Palaver? A contortion of that article of Portuguese? Prospero makes note to consider later whether that little country ever did call a province of Gilead as its own...
Prospero sits, then, and indicates for Alain to do the same. He reaches for some bread and tears a hunk off. "Forgive, please, that I must break fast with you so; I've walked a ways, and I feel powerful hunger." He chews a piece thoughtfully, then says, "Milan, sir? Ahh, Milan. You've never heard tell, of that city nestled by the plains of Lombard? My pretty little city, with its masques and its merchants and its marvels? Oh, sir, they say that one has not lived unless one has seen Roma, that ragged map of woe, but I, oh, yes, sir, I say that one has not breathed unless one has drank down the draughts of Milanese air. One has not felt the spirit of the Lord unless one has knelt in il Duomo di Milano, as yet unfinished, but oh, already a wonder upon the Continent. And her gardens, so pretty and neat in their order. To see her, sir, is to love her." He sighs. "She taught me everything I know."
Prospero's language is as formal and archaic as that in any tale of Arthur Eld, but it sounds natural on his lips, and has a tale-spinner's rhythm to it. And the words may be unfamiliar, a few of them, but the sentiment is deeply familiar. He can't help but smile, listening.
Softly, "She sounds a marvel, sai, and your tale makes me wish I could."
"Marvel, indeed," Prospero agrees. "Even when ill airs descend upon her, she keeps strong and true." He reaches into his sack, which obligingly produces some of the dried game that he'd tucked away earlier. He tears it into small pieces, spreads them out, puts some back into the sack and chews others thoughtfully. He takes care to swallow before he says anything again.
"But there come occasions in all men's lives when they must walk unseen roads, so I've put my back to the city and stepped between. And you, sir? If I may, what brought you out? 'Twas an old man's whimsy that compelled me hence, though I do well recall the passions of my youth when the world was waiting to be traversed."
His smile turns a little crooked, when he speaks of Milan standing strong and true.
"No whimsy, though you might say I wandered the world some. A little ways, anyway, in the last few years. Nay, sai, I died, and found myself here on the way to the clearing."
A small smile, a little apologetic. Welcome to Milliways, it says. "Aye. The clearing at the end of the path -- heaven, some call it? Yes, I died. Plenty of folken here who have, and plenty who haven't."
Alain shakes his head. "I know not. A waystation, we'd call this -- a place outside the worlds, if you ken it. Outside all time, and touching all wheres and whens. There is they say a Landlord, but none have met him, nor know his mind."
"These spheres, these worlds," Prospero mutters. He's recovered somewhat, but he's still regarding the rest of the bar somewhat askance. "And this Landlord, then, be he master of that chain, to so spin and weave life and the hereafter into his tapestry? Would not a figure of such high charms be, then, that great Architect of this cosmos, the Demiurgic Principle?"
Alain reflects briefly that sai Prospero would probably get on very well with his old teacher Vannay, who taught the gunslinger 'prentices philosophy and geography and all the things a gunslinger must know that are outside the way of the gun.
He shrugs, spreading his hands. "None have spoken to him, sai, so far as I have heard. Or know aught of him but that he exists."
"I see," Prospero says slowly. A smile gentles his face, then, and those ghosts of the last of his vague apprehension are exorcised from his face. "Or perhaps, I should say, I do not see, considering that which you've just told me regarding our mysterious benefactor."
But Alain is less pessimistic than some of his friends, and so he says nothing, and only returns the smile crookedly. "Mysterious, oh aye. There's much to occupy a philosopher here."
"So it would seem," Prospero says. A tiny little smile, dagger-sharp at the edges, scratches at his face. "I see that this shall be a rewarding holiday.
Prospero sits, then, and indicates for Alain to do the same. He reaches for some bread and tears a hunk off. "Forgive, please, that I must break fast with you so; I've walked a ways, and I feel powerful hunger." He chews a piece thoughtfully, then says, "Milan, sir? Ahh, Milan. You've never heard tell, of that city nestled by the plains of Lombard? My pretty little city, with its masques and its merchants and its marvels? Oh, sir, they say that one has not lived unless one has seen Roma, that ragged map of woe, but I, oh, yes, sir, I say that one has not breathed unless one has drank down the draughts of Milanese air. One has not felt the spirit of the Lord unless one has knelt in il Duomo di Milano, as yet unfinished, but oh, already a wonder upon the Continent. And her gardens, so pretty and neat in their order. To see her, sir, is to love her." He sighs. "She taught me everything I know."
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Prospero's language is as formal and archaic as that in any tale of Arthur Eld, but it sounds natural on his lips, and has a tale-spinner's rhythm to it. And the words may be unfamiliar, a few of them, but the sentiment is deeply familiar. He can't help but smile, listening.
Softly, "She sounds a marvel, sai, and your tale makes me wish I could."
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"But there come occasions in all men's lives when they must walk unseen roads, so I've put my back to the city and stepped between. And you, sir? If I may, what brought you out? 'Twas an old man's whimsy that compelled me hence, though I do well recall the passions of my youth when the world was waiting to be traversed."
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"No whimsy, though you might say I wandered the world some. A little ways, anyway, in the last few years. Nay, sai, I died, and found myself here on the way to the clearing."
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...and then, that last bit catches up with him. "--Sir, I--begging your pardon, but my ears do mishear much. Did you say you had passed, previously?"
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"By God's wounds," he murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief. "What strange authority is this, that unravels the great chain of being so?"
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He shrugs, spreading his hands. "None have spoken to him, sai, so far as I have heard. Or know aught of him but that he exists."
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But Alain is less pessimistic than some of his friends, and so he says nothing, and only returns the smile crookedly. "Mysterious, oh aye. There's much to occupy a philosopher here."
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