{* Type-master, move this section to after the rest of the text. There is, I am certain, no need to discuss it with our esteemed author}
It is, we are told, the rigorous custom of that branch of commerce known as the publishing industry for an author to not only publicly thank those who have aided him in the completion of a work—a custom that, so far as it goes, we find reasonable and even laudable—but even more, to set this inevitable section of any history in a particular place, that is, at the end of the work in question, and nowhere else. If we have chosen to violate this custom, it would seem incumbent upon us to give some sort of explanation for this decision.
According to conventional wisdom (while “wisdom” is, perhaps, a dubious term, this is the idiom employed, and while engaged in questioning the customs of an entire industry, we do not choose to simultaneously question the parlance with which we refer to it, as this could only result in needless confusion), as well as we can determine from our conversations with such professionals as have done us the honor to speak with us on the subject, something like this: As the reader, that is to say, the presumed reader, is marked by a short attention span, a tendency toward ennui, impatience, and a generally hostile attitude toward learning, therefore, the argument runs, before thanking those who have been so kind as to aid a writer in the preparation of the work, one must first be absolutely certain the reader wishes to have this information, which certainty can only be achieved by the knowledge that the reader has reached the end of the work in question and is, presumably, still reading.
Needless to say, our own view of the reader, both from principle, and from our happy experience with encounters with such readers as have, from time to time, crossed our path, has nothing in common with this preconception. On the contrary, it has been our experience that our readers have been intelligent, eager to learn, and entirely willing to accept such wisdom as our poor efforts have been able to set forth.
We have, therefore, chosen to place these comments here, at the beginning, in part as a gesture of faith, as it were, in the positive attributes of our audience, and yet, in addition, for a second reason, which is as follows: A discourse on history may be viewed as educational, yet it simultaneously partakes of art, in that it attempts to engage with both the mind of the reader, and, if you will, his heart. With this latter aspect in mind, one important facet of such a work is the nature of the emotion one is left with upon completion of the work; that is, like a well-planned repast, the flavor that is left in one’s metaphorical mouth must be considered vital. And, in our opinion, to leave the reader with such dry and uninteresting matters as a list of names, more or less notorious, cannot but have a detrimental effect on the feelings of the sensitive reader.
With this firmly understood, we would like, at this point, to thank those who have done us the kindness to assist, in one way or another, in bringing the present humble work to fruition.
We must begin, alas, with one who has moved on from this life, and whose passing we can say that we, and everyone whose life he touched, bitterly regret. We refer here to Ivan Székly, a very dear friend, and, moreover a man of letters whose knowledge was boundless, whose interests and passions incalculable, and whose skill with the written word marked him, although largely unknown to the public, as one of the greatest who ever set pen to paper in the Northwestern language. Those of us with the honor to have known him treasure each hour we were able to spend in his company, and still, years after his passing, feel undiminished sorrow that there will be no more of these hours, and that his pen, to the anguish of us all, is forevermore silent. In addition to all of this, for his kindness on behalf our own humble efforts, we render his memory now our sincere thanks.
Next, we must speak of the Dean of Pamlar University, who has displayed not only wisdom and kindness, but selflessness, putting significant effort into a task for which she was not only uncompensated, but even unacknowledged until this moment. We can say without hesitation that should letters produce more such as she, our culture would be the better for it. And we must add, in all fairness and honesty, that her works, while criminally under-represented upon the shelves of the common bookshops, are well-known to incite a deep and richly deserved passion in all who read them. For those who have been kind enough to single out this historian’s skill with words for compliments, we can only say, with all sincerity and no false modesty, that in this matter in particular the Dean of Pamlar is our master, teacher, inspiration, and guide.
A particular Magian known as Ilen has proven to be extraordinarily generous with his time, providing much needed criticism to help the work, wine to help the historian accept the criticism, and good klava to counteract the wine. On a personal note, we must also say that this Magian’s stunning successes with the public are an ample counter-argument to those philistines who insist that popularity is incompatible with quality. While it is not uncommon to speak contemptuously of “sell-besting,” we have in Ilen’s experience definitive proof that style, wit, depth, and power are not necessarily lost on those who love to read. He brings us tears and laughter, and, if we bring him a certain degree of success, it can only serve as a useful reminder that the public can demonstrate more appreciation of the sublime than the elitist who scorns it. More cannot be said on this matter.
Our dear friend Lord Shetwil is that rarest of curiosities, a Dzurlord poet. Whether he became a poet in order to provide greater opportunities for duels from those who mocked him for his profession, or whether this was merely a happy accident, we cannot say; in spite of our long friendship, it is a question we have never quite dared to put to him. Of course, Lord Shetwil is more than a poet, he is, in addition, a writer of moving and exquisite prose, the sort that grip one’s senses in the moment of reading, and give cause for reflection for years thereafter—a goal which, in the opinion of this historian, all of those who seek to delight us with their tales ought to aspire. Beyond this, I have known him as a loyal and steadfast friend, as quick to defend a friend or a worthy cause with his wit as his blade, which, we are forced to say, is as unusual in a Dzur as the profession of poet. And yet, it is none of these characteristics which cause us to mention him in these lines. Rather, as sharp and piercing and precise as his wit, his use of prose, and his blade, even more sharp and piercing are his remarks on the works of others, in particular, those of your humble author. The time and effort he has put into a careful study of this historian’s own efforts in order to suggest improvements would be worthy of praise even were they not as astute and, ultimately, useful as they have invariably been—useful, we are forced to add, in the immediate sense of the better casting of a particular thought or rendering of an image, but also and even more in his remarkable ability to generalize from a particular literary or historical issue to the general law that applies, and from which one would need to be utterly oblivious to fail to profit.
To us, as, indeed, to all who have had the pleasure of working with her, a special place in our hearts belongs to Her Eminence, C. Sophronia Cleebers, who was first provided to us by Glorious Mountain Press for the purpose of guiding an earlier work through the tedious process of publication. Imagine our surprise on discovering that, under her direction, the process was not tedious, but, on the contrary, stimulating, as she helped us discover that to make a book is a craft quite like no other, in the myriad number of skills it brings together, all so different, yet all working in harmony. Moreover, it must be said, her ability to grasp the essence of an historian’s intent, and to, if the reader will permit, tease out the underlying meaning in such a way as to make it clear to the meanest understanding, and, indeed, in some cases to the historian himself, unaware as he was of what he was writing, provides a particular sort of joy, a satisfaction, that is only rivaled by the satisfaction of seeing Her Eminence’s skill with the refining of a sentence, in which, more than once, this historian was prevented from putting, in a single thought, matters too complex to contain it, and which would have caused the reader to inevitably become lost in a tangle of clauses and subclauses to the ultimate confusion of said reader and, indeed, to the detriment of the work. To find someone so skilled in the understanding of text, at every level, is, or ought to be, the dream of everyone who works with the written word.
My first encounter with Adain of Arylle came when I happened across his observations on my work in a small publication distributed mostly in Candletown and with a circulation that failed to reach the 500 mark. How it came into my possession is a tale not worth the effort of recounting, but I will say that I was intrigued by his remarks on my first work, Three Broken Strings, which, if said remarks were not kind, neither were they entirely without merit—a rare gift in a critic. At this time, I became curious about the individual, and learned that he was well known in certain sections of Adrilankha as one who spent most of his time indulging in brothels, dreamgrass dens, public houses, klava holes, and shereba rooms, as well as playing obscure music on the sithara. By the time of my next work, which he also reviewed, he had stopped frequenting the brothels, but his pen had become sensibly sharper. When my next work appeared, I read his comments on it (he had, by this time, given up the dreamgrass), and began to wonder why, if he held such strong opinions of my literary endeavors, he continued to read them, much less write about them. When my next work appeared, he had stopped drinking ale and wine, but continued the criticism. Eventually we met in a klava hole (though by this time he was no longer drinking klava), and I found his company most agreeable. Since then, I have gone to him on more than one occasion to request his thoughts on my work, my belief being that these remarks would do more good before publication than after, and found his advice on this, and, I may add, on shereba, far from useless. I am, therefore, duly grateful, and must add that I have spent time listening to his music on the sithara (which vice, as of this writing, he has not given up) and found it, if not great, at least good.
I should also mention here those kind souls whose patronage, over the years, have permitted me to continue my work. Beginning with Lady Parachai of Redstaff, and the Marchioness of Poorborn (and of course Her Highess the Tiassa Heir), and to all who have so generously aided me in getting my small efforts out before the public, you have my humble thanks.
Last, I cannot end this brief discourse without an expression both of gratitude to and admiration for Luchia of North Leatherleaf. While modestly referring to herself, at one point, by the term “publisher,” such an appellation is no more accurate than if, when discussing the Ocean-sea, we should observe, “It contains water.” Indeed it does, and yet, so much more! Luchia is, in addition to a publisher, also a singer, a musician, a poet, a playwright, and an author, as well as, no doubt, possessing several other skills that have temporarily slipped from our attention. And in each of these, she defines mastery. Indeed, among those such as myself fortunate enough to know her it is a common jest that she is unable to throw the light discus, the explanation for the jest being our knowledge that she can do everything else, and do it so well as to leave us amazed. Her friendship and company are gifts to treasure, and it is our sincerest hope that more of the fickle public will come to know (and thus, inevitably, to love) her work, and more good companions will come to know her.
[A letter from Genphala of Mermaid Cove, addressed for some reason to the accounting department of Glorious Mountain Press]
Good gentlemen, I hope this missive finds you well. Certainly the ledgers I recently received detailing the status of my own small investment give some indication that your business matters have taken a turn for the better. Presumably this circumstance is due to the rampant profusion of the arts taking place under her most magnanimous majesty, Empress Norathar, and not my own small assistance. Truly such a trifling sum as what I have invested in your publishing house could not have been the means of its salvation, and I have said so to my clerks and my husband when they thought otherwise. It is very droll at times to hear them speak of it! One would think they forgot that I am Heir to an entire House—and not the least noble or the lowest on the Cycle, either—and therefore must be more knowledgeable than most about such weighty matters as the intersection of business and culture. You may be assured (as though such assurances would be necessary between such friends as we have become!) that after my laughter had ceased, I took them all most severely to task for their little jokes about “sinking a ship in a mountain range.”
Now, speaking of sinking ships, it is my understanding that the reading public have been all over dying for more swashbuckling sorts of tales. I do so envy those who have fewer worldly cares than I, and can make time for the perusal of novels, for I can hardly take a moment away from all the dull business of lands and House and what-not that never seems to cease. But my dear friend Viasyl and my sweet little sister Jane have been in raptures lately over titles such as Pirate Team: Endgame and The Skylark of the Ocean-Sea, so I know from them that the appetite is unceasing.
I am certain then that you will be delighted to have a look at the enclosed manuscript, an early draft taken from the notebooks of Lord Paarfi of Roundwood. Whatever has transpired in the past, you cannot but jump at the chance to read this latest bit of business from his pen. Indeed, it is only as a mark of the kind esteem between us that I have judged it right to forward this copy to you and avoid any undignified bidding between yourself and other houses (as I am assured would be the case should I permit him to work through the usual channels for such things).
Now, the story of how this manuscript came to be is nearly as thrilling as the one it tells, and I could wish my own poor talents were equal to relating it, but of course the man himself is too modest to think it worth telling, so I must try my very best.
First, I will set the scene for how I chanced upon the work. Some years ago, I was taking a rare break from my business in Mermaid Cove. “Genphala,” my husband had said to me, “do take a little break and get into the Ocean-sea,” or something like that. He’s always so full of jokes, you know. But he offered quite manfully to see to my affairs as well as he could if I would go, and we parted amiably, knowing that on my return we would have such a nice reunion! So off I went to Adrilankha, and a year or so later I was enjoying one of those little soirees given by that blond marchioness whose name I never remember as it takes so long to recover from them, when who did I see looking downcast in the corner but Lord Paarfi!
It took a few cups but fewer minutes for me to winkle the tale out of him (for I am a monstrous good winkler when I choose to be), but I will only summarize it here for you, as the man himself is so skilled with words that he is known to be a bit loquacious, and I am loath to take up too much of your time. He told me that he had been passed over for some sort of honor or bit of furniture at his university, and they were lifting up some fellow who tends to lies or mysticism or something in his place. It didn’t seem to signify much to me, because I thought all novelists were good at lying, but he informed me it wasn’t a matter for joking so I let it drop.
Now we come to the real reason he was dragging a gray cloud amongst our jolly crew. It wasn’t that a rival had beaten him, for Lord Paarfi is of that sensitive sort of disposition that always must feel strongly for his fellows, so much so that he would sooner pardon a thousand wrongs done to himself than see a bit of harm come to anyone else, could he prevent it. And so, to increase the prestige of the very institution that had slighted him, he had veritably thrown himself into his researches, which at that time were to do with a few Iorich who did something or other during the Interregnum.
At least, I believe that’s when the events took place. For myself, I have no head at all for history, with all those dull dates and names lined up in unfeeling rows, stirred about here and there by a battle or a beheading. Ghastly stuff, really, and I must spend all my time and energy on the pressing matters of to-day, doing tedious business in service to my House. However, it happens that one of the names Lord Paarfi was digging out of the dusty past had been a scoundrel back then, and turned out to now—to-day, mind you—be embarking on a second career, increasing his villainy by trading in the forger’s tools for those of the plagiarist!
Imperial law may not have much to say on that crime, but obviously a university must scorn it absolutely. And this is an important distinction, because who indeed was this resurfaced reprobate but Lord Paarfi’s recent university rival!
You may think this could not be so, the coincidence too great, and I said as much to Lord Paarfi, but he assured me it was so and that he was in possession of certain irrefutable proofs. This was what caused his terrible dilemma, because to allow this to continue would be a certain evil, but how could such a gentle soul as he set out to cause ruin and loss of stature to his beloved university? For the truth of the matter would cause such a fuss and scandal among the scholarly set, as they aren’t very worldly in tendency, and attach a great deal of meaning to words like stature and reputation, even though those things are merely, as the term is, “creations of common agreement.” Moreover, the whole affair was certain to be seen as vengeful on Lord Paarfi’s part, although if you had seen him that evening, you would know in your hearts as I do that such was not the case.
The poor man was dreadfully out of sorts. I couldn’t bear to see such intelligence, such wit as I have always known him for, be dimmed by sorrow. The only course of action with any merit in it was clear to me, and you will not, I hope, think me speaking over-well of myself when I relate it. I spoke firmly to Lord Paarfi, convincing him that living well is the best revenge, and that he would be wise to finish his research away from the university, write it all out truthfully, and let matters fall out as they would, without working either for or against the downfall of the academic miscreant.
He couldn’t help but be swayed by me and subscribed to my plan whole-heartedly, so I took him off to a country manor at once, giving up on my own much-needed rest, so that the perfumed air, good food and wine, and general lack of noise and bustle could bolster his spirits and allow him to work unceasingly. I only troubled him but rarely to entertain me with moments of conversation, and kept parties of visitors from Adrilankha to a bare minimum so as not to distract him. In only a few years, I am happy to say, he had finished setting his notes toward the manuscript in order.
With that important milestone passed, I permitted Lord Paarfi to return to the university, and I returned to Mermaid Cove, as I had been away from my lands and business perhaps a bit longer than intended, and had begun to worry about the state of things after being in my husband’s well-intentioned hands for so long. It was not so many years after that when my constant entreaties bore fruit, and he sent me a very preliminary copy of his work in the hopes that I would find it either instructive or interesting (scholars don’t believe in an intersection of the two descriptors). My husband, sister, and friend have all read it, and they declare it is quite good and have told me it contains pirates, revenge, swordfights, and other such adventures.
As I said above, it is only due to our great friendship that I am forwarding it now to you. As my position in the world is very far from that of publishers (and here of course I only mean different, not loftier), I would never pretend to know how your business is conducted or why you, in your wisdom, should choose to publish this or that thing over another, as it seems to me there are a great many worthy scribblers about in the world! However, it would please me exceedingly if you would allow all matters of the past to remain in the past—matters such as missed deadlines or tiny little duels with critics or distributing unflattering pamphlets about the publishing industry—and read this work of Lord Paarfi’s with a fresh eye.
Your avowed friend,
Genphala of Mermaid Cove etc. etc.