Timeframe: 92 NA (A few weeks after Laughing Boy's introduction to the Court, at the end of the Winter, so before the Charity Ball at the Ranirs.)
The Guild Quarter is one of the newest sections of the city to have been built under Queen Dara's reign. While the majority of those living in the area work for, are members of, or are associated with the Guild, there are many others who choose the quarter to live in. Tall slender buildings, with arching spires and clean lines dominate the district. The streets, wider than in most of Amber, are perfectly paved, without a cobblestone in sight. At first, one gets the impression of an architect gone mad when visiting the Guild Quarter. Each building is designed in its own unique style, each cutting edge in somebody's eyes. The older traditional buildings of Amber are nowhere to be seen. The area might sterile and dead if it wasn't for its proximity to the docks, with its smell of salt water and fresh fish. At the center of the quarter is a large clock tower gleaming gold in the sunlight, and shining like silver in the moonlight.
It is in this quarter, that Laughing Boy has set up residence, and through which Ariadne travels to visit him.
The carriage stops with a great deal of noise, metal clanging agaist metal, wood against wood, shouts of the driver and whinnies of the horses, an unseemly, outdated reminder of the past in the shocking modernity of the Guild Quarter. A lackey in the Royal livery jumps dextrously from the back of the car, touching ground even before the leather suspension has yet settled. He quickly unfold the step, and opens the door.
It is the end of the winter, and even if the last snow has fallen already, the temperature still is cold enough for the breath of the boy, and the sweat of the horses to condense in a white cloud, fleetingly wrapping around the carriage.
Ariadne emerges in the chilly air of the morning, wrapped up in capes and furs.
"That will be all, Dick," she says amicably to the boy. "Wait for me around the corner, I shouldn't be too long."
She takes a breath a bit deeper than should be, examines the house with a critical eye and walks toward the entrance.
The estate of Laughing Boy has only recently been constructed, and there are still a few scaffolds and other workers' gear scattered along the sides of the building. No workmen are in sight, however.
The two sections of earth that flank the approach to the villa are dotted with wildflowers and are dominated by two large deciduous trees, one in the center of each side. The walls of the building are plain stucco, a dull white that easily blends into the chaotic decor of the Guild Quarter. The walls may also have some other material applied to them - there is a hint of reflectiveness from the walls of the villa that is unexpected. It has two levels, and it might be possible to make out the top of a chair on the roof near the side facing the street.
The entrance to the house is covered by a large canopy-like roof of stucco that flies forward from above the doorway and has a rather flowing structure to it. The corners of the entryway roof have mounted on them silver masks - exact replicas of the one Laughing Boy wears. The space between the masks, directly over the walkway, is carved with very simple letters.
CALLERS WELCOMED
PLEASE COME IN
The walkway roof is quite possibly designed to deflect rain away from the building, as there is no door to otherwise protect the interior of the house from the elements. There are, however, no windows in evidence that might admit rain or snow.
From the curb, the interior of the house looks to be of a very spartan nature. The material inside is unpainted, and what might even appear to be a scorchmark is visible on the far wall of the foyer.
The street noise obscures sounds from inside the villa, but it's possible that a clicking or a ratcheting sound is emerging from within.
Ariadne reads the inscription once, then a second time, looking puzzled and sceptical. Then, still irresolute over the course to follow, she pushes the door open a couple of feet, clearing her throat politely in an attempt to warn about her presence.
"Hello? Master Laughing Boy?" Her voice is loud and clear, but her tone is doubtful.
From a few rooms away, Laughing Boy hears the sound of a voice. He puts down his piston wrench as the voice trails away. "Hello? I am glad to receive you, fine lady. Give me a moment to prepare myself - I am enmeshed in a construction and would like to extricate myself safely." After a few seconds, a rather loud clatter erupts from within the chambers of the villa. And after a few seconds...
"Oh, bother." A few more clangs. "A minute at most, madam. Please, be at ease. There is chilled water available in the glass-fronted cabinet you may see, and glasses on top of it."
And indeed, as you advance from the foyer to what might be a sitting room, with a few simple wood chairs and tables, you see a metal cabinet near to the door with a glassy front to it. Inside the cabinet are several decanters of water, and some fine crystal glasses sit on top of it. There appears to be a small black pipe leading from the back of the cabinet into the wall, where it disappears. The inside of the glass appears somewhat fogged. Across the room is what might be a fireplace by form, but it appears clean and empty. A few black dials are visible at the side of the naked mantel.
Ariadne frowns, intrigued. She walks to the glass-fronted cabinet, opens it and proceed to serve herself a glass of iced water. She smells the glass content dubiously, takes a cautious sip, then, satisfied with the content, walks to one of the chairs and sits herself.
It takes about a minute or so for her to get bored with watching the condensation drip down the heavy crystal tumbler before she stands up, walks toward the fireplace, and starts turning one of the knobs, a look of curiosity upon her face.
As she turns the knobs, she notices a few of the tiles in the floor of the fireplace begin to change color, turning an angry red. Not enough to see by or feel the heat from, but it's a distinct change. After a few seconds, a slight hissing sound develops in the back of the fireplace...
FWOOOOSHHHH!
A billowing cloud of steam emerges from the fireplace, filling the area around it with a white fog - warm, pure, and somewhat sweet-smelling. It roils forth from the fireplace in a continuous wave - but there are signs that it will soon diminish. As the cloud flows and ebbs in the room, there comes a sound of metal lightly tapping against stone.
"I see you have been to my abode before, miss. I thank you for the steam - the labors of the morning have coated me in a residue of smoke and oil." As the steam starts to dissipate, a form is revealed, metallic and lithe. He is using a white hand towel to rub down his 'skin', which is shiny and polished where the cloth has already passed. It is the work of a few moments to remove the industrial residue from himself. He finally looks up and towards Ariadne as the steam clears to a more reasonable level.
"The room will be quite comfortably heated for some time. Now then, what can..." His voice, lyrical and resonant with the slight echo of a second voice, stills as he finally makes out his visitor's identity. After a moment's hesitation, he bows deeply, arms out to his sides.
"Your ladyship Ariadne. I had not been informed of your intention to visit, or I would have made greater preparations. I apologize for the delay you have suffered." He indicates one of the wooden chairs. "You may certainly sit, if it pleases you." His voice is a little hesitant and awkward, and his body language similar, albeit respectful.
"Thank you, Master," replies Ariadne with warmth, obviously trying to make her host comfortable. She removes her heavy, fur-lined cape, and draws a chair. She is wearing a heavy dress of purple velvet, a compromise between winter and fashion, probably not quite elegant enough for the Court, yet an acceptable concession to weather, with a silver girdle around her waist.
"I am not unaware," she continues, "of the miracles of technology the Guild can invent, but I have to say, Master Laughing Boy, that your house is intriguing, fascinating indeed..." There is a hint of excitation in her tone.
She looks around, her grey eyes slowly sweeping every detail in the room with a glint of childish amusement, before they fall on the shiny Guildsman.
"As is its owner..."
Laughing Boy nods at her thanks. After Ariadne sits, he takes a seat as well. He speaks more comfortably - but this may be because he is now speaking of a subject he is quite familiar with.
"Ah, yes, the construction is quite fantastic. I wanted this to be an illustration of how the Guild can make the lives of everyone better, more convenient, and safer. This is the reason my house has no doors - I never wish to deter anyone from entering and examining the luxuries within." He crosses his legs at the knee with a slight rasping of metal.
"As to myself - I am but a humble servant of the Crown, and a master craftsman and artist at its disposal." He makes a salute-like gesture, two fingers moved from brow towards her. "I have little here to eat at the moment - shall I send a runner for some stew?"
"Please, do not bother for me, Master," quickly answers Ariadne. "I will not be annoying you too long, as I see you are a busy person."
However, she crosses her legs, clearly not ready to leave on the instant.
"I have to admit," she adds raising her eyebrows, bending a bit toward him, on a tone a tad lower one would use for a confidence, "that I dabbble a bit in painting myself, so art always attract my attention. And your creations have such a personal style..."
Laughing Boy coughs and waves his hand in a gesture of polite rebuttal. "Please, madam, you do not annoy me - you honor me with your presence. My work - or rather, the work of the Guild - is the work of ages, and even the delay of an entire day is of insignificant scale. I would not turn you out before other business calls you away, for I certainly imagine that your duties at Court will prevail upon you more impatiently than my research will upon myself."
"My style? Hmmm. I suppose you refer to the stark lines and rather abstract nature of my art. Unfortunately, it's not as personal a decision as you might believe." He points to the black spaces of his eyes. "It's how they see, you must understand. The Guild has wondrous inventions and has saved my life, but the original powers of my vision are lost to me, I must presume. I have a gift for painting and illustration, so I can only assume that my former talents were formidable and capable of quite the realistic portrayal of life. I can only lament that this reality of form is denied me now, but luxuriate in the fact that I can still paint at all."
"So you do paint too? What a marvelous coincidence!" The young woman's eyes open wide in amazement. She stretches further more in his direction, in a very cat-like move, and adds in a not unpleasantly childish begging tone: "I would love to see your pictures, Master Laughing Boy... Would it be too much to hope..."
She leaves the end of her sentence float away, replacing it with glance that suggest a puppy longing for a treat.
Laughing Boy, true to his name, chuckles slightly at Ariadne's...enthusiasm. He uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair.
"Come now, milady, let us not mince words. Surely you say these things because you grasped the meaning of the comments I made the first time we met - where I revealed my experience with, and knowledge of, the Trump." He lets the heavy word fall for a moment, then continues in a soft and privately-toned whisper. "I do not remember my history, but some of my skills have survived intact. I have only executed a few new Trumps since my recovery, but the art is coming back to me. I would like to share some of these works with you, very much so. But first, let us share an act of trust together, one designed to put us at our ease." He rocks forward and stands up quickly. "I obviously have paint, supplies and the materials necessary. Shall we sit for one another, together, simultaneously? We could see our styles form in contrast, and perhaps learn from one another." He offers the Lady Ariadne a hand. "Let us share more than words."
Ariadne frowns, with maybe a hint of a pout. "I really was interested in your art, Master Laughing Boy..."
She retracts her hand, takes a sip and adds:"...But if drawing Trumps may help you find your previous yourself, then I am game. But you have to know," she says, tilting her head sideways, in a bird-like move, "I am but a student of my master, and much of a dilettante about it."
"But I am game if you are." She looks at him, with something of a concern on her face.
"You don't remember who you were... before, do you?"
Laughing Boy shakes his head quickly in reply, and his voice is soft and vulnerable for a moment. "Not one day has returned to me. And to be honest, given the first day I do remember - aflame, shattered and broken on the side of Kolvir near to the Guildhall there - I'm not terribly interested in pursuing whatever it was that brought me to such a state. It was only through the kind hearts and efficient craftsmen of the Guild," and he flourishes down the side of his body as he stands up, "that I am here at all. But to brighter days and happier times . . . such as this one."
And with that, he quickly dashes off, and the slight echo of a staircase is heard. Within a minute, though, he returns. He has two easels and a large rack of paints and brushes. "As to my own art - there may be a sample of it here and there for you to savor." He tilts his head in a friendly jest and holds up one finger in a gesture of waiting. "But especially between two artists, I believe what we are about to perform is a more meaningful conversation about art than any discussion of technique or form. Indeed, I find myself eager to learn of the fruits of your master's tutelage." He sets down his cargo and folds his arms. Now, then - we can sit here, in this rather functional sitting room, or we can move to my rooftop, where there are fine chaise lounges and the vistas of the City to encompass. What do you prefer, milady - I bow to you and your desire."
Ariadne sigh, stands up and grabs her cape, heavy with fur.
"I gather the rooftop has your preference, Master Laughing Boy. Yet you did spend quite some time with this metal skin of yours, for you would otherwise remember it is still the end of winter, and the weather is still cold for the ones with flesh and skin."
"Yet I will take your wager," she adds, her pride hurt, "and show you what I can do with ink and brush."
She wraps herself into her garment, in a flowing move, and adds: "Pray do show us the way."
Laughing Boy gives a polite wave of dismissal to Ariadne's charges of insensitivity. "I merely mean to suggest that the artiste is greater inspired by the vistas of the open more than these functional four walls." He gestures about him, then to a passageway he's emerged from several times. "The day is still young, and the sun's rays are still not without potency. You are right - let us hurry to the challenge."
He leads Ariadne down a short hall and turns left into a staircase. It rises, folds back on itself, and opens into a rather capacious workshop. There are all manner of steamfittings and pipes draped on tables, hammers, fastening devices, and other intricacies of purpose less amenable to visible extraction. Laughing Boy paces along the side of the stairs and indicates a stairset behind and on top of them - one with a filter of natural light emerging from the top.
"Oh, well," says Ariadne humourously, "I suppose one has to suffer for art's sake. Or so I heard," she adds, wrapping herself into her furs, as she follows Laughing Boy through the cluttered workshop.
"Why is it, she continues chattily, "that artists are supposed to be lean, hungry and miserable? Is it that art has to sprout from the seeds of affliction? I would like to see a masterpiece from a happy man, for once. Or woman, for what it is..."
Talking idly, she precedes the guildsman up the stair and emerges on the rooftop.
They emerge onto a plainly decorated rooftop patio, with a few tables and chairs made of simple wood, and a view of the City that is quite delicious. Laughing Boy sets up the easels and puts a set of paints and brushes on the table nearer the door to the house stairs. He sets up his own easel a little less than ten feet away, and he begins an outline in light charcoal. If this were a more modern world, it might be more easily recognized as a wireframe model of Ariadne, relaxing comfortably on a patio chair with a crystal goblet in her hand. As it is, it more resembles what someone would look like if they were completely white and covered with thin blue-black lines in regular measure.
And even as he begins, he continues the conversation. "Oh, I don't think the admonition for great artists to have suffered is an unflinching rule. I do, however, believe that those who have known only happiness, joy and contentment have never had need to stretch their imagination to what might be, and consequently do not develop their skills in any art less realistic than still lifes. And that is not an altogether inaccurate description of such people, I might add." A moderate note of laughter bubbles up from behind the mask. "Those of us who have passed through fire and darkness have been forced to dream of greater things than what is."
He continues to move through the work, and will soon be ready for a first pass at the background colorations.
Ariadne has set her easel up, and is starting to dabble with inks, brushes and water. Curiously, she seems to have started with the background, leaving room enough on the paper to draw the Guildsman's shiny form. Yet her eyes hardly ever leave him, as if she was filling herself with his silhouette before even drawing him.
"However, Trumps have nothing to do with Art, or more precisely with style. You would be amazed, Master Laughing Boy, at the clumsiness of my first ones." Her voice is an agreeable chatter, warm, but running on, as she talks while focusing on her task. "Yet they were functional! I believe it has to do with the willpower to capture, and reproduce shapes on the medium..."
"Can you spit? Or bleed?" She furrows her brow with concern. "I find bodily fluids help to stabilize the sketch..."
As Laughing Boy continues to work, he still maintains a good deal of...face contact, if not eyes. "It is something of a challenge, given the tendency of the paint to harden and thicken in these temperatures. I can detect a slurring in the paint already - but my technique tends to a thinner layer than most, I guess." He starts in on a background - but it is not the roof of the villa, nor is it the city beyond. He appears to be painting some kind of salon, with some indistinct figures on the background, and Ariadne laid comfortably not on a patio chair, but on a softly-upholstered lounge seat.
"You are correct that technique in artistry and technique in Trump creation are two different things. I seem to have a natural gift for both, which suggests that I learned the techniques of the brush before the techniques of the mind. It is a devilish puzzle, unlocking these things I can do and cannot. But I suppose, given my first real memories, that it is just as good that I do not still possess that which led me there - the life of old." He has the voice not of someone distracted, but of someone speaking somewhat idly while focused on a particular task.
At Ariadne's question, Laughing Boy's head cocks slightly sideways. "I do thin the pigment from time to time, but I use a dilution of solvent to achieve a more...precise admixture, I suppose. And no, I do not normally bleed, and I cannot spit. I imagine that if one were to pry off one of the plates," and he moves his hand along one of the sculpted areas of his arm, "that there would be considerable blood - for it would be as if I tore the skin off your forearm." He speaks analytically, seeming only to concern himself with the physical nature of actions, and not their contexts.
"You have an advantage I do not, milady." He continues some brushwork, and the lines on his wireframe are being lost in precise forms of color and light. "You have a memory of learning both the talents we speak of. Do you consult with your mentors still, either in the art of the brush or the art of the mind?"
"Not very often, I have to admit to my greatest shame." Ariadne frowns, as if the subject was one she is reluctant to talk about. "My masters... tended to think I wasn't much of an artist, more of a... gifted technician." One can feel the bitterness in her voice.
She catches a pipette of alcohol, and proceed to dilute some blue ink in a jar. She adds bluntly: "They were right. I do not have the talent for abstractions. I am much more at ease with whatever stand in front of me." And indeed, the picture that she puts on the paper is the very copy of Laughing Boy's rooftop, with the panorama on the city behind.
The young woman spends a moment applying layers upon layers of blue sky on her pasteboard, silent as she mulls over her thoughts.
"And my master in the Art of the Trump does not have much time for me, these past few months. No, master Merlin does not care to share his secrets with me anymore..." She shrugs and smiles to her model, a little smile that seems a bit forced.
Even as Laughing Boy continues his painting, forming up quite beautifully - even as the lines are more distinct than in reality, the blendings of color more regular - he cocks his head and looks to Ariadne.
"Your greatest shame is that the people who are supposed to teach you have left you to your own devices...and you continue with both forms of expression? It is odd. Most people would call your greatest shame independence - and credit you with it as a gift of the spirit." He chuckles lightly, restoring a little humor to the moment.
"As to the ability to paint what one sees in the mind, rather than what is in front of the eyes - it is a matter of having painted so many images that the memory isn't far away. While I don't have access to these specific images, the skills of my past remain with me, it seems - as much as can be expressed through these eyes." He points with his brush to the dark voids on his face, framed with silver and permanently formed into happy-seeming sockets. "I don't miss my old sensibilities, I do not believe. It is rather simply how one interfaces with reality, and what one brings to that reality, that makes a life worthwhile."
He turns to his canvas, adding a few highlights on glasses and jewelry - but all very precise, and perhaps too distant from the irregularities of the real world. "And there are many artists who remain with the life-portrait rather than going off into their heads for their scenery. It means they get to talk to people who can't leave." He laughs loudly at this joke - and it gets perhaps a little too loud to be seemly, a little. But he backs off after a second, perhaps recovering himself.
"Will you speak a little of your experiences with Merlin to me? I know so few of the acknowledged Royals, I would be very interested in news or descriptions." He continues his painting, but it's pulling close to the finish.
Ariadne looks at the pasteboard, which background representation of the city landscape seems now finished, yet is still missing the central character.
"Merlin?" She smiles. "He can be charming, when coveting a price," she says, her thoughts elsewhere, as she adds a shadow to a tower on the left, "and careless with his belongings. Yet, he is both from Chaos and Amber. Trying to excuse his darkest side would be tantamount to commenting upon the Queen's."
"Which would be a very bad career move indeed." She grabs a pallet knife, wraps her left hand around it, and without even a wince, cuts the palm of her hand.
As her cupped hand fills up with blood, she looks at the Guildsman and says with amusement: "Do not fear, Master, for I heal quickly."
She drops some black ink, and carefully dips a long haired brush into the dark liquid. "As I said, I need the blood to stabilize the Trump effect of the drawing. While yours would have been better, mine will do if necessary." She proceeds by quick, short strokes on the paper, without any preliminary sketch, not as much drawing him as delineating his shape by inking the shadows. "A shortcut, not necessary for my betters, but one I still find useful"
"If the art of portraying is about capturing the essence of the model," she says, with a near-dreamy quality in her voice, like a well-learned lesson reapeated once again, "the art of Trump is about capturing his soul, in effect establishing a connection between the artist and the model. Essentially, to become a medium, as much as the paint, ink or charcoal, between the subject and the support." She works fast, her eyes two narrow slits, focusing upon the process of transferring the image on the paper. It seems to be an intense operation, as beads of sweat come to her brow. "It is like learning to see ley lines, or ghosts. Hard to learn, but hard to explain once you master it."
"There it is!" Ariadne giggles, turning her painting for Laughing Boy to see. "My knight in shiny armor!"
Her model is not painted as himself, but merely delineated by shadows and reflections, his presence made by an absence of him, between darkness and light. Up close, it doesn't looks too good. But a few steps away reveal him out of the background.
"I cannot say anything of ill about her Ladyship, the Queen. She was very generous in allowing me to reclaim my birth, and further still in permitting me to start again in name and history. I can only hope to someday win as much respect from her as you have, milady." He nods and makes a slight flourish with his brush.
Laughing Boy's head cants slightly sideways on seeing Ariadne wound her hand for her pigment, but pauses for a second of cogitation and shrugs. "I do not fear for you - for there are many ways to approach the Art. Each is valid in its turn, and produces a different form and impression." He continues the final touches on his painting, even as the afternoon chill thickens the paint on the brush. "And you are right that your sanguinity must do - for mine is...inaccessible...at the moment." A light chuckle escapes his mouthpiece as he turns back.
"You are correct that the Art is hard to learn and hard to explain. It becomes a part of your eyes, of your mind, of your soul. It colors your vision and your memory - allows you to sculpt it into form and cast it with the energy of the spirit. The Art is a very personal thing indeed - but one that is a delight to discuss and to share." He takes out a thin white brush and makes a series of thin and narrow slashlike marks at the bottom right of his work. "There - it is concluded."
He turns at Ariadne's exclamation. His head actually pulls back a fraction, and he then seems to lean forward. "Milady!? You indeed have deceived me. For I know a gentle and evolving way to create the images of the Art - but I cannot complete the casting of the energy as rapidly as you have done today. I had merely suggested we paint - and when you mentioned the Art and used your blood, I had assumed that you were simply putting the integral elements into the work, to be completed at a future time. But you have done it, and done well." He moves forward slightly, raising his hand to pinch his chin. "And you twice deceive me, milady - it is most unfair. For this technique of casting by implication, of the suggestion becoming the image - it is the gift of an accomplished artisan indeed. You have cast doubt on yourself twice to no avail - you have revealed even only some of the depth of your talent, and given the lie to your words." As he steps forward, he fully reveals his own painting - Ariadne is draped luxuriantly on a salon couch, sauced in a richly velvet indigo gown and holding a chiseled crystal goblet of some wondrous nectar. There are many indistinct figures around her - but she commands the vista in her relaxed ease and all figures look to her in her languorous beauty. The form is too flawless, however - it is as if a memory has jumped onto the canvas after being purified in the well of selective forgetfulness.
Laughing Boy gathers the supplies into a basket and prepares to retreat to the interior of the house. He keeps his attention on (or rather, aims his face at) his guest. "I had thought, as you first spoke of your mentors and your skills, that I might offer some tutelage as I may. But your work convinces me that my request would have been ill-made. Instead, I would merely ask if he might share a studio again from time to time, that we might both profit from each other's talents and experience." He points back down towards the interior. "But at the very least, let me offer you some warm sustenance to recover your energies from the harsh environment. You were right - I do sometimes forget that I feel it not, and I sincerely apologize for the imposition upon you." He is genuinely contrite in his words, and has finished gathering everything except the easel upon which Ariadne's work rests. His own painting is in one hand, a basket full of material in the other.
"Imposition? You were right, Master Laughing Boy, when you said a bit of suffering was due for art's sake. And indeed," Ariadne adds with a mischievous smile, "there is nothing like a bit of cold to motivate one into working fast. I believe that is something they should teach in art schools!"
She unpin the drawing from her easel. "But I appreciate the offer of warmth, and I will have more time to admire your painting." She preceds him down the stairs. "But I like your idea of sharing time and space together. Looking at your paintings, and indeed your designs of all sorts, "she adds with a move of the arm that seems to englobe the entire house, "I realise how little I know, and how long is the way ahead... And of course, I will teach you Merlin's little Trump-Making secrets. Yes, I believe the exchange will be fair. Shall we make it a regular meeting, or do your activities call you abroad? I hardly leave Amber, myself."
"I had merely meant that the cold might help the pigments dry - but I suppose there is a merit to some instruction in art technique in cold weather. It would make the instinctive component of art more prominent, and could lead to more emotionally-connected and inspired work. However, it also might lead to a drop in attendance in art schools as well - not all things go as intended." He chuckles dryly as all the materials are gathered up from the roof, and follows Ariadne back down to the first floor.
"I do in fact travel - but rather infrequently. I am sometimes called to Guild duties at the facilities near Kolvir, or to one of their more remote locations. Those are the journeys of a day. But in addition, I also have an interest in archaeology. I have now for some time been making expeditions of a week or more to recover artifacts and technology from the deserts of Ghenesh - a unique opportunity for me, as the temperatures during the day there all but preclude less protected individuals exploring the landscape." He sits back down and motions for Ariadne to join him. "It is entirely fascinating how much of our current work in the Guild is echoed in the remote past there." He turns to face Ariadne more directly. "But I certainly welcome the prospect of a regular meeting, and accept your invitation. For ones with the talents we possess, there is little the world can do in terms of distance to prevent our cooperation."
He stands up again, and turns. "May I prepare a hot beverage for you, to take away the chill? The villa has many teas, coffees, and other beverages. Or perhaps something a bit stronger?"
"A tea would be wonderful, thank you very much," answers Ariadne with a shiver.
"Ghenesh... You have more guts than I do, Master... The Land of Bones, they call it, since Benedict took care of them ages ago..."
"I will be punished for that," she adds with a soft, somewhat resigned voice, "for the Queen does not like Trumps to be made without her consent... And she will learn about it, make no mistake. But I do not care," she says defiantly. " There still are things she can't take away from me."
He nods and moves off from the foyer. He passes through what appears to be a dining room to the northwest, but continues to speak.
"Actually, milady, the lands of Ghenesh are so harsh and intensely hot during the daylight hours that it is scarcely inhabitable by anyone other than myself. But 'the Land of Bones' is a suitable name for where I travel, as my purpose is to unearth the bones of the past. I have seen an occasional Moonrider, far-away but on the whole I schedule my trips so that our interaction is kept at a minimum. I wish to disturb the past, not the present." A faint whistling sound comes from near his voice. "But I will also say that while the land is merciless and hard, it has vistas of unparalleled stark beauty. Windswept mesas, swirling eddies around oases, and the rolling oceans of sand itself are testaments to the power of nature." The clink of china. "Nothing can stand in the way of natural forces - over time, they endlessly prevail." Laughing Boy returns to the main room, carrying a large china cup on a saucer. "It is a blend the research assistants tell me is quite warming after a day spent outdoors - I cannot testify to the accuracy of their statements, however." He shrugs after depositing the tea on the table nearest Ariadne. He takes a seat near to her, leaning forward attentively.
"I am a little surprised to learn that you fear your mistress, even to the point of what to the untrained eye might seem like churlish defiance." He lets a little chuckle escape at his mock tone of condescension. "Surely her Highness recognizes that talent is only built through practice, and in addition sometimes the most fruitful work comes from the sudden burst of inspiration. If she restricts your ability to create, she restricts your ability to grow and learn as well. Indeed, I have made a few Trumps of locations in the Ghenesh wilderness that I have used on extended digs there - but Ghenesh is so uninhabited anyway, it does not constitutes anything significant to be concerned about. But if I might be so bold, surely there would be less of an issue if you were just painting a picture, and not a Trump? That would practice and develop your artistic skills without impact - and you are correct in your conviction that she cannot take those away from you." Laughing Boy extends a hand across the space between them in support. "But rest assured that at least within these walls, you will not be limited or diminished. We are artists in our media - few aspire so high. If there is one thing that working in the desert has taught me well, it is that anything can be accomplished, given enough time and energy."
Ariadne takes a cautious sip from her smoking cup of tea. "Mmmm... Excellent."
"You are, as they say, a paradox wrapped into a mystery, Master Laughing Boy. A painter with no eyes, you dig fervently into others' past, yet you refuse to ponder upon your missing own. As a guildsman, trained to the system of the world, you seek beauty," she chuckles, "such an immaterial concept, in the forms of the nature, so alien to systematization. An accomplished artist, you profess to lack the senses common to every man and surround yourself with machines..."
She takes another sip, her grey eyes looking at him with a n uncommon intensity over her cup.
"...And for a man without manhood, you show more soul through those holes without eyes that pierce the metal of your skin," she adds with passion, her voice a whisper, a breeze of warmth, "and more humanity than any man I ever met..."
Laughing Boy lowers his head for a moment in thought, and then raises it again. His voice is soft and kind.
"I could address each of the contradictions you raise in turn - but I will rather let them lay undisturbed, as I believe that is not what you wish to discuss. After all, the true artist is a struggle of meaning - someone entranced by the beauty they find in life, but can only produce mere affectations of the wonders of the natural world. Even the most skilled among us can only produce echoes of that which inspires. But the finished work is not important to this task - it is the continual pursuit of the eternal that is the heart of the matter, the center of enlightenment." He lets out a short breath. "And so, milady, I will limit myself to thanking you most humbly for your words. I am fundamentally a newborn in this world - cast out of the fire with no past and no legacy. It is reassuring in great measure to learn that I have not lost the inner essence in this fabulous new skin, which is yet cold and hard." The hand not outreached towards her taps lightly on the 'skin' of his leg, with a soft click of metal on metal.
"I can only hope, however, that I am a person of moderate compassion and understanding - and that your life has led you to unfortunate encounters in the past. For if my own humanity is a pinnacle of the modern world, it is a perilous place indeed." He lets out a sharper breath, edged with a dark humor. "But come, milady. You are right that I cannot speak of my past - but will you not speak more of yours? Your words, however kind, bear the tang of someone who has tasted much pain and disappointment in their lives. I know that the old truism that 'talking about it makes you feel better' sometimes rings hollow, but I am a staunch believer that framing feelings into words, and summoning the courage to speak those words to another, is a cleansing and healing experience. In addition, it allows another to bear part of the load of an unfortunate past, and to use another axiom, 'many hands make light work'. I will not pry if you do not wish it - but if you have a story to tell, I am a captive audience that knows the true recompense of intimacy. Trust." He is still leaned forward in his chair, but he clicks his knees together and pulls his arms back, crossing them on top in a pose of purest attentiveness.
Ariadne takes another sip of her tea.
"There isn't much to tell about, really," she says after a pause, "only a story told again and again, everytime the words losing their soothing power, and everytime the story soundind less and less interesting..."
"I haven't lived long enough to have had an interesting existence, Master Laughing Boy. What could I bore you with?" She sounds remote and uninterested, suddenly, like if she was telling that story once over again. "My childhood in an orphanage? My father who never knew of my birth? My years in Juniper, learning of art and craft?"
"There is nothing even remotely interesting in my life, past or present." She shrugs, as to dismiss the very subject out of modesty. "The only thing I care about is my future..."
Laughing Boy leans back, relaxed and comfortable. "Very well. It is as you say - the future is what is important. Certainly a man of my experience and memory cannot doubt that at all." He nods. "But should you ever decide that you have...found new interest in what brought you to the cliff that is the future - I will be available to listen, whenever you require." He cants his head just slightly to the side. "So - what have you in mind for this glorious future? Besides being part of the Royal Court and in a position of privilege and respect, what more do you hope to achieve?" He holds up a hand to forestall any immediate comment. "And do not tell me that your current position is not to be desired or respected - you have the public honor of the monarch's house and of her honoraria. It is more than many can reasonably aspire to. Do not demean your station to me, at least."
Ariadne chuckles. "Oh, I wouldn't dare to insult your intelligence in such a way, Master!"
"It s true that I have my own ambitions," she pursues, "but in all truth, I despise politics" -she pronounces the word as if talking of something dirty and socially unacceptable- "and shun responsabilities. Which, all things considered, may prove to be a factor of survival at the Queen's court... As for the future, I am happy to play with my arts, and, as the Rebmans say, follow the currents rather than fight against them."
She looks at Laughing Boy, her head tilted on the side, as if she was seeing him for the first time.
"I am still undecided, though: is it better to burn out, or to fade away?"
"Burning out leaves only ashes. Fading away into the background - into the firmament - it preserves the principles of the life in everlasting memory, and commends them to the wiser heads of posterity. Having traveled through an unknown fire myself, I cannot support it as a method to achieve one's dreams." He slyly chuckles.
"But even in the One City, politics are not at last the end of all things. Do you see yourself striving for a social web from which to spin new works and stories? The detached interest of the haute artiste, surveying all and making her beliefs known only through the subtlest of stylistic commentary? The bored ennui of the employed artisan, who lets the world flow by and takes what she needs, leaving the rest to others?" He shifts slightly to the left, his head leveling out straight. "I have been keeping my doors open, and I receive what few visitors I find with grace and open conversation. I have heard some tidings that you are a relative newcomer to the Court - that perhaps you spent the time in Juniper that you mentioned deciding whether or not to travel here. Have you found a bearing upon which to guide your star, or is the night sky yet clouded, your sails low and awaiting the right wind?"
"The wind in my sails is the one my Queen is blowing," answers Ariadne all too politely, "and I find that I have been in your company for all too long, for I fear she may get restless. If anything," she adds with a grimace, "my Queen Dara likes to find her toys at her mercy..."
She wraps herself quickly in her cape.
"I hope I may have the pleasure to meet you soon, for I believe we have much to share, Master Laughing Boy." She walks towards him, and, impulsively, drops a kiss upon his cold metal cheek.
"Until then, I will be your humble servant, My Lord!" She smiles mischieviously, as to contradict her deferential tone, and leaves through the door.
Laughing Boy is startled at her rather sudden departure, but stands and bows respectfully. "I would not dream of detaining you from your commitments - or your obligations. But my doorway is always open - do not hesitate to return here upon need or wish. I hope you find happiness, Lady Ariadne, and that you find that which you seek." He chuckles lightly. "Once you decide what that is, I might add."
He accepts the kiss with grace and squeezes her hand gently as she plants it.