A Road May Tell More Lies Than A Felon
Another friend of the family met them to conduct the oligarch's guests to Koshat Dreivis proper despite the existence of a road leading to it. Visitors could get lost anywhere, he did not say, and perhaps did not even think, but the effect was the same, just as those philosophers Onerid cited kept saying.
“It occurs to me too late for anyone to praise my perceptiveness that in all these days I have spent in this country, today for the first time I step outside of a city,” Dirant remarked. “And what will we say of this road? Though narrow for proper two-way wagon traffic, any such is likely to go in one direction at a time only. The paving appears to be done with that combination of clay and sand which sees more or less use in response to regional availability of materials. It is without question respectable. What distinguishes this road is the trees which provide both cover and decoration. Rather than straight columns we may describe as both stately and unimaginative, purposeful cultivation has produced a series of arches consisting of that 'heart of palms' we are told is an embellishment of heraldry, here realized. The trunks are a bit far apart, but I ignore that as a matter of practicality.”
“It's as you say, Mr. Dirant.” Stansolt dashed ahead at every pair of palm trees to search behind them before the others came even with them, which proved his interest in dendrology. “Can you conceive that anyone who walks down this path will not know there's an important personage at the other end of it? The plan of this road cannot be bettered.”
“It might be straighter for better speed,” Ibir suggested. “Or more curved and accompanied by a fence or wall for a sounder defense. In the gaps between wall and road might be placed supplies, and a gatehouse every so often would not be without value. The price hardly bears contemplation, so I recommend the straightening instead.”
Stansolt disputed the proposal in this fashion. “The gentle winding of the road nudges the traveler to look off to one side or another as he goes. Aren't you becoming more impressed step by step? Your line of sight is manipulated to sweep across the increasingly cultivated countryside so that you associate prosperity with the oligarch himself.”
“I had not noticed it consciously,” Onerid said. “But you are right.”
The inland fields around Koshat Dreivis could be identified by the most citified person as being given over to the growing and harvesting of tea provided that city boy had been exposed beforehand to a detailed tapestry of Drastlif which depicted the subject. Nothing could better give the sense that “to live” had here been replaced by “to thrive” than the cultivation of such an inessential plant.
Takki tapped Dirant with a fan. She had not yet attained mastery of the social nuances of Drastlifan fan manipulation, but she had begun to carry one because it was getting hot, not to mention the bugs. “Ressi, do you think this is a fundamental cultural issue or a consequence of the business your company is in?”
“It's my unfortunate stupidity I am sure, but what do you mean?”
“I mean why you're talking about roads like this. You can agree it's weird, can't you? Ressi?”
He shook his head.
“Mr. Stansolt?”
Likewise.
“Mrs. Istarank?”
Ibir frowned and said nothing.
“Onerid?”
She considered it. She gave it an honest try. Looking down, looking up, tapping her fan on her nose, and sighing once, Onerid tried to see it Takki's way. “No,” she concluded.
Desperate, Takki resorted to her rudimentary Drastlimez. “Excuse me, Eizesl. Would you think it odd for people to talk about roads how good they are? When the planner of the road can't hear.”
Their guide, who until then had been strolling along with a carefree gait natural to those certain their presence was of no use except as an ornament, looked puzzled. “A road? This road, Barais?”
Though addressed by the honorific designated for married women, Takki did not take offense. She had read even before arriving in Drastlif that “Barais” also applied to young women who would be married if ever men developed any sense. From that she had the dual pleasure of hearing a compliment and having the worldliness to recognize it. “Right now they talk about this road, but if you give me an opinion on the idea entire, I will thank you.”
“What are they saying about it?”
“Oh, that it's perfect. They go into a lot of detail about the choice of . . . items . . . that are part of it . . . and the way it directs our attention as we get closer to the town. I think it's weird, but am I wrong?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The guide smiled wide enough for two such roads. “How will the Stanops react when I tell him? Maybe I should have a thought for his health and stay silent about it.” The Adabans and Sivoslofer chuckled along with him and left the Jalpi Peffu isolated, as was the habitual state of geopolitics.
The strong affinity between Greater Enloffenkir and Drastlif suffered when citizens of the former reached an example of the latter's walls. The majestic stone bulwarks of a city such as Wessolp, notwithstanding their actual usefulness against modern invasion techniques, existed in a different century from the plain planks arranged to a height of not quite two Rikeltas which surrounded Koshat Dreivis. The wooden fortifications before them were suitable for nothing but to be a backdrop for a historian while he explained the crude construction methods which produced the old hill forts of eight hundred years past.
“Oh! The saying is true!” When they neared the gate, unbarred and inviting, Takki diverted attention from Drastlif's technological sophistication to the diligent skill of its craftsmen by failing to thrust a piece of paper between the wall's slats.
“What saying is that?” Dirant asked.
“'Might as well pass a note through a fence in Drastlif.' Do you have an equivalent?”
“Of a task difficult to accomplish, or?”
“Yes, but really it should seem like it's going to be easy.”
The first phrase that came to Dirant, “Like getting a Jalpi Peffu through an open door,” he judged unwise to say. He had just invented it, for one thing, and therefore it did not satisfy that criterion.
“'Making your dog hate you' is the closest I can think, even though it isn't quite the same connotation,” Stansolt offered.
“That is a saying I don't remember hearing. Is it in common use, or?” Dirant asked.
“The same for me,” Onerid said.
“It is a Sivosloferism,” Ibir attested, which cleared that up, though Stansolt wanted further testimony on the point.
The guests in both the invited and the Takki categories walked into the Drastlifan town, the first for some of them. The casual observer's initial assessment must have been “Vigit Pikilif, but smaller.” The one-story homes separated by the narrowest gap or a ribbon-thin street put it farther from Dubwasef and closer to Vigit. None of those old-timey decorative flourishes pointed out there by experienced architectural tour guide Onerid Paspaklest showed, but neither did the Dubwasef stripes. “Rural,” she labeled the style, which was disappointing.
Other elements betrayed that conclusion once Takki found the Drastlimez translation for 'elements' and 'conclusion' in her lexicon. For instance, what about that sinuous green something-or-other winding between and around residences from the underside of their roofs to a spot between them where a tank sat below? Such delicate embellishments violated the rural feel as understood everywhere except Yean Defiafi. And what about the relief on the tank that depicted the cycle of rain and flood with, if anything, greater detail than the tapestries acquired at such great expense by collectors abroad? On closer examination, that was a cistern collecting rainwater from a lovely little drainpipe.
Then there was the netting across the mouth and exit of tiny arcades between buildings to keep out bugs, the road that descended below ground level past establishments selling or storing goods better kept cool or dark, and the bells placed at even distances to be rung in case of being chased by criminals. A park contained a statue of two wrestlers engaged in the classic contest of Muscle and Coordination designed so that they shifted their arms throughout the day to signal the time on the clock face which surrounded them.
“All along the Drastlif of rumor hides here,” Dirant proclaimed. “I must write a monograph to inform tourists.” That country of ever-advancing perfectionism existed after all, the one which many travelers reluctantly accepted as a myth on the order of the still rivers and the fairy kingdoms under the hills. Perhaps those other towns dominated by oligarchical families enjoyed similar perfections of municipal science owing to the care of their arms-bearing masters. If anyone wanted an argument to justify handing Haderslant Rikelta a shield with an otter painted on it and complete control of Fennizen's affairs, there it was. Dirant had not before, but valleys become canyons as rivers flow.
Takki grabbed his arm and pointed out this feature and that convenience, and an upbringing which instilled morality and restraint alone prevented her from leaping over the clock. “How amazing!” she said. “Wouldn't it surprise those egotists in Sessu Rasse if we showed them this place? They'd have to stop saying there are three civilized places in the world and two of them are made up.”
“It is not so hard,” Onerid assured her. “We hire workmen to dig all around and under the town, this should take no more than three years of Chtrebliseu's royal revenues, wait for the rainy season, and float it out. The inhabitants will be happy to row of course, and to rest them when possible we will run up a gigantic sail sewn together from the Stanops's wardrobe. Supplies will be bought along the way from the proceeds of tourism. The boat which carried us can ferry wealthy clients to and from the mainland as we go easily enough, but the trouble is advertising.” If printed in the broadsheets or read during a legal proceeding, the audience might conclude the speaker was engaging in deadpan humor. For that reason alone, the courts and reporters ought not to be trusted. Onerid demonstrated the digging and the hoisting of the sail with the exaggerated movements of a goslikenar actor hoping to stand out, and the hills and valleys of her voice could have confounded the most assiduous maker of topographical maps. Her enthusiastic performance, in Adaban naturally, worried their guide.
“Have I overlooked something, of a nature medical or some point of etiquette?” he asked.
Dirant moved to calm his fears, since Takki, the member of the group with the greatest degree of acquaintance with the man, was clearly set on returning to the question of whether the citizens of Sessu Rasse would regret their condescension toward the other communities of Pavvu Omme Os if they knew about the wrestle clock. “Ah, it is merely a matter of discussing how best to inform other countries of the excellent features of this town with the goal of . . . getting . . . better things . . . in cities abroad.”
“Oho! 'Splendid as her smile when you step back on land long left and lonely in your heart for it,' is the line that comes to mind. I have to call on the old writers to describe what I think of that idea. The new writers have their merits, I'll allow. Oh, when I tell the Stanops!”