Childe Havelock to the Dark Tower Came

Havelock’s Inception in to the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush pt.3

The knight and the knight-to-be cross another dyke. The ground turns dark once more and now the Tower is at hand.

“Childe Rowland to the Dark Tower came, at Maerlyn’s word to free his Burd Ellen.” muses Havelock. “Once in another life, another place, I knew a questing knight called Roland, about whom minstrels and jongleurs sang chansons de geste. However, I don’t recall him speaking of reaching his Dark Tower.

“I assume this is the place of inception, Zubenelgenubi. So what now?” he asks.

His companion starts slightly, startled out of his reverie. He pauses next to Havelock and regards the Tower. “Now you must knock and answer three questions before you are permitted to enter.”

Havelock smiles; recalling the reading he made at breakfast makes him tingle. Reaching for the door, he raps on the plate with the butt of his broken sword three times. A little hatch slides back to be filled with an eye and a tremulous voice speaks. “Hark! The knock of doom! Who is it who knocks?”

Trying to remember his etiquette now, Havelock replies, “Havelock, Son of Prince Bleys of the most Pagan and Heretic House of Amber.”

A slughorn blows from battlements and the voice speaks again. “And why does Lord Havelock knock upon the door?”

“I seek entrance to within the tower to meet with the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush.” he replies.

A slughorn blows once more but this time in a strangulated squawk. The voice speaks a third time. “And what does Lord Havelock seek…”

The voice is interrupted by another voice muttering too quietly to make out the words. There’s a whispered exchange in which the first voice, sounding somewhat exasperated, asks, “Can I help it if he said it first?” <mutter, mutter> “Oh very well, if you insist… ludicrous situation!” Then the first voice resumes with a slight air of embarrassment…

<Embarrassed cough> “Harrumph!” (pronounced exactly as spelt, as if the speaker had learned the word from a book without ever hearing it spoken), “…and for what end would Lord Havelock meet with the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush?”

Zubenelgenubi appears to be biting his lips; Havelock’s intuition tells him that he’s struggling to hide both mirth and embarrassment.

Havelock puts away the remains of his sword, inclines his head slightly to the speaker behind the door and states, “I seek inception into their illustrious and insinuative company.”

“And why does the noble Lord Havelock seek incept…eh what?” The voice is again interrupted by an even more urgent muttering. “Yes, yes, I know it’s three…” <mutter, mutter> “Is it really? I must have lost count; so many distractions. Is it that important?” <mutter, mutter> “Are you sure? The answer might prove crucial.” <mutter, mutter – sounding quite emphatic> “Oh very well, if you insist – we don’t want to break the rules, do we?”

The slughorn blares from the battlements one last time and, with a sonorous clang, the door opens to reveal two figures. One is a venerable old man in robes bearing tarot symbols that Havelock is sure identifies him as a member of House Hierophus. The old man is glaring at the other figure, who might be a man save that he has no face at all. Something about the way he stands and regards Havelock screams ‘lawyer’ to Havelock’s finely-tuned sensibilities.

The old man drags his vituperative gaze from the faceless one and gestures in to the darkness behind him. “Welcome Lord Havelock! Follow me and we will introduce you to the Order.”

Bowing appropriately again now, as he is facing the two speakers, Havelock takes a moment to study them and the doorway they are framed in, trying to determine who was the questioner and whom muttered.

The moment he opens his mouth the old man is revealed as the first voice, which might suggests the faceless one was the mutterer, though how this can be when he doesn’t have a mouth to mutter with is hard to say. That’s Chaos for you. On the other hand it’s possible the mutterer was someone else now out of sight.

Then with a charismatic smile Havelock says “Lead on, I look forward to it. However, to remedy the small disadvantage you have me at, member of House Hierophus and member of House Stark, maybe you could introduce yourselves as we walk?”

As Havelock steps forward, he can’t help noticing the faceless one artfully cuts out Zubenelgenubi and conveys him in to a sideroom, leaving Havelock alone with the old man.

“House Stark?” The old man seems befuddled for a moment, then shrugs. “Oh I think we shall leave the introductions until we’re all together…or else we’ll be repeating ourselves incessantly and that wouldn’t do, would it?”

“Oh and could someone find me a shirt, mine became a little torn up on the way here and I would want to make a good impression.”

“A shirt?” He seems surprised and wheels round to ogle Havelock more closely. “Oh, I had assumed your garments were meant to look like that. Isn’t the slashed fashion all the rage, now?” He shrugs. “We’ll see what we can do but we have to be careful with sendings; we don’t want to give away that we’re here, do we?”

The old man leads Havelock by diverse passages, doors, arches and stairs, both up and down. The few arrow-slits reveal the same checkerboard landscape outside but Havelock cannot see how this labyrinth of passages could possibly fit in to the castellated equivalent of a 2-up/2-down hovel.

The old man flicks a sidelong glance at Havelock’s shirt as he continues his inconsequential chat. “So how did your…shirt?...come to suffer such wear and – if I might venture – tear?”

“A disagreement with a white pawn over this future knight’s move into the square he controlled. He came to regret his intransigence.” states Havelock flatly. “Of course his attention may not have been drawn had not a theoretical discussion on divination moved to a practical demonstration of numerology. Anyway, I don’t think he did any serious damage, nothing that won’t knit back.”

Briefly Havelock wonders about the family ability to heal from most non-fatal injuries. Could this be something left in the blood from before the writing of the Pattern, some little piece of shapechanging all Dworkin’s descendents carry?

“I can probably pull off the roguish slashed look,” and grins with remembrance of his years in Dumas. Ah Dumas, the fortress isle! He was so much the free cavalier; learning from the duelling masters; fighting as a Warden of the Castle against the Patriarch’s gamecocks; studying the finer points of the lavolta and galliard at the Castellan’s masques and balls; and of course studying the finer points of the ladies during and after such festivities. All of it gone now in the apocalyptic rewrite. Maybe he could find it again? Maybe if he studied higher powers he could write it again? He pulls himself back from the reverie before his new guide misunderstands this brief mental absence, adding, “I most miss the sword I had to break to kill it though.”

“Ah yes, I noticed your blade seemed somewhat curtailed. Again any sending might reveal our meeting place and that would never do, would it? So I’m afraid you must practice the art of the stoic for now. We change the location each time, you know. That is to say it is always our chapter house, of course, but that we put the chapter house in a different place each time, don’t you know?”

Havelock nods in understanding.

The old man pauses before an anonymous door. “Oh, one last little thing – now I expect you have become used to we flexibles adopting Barimen-form. It’s a courtesy thing, you understand. A social nicety that has members from various houses adopting similar forms to aid comfort and communication, do you see? Harrumph, yes! Well, you see it’s the custom in most orders of knighthood for members to retain the customary forms of their respective houses – assuming they have one, of course. So don’t be alarmed if some of us appear a little outré compared with what you’re used to. There’s no slight intended.”

“None would be taken,” responds Havelock, eyes steady on the door as his new guide opens it.

“Now here we are!” announces the old man as he finally leads Havelock in to a circular chamber, somewhat larger than the width of the tower. There are no arrow-slits or other apertures to give a view of the checker-board but it is well-lit with nine stalls decorated in heraldic draperies of all colours and designs – including one chair set in the wall decorated with red and white upholstery under a green banner bearing Amber’s white Unicorn.

However, standing before each of five stalls are: another venerable old man in Hierophus robes; two painfully beautiful androgynes; a bone-white skeletal humanoid with long, straight, bone-coloured hair and red flames for eyes and, before a stall set slightly above the others, floats a disembodied pair of eyes above an apparently human mouth filled with shark’s teeth, smiling in welcome.

“Now, my lord, you make yourself at home before your stall. Just two more to come now, don’t you know?”

“Thank you,” says Havelock, glancing around the stalls, noting their features. That four of the order are from Hierophus and Cyril is not too much of a surprise. He has visited their houses and is comfortable with their forms. The other two however are a mystery. The bone white figure he reckons is probably from House Sawall, but the eyes and shark-toothed smile he doesn’t know. During the quick scan, though, he takes in the details of the heraldry and colours, even of those not present. One he understands is Zubenelgenubi’s stall, but the other is again an unknown. Inclining his head to the eyes and teeth, he moves to his appointed position.

The old man moves to a stall decked in similar colours to the other old man of Hierophus but has barely taken his place before the door reopens to reveal a strange chamber beyond (which was not there when Havelock came through that door a minute ago). The faceless one enters and moves to a stall precisely opposite the disembodied mouth and eyes – to Havelock’s immediate left, in fact. The room brightens strangely as he eclipses Havelock’s vision but once the faceless one is in place Havelock sees the new illumination is down to a collection of balls of light orbiting in front of the last vacant stall. There are four of them, one larger than the others, and they are painfully bright. Havelock is glad they are not this side of the chamber or he would be dazzled but as it is they do light up the chamber wonderfully.

“Brethren, be seated!” The command comes from the mouth and eyes; the voice is deep, though feminine, and lashes the ear like a whip. Everyone settles back in to their stalls, though it’s kind of hard with the evident mistress of the order to tell whether she’s sitting or not.

“Brethren of the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush. We meet in chapter to incept a novitiate as replacement for recent loss.

“Lord Havelock; know you that our order, of necessity, meets in secret and before we may proceed further you must first swear not to divulge anything you may learn by any means, including the identities of those present. You must swear this by whatever you hold sacred. Do you so swear?”

Havelock can tell that a mere ‘yes I do’ would not be sufficient. There must be a form of words and Havelock feels this will be a binding oath, with consequences if broken.

Havelock stands. “I hold nothing more sacrosanct than the blood of Amber that scribed the Pattern and swear myself to secrecy on that sacred cruor.”

7 sets (as opposed to pairs) of eyes shift to the faceless one sitting to Havelock’s left. Havelock feels a marked cessation in respiration within the room. Then the faceless one nods imperceptibly and everyone breathes again as attention reverts to the Amberite.

[Incidentally, Havelock’s supreme intuition tells him that by swearing on the Blood of Amber and the Pattern, he would be courting a self-imposed blood-curse if he now reneges on his oath – just so you know. J]

The Mistress of the Order speaks again. “Now we are free to reveal ourselves: to my right,” she gestures to the three individuals sitting across the chamber, “are Zográfos and Gnosos of House Heirophus and Zubenelgenubi of House Malastar.” Gnosos is the old man who greeted Havelock. All three bow their heads in his direction.

“To my left are Despil of House Sawall and Poliziano and Mirandola of House Cyril.” Again, all three nod gravely toward the newcomer; Mirandola is sitting right next to Havelock and smiles with unbearable sweetness. Havelock gets the feeling Poliziano is frowning slightly, however.

“I am Sigrid of House Zephyra and Grand Mistress of the Order. The last of our order is hight Justinian of House Quæstor, whose role is to maintain the purity of our purpose.”

“He keeps us honest!” comes a laconic interjection from the bone-white Despil.

“Integrity is doing the right thing even when other people are not watching...” responds Havelock. He feels it not necessary to add his father’s comment on the importance of defining the right thing. Instead he carries straight on with “...I would be interested to hear more on our purpose.”

“Patience!” returns Sigrid. She shifts her attention away from Havelock. “This novitiate is Lord Havelock, son of Prince Bleys of Amber. He is without title, a pagan, heretic and a sworn enemy of the Thelbane, yet his lineage is of the highest order. Does anyone here dispute his inception?”

Sigrid’s unsettling gaze passes around the order, resting a moment on each member. Silence reigns…until she comes to the heartstoppingly beautiful figure sitting two seats to Havelock’s right. Poliziano raises a hand…

“In view of the sensitivity of our work, why do we invite our enemy to join with us? That we need incept a new member, yes, surely! But we should choose from our own ranks and not clasp an asp to our breast.”

The response to this from around the room is passive. No one speaks in support but no one speaks against, and it is clear from the way their attention shifts back to Sigrid that they are interested in the answer.

“The answer is three-fold,” replies Sigrid. “Lastly, we need new blood so we must choose someone. Nextly, we may find an asp in any house within the Courts, as we all know too well, so why not choose from without and thereby be sure of what we are choosing? But firstly and foremostly, we have a directive.”

Poliziano seems a little put out. “May we see this directive?”

Sigrid nods to Justinian and he pulls a parchment scroll from his robes. The gesture is understated; he does not brandish the scroll but keeps it in his right hand, where Havelock can see it clearly as that hand returns to the arm of his chair. The scroll is tied with a yellow ribbon. Several entities goggle it incredulously.

Poliziano half rises from his seat, reaching forward: “May I…?” he begins.

“You may not.”

Sigrid sends a final glance around the chamber as Poliziano, blushing furiously, regains his chair. Everyone else settles back in to their stalls, apparently satisfied. Havelock notices that Mirandola places a supportive hand on his housemate’s arm.

“So, those who accept the inception of Lord Havelock in to our Order…?” A flurry of ‘ayes’ echo around the chamber with Poliziano last, as Sigrid’s gaze comes to rest on him. “And your Grand Mistress says ‘aye’…” She raises an eyebrow at the faceless one who nods slowly as he puts away the scroll.

“It is unanimous – do you accept this inception, Lord Havelock?”

“Aye, Grand Mistress. I accept your company’s offer of inception into their ranks,” affirms Havelock with an easy air. Internally however he reflects that this first exchange further demonstrates the futility of trying to win hearts and minds in the Courts. He thought he could have counted on at least the tacit support of House Cyril’s members, yet it was Poliziano who seemed to stand most against him. Maybe in the inception it is a role one member needs to play..? Maybe I have disturbed a relationship when I visited their house and this one is envious of me..? It has been known.

“Then we have a beginning.” This seems to be a formulaic statement to which everyone in the chamber nods solemnly the once. “Brother Gnosos?”

In response to this last Gnosos rises from his stall and crosses the chamber to offer something on a cushion of what might be red velvet – certainly red, anyway. As he halts before Havelock, he can see that it is a brush, the sort used for painting. To Havelock’s eye it’s a very nice brush.

“Kirin hair! Nothing better for our work.”

Havelock takes the brush from the elderly figure’s velvet bolster. His fingers lightly touch the red silk fibres of the chiffon as he nestles the tool away from the pad. Turning it adroitly around in his hands, he examines the tuft against the light, notes the fine embossing on the ferrule and finally deftly rotates and settles the ivory handle into various grips of his hand.

Even now he can sense the spirits of the masters his father had settled him with in his youth looking for fault in his posture. However, Havelock does not flinch under the current company’s gaze, for at brushwork he exceeded those haunting masters years ago. He does smile broadly. Gnosos returns to his stall. No one seems to expect a speech though doubtless they will listen politely if Havelock wants to give one.

Havelock recalls the words of one of his tutors which do seem appropriate;

“Golden Dragon Horse amidst the clouds,

Earthy Unicorn judge of the wicked,

Ki-rin herald of sages and emperors.”

There’s a short round of polite applause from everyone, even Poliziano. Havelock concludes… “Yes, a tool of divination and correction.”

Sigrid breaks the silence. “So, brother Havelock, you have questions?”

Havelock looks up from the brush he is still manipulating in his hands. “Questions? Hmm yes. If this brush is suitable for our work, what is our work?”

“Why, for us?” interjects Gnosos, “Painting, of course!”

“Writing!” comments Mirandola, to Havelock’s right.

“But we put these works of art to practical use.” This last is from Despil, seated at Mistress Sigrid’s left hand.

It occurs to Havelock that Despil and Sigrid are scions of two major houses, while all the rest, even Justinian, are minor houses only. Breaking the pregnant pause, Sigrid speaks…

“It is much as you surmise, divination followed by correction, in the sense of amending that which is broken, or at least unaesthetic. But perhaps a little history is in order…?”

Havelock rests the brush carefully on his lap now, then inclines his head as a sign of assent to continue. Sigrid slants a glance toward Mirandola, sitting next to Havelock, who nods gravely and turns toward him.

“Some time in the past, not the recent past or the more distant, but nonetheless beyond memory of half us sitting here, there occurred two insurrections which, while merely local and of little significance in the Universal scheme of things, were nonetheless highly traumatic events that at the time threatened instability here in the Courts. Instability, you understand, is the thing most feared in this place. With hindsight, the Night of the Demons and the Day of the Broken Branches were probably not the threats they were felt to be at the time…”

“Matter of opinion!” contradicts Poliziano, with a couple of others nodding agreement, including Justinian.

“But in an exceptional gathering of three eclectic individuals, from the houses of Cyril, Hierophus and Quaestor, it was suggested that the horrors of these events might have been mitigated, or even averted, had the Thelbane been able to intervene earlier.”

Zográfos takes up the tale, sitting directly opposite Havelock, at Sigrid’s right hand. “I alone survive of the initial threesome. Our idea at first was simply to employ the arts of divination on behalf of the Crown. Long have we known how the miscreant Dworkin abused our arts for his own end and we knew he used the art of the Mystic Image for divinatory purposes. My own house and Cyril retained (and still retains) almost all the knowledge of the art we ever knew. Briefly we sought to utilise the art as do Dworkin and his heretical spawn (begging your pardon, Lord Havelock) but we found such usage difficult among the Flexibles, where many cards are needed to represent one individual. We are proud to have attained some successes but there are limitations.”

Havelock nonchalantly waves off the comment about his family. In this current chaotic assembly his blood’s Pattern locked immutability is indeed a heretical path. Anyway, who doesn’t revel in a little heresy now and then?

Zográfos looks two seats to his right and the weirdly orbiting stars that is Zubenelgenubi takes over. “So other forms of divination were needed, which is why House Zephyra,” he nods courteously to Sigrid, and my own House of Malastar, became involved.” His voice swells in pride. “Our houses are widely regarded as being foremost in the arts of Divination within the Courts.”

Having used the Nihiloscope to view, and maybe manipulate, the possibilities in the void, the Amber Prince wonders whether this Order may have contributed covertly to its construction. However, he voices nothing as his former guide continues…

“At this time, still a fraternity of a few individuals with but a common idea, we sought merely to sharpen our divinatory tools to look as far in to the future as we dared.” Zubenelgenubi looks uncomfortable. “Of course, in a place where even the past may be mutable, the future is a very mercurial thing…”

“Even for we heretics, who have some of Dworkin’s lore, it is subject to broad interpretation,” interjects Havelock. “I can quite understand the problems you would have here in the fluid reality of the Courts.”

At this point Despil interrupts, “So it was decided to take things one step further. Instead of relying purely on the unreliable results of diverse divinatory arts, when a subject could be identified, would it not be better to extract their intentions from out their own minds? With this idea, House Zephyra invited Sawall’s specialist aid to devise the means of extraction. I won’t go in to the nitty-gritty but we find entry via dreams the most effective method of extraction.”

“But then,” Sigrid resumes the discourse seamlessly, “with so many houses involved it became necessary to formalise our arrangements. So we obtained a formal license from the Emperor and our Order was born. Eight members, hand-picked for their specialist skills, usually from the original houses of origin: Cyril, Hierophus, Sawall and Zephyra. We also like to include at least one member from another house, to prevent insularity with the Order, hence your invitation.

“But it would be all too easy for us to abuse our position. Therefore our charter also demands the ninth be a member of House Quaestor, that our every act be judged before, after and during execution.” Sigrid smiles at Justinian, who inclines his head toward Havelock, raising a metaphorical eyebrow.

Gnosos pipes up, “Of course, dream extraction is a very delicate operation – we have to be very careful, yes, most careful indeed, don’t you know?”

Sigrid grins, shark-like, “Are your questions answered, Sir Knight?”

Havelock gently eases back in his chair and interlocks his fingers in an arch in front of him. “Perchance to dream? Aye, there’s the rub; for in that, what dreams may come?” he muses. “Surely such undertakings are a most dangerous prospect, but then the interpretation of such dreams is a great art.

“I do have another question. You say your eight operatives are picked for specialist skills and although I am partly here to add understandable extra variety to your palette, I presume I am included for some other additional reason? No team such as yours can carry dead weight, unless some of you,” and he glances at Poliziano, “…consider me to be so? I think I should practice the skills you have developed and see if I have a talent there. Maybe another of my abilities can be turned to your cause?”

“You come recommended by …a reliable source,” replies Sigrid, gazing deep in to Havelock’s eyes before flicking a glance to her right, “and we understand you are versed in the power of the mystic image, as practiced by the arch-blasphemer Dworkin. Our practices depend upon subtlety. Swordplay is seldom needed but occasionally can be useful. The Order’s specialists,” Sigrid’s glances to either side, “…provide a grasp of the Mystic Image, Illuminations and mind sorceries.”

Despil smiles knowingly as he takes over. “It is possible to enter a subject’s dreams directly – though this is dangerous, sometimes it’s necessary. But usually we induce the subject to enter the dream of one of our Order, termed the Architect. The Architect builds a dreamscape so the subject feels comfortable entering. This demands research and for most of us it’s reasonably straightforward. But currently residing within the Thelbane there are persons of a background with which few of us in the Courts are familiar.

“Your perspective, Lord Havelock, will make you an invaluable Architect in certain operations…”

Of course, thinks the Amber lordling, suddenly excited by this possibility! Always, the danger of intruding into others dreams has been the intruder’s immersion in the other’s mindscape, which subsequently responds to defend itself. With the construction of an intermediate level, the subject’s defensive options would be much reduced and more control in the hands of the Architect. If the Architect had created a Trump of the subject the design would be easier, or maybe subtle use of Trumps could be used to gain the knowledge needed.

“Of course, starting from a familiar waking point, or a waking point made so, would be a good place to start. Also, drawing the subject deeper into the Architect’s design,” Havelock starts to examine more closely the Order’s chamber, “would be easier if they expect their world to change as during an uncontrolled shadow-ride.” His eyes settle on the spinning stars of Zubenelgenubi’s form, “Maybe being guided through the Courts by another would also do? An obvious question then; how would I know that I am not still asleep in The Spiral?”

Havelock has already observed that the stellar eyes of House Malastar make them hard to read; when not in Barimen-form, they become nearly impenetrable. Havelock thinks Zubenelgenubi’s stars spin a little faster.

No one says anything; Mirandola, Gnosos and Zográfos smile warmly; Sigrid’s is disconcertingly shark-like. Poliziano doesn’t smile and his eyes narrow in suspicion. Justinian and Despil are utterly unreadable.

“However, you do not seem terribly worried that any of the defenders inherent in my own psychic landscape will disrupt here, or even find this place. I could conclude from that that I have been separated from my natural dreamscape by more than one;” he wafts his hand, “what to call it? Veil of artistic sculpting?” He counts the transitions on his journey and adds, looking around the room, “I would suspect about six?”

There is a silence, not quite a pregnant pause; it’s as if those present feel there’s nothing to say. Havelock has no way of knowing how accurate his guess might be. However, something inside intuits that this is all just a dream and is doubtless subject to the logic of dreams – if ‘logic’ is quite the right word for Chaos.