?”

“I think maybe there’s too much mystery around what Descant does these days,” the man said. His tone was almost apologetic, as though he were on a forced errand. “I’ve been asked to invite several of your singers of Suffering back to help explain it to us.” He smiled magnanimously. “I’ll tell you something else. I’ll wager when it’s done, we find ourselves more kin than kessel.”

Divad kept from smiling. Kessel was an Ebonian word that meant ‘separated,’ but most folks used it to mean ‘enemy.’

“I’ll be glad to accompany—”

“Not you,” the man said abruptly, then raised his hands as though to revise his own terseness. “That’s not how I meant that. I’d imagine you have a good handle on your purpose. It’s those you teach that we need to talk to.”

Divad began to lose patience. “Is this a trial of some kind? Because if it is, I’ll want a letter with the regent’s seal.”

The man’s stare narrowed, though his grin did not falter. “No. Not yet. But mind you, a man might wonder about the person who frets over being invited to explain himself.”

“No,” Divad said flatly. “You have no authority to insist. And none of us is freely going with you. We can talk here, if you’d like. Beyond that, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The man’s genial manner fell away entirely. He stood glaring at Divad with calculating eyes. Then he turned to look back at the unfinished viola. He picked it up in both hands with a delicate kind of grace. The room fell silent and taut with expectation.

“It’s fine work,” the man said. “My father was a fair hand with a knife. Though he used his skill to gut sea trout and coalfish, and mend nets and loose deck planks.”

“Sounds like a decent fellow,” Divad offered.

The Leagueman nodded. “He was. Up until I was nine,” he replied cryptically. He then began to wave the viola by its neck, his agitation slightly more manic. “Your students. They’re free to choose whether to go, yes?”

“Of course,” Divad said, tracking the instrument worriedly as the Leagueman began to use it to point around the room.

“What about you,” he said, jabbing the viola toward the Lyren near the doorway. “Nothing preventing you from leaving, is there?”

The Lyren shook their heads rather