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“When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
-John Milton
It is amazing how the entire Palace of Stars is willing to bend to our whims; and yet, in their frantic desire to please you, they always manage to do the opposite.
Your newest secretary seems no more or less worse than any others on her first day. By the second, she starts to address you with the more formal titles like Glorious One or Your Holy Serenity. I dislike those titles; but I dislike most of your titles, and we know it’s hard on the Offices to keep finding new candidates, so we try to ignore it.
Then we realize how often she praises your every decision, and thanks you for every least thing (such as giving her leave to take lunch. That is a daily requirement. It should not be something that requires a minute of fawning: “Thank you for my gracious forbearance, my lord, I will return as soon as possible to your Holy Presence…”)
It’s frustrating to filter through so many secretaries, none of them staying long enough to fit into the role. But you already know this one won’t last. We’ll give the Offices another week or two before dismissing her. They’ve just recruited the new pages for the year, and that’s a busy time.
It’s a relief to leave her for lunch. Conju is a gem – it was a great boon to find a competent groom, at least, and his presence gives us some hope that one day you’ll find an ideal secretary too. Surely everyone in this Palace can’t be incompetent.
Conju knows our preferences well, and no longer sets out the absurdly-heavy meals fit for a dozen people. Instead there’s a small table on the terrace, so we can look upon the city as we eat. A small bowl of steaming soup, perfectly browned twists of bread painstakingly baked into the shapes of flowers. Roasted vegetables line the plate with an artful wine sauce.
It’s a small meal, and smells pleasant. Our stomach rolls. We have magic to cast tonight, and I try to determine whether that’s sufficient reason to skip a meal. Pressing our power through the stifling sieve of schooled magic always make us nauseous.
But the truth is we’re just not hungry. It’s a selfish and privileged thing, I think, to scorn delicious food out of sheer boredom. Our Cavalier watches anxiously until we start picking at the soup, and finally steps out; Conju knows we don’t like to be watched while eating.
The guards will watch you anyway, of course. We are never fully alone.
Conju returns earlier than I expect. He’s holding something, and when he hovers by the table it’s clear he didn’t return just to refill my drink. “Did you need something, Conju?”
“If you have a moment,” he demurs.
“Certainly.”
He bows slightly. “There is a letter, Glorious One.”
“A letter?” Why mention it now? Why not set is aside for your secretary tomorrow? Whoever that may be tomorrow. “Is it urgent?”
“Not likely, my lord.” Conju hesitates. “It is from Cliopher Sayo Mdang, and addressed to you personally, not the office. It has already gone through the censors and checks.”
Ah.
Your mask falters a moment, in tandem with the cool vice gripping my heart. Perhaps a scathing reprimand? He seemed the type to disregard etiquette, Cliopher Mdang; and it would not be undeserved. Or perhaps a plea for more aid, or a magical cure we cannot give…
We were a coward, that day it happened. You ordered him provided with a stipend and an escort; he was given safe, priority passage to his far-away islands; but we did not see him again. The doctors came and confirmed the condition, and its permanence.
We could not bear to address him. Not immediately; and by the time I had stifled my horror and guilt enough to function he was already gone.
We do not know how the blind are treated in the Vonyabe – in the Vangavaye-ve. It did not occur to me to inquire. Now terrible scenarios occur to me. Before you I traveled to a few rural places where the blind or otherwise disabled were mistrusted, hated, abused… I remember one place on Eahh where the blind were specifically thought to be cursed by the gods. This sounds terrifyingly likely considering I am revered as a god. Surely I did not send him somewhere like that, to be scorned by his people?
Conju misinterprets my silence; the letter disappears into his sleeve. “I will send it back, my lord.”
“No. I will read it now.”
You outstretch your hand, then belatedly remember how inappropriate that is; we do not want to risk breaking another taboo. But Conju responds to the mute command by placing it gingerly onto the tips of our fingers.
We pretend this was intentional, and open the letter as he returns to his work.
My lord,
I understand the matter of this letter is, by all rules of etiquette, entirely inappropriate. If it is offensive, I apologize, and beg only that you send word I should not write again.
He intends to write again?
The letter continues, I recall your profuse offers of aid, ah, you think, there it is, and I have taken the great liberty of assuming you would like to know that no such help is necessary. I have arrived safe and well back home, to mixed joy and sorrow among my family, and returned to my traditional duties.
We stare at that paragraph awhile, reading it again and again. That is not what I expected.
But perhaps the request will come later?
You may wonder what ‘duties’ I can assume in this condition. It is true I am still adapting to my changed circumstances. I have some vague thoughts about ways to put my experience in the Service to use here. For now, though, I have primarily returned to the duties of a tana. I trained to become the next tana before I went to Astandalas; I am not officially recognized as one, not yet, but I have begun assisting the others.
But I suppose you do not know that word. A tana is a lorekeeper, specifically from the Mdang family. It is our duty to preserve and pass on the stories of the Vangavaye-ve’s history, and to use that knowledge to counsel others and give advice . In the days before the Empire th e tana traditionally served as the primary advisor to the Paramount Chief. That position no longer exists. But since the time of Aurelius Magnus a tana has gone to Astandalas, in every generation, to offer their services to the Empire.
I n the interest of accuracy I should say ‘almost’ every generation. Prior to myself e very tana returned within five years. But my great-uncle Tovo never went at all. He met Eritanyr as a prince, and that was enough to make his choice. Every single person who went returned disappointed with your ancestors.
I am sorry to have been blinded; but I am more agg rieved t ha t alone among fifty generations of Mdangs , I found an Emperor worth serving, and failed you immediately.
We have to put aside the letter for a moment, overcome by a mix of feelings.
Failed! Failed, he calls it. Being blinded by the grasping power of the dead Pax. As though I, too, were not looking at him.
Aurelius Magnus is the most famous of our predecessors. It is said he went to the Vangavaye-ve searching for a guide; he found in their chieftain a legendary friendship, and his greatest advisor.
Would I, too, have found some impossible connection with this secretary if he’d stayed?
But I have always been prone to flights of fancy and imagination; and sometimes it is hard not to fantasize about a lovelier existence than the one I have. I should not imagine such things about a man I do not know.
I force myself to return to the letter. Where, I think, is the request? He must want something. He must have something unkind to say – perhaps a gentle criticism, based on the amiable tone of this letter, something true and helpful that will cut my already aching heart -
I only wanted to assure you, my lord, that I am well. Also, I do not need the stipend you have awarded me. It is generous to offer, and I recognize how useful it could be to someone who has lost their livelihood; but I have no need of monetary compensation. I am blind through my own mistake, so please cancel it.
Your servant,
Cliopher Sayo Mdang
Ridiculously, absurdly, I want to cry.
I often want to cry, though less often these days; we have become numb to horror and pain. It mostly leaks through in our sleep. But we are not sleeping now; you school your features into something serene and contemplative to hide our grief.
Sayo Mdang wants… to tell me he is fine. You blinded him, and he wants to comfort me; that’s what the letter is. We don’t understand it.
He refused the money. Why? Spiteful anger, perhaps? A refusal to accept rewards from the man who injured him? But nothing about this letter strikes us as spiteful.
Well. It has been a long time since I replied to such an informal letter. But he does deserve a reply, since he seems to expect nothing else.
You tell Conju to fetch your writing implements. When he returns he stands expectantly, ready to take dictation.
“On the table, thank you.” Conju is too well-practiced to look scandalized, but he exudes disappointment. We take up the pen and find it clumsy in our hand. A drop of ink spills onto the table; Conju dives in immediately to wipe it up before retreating against the wall.
Sayo Mdang,
It is good to hear you are well. While many would indeed name it a presumption, I am glad you wrote. Please let us know if there is any further effect or deterioration that you experience; I do not expect it, but I confess there is little documentation about this this particular Taboo.
I cannot emphasize enough that you deserve the stipend you’ve received as compensation, Sayo Mdang; I offered the same to the one other individual I blinded years ago. But if it truly offends your sensibilities, you certainly have permission to use those monies in any way you deem f it. It seems to me that your description of a ‘tana’ would include occasionally hearing about the financial woes of your community-members; if you find yourself with excess perhaps you could put it toward some good use.
You have mentioned your family. I must inquire – do you have people to support you in your islands? Has your family cause you any trouble ? The stipend should be sufficient to employ servants, if you need assistance, but I hope you are not alone. Who is writing your letters?
It does occur to me that this question implicitly invites a reply. I consider that a minute.
...but I am curious. He could always ignore me if he wants, I think. Most people would not dare, but he lives half a world away. And Sayo Mdang had the temerity to write that first letter; I think he would ignore me if he didn’t want to answer.
And if I am already suggesting he reply… I am intrigued by your description of the ‘tana’ role. How many lorekeepers does your community have? It sounds similar to the role of shamans in some cultures.
I hope you know that what happened was not your fault. Or, if it is, I have equal share in the responsibility. Will you elaborate on what it would mean to act a tana-advisor? What did you plan if you could have continued in the Service?
We almost scratch out that question. It seems nearly provoking; but again I am curious, and I leave it.
I realize I am not sure how to end the letter, so I stop there. I do not know enough about this tana-thing to promise Cliopher has not shamed his ancestors, etc. I realize with chagrin that I also do not know how to sign my name.
You have an official signature, of course, and a long formal list of titles you affix to the bottom of proclamations and notices. Cliopher was your secretary, however briefly; he knows the proper forms.
But this is not an official letter.
I carefully sign it, Artorin Damara, and feel like a liar when you send it away.
Mail is an issue.
It takes so, so long for mail to go across the world; for a reply to be written, to be sent back, to make it through the Palace into my hands. I remind myself of this; yet it is months before I go more than a day without thinking of Sayo Mdang’s letter.
It’s a surprise when, finally, I receive a reply.
It comes at the end of a long day. You’ve just dismissed another secretary, although this time we did not need to do so personally; Ludvic tackled them halfway through the morning, when you were pacing. They tried to stab me in the back. We let our other guards hustle us toward the Imperial bedchamber mostly because you were tired of dictating letters, and we subsequently took a nap during the investigation. I hope people try to assassinate you more often. It was a nice rest.
But then we had to rise for evening court, and because of my nap I don’t even feel like sleeping… Conju arrives with the letter just as I’m debating whether you can feign a trance for the sole purpose of sitting on the terrace and admiring the sunset.
It is a long letter. This excites me more than it should. We go out to the terrace anyway to read it.
It starts,
My lord, first I must apologize.
I did not realize you would have such anxieties over my position.
Anxieties! The Sun-on-Earth, the Lord of Five Thousand Lands and Ten Thousand titles – anxious.
I am constantly anxious, of course. But no one would ever dare suggest it.
I must assure you that I will suffer no discomfort in the Vangavaye-ve. And I can certainly promise I will not be neglected. This letter, as you asked, is being written by the hand of my nephew Gaudy; he laughed long and loudly when he read me your question s .
You must understand that while I only have one sister, my mother was one of sixteen children; I have fifty-nine first cousins. And Gorjo City is not large. I can walk any where on the island and find a relation within calling-distanc e, and probably an old friend or two with them. I am in far more danger of being smothered with care than neglected, even without the aid of your generous stipend.
That is a relief; though I must admit that the phrase ‘smothered with care’ makes me uneasy. It is a feeling we know very well.
I cannot imagine a household with fifteen siblings.
I know it is wildly presumptuous to suggest I could have advise d you, or even that I would have any useful advice to give. But I was (if I may say) good at my job; I expect I was assigned to you precisely because I was good enough to be irritating. Now that I am away from the politics of court, I should mention that the Minister of Offices has been embezzling.
I meant to carefully bring it up if I were kept on… I feared it would seem like simple pettiness or a power-play if I blurted it out that first day. Although I suspect he assigned me to you in the hope I would trip a more serious taboo, or cause fatal offense, so admittedly I do feel petty; it would be a n easy and lawful form of assassination. I failed the etiquette portion of the Exam five times, you know.
Is Cliopher suggesting that the Minister sent you an unbefitting secretary on purpose?
That he sent us someone who would be killed or disabled, knowingly…
We recall that Cliopher Mdang was a fifth-degree secretary. I thought you’d simply gone through so many secretaries they had no one more senior to send. But that’s clearly not the case. We will need to have Ludvic investigate.
It is hard to explain the tana role specifically. Each of the twelve founding lineages of the Vangavaye-ve have certain knowledge and traditions they pass on. You mentioned shamans; the clan of the Ela pass down the lore of shamans and magic, and adopt those born with magic who feel called to join them. My father was a Varga; they pass down knowledge of hunting and fishery.
The lorekeeper of the Ela is the zamà, and the Varga’s is the sonà . But the entire family is meant to hold some part of the knowledge. The Mdangs are called Those Who Hold the Fire; in addition to the songs and stories, I can start a fire through over a hundred methods. Or I could; I am relearning how to do many things. But the knowledge remains.
After the Fall, when all the magical lights went out, I went down to the kitchens and relit the ovens and torches with that knowledge. The Empire thought too little of ‘primitive’ techniques like that. But the Palace staff had no idea how to function without the ir tools of magic. The knowledge of our ancestors is always important.
We have many criticisms for our own ancestors, so I cannot really understand that. But how refreshing to hear someone else criticize them! No one even dares criticize Eritanyr in our presence, the brute pedophile he was. I wish we could have so much unfeigned pride in our own heritage.
But then I sober as we contemplate Cliopher’s recklessness. Because it is reckless; even speaking to me is reckless. I could easily have him executed for disparaging the Empire. I could have him executed for anything.
It seems like Sayo Mdang just… doesn’t fear me. And that’s an odd thought.
You ask what I would have done if I’d continued in the Service, my lord. I must confess this is a question to which you probably don’t want the answer; certainly my relatives grew sick of hearing my plans. I have thoughts on every governmental policy imaginable. It is my great flaw that I am always convinced I can find a better way to do things. I went to Astandalas because I knew the Empire was corrupt, and yet thought I could effect some change from within. I obviously failed . And I am sure you do not want to hear anymore on the subject ; doubtlessly you are approached every day by people who think they could run the world better.
We’re not, actually. Well, our aunt tells us often enough that we’re a failure to our ancestry, and have run the Empire into the ground, it will be the doom of Zunidh, we have ruined the world through our selfishness, etc, etc.
But most of our courtiers offer nothing but fawning adoration. Tomorrow I could announce that we’re moving the capital to sunken Kavanduru and shall require everyone across the province to speak Tanteyr, and your staff would only ask questions about logistics.
I find that I’m curious to know how Sayo Mdang would improve the government.
I also wish to assure you that I am adapting well. A few of my friends have worked hard presenting me with various tools to make tasks easier. I’ve mentioned the lorekeepers and family trades; the Gēnang hold the secrets of woodworks, and the Nevan handle all matters of fibercraft. My family commissioned from the Gēnang a cane for guidance, household tools adapted for use, and specialized cabinets and cupboards and dressers with markers along the sides so I can easily store, sort, and locate items . (I am very fond of sorting things, and I am delighted how specific they made the categories. It is a pity I can no longer categorize anything by color.)
My friend Toucan Nevan helped sew symbols in my clothe s, too. But I’ve been working to make my own grass skirts. It is hard to relearn by touch, but I can just about manage simple patterns now. It feels good to make something myself. The old style are mostly worn in the outer islands these days; as a boy I loved wearing the traditional skirts and everyone called me terribly old-fashioned. Now if they scoff I just look sad and say I don’t have to worry about the grass-skirts matching anything, and they stop, which is very satisfying. (Gaudy would like to include that I am terrible.)
I am honored by your concern, and hope I have not rambled too much, my lord.
Your servant, Cliopher Sayo Mdang
It is a very good sunset. You call an attendant to fetch pen and ink and paper, and then just sit for awhile savoring the feel of a fine pen in our hand. You do not often get an opportunity to write – to do anything, really, that is not strictly required of our position – and the last time I wrote something for pleasure…
A few words occur to me, like a whisper; but they disappear. I do not try to chase them. It has been a long time since we indulged in poetry.
Sayo Mdang,
You need not fear rambling. It is pleasant to read something outside the usual disasters of state. And quite frankly your letter was the most pleasant part of my day, which was eventful; someone tried to kill me. I am not impressed by any of the recent candidates for your previous position. You would think this one would at least try to gain my trust before such a blatant attempt. It was his first day.
Although, in fairness, my secretaries never last more than a week or two. It was an understandable gamble.
I am glad to hear you are doing well, and that your family has been supportive, and then I stop again.
I cannot help but wonder: what would my own ‘family’ do if I were blinded?
It is a moot point, of course; I would still be emperor. Assassination attempts would increase due to my perceived vulnerability. The Ouranatha would push a narrative of being blinded by the Sun in holy sanctification, or some nonsense, and try to ensorcell me in private. They would not succeed, but it would be messy and bloody, and I would be even more reliant on my attendants.
What if we were disabled in some other way, so badly that you could not remain Emperor? A shiver runs through us. That would almost be worth the injury or sickness, I think, if it let us step down. Would our ‘family’ try to help?
I decide they would take care of you, if only because anything else would be a scandal. Whether we would enjoy that care is another question. I suppose the Grand Duchess would probably be content to hire servants for our assistance on some quiet property and then never interact with us. That would still be stifling, but perhaps better than the life we live now.
I try again to write.
I want to tell him that I, also, love the stars; but talking about beautiful things he cannot see does not seem wise.
Yet by the time you receive this letter you’ll have been away from Solaara nearly three years, Sayo Mdang; though I know it will be much shorter for you. So I hope you do not mind that I ask again: how have you been adjusting? Have you taken on any hobbies or work? Though you have certainly earned a retirement if that is preferable.
We try to remember the last time we asked anyone about their hobbies. It occurs to me that I may be bad at talking to people now. It never used to be this awkward, I think. But interactions held so much less weight in my youth, when I traveled the worlds and would never again meet most of the people I saw, the people who were dazzled by my songs but did not really view me as a person. (I am doomed, I think, to never be properly seen as a person).
I realize what this reminds me of. Finding the words to address Sayo Mdang is like meeting Jullanar and Damian for the first time, and their friends and family, and the first few years of exploration after that. When everything was new and strange, and I was so, so desperate for everyone to like me as I liked them.
This thought dims my mood. Yet I cannot leave the letter unanswered. I write a few more niceties and mention the recent Silverheart festivities (people have finally dared to start celebrating it again, though I think Silverheart may never regain the same associations it had before the Fall.)
We send off the letter with a faint feeling of disappointment; as though saying farewell to a friend.
Pondering the post gives us an idea.
It is ambitious – extremely ambitious. A complex, tricky, clever piece of magic that’s a satisfying puzzle to develop. If we can put beacons over places of power, connect them through the natural leylines of the world…
It takes time to realize I am thinking small; these magical nodes could even help stabilize the chaotic magic that has become so unruly after the Fall. But it will require more investigation. Reluctantly we realize this will require the help of my priests and the Private Office, and probably many other officials too. But it’s promising. It’s one of the most pleasing projects we’ve taken on in awhile.
But, alas, if my idea works it will take time. It is months more before Sayo Mdang’s next letter arrives. This time Conju does not bat an eye when I take it into my private study, unfurling it like a gift.
My lord,
I hope you realize you are terrible at writing letters.
I pause in sheer astonishment, reading that line again and again.
Then I burst out laughing.
Terrible! When was the last time someone dared to call me ‘terrible’ at anything?
Well, actually I can remember; it was my aunt. Six weeks ago. She is nothing if not dependable in her scorn. I finally keep reading.
You cannot mention an assassination at tempt and fail to list the damage ; I hope you were not injured? I recall before the Fall you spent a great deal of time reforming the Guard. I’ve only heard good things about Commander Omo, at least. I hope you are safe?
You have thoroughly distracted me, but these letters canno t expect a swift reply, so I will move on to other matters.
I have been reading – rather, Gaudy read to me – an interesting book on magic. I know absolutely nothing of magic, so I will not bore you with my juvenile conclusions . But I was curious, do you know how the magical leylines affect different regions? I’ ve wondered if they have something to do with the boundaries of Time-dilation; I’ ve asked the Ouranatha before but never received a good answer.
I ask mostly because I somehow lost two weeks in an afternoon when I went fishing with my niece. Our shamans have marked ‘safe’ areas, but it’s hard to draw boundaries over the entire ocean. The fishing was nice, anyway, although our catch was not sufficient tribute for my mother, who cried and cried and nearly strangled us both when we returned.
Relearning so many things is frustrating, but likely not as bad as you expect. I am learning to dance without seeing my feet, although the more complex dances pose certain difficulties. I have taken up knitting with one of my aunts. I do wish I could tell what time of day it is when I step outside. I used to know how to navigate by the stars; that is part of the lore one must learn as tana. I can still tell direction, because I always know the direction of my island, Loaloa; any Islander has a sense for their own island. But it’s very awkward to wake hungry and try wandering down to the diner, only to realize that the streets are quiet, and all the doors closed, and it’s probably still nighttime.
Fortunately there are many hobbies that do not require sight. My family is full of musicians; history is stored in music here on the islands, and as I’ve told you lorekeeping is a Mdang tradition, so it is a traditional occupation. My mother was invited to sing for Eritanyr, though due to a family emergency she never did. I have other relatives in the opera and my sister is part of the local orchestra. I personally play the oboe. I’ve been spending much more time on that than ever before. I’ ve also had some vague ideas of composing, but that would be much more tricky to record ; I’ll have to give it some thought.
Do you play any instruments, my lord? I know it is part of the traditional education among nobility. I have never heard what you do for fun.
Hoping you are well,
Cliopher InTahivoa
InTahivoa. Now, that is an interesting change – did he get married, perhaps? But surely that would merit an aside, even to you. Perhaps the Islanders change their names for other reasons. There was a place on Daun where names were used to signify accomplishments, and changed often.
I can see the merit of that approach. It would be interesting to devise new names, again and again, to reflect a changing Self.
Though personally I would be happy just to have my own name back. Do you play any instruments?
There is a harp in my study; I have not touched it in years. I could, I suppose. I would not have to compose… what kind of songs do they play in the Vangavaye-ve, we wonder, that Cliopher himself might be practicing now?
You tell the guards, “We are going to the treasury.” They salute, and we head down.
It takes only a brief conversation with the nervous official there before we’re led far, far in the back of the winding labyrinth of luxuries. The Imperial treasury is more absurdly overflowing than I envisioned during the days when I sang scornful songs about over-taxation and theft of the common people. For thousands of years artisans from around the five worlds of the Empire tithed their most beautiful and precious things, only for those priceless artifacts to be shunted away here in the dark. Tributes still flow in every year; though the confusing march of time has slowed things considerably.
Finally we come to the items I requested. The treasury is not well-inventoried – a glaring fault, I note, that could easily result in embezzlement. I should send someone to fix that. Perhaps Conju could oversee it, and Ludvic; it would have to be someone trustworthy.
There are not many sundials here. We may need to commission one, but whenever such a thought occurs it’s always worth checking the treasury first. And we were right to do so.
The first few pieces are entirely unsuitable. Ostentatious gold, so bright it’s impossible to look at; that wouldn’t fit Cliopher’s modest sensibilities, I perceive at once. There’s a nice one arrayed with constellations, but Cliopher will not be able to appreciate the designs of its smooth surface.
The one I finally select is shaped like a giant shell. It’s beautiful, in a harmonious rainbow of colors. It’s striated too, and has a pleasant ribbed texture all along the side. The numbers around the edge are raised.
We have to invent the spell to turn the sundial’s shadow into something tangible. When we succeed, though, it feels like smooth silk. “Commander Omo,” you call. The guards have been trailing me in silence; Ludvic steps up at once. “Touch this and let me know what you feel.” He is less magic-sensitive than Elish, and I need to know I am not the only one who can feel this.
Ludvic puts his hand into the shadow without question. “It feels like a cloth, my lord.”
“Would it be distinguishable with your eyes closed?”
Ludvic immediately shuts his eyes. He fingers it, humming. Finally he offers, “It is very soft.”
I tweak the spell a bit more until it’s solid and tangible enough that it can’t be ignored. To someone who cannot see, it should indeed feel like a piece of fabric. You summon a footman to carry it out for wrapping and preparation.
Something smaller and portable would not go amiss. But that should solve Sayo Mdang’s problem with telling time in his own house; he need only guide his fingers down the physical-shadow to know the hour. We’ve also enchanted the shadow to fall regardless of sun or clouds, of course. And it should make a lovely addition to the home.
When we return to the Tower I am inclined to write an immediate reply. But one of my guards does not immediately return to his post at the door.
It’s my commander, who steps before me. Ludvic salutes. “My lord. If the requests you have received from Sayo Mdang prove to be burden, I would strongly suggest that you delegate them. I must express my concern that indulging too many demands could open a security threat.”
“Requests…?” It takes a moment; but I remember what I assumed when the initial letter came. “Sayo Mdang has made no requests.”
A pause. Ludvic looks back at me without expression, but I can read the confusion in his silence. “My lord, you just sent a package from the Imperial Treasury.”
I do not owe anyone explanations. But Ludvic is loyal, and I know he is only worried. “A gift I thought he might find useful.” Ludvic is still looking at us strangely. “I am going to ask him about the Vangavaye-ve,” I say, to fill that silence. “And about the music there.”
I am going to tell Cliopher, yes; I play the harp. Artorin Damara plays the harp.
That sounds so jarring.
Ludvic twitches; his face does not change. Slowly he says, “I have heard the Vangavaye-ve called the Home of Music.”
He pronounces it so carefully. How often has he thought back to that horrible day, I wonder? “Yes.”
Ludvic nods. He salutes again. “I understand, my lord.”
Does he? I’m not sure I do. But Cliopher does not seem taciturn in our correspondence; his replies are detailed and casual, and more rambling than strictly necessary.
He would tell me if these letters were unwelcome, I’m sure. I hope.
I write a reply and send it with the sundial the next day. I do in fact ask about the birds; I also suggest that, due to the distance, I would not mind additional letters before the replies can necessarily circle around. Only if he wants to, and has something to say, of course.
The postal system vexes me.
As the Emperor our mail receives the highest priority. Once we have a word with the appropriate ministries, so does Sayo Mdang’s.
But there is only so much they can do. Getting a reply to each letter takes months.
But Cliopher does, always, reply.
There must be an easier way, I cannot help but think. His next letter is a delight; he tells me about the Gorjo City symphony, the various singers in his family, and his own (modest, he insists) skill with an oboe. I am not familiar with that instrument, but I immediately tell Conju to arrange a private performance with the best player he can find in the city.
He also tells me about the Lays, and I can tell through his barely-constrained enthusiasm that this is a subject dear to his heart. He quotes a few verses of it translated, and then tries to write a few lines of his transliterated, so I can grasp the sounds. He apologizes that there is no actual written version of the language. I immediately send out a page to scour the libraries about that, too.
It is a longer letter than all those preceding. And I can tell he is becoming more comfortable with me. He tells me about his sister Vinyë breaking a string halfway through a performance, with great mortification, and one of his nephews’ sneezing halfway through a solo in front of the whole town.
He adds that he is not married; ‘Tahivoa’ is the name of the island where he lives, and InTahivoa is just an old-fashioned convention. I am embracing all the elderly habits I had as a boy, he says cheerfully. My family despairs of me; but it’s more fun not to care. I’ll build myself into a proper eccentric at this rate.
When was the last time I heard such small, real anecdotes of life outside the Palace? Is that why I’m so fond of Cliopher Mdang – because he’s my only window into a normal life?
I cannot think that’s true. It is hard to imagine that wild mage of my youth befriending this more calm and measured personage; yet sometimes pieces of mischief and energy slip through, and I am delighted with him.
Cliopher must have taken my suggestion to heart, because less than two months after I send my reply – well before it would even reach him! I receive another letter. He tells me he’s opened up a small consultancy office. His nephew Gaudenius Vawen sometimes assists him; but the boy is very young, and in school. So Cliopher also employs a young aspiring lawyer from the college, who helps sort his mail, take dictation, and keep a schedule.
With someone else to write and read, Cliopher advises Islanders about all sorts of legal issues. Land disputes and claims, contracts, trading agreements, grant petitions. We deal with most issues more informally among ourselves, he explains. As the tana I often handle those negotiations, too. But the legal system is full of contradictions, not to mention sections made obsolete by the Fall…
The letter is thick, and it meanders into general complaints about various parts of government. In earlier letters Cliopher said he did not want to press me on matters related to my work, or presume to advise me. I think he was genuine; but the opinions burst through anyway, and I am intrigued.
If only he could be my secretary…
But he cannot, because I blinded him. I probably wouldn’t have liked him as my secretary, though. These letters provide a distance that ironically allows us to speak more freely.
I think about my reply for a long while. When I finally respond I congratulate him on his new business. I ask questions about the most common complaints he gets about the government. And I suggest that if he has any particular thoughts on improvements, perhaps he could send those. I’m intrigued to see if he will.
Our next delivery from Cliopher is a bundle of nine thick packets. When Conju opens one, papers and clipped notes spill out. I laugh.
Conju is not so amused, but his face softens at my reaction. “From Cliopher Sayo Mdang, my lord,” he says, with a touch of exasperation.
“I did ask him to be thorough,” I note, pleased. “Set it on the table, I’ll bring it into the study later.” The guards will have checked it already, of course.
We’re already in the usual study, but Conju knows what I mean. We’re forced to ignore the prospect of a message from Cliopher to get some work done over the morning.
Your newest secretary isn’t terrible. Saya Kalikiri is a bit too… awe-struck for my liking, but at least she seems competent. And if she’s genuinely devout she probably won’t try to stab you.
We’ll keep her for tomorrow, at least, and we’ll see. Ludvic arrested the Master of Offices a few months ago after finding evidence of multiple crimes, and the bureaucracy is floundering without clear leadership. You caved enough to ask the Grand Duchess for assistance. She’s sent over some of her top statesmen from Damara to review the office procedures. Doubtless they’ll have their own agenda – people always do – and the Duchess may use this opportunity to plant some of her own people into the restructured Service.
Fine. She’s not going to plot my downfall. She could have been empress; if our sister can actually help straighten out your haphazard bureaucracy, we do not particularly care if she also sneaks in a few people to ensure Damara gets special exemptions. Better than the mess it is right now.
And ironically, people won’t grumble about special treatment if I put my own relatives or their staff in positions of authority; it’s only amongst each other that the nobles quarrel. Nepotism is entirely expected.
I dismiss my secretary around lunch and only eat a few quick bites before descending to my study. Conju murmurs, “I will leave out some food in case you’re hungry, my lord,” and only the faintest twitch of his eyes conveys displeasure.
Once inside I eagerly open the smallest envelope among the thick packets.
It starts,
My lord.
Please forgive the holes in my essays. My aunt insisted on giving me half a dozen quail to raise for eggs. It is very pleasant to hold them in the morning, but they insist on chewing everything, and the y are idiots.
Thank you very much for the sundial. I have always loved magic, and the tones it gives are lovely. Did you intend for it to rattle during heavy storms? It’s already proven useful as a warning, and I am sure I will find it helpful. My family had many complimentary things to say about the design.
I did not know you were proficient in the harp. I’ve attached music sheets for one of the most popular sections of the Lays, in case you are curious, which is something I hoped-for, even though I did not ask it. You may also notice I sent a few other papers. My cousins told me it was too much, but given the speed (or lack thereof) of the Postal Service, it seemed better to send a good variety.
You asked about my ideas on law and the government. I do not expect you will care to read them all, of course, but these are a more thorough answer than I could summarize in a single letter .
Cliopher lists what each packet contains, so I turn my attention to those.
I am surprised – and a little relieved – to see the top page is written in an exact, blocky handwriting. Young Gaudenius clearly didn’t write these. Which is good, because I realize there are hundreds and hundreds of pages. This must be Sayo Mdang’s handwriting, I realize.
When did Cliopher even have the time for this? I start reading the first packet – they are, at least, neatly labeled – and figure we can skim them for later consideration.
I keep reading. And reading. I switch over to the second packet, and then the third.
It only occurs to us that your guards will be worried when we realize the window is dark. We’re halfway through the packets, and our mind is buzzing.
And we think, with despair and grief and shame: if only he had been able to stay.
It takes us much longer to devise an answer this time.
Conju frets for days after we finally emerge from our eight-hour isolation in the private study. We work; we perform the necessary rituals. But every hour ensconced in privacy just turns into more work, because we cannot stop thinking about Sayo Mdang’s ideas.
It is a plan, really. A revolutionary, daring, impossible plan. It is hopeful and passionate and all the things we are not. And I want so badly to discuss it with him. I want to talk about each point – but there are so many points, and I cannot write fast enough to compose a reply hundred of pages long, especially when I want to talk to Cliopher about so many other things, too.
Also, you are worried about the possibility of civil war.
We have all been in crisis since the Fall – but now things have healed just enough for nobles to start collating their power, while there still remains so much turmoil that it’s easy to stir up anger toward the government. The ‘government’ meaning you.
And each other, of course. Amboloyo is one of the most tricky areas; the Jilkano princes are also a problem, mostly because they’re related and have their own dynamic of power that I don’t fully understand yet. You’ve been relying on Conju to interpret the relationships between them; yet territory disputes and trade issues continue to erupt. Petty nobles have been taking advantage of the time disparities across Zunidh to expand their followings and build power, sometimes utilizing vast time differences to grow villages and trades in bursts that catch their neighbors off-guard. It’s a mess.
And always people turn to you, you, you who stand trapped and pinned at the center of this writhing world, ensnared in its writhing magic. You are the Emperor; you are also the Lord Magus, and must spend much of your time in trance working to repair what broke in the Fall.
You have tried using diplomacy. I fear soon that you may have to quell our more discontented subjects by force. It would establish a stark precedent. We have tried to move away from the violence of the old Empire to establish something new. We do not care to follow the examples of my uncle, of our ancestors. Yet what else can we do? Would it be better to refrain from violent suppression, when that would just result in the larger, more chaotic devastation of war?
We have never before been so sympathetic to warmongers. Yet I do not know if you could give those orders. It is not an easy choice.
You will ruin everything, my aunt tells you all the time. Perhaps she is right. Xiputl is one of your staunchest supporters, and one of the most well-managed provinces; why wouldn’t she be right about this, too? (Xiputl is one of the provinces chafing toward war...)
We sleep little. When morning comes Conju pulls aside the curtains and presents my slippers and robes, as usual.
I tell him to turn off the lights and cancel my appointments. We spend the day in bed. It is selfish; my aunt was right about that, too.
But we are so tired.
You must return to your duties eventually. It is not easy work, trying to stop a crumbling government from toppling over. Yet thrice more over the next two months I am forced to simply halt and collapse into my bed, despite Conju’s anxious fretting.
The letters and essays sit in my private study. The time difference in the Vangavaye-ve is great enough that it will only be a week or two for Cliopher, I reassure myself, but...
You must do your job. Not for the sake of the petty nobles and courtiers in this Palace, or the priests, or even ourselves. But there is a whole world of people outside who will suffer if we let the provinces descend into war and anarchy. I try not to think of my old friends; it always makes me more gloomy, not less, and brings terrible nightmares. Yet I cannot help but make comparisons. I remember Julian and Damian when I met them, not yet famous. They were baffled and confused by my appearance. Yet they were kind… They could have done many things with my ignorance. They could have just ignored the strange young man I was, even. But they chose kindness.
Despite our fame we were not so different from any other people. There are a million Jullanars and a thousand Damians and perhaps even a few people in this world who might be compared to my redoubtable Pali. They all depend on me.
But sometimes, try as I might, I do not have the strength to stand. It has been years and centuries since my coronation. And when I think about doing this forever…
Around noon Conju enters again. There’s water and little treats on the bedside table, untouched; I expect he wants to coax us into eating. Instead he says, “My lord, there is a new letter from Sayo Mdang; would you like to read it?”
We blink up at him. And we realize that we do.
Conju is so relieved he doesn’t even wince when we sit against the wall and nibble pastries among the huge silk sheets. Cliopher’s included three different messages in this package, which surely includes another essay on government. But his arguments are always clear and easy to follow – albeit long-winded – which is still a pleasant contrast to the usual reports I receive, full of hidden traps and deceptive suggestions.
My lord,
I must apologize.
When I focus on my work it consumes me to the exclusion of all else. It was only after I sent you those packets of essays that I realized how arrogant I have become. Of course you do not want to read them; you have an entire Palace of people more skilled and learned than some retired fifth-degree secretary half a world away.
I expect you have not read them yet; perhaps this letter will even proceed my package. Please do not feel obligated by courtesy to reply.
Cliopher Sayo Mdang
We could scream. But that would terrify your guards, so instead we bury our face in the letter and shake.
Arrogant! Arrogant, he calls himself! His plans for the government were beautiful. Hopeful.
Gods, but I wish we had that hope.
Maybe we will if we reread his ambitious plans on the universal stipend, or free medical care. The budgets are vague and hazy; they were more outlines than real proposals. But they still strike me as plausible; the bare skeleton of a possible future.
If only Zunidh doesn’t fall to war before you can consider implementing them.
Is that what you intend? Implementing them? We frown and open the other two letters.
One contains sheets of music. And the third…
It is a short poem, with the note, I thought you might enjoy this. A famous poet wrote it.
It is a poem by Fitzroy Angursell.
It does not have that name attached to it. It is not one of my more well-known pieces, either. In fact it was only ever published, to my knowledge, in a run of books subsequently destroyed. How did Cliopher even find it? Did someone else publish it without my knowledge? Did Jullanar ever…
It is a sweet little poem, not one of the philosophical and scathing criticisms of government, and not a silly adventure. I wrote it on a hot summer day after Damian insisted on thoroughly demolishing us all in sword practice. He curled up on the bare ground at the end, still dusty, and I lay my head on his stomach and wrote with the blue sky above me, and the scent of sweat and flowers and grass in my nose. I remember I was overcome with fond exasperation for my friend, and awe of the world, and delight that I had left my Tower behind for this. For life.
It is treason to send me this poem. Cliopher has some plausible deniability; it is not very well-known, and he could say he didn’t know the author. But he still risked a great deal by sending it. Because he thought I would enjoy it.
And I do. I put the letters aside, roll over, and start to cry.
Cliopher and I continue to exchange letters.
Then the skyships are finished. And we are restless.
There is now no excuse. I must find a way to address the fighting. A skirmish broke out on Xiputl’s border just a few weeks ago (a few days, probably, in Xiputl). Three people died. Tragic, but small enough we may still be able to smooth things over.
Maybe, maybe. And yet my aunt hates you. We do not have the eloquence for this. I do not know what to do.
And I keep thinking: Cliopher would know.
Perhaps that’s ridiculous. I only knew him in person for a single day. I have his letters, kind and sometimes funny, and they warm me inside. I have his idealistic outlines for a transformed government. But do those really prove anything?
One day I realize there is nothing for it. We are the Emperor, you remind me; so this is not an overreach. And I want to try.
Yet is it an overreach for I, Fitz… for I, Artorin Damara, to invite this man as a friend? And I am astonished to realize that despite all his brilliant ideas, his advice, his insanely-lengthy letters that verge on treasonous proposals… despite the threat of worldwide war...
The truth is that I do not want (only) to invite Cliopher Sayo Mdang to attend me in Solaara as an advisor, as a tana. I want to invite him as a friend.
I want to have a friend, and to know he values this correspondence as much as I do.
But even if he does not, I remind myself, it would be valuable to speak with him in person. If only he could have been my secretary…
No use thinking about that.
I write another letter. Then I burn it. Another. I reread it thrice, then feed it to my candle.
The guards do not react as I write and burn six more letters. Conju materializes around the fourth and starts dusting away the ashes. None of them are correct, I sense. None of them hit the right tone.
My instinct is to dispatch an official summons. But despite the situation I do not want this to be an order; I want to extend an invitation. I want Cliopher to accept of his own free will.
And I, of all people, know the value of words.
The tenth attempt is… not perfect. But I cannot find anything glaringly wrong with it, and it’s been nearly two hours. So I send it off and go to bed.
A small section of Jilkano declares secession.
This is… not good. It would be more worrisome if the other Jilkano provinces were in support; fortunately the recalcitrant noble in question is despised by all his relatives. You can probably squash this rebellion without bloodshed.
Probably.
But one rebellion will encourage another. Ludvic has already started drilling his guards more thoroughly. After the Fall much of the old armies were dissolved; he’s started recruiting again, too, and we’ve drawn up a new budget for expansions. Just in case.
It’s into this mess that Cliopher arrives.
We receive the notice late at night. Conju assures me, “I have shown him to the guest rooms, my lord; will you see him tomorrow?”
And you say, “No. Bring him now.”
We pace as Conju goes to summon them. I have argued with princes and the Lord Magi of other worlds and not felt so anxious. Perhaps there is something of my ridiculous younger self that survived, I think wryly, if I can still care so much about the opinion of a friend I’ve barely met.
Conju returns with alacrity; the guest rooms must be close. And then Cliopher enters.
There is also a boy with him, much younger than I expected; he can only be about ten. He looks much like his uncle, who walks with assurance and an arm wrapped around young Gaudy’s elbow. He has a strikingly intricate cane in one hand. He wears three necklaces of pearls and shells and…
There’s divine magic swirling from one of the shells, a beautiful blue one that sits front and center; it tastes of the sea and lightning. I wonder at the story behind it.
The boy halts carefully at the proper distance – he must have been coached – and both he and Cliopher sink into obeisance.
“You may rise.”
“Thank you, my lord. May I introduce my nephew, Gaudenius Vawen?”
Gaudy bows again, awkward. He keeps his gaze carefully on his feet. He clearly learned from his uncle’s tragedy.
“I am glad you meet you, Gaudy; from the sound of it you have been a great help to your uncle.” Cliopher once mentioned something of the Vangavayen apprentice-system; is Gaudy his official student? “I hope the trip went well? The skyships are still new.”
“It felt like a normal ship,” says Cliopher, and smiles at me.
It’s strange to have him look right at me – or, well, toward my face. There is no more damage I can do to him. As long as he doesn’t get close enough to touch... I will have to be careful about that, given his blindness.
“Would you prefer to rest tonight, or can you join me for dinner?” They agree to the latter – not really a surprise – and from the corner of our eye we see Conju sidle around to the door and step outside. Probably alerting the servants. “Wonderful. There is so much that cannot fit into a letter, Sayo Mdang…”
“Cliopher, please, my lord.”
An interruption! And an opening. We hesitate. It has been so long…
Nothing is achieved by stasis; and I’’ve already admitted several things just by extending this information. “Call us Tor.”
We are glad Conju is still outside for that; one of the guards stifles a gasp anyway.
Cliopher doesn’t seem to notice, and just smiles like this is a perfectly normal honor. Perhaps he thinks it is. He did not get a chance to spend much time in our Presence.
Conju returns, and we all settle into the second smallest dining room. With his usual attention to detail Conju has already prepared Sayo Mdang’s plate, and at a glance I can tell none of the foods should prove difficult to navigate.
He seems to have no trouble, though, prodding around with a gentle touch. He seems comfortable in his blindness. It has probably been no more than a year in the Vangavaye-ve.
We were not present for the difficult parts of that transition. I wonder how long it took him to accept his condition, and adapt his life around it.
“We can, of course, supply assistants and servants while you are here.”
Gaudy stiffens, lurching with such indignation I know he really does want to be here. I quickly turn my face, but he remembers not to look at us. “No! I mean. That’s not necessary. My lord. I am happy to help my uncle.”
They are delightfully atrocious at etiquette; Conju will have to have a chat with them before they go anywhere in public.
“He’s done an excellent job for years, and has even learned shorthand,” Cliopher vouches. “...or he says he has learned it, at any rate; for all I know he has devised some babbling code of his own that he thinks is shorthand, and is sending you all sorts of things I never said.”
Gaudy flushes. I cannot help but laugh, just a little, which wins a sharp and astonished look from my Cavalier. “Well, I’ve never noticed anything lacking about your letters. Perhaps your nephew just excels at circumlocution, but I must guess that he is genuinely proficient.” Poor Gaudy looks relieved, as though he really feared I might declare him illiterate and banish him from the Tower. “Regardless, I want you to be comfortable here.”
“We are excessively comfortable; I have never before needed such an extensive tour of guest rooms,” says Cliopher wryly. “But you did not, I think, invite me only for dinner and small-talk.”
I can honestly say, “I’ve been eager to speak with you in person.”
Cliopher’s features soften. He is still turned toward me. It makes our heart pound. I cannot blind him twice, I remind myself. “And I have wanted to speak with you,” he admits. “I’ve enjoyed our correspondence. But you wanted me here to discuss matters of law, don’t you? So let’s not dance around the subject, Tor. Tell me what happened.”
My Cavalier makes a wonderful sound we have never heard from him, somewhere between a squawk and a gasp and suppressed shriek. It is quick and quiet, a hiss that he stifles immediately. It is perhaps the most scandalized reaction we’ve ever provoked from him. To use that nickname and give me an order!
Cliopher is already proving a welcome distraction, I see.
“Gladly,” you say, and we do.
We talk about politics all that day, and for four days after; despite his initial protests we must call in secretaries to replace young Gaudenius, who cannot work those long hours bolstered by coffee or magic. So sometimes a young secretary from the desert of Jilkano comes and writes for Cliopher; they get on well, and I am amused one day to enter a room and find them both crouched on the ground as the secretary writes. Cliopher explains that young Aioru’s culture does not use chairs, and that he prefers to write like this.We do not need to look at his blushing face to know Aioru would have gone a thousand years without volunteering that information to me without prompting. You instruct Conju to bring woven mats.
In three weeks, Cliopher as my spokesperson negotiates a treaty that is in essence the foundation of a new government.
I am as pleased with him as I am disappointed in you, for not managing it sooner.
“I don’t need a reward,” Cliopher says, unfazed.
He sits with me in a room that is, if he could but see it, the pinnacle of opulence. He sips from a porcelain teacup lined with silver; the paintings and little statues in this room could be sold and feed a province for a year. I catch young Gaudy shooting stunned glances at the elegant foamwork curtains, the ornamental fountain, the lovely peacock vase I was gifted some years ago.
And yet, the man I maimed politely refuses my honors. He is as intriguing as he is infuriating.
“You eventually accepted the stipend.”
“I invest half of it, and the active funds go toward the poor. I set up a grant application system.”
“Of course you did. Surely there is some reward you will accept? It amazes me you are not more resentful, Cliopher.”
“Are you offering a reward for helping with your treaty? Or is this guilt?”
“Both can be true,” we admit. You are not meant to admit culpability. I do not care. And to say he ‘helped’ me… “You prevented a war. That is worth recognition.”
“I do not blame you for my blindness, Tor,” Cliopher says, ignoring my last point.
“I know. Though I do not understand it. You adjusted astonishingly well; even in your first letter to me you’d already reconciled with your new life.”
Cliopher smiles sadly. “Did I give that impression? I did not want to worry you; but it was difficult. There were many nights I called myself a fool for ever going to Astandalas, and for making my life so much harder just to contribute so little to the world... My family always criticized my decision to leave. I was embarrassed to prove them right, and to realize how arrogant I had been.” A pause. “But at the same time I loved that work. I was glad to have seen the world, even if I could no longer see my islands. And I was glad to have met you… and then you kept writing back.”
“It was nice to write someone.” I hesitate. But I’ve put up the Wall of Silence for this conversation. The guards cannot hear me. And if I cannot be honest with Sayo Mdang, who has trusted me with his safety, his family, the lore of his home… “Like having a friend.”
“I consider you my friend,” Cliopher says. It’s a simple treason; it should not bring me so much pain and joy. “That was arrogance, too, I kept telling myself. But you may have noticed I’m not very good at holding back.”
“The essays you kept sending were a hint.” A pause. “They were exceptional. You have many good ideas.”
“No one else thought so, for a long time. It helped when I set up the consultancy. People started to realized I’d learned some things about the world outside our islands, and hadn’t just been off staring starry-eyed at nobles or trying to make myself a big man. I’m happy to help my people. But it all feels small, when I think about the Fall and the work I did in Astandalas, in Solaara.”
Another opening. The potential of it sings.
One more challenge, one more risk I must take. All the others have turned out well, so this is perhaps the easiest of them. Albeit the most nerve-wracking.
“I know you have family in the Vangavaye-ve,” I tell him. This is a conversation between me and Cliopher, I feel, not you; despite your duties, despite his clever plans and all his work, you are not the reason for this request. “I know you have a business and friends and a life of your own. I want to emphasize this is not an order, Sayo Mdang. Cliopher.”
I pause. We watch his face for signs of understanding, of apprehension, wariness. But Cliopher just waits. Gaudy is wide-eyed.
I say, “I believe I need a tana.”
And Cliopher smiles. Not with the triumph some part of us expected; not with smug pleasure. Not even, perhaps, with relief or happiness. There is only acceptance. “Yes, my lord,” he says. “We shall have to discuss the details, but I would be honored to stay awhile. I actually have a few more suggestions than what I’ve mentioned to you.”
I envision the reactions of my court when I introduce my new advisor to them. No, I think. Cliopher loves old-fashioned things, and there was a position among the court once that caught my eye for the loveliness of its symbolism: the Hands of the Emperor. This man I blinded will be my Hands, and my chief advisor.
I tell him, “I thought you might,” and think that Cliopher Mdang might be a man worthy of a poem.