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She made to finish her drink, but the glass was already dry.
A little later she returned to the party.
'Your grandfather was a truly great man, my lady. The great are always seen as
a threat by the lesser; they can't help it. It's not just jealousy, though
there was much of that in your grandfather's case. It is an instinctive
reaction;
they know (without knowing that they know) that there is something awesome in
their midst, and they must make
way for it. That is cause for resentment; an ignoble and small-minded emotion,
like jealousy, and just as endemic.
Your grandfather was brought down by a great mass of small people, dear lady.
They were worms; he was a raptor.
He had the vision to look out of our furrow, and the courage to do what had to
be done, but the worms fear change;
they think worm thoughts, ever burrowing and recycling, never raising their
heads from the loam. You know, your grandfather could have lived the life of a
great duke; he could have maintained the worth of the house and made it
gradually greater still, he could have encouraged science, the arts, built
great buildings, endowed foundations, become a World Counsellor, helped
control the Court; and no doubt have enjoyed what personal happiness was ever
to be his. Instead he gambled it all; the way the truly great must if they are
not to lie on their deathbed and know that they have wasted their talents,
that the life they have lived has been one many a lesser man could have lived.
We call what transpired failure, but I tell you it cannot fail to inspire
those of us who keep his memory. He lives on, in our hearts, and he will
receive the respect he deserves one day, when the world and the system have
changed to become a temple fit for his memory to be venerated within.'
Sharrow stood before the giant portrait of her grandfather in a private room
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of the overhang house. Bencil Dornay had offered to show her his personal
shrine while a group of mime artists were performing in the reception room.
Gorko was depicted in the painting as a giant of a man with a huge, carved
face and great bristling whiskers; his body looked exaggeratedly muscled under
a tight riding tunic and the bandamyion mount beside him looked out of scale.
Something like fire shone from Gorko's staring eyes. The portrait was at one
end of the narrow room, draped in plush hangings. Apart from the painting, the
room was empty.
`Hmm,' Sharrow said. 'Fate preserve us from greatness.'
Dornay shook his head. `Dear lady, don't let the mean-of-spirit infect you: He
glanced at the tall portrait.
'Greatness is his legacy, and our hope.'
'Do we really need greatness, Mister Dornay?' she asked him. He turned slowly
and walked towards the doors at the far end of the room, and she followed him.
'We must need it, my lady. It is all that leads us onward. With it we may
dream. Without it, we merely subsist.'
'But so often,' she said, 'the people we call great seem to lead us to
destruction.'
'Their own, indeed,' Dornay said, opening the doors and ushering her into a
small hallway. 'And those around them, I dare say. But destruction can be a
positive act, too; the clearing out of rot, the excising of diseased tissue,
the brushing away of the old to make room for the new. We are all so loath to
offend, to cause any pain. The great have the vision to see beyond such
pettiness; do we curse the doctor for some small pain when it saves us a
greater one?
Does any worthwhile adult blame his parents for the occasional slap as a
child?'
They descended by elevator to the party. 'Your rhetorical questions disarm
me,' Sharrow told him.
'You were to ask me something, I believe, good lady,' Dornay said, as they
walked into the dimly lit rear of the hall. In the centre, a complicated
formal dance was in progress; people walked and skipped in knots that tied and
untied across the floor. Sharrow thought the band looked bored.
'Yes,' she said. She stopped and looked at him. His eyes twinkled and he
blinked rapidly. There was nobody nearby. She took a breath. 'My grandfather
left some information with your father; he passed it on to you.'
Dornay looked uncertain. 'To me?' he asked.
`By blood-fealty,' she said.
He was silent for a few moments. Then his eyes widened. He took a deep breath.
'In me!' he gasped. 'In me, dear lady!' His eyes stared into hers. 'How? What
do I-? But, dear lady; this is a privilege! A singular honour! Tell me; tell
me what I have to do!'
She looked down for a second, wondering how to put it. All the lines she'd
rehearsed for this moment sounded wrong.
Then Dornay made a gulping noise. 'Of course! Dear lady. . '
She looked up to see him biting his lower lip. Blood welled. He drew a white
handkerchief from his robe, offered it to her. 'If you will, my lady,' he
nodded delicately, looking at her lips.
She understood, and put the handkerchief in her mouth, wetting the end. When
the end of the handkerchief was heavy with her saliva, she handed it back to
him. He put it quickly to the cut. She wanted to look away, but found herself
gritting her teeth instead. Dornay sucked on the handkerchief for a while,
then dabbed at his lip with it until the blood stopped flowing.
'Whatever I have to tell, I shall tell only you, dear lady,' he told her. He
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