Araminta Station (3 page)

On the morning of Glawen’s birthday, the two had barely finished breakfast before Scharde was called away to Bureau B on special business. Glawen, with nothing better to do, lingered at the table, while the two Yip footmen who had served the breakfast now cleared away the dishes and set the room to rights. Glawen watched them, wondering what went on behind the half-smiling faces. The quick sidelong glances: what did they signify? Mockery and contempt? Simple placid curiosity? Or nothing whatever? Glawen could not decide, and Yip behavior gave no clue. It would be interesting, thought Glawen, to understand the quick sibilant Yip idiom.

Glawen finally rose from the table. He departed Clattuc House and wandered down to the lagoon: a series of brimming ponds fed by the River Wan, with trees along the shore both native and imported: black bamboo, weeping willow, poplar; purple-green verges.
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The morning was fresh and sunny; autumn was in the air; in a few weeks Glawen would be entering the lyceum.

Glawen came to the Clattuc boathouse: a rectangular structure with an arched roof of green and blue glass supported on pillars of black iron, built to outdo in elegance the other five boathouses.

The Clattucs of this particular time, save perhaps for Scharde and Glawen, were not keen yachtsmen. The boathouse sheltered only a pair of punts, a beamy little sloop twenty-five feet long and a fifty-foot ketch for more extended blue-water cruising.
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The boathouse was one of Glawen’s favorite resorts, where he could almost always find solitude, which today he wanted above all else so that he might compose himself for the ordeal of the House Supper and his birthday celebration.

Such affairs were little more than formalities, so Scharde had assured him. Glawen would not be required to deliver a speech or embarrass himself in any other manner. “You are merely going dine with your kin. For the most part they are a tiresome group, as you are well aware. After a moment or two they will ignore you, and become busy with their gossip and little intrigues.  At the end Fratano will declare you a provisional, and announce your SI, which I should guess to be a fairly safe 24, or at worst a 25, which is still not too bad, considering the creaking joints and gray hairs around the table.”

“And that is all?”

“More or less. If someone troubles to talk to you, answer politely, but otherwise you can dine in silence and no one will be the wiser.”

Glawen sat on a bench where he could look across the lagoon and watch the play of sunlight and shadow on the water. He told himself, “Perhaps it will not go so badly, after all. Still, I’d be relieved if my SI turned out to be a point or two lower than what I fear it will be.”

The scrape of footsteps. broke into his thoughts. A bulky shape appeared at the end of the dock. Glawen sighed. It was the person he least wanted to see: Arles, two year older than himself, taller by a head and heavier by fifty pounds. His face was large and flat, with a snub nose and a ripe heavy mouth. A smart cap with a stylish slantwise visor today confined his black curls.

At the age of eighteen and an SI of 16, by reason of his direct lineage through Spanchetta and Valart, her father, to Past Master Damian, who was father to the current Master, Fratano,
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only serious malfeasance or failure at the lyceum could cause Arles difficulties.

Coming into the cool dimness from the sunlight, Arles stood blinking. Glawen quickly picked up an abrasive block and, jumping aboard the sloop, busied himself at the taffrail. He crouched low; perhaps Arles would not see him.

Arles strolled slowly along the dock, hands in pockets, peering right and left. At last he took note of Glawen.  He stopped and stared, puzzled by Glawen’s activity.  He sauntered close.  “What are you up to?”

Glawen said evenly: “I am sanding the boat, to prepare it for varnish.”

“That’s what I thought you were doing,” said Arles coldly. “After all, my eyes are in very good condition.”

“Don’t just stand there; get busy. You’ll find another sanding block in the locker.”

Arles gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Are you serious? That’s work for the Yips!”

“Why haven’t they done it, then?”

Arles shrugged. “Complain to Namour; he’ll put them right. But don’t involve me; I have better things to do.”

Glawen continued to work, with a sober concentration that at last caused Arles exasperation.

“Sometimes, Glawen, I find you absolutely unpredictable. Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Glawen paused and gazed dreamily out over the water. “I can’t think of anything. Of course, if I’d forgotten it, that’s what one would expect.”

“Bah! More of your larky talk! Today is your birthday! You should be up in your chambers, making preparations - that is, if you want to cut any kind of a figure. Do you have white shoes? If not, you should get some in double-quick time! I tell you this out of kindness; no more.”

Glawen darted a side glance at Arles, then continued his work. “lf I came to supper barefoot, no one would notice.”

“Hah! That’s where you’re wrong! Never underestimate fine shoes! It’s the first thing the girls look for!”

“Hm . . . That’s something I didn’t know.”

“You’ll find that I’m right. Girls are clever little creatures; they can size up a fellow in no time at all! If your nose is dripping or your fly is open or if your shoes aren’t truly sporting, they’ll tell each other: ‘Don’t give that turnip-head the time of day!’”

“Those are valuable tips,” said Glawen. “I’ll keep them in mind!”

Arles frowned. One could never be sure how to take Glawen’s remarks; often they verged upon the caustic. At the moment Glawen seemed sober and respectful, which was as it should be. Reassured, Arles continued, even more grandly than before. “Perhaps I shouldn’t mention this, but I have taken the trouble to work out a manual of foolproof methods for getting along with the girls, if you know what I mean.” Arles gave Glawen a lewd wink. “It’s based on female psychology and it operates like magic, every time!”

“Amazing! How does it work?”

“The details are secret. In practice, one needs only to identify signals which instinct enforces on the little darlings, and then make the response recommended in my manual, and so forth.”

“Is this manual generally available?”

“Emphatically not! It’s top-secret, for the use of Bold Lions only.” The Bold Lions included six of the most raffish young scapegraces of Araminta station. “If the girls got hold of a copy, they’d know exactly what was going on.”

“They already know what’s going on; they don’t need your book.”

Arles blew out his cheeks. “That is often true, in which case the manual recommends strategies of surprise.”

Glawen rose to his feet.  “I guess I’ll have to work out my own methods – although I doubt if I’ll need them at the House Supper.  In the first place, there won’t be any girls on hand.”

“You’re joking! What of Fram and Pally?”

“They are too old for me.”

“But not for me! I take them as I find them, young or old! You should get involved with the Mummers! There are some real sizzlers in the troupe this year: Sessily Veder, for one.”

“I don’t have any talents along those lines.”

“There’s nothing to it! Master Floreste uses you to your best advantage; Kirdy Wook has no trace of talent; in fact, he’s a bit of a lummox. Goody-goody, so to speak. In
Evolution of the Gods
he and I are primordial beasts. In
First-Fire
I am a being of clay and water, and I get struck by lightning. I change costumes and once again Kirdy and I are hairy beasts groaning for enlightenment.  But the flame is stolen by Ling Diffin, who plays Prometheus. Sessily Veder is ‘Bird of Inspiration,’ and she inspired me to write my manual. Even that stick Kirdy drools to see her.”

Glawen turned back to the taffrail. Sessily Veder, whom he knew only from a distance, was a girl of charm and vitality. “Have you tried the manual on Sessily?”

“She hasn’t given me the opportunity. That’s the one flaw of my system.”

“A pity . . .  Well, I must get on with the sanding.”

Arles settled himself upon a bench to watch. After a moment he head: “I suppose that you find this a good way to relax your nerves.”

“Why should I be nervous? I’ve got to eat somewhere.”

Arles grinned. “You don’t improve matters lurking and glooming down here at the boathouse. Your SI is already calculated and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Glawen only laughed. “If there were, I’d be doing it.”

Arles’ grin faded. Was there nothing sharp enough to puncture Glawen’s self-possession? Even his mother, Spanchetta, had termed Glawen the most detestable child of her experience.

Arles spoke in an important voice: “Perhaps you’re wise! Enjoy your peace of mind while you can, because after today, you’ll be a provisional, with the five-year worries on your neck.”

Glawen gave Arles one of the sardonic side glances which Arles found so annoying. “And these worries trouble you?”

“Not me! I’m a 16. I can afford to relax.”

“So did your Aunt Smonny. How are your grades at the lyceum?”

Arles scowled. “Let’s just leave me out of the conversation, shall we? Anytime my grades need attention, I can easily take care of them.”

“If you say so.”

“I say very much so. As for the matter under discussion - and I don’t mean my grades - I know a great deal more than you might expect.” Arles gazed up toward the blue and green glass dome. “In fact - I shouldn’t tell you this - I’ve been privately notified of your SI. I’m sorry to say that it is not encouraging. I tell you only so that you won’t be taken by surprise at the supper.”

Glawen turned Arles another quick side glance. “No one knows my SI but Fratano, and he would not tell you.”

Arles gave a knowing laugh. “Mark my words! Your number is close to the 30s. I won’t tell you exactly, but shall we hint at somewhere between 29 and 31?”

At last Glawen’s composure was breached. “I don’t believe it!”

He jumped to the dock. “Where did you hear such nonsense? From your mother?”

Arles suddenly sensed that he had spoken far too loosely. He tried to bluster. “Are you suggesting that my mother talks nonsense?”

“Neither you nor your mother are supposed to know anything about my SI.”

“Why should we not? We can count and the lineage is a matter of record - or, more accurately, is not a matter of record.”

An odd remark, thought Glawen. “What do you mean by that?”

Arles saw that once again he had spoken indiscreetly. “Nothing much. Nothing, really, at all.”

“You seem oddly full of information.”

“The Bold Lions know everything that’s worth knowing. I’m familiar with scandals you can’t even imagine! For instance, what old lady tried to pull Vogel Laverty into bed last week, almost by sheer force?”

“l have no idea. How far did he let himself get pulled?”

“Not at all! He’s not even my age! Another situation: I could point out right now someone who will shortly have a baby and the father is very much in doubt.”

Glawen turned away. “I had nothing to do with it, if that is what you came to find out.”

Arles gave a hoot of laughter. “That is a fine joke! Quite the wittiest remark you have made today.” He rose to his feet. “Time is getting on. Instead of varnishing the boat, you should be up in your chambers, cleaning your fingernails and rehearsing your deportment.”

Glawen looked at Arles’ plump white hands. “My fingernails are cleaner than yours are right now.”

Arles scowled and thrust his hands in his pocket. “Conditions are different; keep that in mind! If I should speak to you, answer ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ That’s proper conduct. If you have doubts about your table manners, just watch me.”

“Thank you, but I will probably be able to muddle through the meal.”

“As you wish.” Arles turned on his heel and stalked from the dock.

Glawen stood looking after him, seething with irritation. Arles passed between the pair of heroic statues which flanked the entrance to the Clattuc formal garden, and was lost to view. Glawen pondered. Between 29 and 31? After five years as a provisional, his SI might have declined to 25.  That meant collateral status and out of Clattuc House: away from his father, away from all the niceties of life, away from the prestige and perquisites of full Agency!

Glawen looked off across the water. Just such a grim event had altered the lives of thousands before him, but the full tragedy of the situation had never touched him before.

And what of the girls, whose good opinion he valued? There was Erlin Offaw, already embarked on what promised to be a long career of breaking hearts, and Ticia Wook, blond, fragile, fragrant and graceful as a gillyflower, but, like all Wooks, remote and proud.
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Then there was Sessily Veder, who had been conspicuously amiable the last few times he had encountered her. If he were ranked with an SI of 30, his future was blasted and none of them would look twice at him again.

Glawen left the boathouse and followed Arles back up the slope to Clattuc House: a thin, somber dark-haired figure inconsequential in the scope of the landscape, though highly important to himself and to his father, Scharde.

Entering the house, Glawen went up to his chambers at the eastern end of the second-floor gallery. To his great relief, he found Scharde at home.

Scharde instantly sensed Glawen’s perturbation. “You’re getting the shakes early.”

Glawen said: “Arles told me that he knew my SI, that it was between 29 and 31.”

Scharde raised his eyebrows. “31? Even 29? How is that possible? You’d be out with the collaterals before you even started!”

“I know.”

“I’d pay no heed to Arles. He just hoped to put you in a turmoil, and he seems to have succeeded.”

“He says he heard it from Spanchetta! And he said something about my not having any lineage!”