The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars - Hardcover

Brust, Steven

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0441084109 ISBN 13: 9780441084104

Publisher: Ace Hardcover, 1987

Synopsis

Once upon a time there was a kingdom that lived in darkness, for the sun, the moon and the stars were hidden in a box, and that box was hidden in a sow's belly, and that sow was hidden in a troll's cave, and that cave was hidden at the end of the world.

Once upon a time there was a studio of artists who feared they were doomed to obscurity, for though they worked and they worked, no one was interested in the paintings that stood in racks along their studio walls.

The Sun, the Moon, & the Stars is a tale of two quests, of two young men who are reaching for the moon. And the sun. And the stars.

About this title

About the Author

Born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and raised in a family of Hungarian labor organizers, Steven Brust worked as a musician and a computer programmer before coming to prominence as a writer in 1983 with Jhereg, the first of his novels about Vlad Taltos, a human professional assassin in a world dominated by long-lived, magically-empowered human-like "Dragaerans."

Over the next several years, several more "Taltos" novels followed, interspersed with other work, including To Reign in Hell, a fantasy re-working of Milton's war in Heaven; The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars, a contemporary fantasy based on Hungarian folktales; and a science fiction novel, Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille. The most recent "Taltos" novels are Dragon and Issola. In 1991, with The Phoenix Guards, Brust began another series, set a thousand years earlier than the Taltos books; its sequels are Five Hundred Years After and the three volumes of "The Viscount of Adrilankha": The Paths of the Dead, The Lord of Castle Black, and Sethra Lavode.

While writing, Brust has continued to work as a musician, playing drums for the legendary band Cats Laughing and recording an album of his own work, A Rose for Iconoclastes. He lives in Las Vegas, Nevada where he pursues an ongoing interest in stochastics.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter
ONE
 
1. THE LAMENTATION
 
 
YOU WANT TO KNOW what good is? I'll tell you what good is.
My freshman year at the University my roommate was a guy named Phil. In addition to the room, we shared a couple of art classes and a weakness for Girodet. We were in one of the newer dorms, all shiny and tiny and boring and beige. One time when we were bitching about how cramped it was, he got a funny look in his eyes. I hardly saw him for the next week. Then, when I came in one evening, I almost choked on the apple I was eating. I stood there, half in and half out of the room, trying to simultaneously stare at what Phil had done while gasping and coughing around the piece of apple. I'm sure it was quite comical, but I was too busy to notice whether Phil was laughing at me.
He'd done this painting, you see. An oil. The edges of it exactly matched the edges of the far wall of the room, right down to half the smudge where Phil's girlfriend had thrown a beer at me (that's another story). The painting covered over the window, and you'd swear there was another room there. It was perfect. The doorway was a dark hardwood, with knots in it here and there, and textbooks were off to one side in their own bookcase; he'd given me a huge wooden desk, while I could see half of a glass desk for Phil, and there were these big speakers, and I could see the label on the SONY amplifier.
It was when I found myself grimacing with annoyance at the color of the carpet on Phil's side of the room and being glad it wasn't under my chair that it really hit me.
Do you have any idea of what must have gone into that? It isn't just the perfection of the illusion; he also had to know me well enough to create a room that was mine and his--that is, that reflected both of our personalities, as well as the sorts of compromises we'd reach if we'd had another room and enough money to furnish it. He had my half just a bit messier than his, and in just the right ways--including scattered albums of some people I'm sure I hadn't told him I liked.
The thing was up for the rest of the year, and I never got tired of looking at it. It was scary that he knew me that well, but that didn't hit me until later.
Right then I gave him the kind of reaction he must have wanted--oohing and ahhing and pointing out details. I'm sure he was satisfied, and I didn't have to fake my reaction at all. I hung around a little longer, then I went off into the corner room of the dorm where the floor's refrigerator lived, and I locked the door, and I cried, because I knew I'd never be able to do something like that.
That's what good is.
I ran into Phil a couple of years ago. He's now doing billboards--excuse me--Outdoor Advertising.
What can you say?
* * *
2. The Annunciation
* * *
It's too much to hope for that everything I paint will be better than what I did before, but I can try. I used to think that once I'd mastered composition, and perspective, and form, I could forget about them and just think about art. I don't think so anymore.
Maybe some people can do that, but for me, it's like karate: the more I learn, the more I have to concentrate on simple technique. For instance, Sensei yelled at me the other day about hip rotation. Hip rotation, for God's sake. I should have mastered that when I was sixth kyu, and now I'm getting ready to test for shodan and I have to work on my bleeding hips.
Maybe it's a basic flaw in my personality, but it's just the same with painting. The more I try to accomplish, the more I have to work on the basics. Is it like that for everyone? I doubt it. I should probably study some art history; it might make me feel better. But do you have any idea how boring art history is? Karen is the expert of the five of us, and, well, I have to admit her painting doesn't impress me as much as, say, Dan's. But that isn't fair; Dan is a genius.
I used to wish I was a genius. I guess maybe I still do. But then, that old cliché about challenging yourself is true; there's a certain satisfaction that comes from pushing your limits. Of course, sometimes you fall flat on your face. But you have to try, don't you?
* * *
3. The Marriage of St. Francis to Poverty
* * *
Robert came bounding into the studio wearing biker leathers and studs and an honest-to-god French beret. He's short and anemic looking, with big, hollow brown eyes and dark hair that he has restyled about every half hour. Right then it was fairly long and pushed back behind the beret.
I said, "Where'dya find that, Unca Bobby?"
He nodded a laidback hello and said, "Rag stock. Would you believe two dollars?"
"Yeah? They have any more?"
He shook his head. "How was training?"
"Great," I lied. "You should join. Then you can be really tough."
"Yeah. Like you. I will, one of these days. Let's grab everyone and do some dancing tonight." He chacha'd in place to emphasize the point.
I gave an exaggerated look around the place. The studio is long, with two huge windows flanking the door, both of which are presently covered by thick black drapes. At the opposite end is a balcony, or really a deck, about eight feet above the floor, reached by an iron stairway. Robert's area is back and to the left as you face it, Dan has the front right. Dan works with his back to the rest of us, so whatever he's working on is usually the second thing you notice when you walk in, even before the wall decorations hit your eye. The first thing you'll respond to though, is the ceiling, even if you aren't aware of it. It's high, with exposed rafters below a steep roof. When you walk in the door, your eye automatically travels up to it, lifting you, raising your spirits. We're all agreed that that was what sold us on the place, although none of us were aware of it at the time. The walls are our joint project; even Dan gets wild when he works on them. They're full of garish blues and yellows and swaths of red two feet thick, in a style Karen calls, "Post-Urban Subway."
Anyway, I gave a look around the studio and said, "Everyone doesn't seem to be around, Unca Bobby."
"So call 'em, bozo."
"No, I want to get some work done."
"You? Work?"
"You can shut up now."
"Yes, sir." He looked around my area. "You ever going to clean up this dump, or what?"
"Eat raw fish and die, white boy."
"Guess not, huh? So what's cooking?"
Actually I hadn't decided, except that I was ready to start on something. Just for the hell of it, I said, "I'm thinking about hauling out the big one."
He turned serious. "Are you really? The Monster?"
I nodded, wondering if I was actually going to. A year before then, I'd made my first (and, to date, only) sale of more than a hundred bucks, and to celebrate I'd bought and sized this six by nine canvas, like they used in art school and nobody ever wants to buy. Dan had just given me a lecture about painting bigger, and when he saw it, he nodded and went back to working on another masterpiece that wouldn't sell. The Monster had been sitting in the back room since then.
Robert whistled, then said, "Arnold says the rent is due." He was referring to the fifth member of our little band, David, who goes through occasional stretches of body building. (Get it? Body building? Stretches? Never mind.) Robert calls him Arnold Schwarzenegger when he isn't around.
I ignored the comment about the rent because it would just frustrate me. I truly loathe and despise money and all things associated with it, and I will continue to do so until I'm making enough so I don't have to worry about it.
He decided not to let it die. "We need to come up with some cash, chum."
I said, "Yeah."
"Will your old lady--?"
"Don't call her that."
He isn't as much of an asshole as this makes him sound; he just knows how to make me mad, and does it whenever he thinks I'm tuning him out. One of these days I'm probably going to belt him for it. I've been sponging off Deb for two years, now, and I've never felt good about it, and Robert knows that. He's really not a bad guy; I don't know why he does things like that to me. Maybe if I hit him just once…
"All right, Debbie, then. Is she going to be able to--?"
"We're trying to come up with our own rent, Robert. We'll try to kick in what we can."
"You know, if we all got a big house together--"
"I know. I've heard it before. We'd kill each other inside of a month."
"How do you know that? It doesn't make sense for each of us to pay our own rent, and have to pay again for the studio."
I didn't answer, hoping to shut him up. It worked, this time. He leaned back against the wall near the door and watched me. I sighed to myself and went into the back room to get the Monster. I might as well set it up. Hell, I might as well try to paint something on it, though I had no idea what.
When I got back, Robert was staring at David's latest project, an oil portrait of the waitress at Bill and Toni's. I set the Monster down and said, "I like it. He had the whole background sketched in at first, remember?"
"Yeah. I like it this way, with the choppy effect instead, and nothing behind her."
I nodded. "Like she's formed from the color. It's nice."
I was pleased that he agreed, since I was the one who suggested to David that he lose the restaurant background and just concentrate on the figure.
Robert returned to my area and helped me argue with a pair of easels until they agreed to hold The Monster. I'd need to set the canvas on the floor to do the top third or my arm would fall off, but I could start this way.
"What's the project?" asked Robert, damn his eyes.
"I'm going back to the classics."
"The classics?"
"Yeah. Something Greek. You know, Zeus raping Athena, or whoever it was."
"Are you serious?"
"No."
"Good."
I stopped and looked at him, but decided not to pursue it.
He said, "So what are you going to do?"
I pulled on a few switches to turn some of the spotlights on, then moved the stepladder over and played them until they were right. I didn't burn myself too badly. Experience, son. I went for a kind of...

About this edition

• Publisher: Ace Hardcover
• Publication date: 1987
• ISBN 10: 0441084109
• ISBN 13: 9780441084104
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 210