Marune: Alastor 933 (14 page)

Gosso’s voice became profoundly deep. “Why, then, have you called?”

“I find the circumstances of Kaiark Jochaim’s death peculiar. In the melée of mirk-men and Scharde troops, he commanded from the rear. Did he turn his back to the flight? Unlikely. So then, who among your mirk-men killed the Scharde Kaiark?”

“No one has asserted such a triumph,” rambled Gosso. “I made careful inquiry, to no avail.”

“A provocative situation.”

“From your point of view, indeed.” Gosso’s eyelids relaxed slightly; he moved back into his chair. “Where were you during the raid?”

“I was far away - at Numenes and the Connatic’s Palace. I have learned many new things, and one of them is this the raids and onslaughts between Gorgetto and Scharrode amount to mutual catastrophe. I propose a truce.”

Gosso’s ropy mouth drew back to display his teeth, not a grin, so Efraim presently realized, but a grimace of reflection.

“What you say is true enough,” said Gosso at last. “There are few old men either in Gorgetto or Scharrode. Still, everyone must die sooner or later, and if the warriors of Gorgetto are denied the raiding of Scharrode, how will I keep them occupied?”

“I have troubles of my own. No doubt you can find a way.”

Gosso cocked his head to the side. “My warriors may protest such an insipid existence. The raids drain their energies, and life is easier for me.”

Efraim said shortly: “You can notify those who question your authority that I am resolved to end the raids. I can offer honorable peace; or I can assemble all my forces and totally destroy Gorgetto. As I study the Pandects I see that this is within my capabilities, if at the cost of many lives. Most of these many lives will be Gorget, inasmuch as we command the heights with our sails. It appears to me that the first choice makes the fewest demands upon everybody.”

Gosso gave a sardonic caw of laughter: “So it might appear. But never forget we have rejoiced in the slaughter of Schardes for a thousand years. In Gorgetto a boy does not become a man until he kills his Scharde. Still, you seem to be serious and I will consider the matter.”

The Salon of Sherdas and Private Receptions occupied the third level of the squat Arjer Skyrd Tower. Instead of the modestly proportioned chamber Efraim had expected, he found a hall seventy feet long and forty feet wide, with a floor of black and white marble blocks. Six tall windows admitted floods of that curious olive-green light characteristic of umber passing into green rowan. Marble pilasters broke the wall into a series of bays, color-washed a pale russet. In each stood a massive urn three feet tall carved from black brown porphyry: the product of a cogence. The urns contained white sand and plumes of dry grass, without odor. A table ten feet wide and twenty feet long supported four etiquette screens. At each side of the table a chair had been placed.

Agnois hurried forward. “Your Force has arrived a trifle early; our arrangements, I fear to say, are incomplete.”

“I came early intentionally.” Efraim inspected the chamber, them the table. He asked in a soft voice: “The Kaiark Jochaim frequented this salon?”

“Indeed, Force, when the company was not numerous.”

“Which place was reserved for him?”

“Yonder, Force, is the Kaiark’s place.” Agnois indicated the far side of the table.

Efraim, now accustomed to the unconscious signals which indicated Agnois’ moods, eyed him attentively. “That is the chair used by Kaiark Jochaim? It is precisely like the others; they are identical.”

Agnois hesitated. “These are the chairs ordered out by the Noble Singhalissa.”

Efraim controlled his voice with an effort. “Did I not instruct you to disregard Singhalissa’s orders?”

“I recall something of the sort, Force,” said Agnois lamely, “but I tend to obey her by reflex, especially in small matters such as this.”

“Do you consider this a small matter?”

Agnois grimaced and licked his lips. “I had not analyzed it along such lines.”

“But the chair is not that chair customarily used by the Kaiark?”

“No, Your Force.”

“In fact, it is a chair quite unsuitable to the dignity of a Kaiark - especially under the present conditions.”

“I suppose that I must agree with you, Force.”

“So again, Agnois, you have at worst conspired, at best cooperated, with Singhalissa in her attempts to make me a buffoon and so diminish my authority.”

Agnois uttered a cry of anguish. “By no means, Force! I acted in all innocence!”

“Set the table to rights, instantly!”

Agnois turned a side-look toward Lorcas. “Shall I seat five, Your Force?”

“Leave it at four.”

The offending chair was removed; another more massive, inlaid with carnelians and turquoises, was brought in. “Notice, Force,” said Agnois effusively, “the small mesh here by your ear, by which the Kaiark can receive messages and advice.”

“Very good,” said Efraim. “I will expect you to stand in concealment and advise me as to etiquette and custom.”

“With pleasure, Your Force!”

Efraim seated himself and placed Lorcas at the end of the table to his right.

Lorcas said reflectively: “These tricks are really rather petty - not what one might expect of Singhalissa.”

“I don’t know what to expect from Singhalissa. I imagine that her aim is to demonstrate me a fool as well as an amnesiac, so that the eiodarks will eject me in favor of Destian.”

“You’d do well to pack her off.”

“I suppose so. Still -“

Singhalissa, Sthelany, and Destian entered the chamber. Efraim and Lorcas politely rose to their feet. Singhalissa came a few steps forward, then halted, regarding the two remaining chairs with pinched nostrils. She then spared a quick glance for the stately chair which Efraim occupied. “I am somewhat baffled,” she said. “I envisioned an informal discussion, in which all opinions might most expeditiously be aired.”

Efraim replied in an even voice: “I could not conceive a conference on a basis other than propriety. But I am surprised to see the Squire Destian; from the arrangements I understood that only you and the Noble Sthelany planned to attend our conference. Agnois, be so good as to arrange another place there, to the left of Her Dignity the Wirwove. Sthelany, be so good as to seat yourself in this chair to my left.”

Smiling a faint vague smile, Sthelany took her seat. Singhalissa and Destian stood aside with dour faces as Agnois rearranged the table. Efraim watched Sthelany surreptitiously, as always wandering what went on in her brain. At this moment she seemed indolent, careless, and totally introverted.

Singhalissa and Destian at last were seated; Efraim and Lorcas gravely returned to their own places. Singhalissa made a small movement, but Lorcas gave a peremptory rap on the table with his knuckles, causing Singhalissa and Destian to look at him questioningly. Sthelany was studying Efraim with an interest almost embarrassingly intent.

Efraim spoke. “The present circumstances are strained, and certain of you have been forced to accept an attenuation of prospects. In reference to the events of the last six months, I remind you that I have been the chief victim. Excepting, of course, the Kaiark Jochaim, who was robbed of his life. Nevertheless, the inconveniences I personally have suffered have made me callous of lesser complaints, and it is on this basis that we hold our discussion.”

Sthelany’s smile became even more vague; Destian’s sneer was almost audible.

Singhalissa gripped the arms of her chair with long fingers, so tightly that bones shone luminous through the skin. Singhalissa replied: “Needless to say, we all must adapt to changing circumstances; it is sheer futility to do otherwise.

I have conferred long and earnestly with the Noble Destian and the Lissolet Sthelany; we all are perplexed by your misfortunes. You have been a victim of unconventional violence
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, which I understand is not uncommon at Port Mar.”

Singhalissa’s flick of a glance toward Lorcas was almost too swift to be sensed.

“You were doubtless waylaid by some off-worlder, for reasons beyond my comprehension.”

Efraim grimly shook his head. “This theory commands low probability, especially in view of certain other facts. I was almost certainly beset by a Rhune enemy, for whom our standards of decency have lost all meaning.”

Singhalissa’s high sweet voice became a trifle strident. “We cannot evaluate undisclosed facts, but in any event your enemy is unknown to us. I only wonder if, after all, there has not been a mistake.”

For the first time Lorcas spoke. “To clarify matters once and for all, are you giving His Force to understand that in the first place, none of you have knowledge of the event at Port Mar, and secondly, that none of you have received information regarding this event, and thirdly, that none of you can guess who might be responsible?”

No one answered. Efraim said gently: “The Noble Matho Lorcas is my friend and counselor; his question is a fair one. What of you, Squire Destian?”

Destian responded in a surly baritone: “I know nothing.”

“Lissolet Sthelany?”

“I know nothing of anything.”

“Your Dignity the Wirwove?”

“The affair is incomprehensible.”

Through the mesh at the back of Efraim’s chair sounded Agnois’ hoarse whisper.

“It would be politic to ask Singhalissa if she might care to refresh herself and the company with a medley of vapors.”

Efraim said: “I naturally accept your explicit assurances. If anyone chances to recall some forgotten fact which may be relevant, I will be grateful to hear it.

Perhaps we should now entreat Her Dignity to refresh us with vapors.”

Singhalissa leaned stiffly forward and drew out a panel in front of her, displaying knobs, toggles, bulbs and other mechanisms, then drawers to right and left containing hundreds of small vials. Her long fingers worked with intricacy and deftness, vials were lifted; drops of liquid poured into a silver orifice were followed by powders and a gout of seething green liquor. Then she pushed a button and a pump blew the fumes along tubes under the table and up behind the etiquette screens. Meanwhile, with her left hand, Singhalissa was altering her first vapor so that it might modulate into a second which she was busy preparing with her right hand.

The fumes followed each other like musical tones, and ended, as with a coda, upon an artfully bitter nose-wrenching whiff.

Agnois’ whisper sounded in Efraim’s ear. “Call for more; this is etiquette!”

Efraim said: “Your Dignity has only stimulated our expectations; why must you stop now?”

“I am flattered that you honor my efforts,” But Singhalissa sat back from the vials.

After a pause Destian spoke, a saturnine half-smile trembling on his lips. “I am curious to learn as to how you intend to punish Gosso arid his jackals.”

“I will take counsel upon the matter.”

Singhalissa, as if impelled by an irresistible creative urge, once more bent over the vials; again she poured and vapors issued from behind the etiquette screens. In Efraim’s ear sounded Agnois’ husky whisper: “She is discharging raw essences at random, concocting a set of stinks. She understands your distrait condition and hopes to draw forth fulsome compliments.”

Efraim leaned back from the etiquette screen. He glanced at Destian who could scarcely control his merriment. Sthelany sat with a wry expression. Efraim said: “Her Dignity the Wirwove suddenly seems to have lost her sure instincts. Some of these vapors are absolutely amazing, even for the entertainment of a group as informal as this. Perhaps Her Dignity attempts a set of new combinations imported from Port Mar?”

Singhalissa wordlessly desisted from her manipulations. Efraim sat erect in his chair. “The subject we had not yet touched upon was my order to move Your Dignity to Minot Tower. In view of the chairs and the fumes, I will not reconsider my decision. There has been altogether too much interference and meddling. I hope that we have seen the last of it, inasmuch as I would not care to inconvenience Your Dignity to an even greater extent.”

“Your Force is most considerate,” said Singhalissa, without so much as a quiver in her voice.

Through the tall windows the light had changed, as umber fully gave way to green rowan, with Cirse barely grazing the horizons.

Sthelany said; “Mirk approaches; dark hideous mirk when the gharks and hoos come forth and all the world is dead.”

Lorcas asked in a cheerful voice: “What is a ghark and what is a hoo?”

“Evil beings.”

“In human form?”

“I know nothing of such things,” said Sthelany. “I take refuge behind a door triple-bolted and strong iron shutters at my window. You must ask elsewhere for your information.”

Matho Lorcas gave his head a shake of whimsical wonder. “I have traveled far and wide,” he said, “and never cease to be amazed by the diversities of Alastor Cluster.”

The Lissolet Sthelany half-yawned, then spoke in easy voice: “Does the Noble Lorcas include the Rhunes among those peoples who excite his amazement?”

Lorcas grinned and leaned forward. Here was the milieu he loved: conversation!

Supple sentences, with first and second meanings and overtones beyond, outrageous challenges with cleverly planned slip-points, rebuttals of elegant brevity; deceptions and guiles, patient explanations of the obvious, fleeting allusions to the unthinkable. As a preliminary, the conversationalist must gauge the mood, the intelligence, and the verbal facility of the company. To this end a few words of pedantic exposition often proved invaluable. “By an axiom of cultural anthropology, the more isolated a community, the more idiosyncratic become its customs and conventions. This of course is not necessarily disadvantageous.

“On the other hand, consider a person such as myself: a rootless wanderer, a cosmopolitan. Such a person tends to flexibility; he adapts himself to his surroundings without qualms or misgivings. His baggage of conventions is simple and natural, the lowest common denominator of his experience. He evinces a kind of universal culture which will serve him almost anywhere across Alastor Cluster, throughout the Gaean Reach. I make no virtue of this flexibility, except to suggest that it is more comfortable to travel with than a set of conventions, which, if jostled, work emotional strains upon those who espouse them.”