CHAPTER II: The Lore-monger, the Scribeling and the Corsair
And then came the snoring. It punctuated the end of each chapter with a blunt finality. Greagoir was a master at keeping just enough wind in his bellows to complete a point, before suddenly dozing off. His mind might run far afield at times as well, but even his digressions were relevant to his overall narration, and he remained remarkably lucid and lively for his advanced age. He had much to say, but he felt there was too little time left to say it in; hence, his tendency to ramble. But he always returned to the crux of his tale, no matter how circuitous the route to arrival.
Greagoir's apprentice carefully spread some drying-sand on the wet ink of his parchment, then briskly waved the cramp from his writing hand. Splaying, then clenching, his fingers until the circulation returned to his fingertips, the apprentice leaned back in his chair and prepared for some well-earned rest himself. The master would remain asleep for perhaps an hour, depending upon his exertion. Rarely did he sleep for any lengthier period of time, choosing to regiment his days and nights with these 'catnaps', and he expected his apprentice to do the same ("Sleep is the refuge of the indolent," Greagoir would say; "no ballads were sung or great battles won while snoring."). Needless to say, the apprentice, named Tatya Reecho, was a rather pallid youth of seventeen years with great circles under his eyes; but after nearly five years of apprenticeship, he had become accustomed to catching a few winks while his master slumbered.
Before Tatya fell asleep, he watched his master for a moment as the old man grumbled and snorted in his fitful rest. The other apprentices of the Scrivener's Guild often referred to the Master-scribe as a 'pompous old windbag', and many a hapless scribeling had been frightened off by him over the years; yet to Tatya, Greagoir was a marvel, and the greatest Lorist of his day (Tatya was given a tongue-lashing of immense proportions the one and only time he mistakenly referred to Greagoir as a 'Loremaster'). And while Greagoir insisted that Tatya copy verbatim the master's recitations on long-dead heroes and ancient chronicles, the apprentice considered Greagoir's reminiscences as interesting, if not more so, than the lore. So the apprentice kept a secret diary of his master's memoirs, deeming that both story and story-teller were equally important; thus, the two themes became inextricably woven into the fabric of an even greater tale.
Invariably, Greagoir awoke to the sound of his own snoring. "Tatya, you lazy lay-about!" the master boomed irritably, "you have fallen asleep again in the middle of recitations! Curse these useless eyes! I cannot see when you've nodded off!"
"Forgive me, master," was Tatya's well-rehearsed reply, "shall we continue where you left off then?"
"No, slothful scribeling!" Greagoir replied in vexation, "read for me what you've managed to commit to paper. I only pray you haven't lost the entire narrative, damnable loiterer!"
Tatya smiled and reiterated the entire prologue and first chapter word-for-word (interrupted now and again with timely emendations from the master). Satisfied that his apprentice had faithfully copied the entire piece (and had not fallen into what the master would term as 'pernicious laxity'), Greagoir mumbled some quiet words of praise for Tatya, and continued on as if the confrontation had never occurred.
Shifting himself into a more comfortable sitting position on his bed, the blind bard began, "We shall commence with the retelling of the Tale of the Dark Elves. As history is a living thing, then it is only right we should begin with the birth of the Elder Race, the earliest recorded chronicle in the East. Tatya, fetch me the Book of the Unseelie Sidhe from the library."
Tatya chuckled to himself. The 'library' the master referred to was merely the largest of the three rooms that made up Greagoir's home, a ramshackle structure built of a mish-mash of stone, lath, daub and wattle, that was formerly a cotter's cottage. The house sat just below the central highlands of Marannan-astair (and luckily for the master, as far from the sea as one could get on the island), nestled along a great swath of pasture that was part of an estate owned by Attar Kiryatin, a Ship-lord and Greagoir's wealthy patron.
That Lord Kiryatin was once a ruthless corsair who had amassed his immense fortune through brigandage and wanton murder, mattered little to Greagoir. For the master, the end justified the means, a part of his contradictory nature that had always baffled Tatya. Greagoir was a very moral man for the most part, but in some things he utterly lacked scruples. In fact, Tatya was certain that his master would have joined Kiryatin in a life of piracy, if it were not for Greagoir's wretched bouts of sea-sickness. As it was, Greagoir had been responsible for his disreputable benefactor attaining the noble status and position he held on the island.
Attar Kiryatin was once feared in many harbors along the eastern shores of the world, and his piratical legacy precluded him from mingling in civilized society. Born of dubious parentage, and now with a price on his head, Kiryatin yearned to retire with his ill-gotten gains and become respectable (or at least not stalked by bounty-hunters and assassins). And so the corsair enlisted the services of a cunning young scribe renowned for a glib tongue and rather shady diplomacy: one Greagoir of Caladh. Using his subtle talents to conjure credible history from dread legend, Greagoir styled Kiryatin as the bastard son of a wealthy prince, born in one of the Khanates that lay along the Gold Coast of the Eastern Ocean. To achieve this fabrication, Greagoir himself traveled to the Khanate, and with exorbitant bribes lavished upon greedy court-bureaucrats, he purchased Kiryatin's birthright -- complete with letters of introduction, and an authentic-looking court decree officially embossed with the Khan's own royal seal.
Having in hand these flawless forgeries for his pirate princeling, Greagoir returned to Marannan-astair, but not until after he tarried a bit in the Khanate, gathering some bits of lore from the palace (much to Kiryatin's growing consternation). With the further use of bribes spread judiciously across the island ("Graft is a tune and every court hums it," the master had told Tatya), Greagoir slyly insinuated Kiryatin into the lofty circle of magnates, guild-masters, navy admirals and ship-lords who controlled the sea-trade and commerce of Marannan-astair, and thus, the island-nation itself. In short order, Kiryatin married a well-endowed and influential widow and gained a Peerage on the Council of Syndics, the ruling body of Ship-lords of the island.
Thus ennobled, Lord Kiryatin settled grandly into the respected role of Syndic Peer. Not forgetting his faithful (if somewhat conspiratorial) servant, Lord Kiryatin made Greagoir his court-scribe and envoy-at-large, allowing Greagoir to travel far and wide across the East, ostensibly on trade missions (or 'legitimized plunder' as the master put it). But the Ship-lord knew full well that his wayward scribe was really seeking additions to his beloved books of lore, and did not begrudge Greagoir for his lore-mongering; on the contrary, Greagoir vastly increased the Ship-lord's holdings through his shrewd negotiations with various trading partners as he traveled all over the Eastern World.
After many decades of this mutually-agreeable arrangement, Greagoir's sight began to fail and he grew lame. No longer able to maintain his role as court functionary and diplomat, Greagoir's positions were given over to younger men. Lord Kiryatin, now a sullen and scarred old man, became tight-fisted with his patronage. The Ship-lord might still be thankful for all Greagoir had done for him, but the demands on his depleted purse were far more tangible than any sentiment; therefore, he kept the scribe in a constant state of penury. Sparks would fly when the curmudgeonly bard and the cantankerous corsair discussed money, and Tatya had learned every curse word 'from Mu to the Mountains' during these altercations.
Beneath the thin veneer of respectability, however, Attar Kiryatin was still a corsair at heart; and if it's one thing a salty dog craves from his sailing days (aside from rape and pillage, of course), it is a well-told tale, and there was none better than Greagoir at the telling. So Kiryatin kept Greagoir on in his retirement, secluding him in the rundown cotter's cottage far from court, and endowing him with a paltry sum for a pension. Tatya wondered if Kiryatin had done this merely to infuriate Greagoir, so that their high-spirited exchanges could continue. To Tatya, they seemed like an old married couple, staying together -- bitter and brawling, year after year -- simply because no one else could stand them.
"Blast it, Tatya, quit your daydreaming and return here at once!" came the familiar bellow from the master's bedroom. This was followed by a string of curses in at least three different languages.
Startled, Tatya shook himself from his reverie, quickly grabbed the thin black volume from its place on a shelf, and then grumbled all the way back to Greagoir's room. The master would expect him to recite tonight, a duty the apprentice despised, even if the story of the Dark Elves intrigued him. He much preferred Greagoir's lively interpretations of the passages, but reading aloud was a necessity, as cataracts had totally robbed the master of his sight. There was no other way for Greagoir to decide which sections of notes would be used for inclusion in the main books of the compendium, or for the inevitable series of edits, rephrasing, notations and changes of tense the master would require before Tatya could at last commit pen to paper, and write the finished piece. Tatya shrugged and rolled his eyes as he placed the volume of notes into the blind scribe's hands.
"Ah, the Dark Elves!" Greagoir beamed as he clutched the black leather book to his chest. "Know you, Tatya, that I consider my journey in search of the Dark Elves as the bravest adventure I have ever undertaken?" Greagoir considered his choice of words for a moment, then added, "Brave...or foolhardy, more likely. I was young and stupid, I suppose. I cannot recall whether I considered myself indestructible, or if I thrived on near-death experiences; in either case, young and stupid still holds true!
Tatya, sensing a reprieve from doing his recitations, grinned and quickly grabbed quill and parchment.