Marune: Alastor 933 (15 page)

Singhalissa joined the conversation, speaking in a voice as dry as the rustle of dead leaves. “The Noble Lorcas with earnest conviction proposes a view which I fear we Rhunes regard as banal. As he knows, we never travel, except rarely to Port Mar. Even were we disposed to travel, I doubt if we would school ourselves in habits which we find not only vulgar but repellent. This is an informal gathering; I will venture upon an unpleasant topic. The ordinary citizen of the Cluster shows a lack of self-consciousness regarding his bowel which is typically animal. Without shame he displays his victual, salivates, wads it into his orifice, grinds it with his teeth, massages it with his tongue, impels the pulp along his intestinal tract. With only little more modesty he excretes the digested mess, occasionally making jokes as if he were proud of his alimentary facility. Naturally we obey the same biological compulsions, but we are more considerate of our fellows and perform these acts in privacy.” As she spoke Singhalissa never abandoned her mordant monotone.

Destian uttered a soft chuckle endorsing her views.

Lorcas however would not be daunted. He nodded sagely. “Everything depends upon the quality of one’s conventions. Agreed! But we must examine this so-called quality for its usefulness. Overcomplicated, over strict conventions limit a person’s life-options. They confine his mind and stunt his perceptions. Why, in the name of the Connatic’s pet owl, should we even consider a limit to the possibilities of this, our one and single life?”

“You will confuse us all if you talk in ultimates and eschatologies,” said Singhalissa with a cold smile. “They are not germane in any case. One may exemplify any point of view, no matter how absurd, by carefully citing an appropriate, or even an artificial, theory. The traveler and cosmopolitan whom you have chosen as your paladin above all else should realize the difference between abstractions and living human beings, between sociological concepts and durable communities. As I listen to you I hear only ingenuousness and didactic theory.”

Lorcas compressed his lips. “Perhaps because you are hearing views which contradict your emotions. But I stray from the mark. The durable communities you mention are beside the point. Societies are amazingly tolerant of abuse, even those burdened with dozens of obsolete or unnatural or even baneful conventions.”

Singhalissa allowed herself to show open amusement. “I suspect that you take an extreme position. Only children are intolerant of conventions. They are indispensable to an organized civilization, like discipline to an army, or foundations to a building, or landmarks to a traveler. Without conventions civilization is a handful of water. An army without discipline is a mob. A building without foundations is rubble. A traveler without landmarks is lost.”

Lorcas stated that he opposed not all convention, but only those which he found irksome and pointless.

Singhalissa refused to let him off so easily. “I suspect that you refer to the Rhunes, and here, as a stranger, you are particularly handicapped in your judgments. I find my way of life orderly and reasonable, which should certainly satisfy you. Unless, of course, you consider me undiscriminating and stupid?”

Lorcas saw that he had caught a Tartar. He shook his head. “By no means! Quite the contrary. Without hesitation I agree that, at the very least, your outlook upon life is different from mine.”

Singhalissa had already lost interest in the conversation. She turned to Efraim.

“With your permission, Force, I take my leave.”

“As you wish, Your Dignity.”

Singhalissa stalked from the room in a flutter of gray gauze, followed by Destian, stiff and erect, and then, Sthelany. Behind marched Efraim and Matho Lorcas, somewhat subdued. They found themselves on the arcade which connected the third level of Arjer Skyrd to the high parlors of the North Tower, then gave upon the upper balcony of the herbarium.

Descending the North Tower staircase, they were arrested by a sudden clanging of gongs, followed by a wild braying of horns in an agitated fanfare.

Singhalissa glanced back over her shoulder; her thin cheeks were compressed into an unmistakable smile.

1. The word sherdas, an inexact translation. Those attending a sherdas are seated around a table. From properly disposed orifices a succession of aromatic odors and perfumes is released. To praise the fumes too highly, or to inhale too deeply is considered low behavior and leaves the guilty person open to suspicions of gourmandizing.

2. An act of molestation or violence - a mirk-deed, so to speak - committed during the daylight hours, a depravity unimaginable among persons of dignity.

Efraim continued down the staircase to the frenzy of the fanfare produced by six men with convolved bronze sad-horns. Six horns, wondered Efraim? He himself, the returning Kaiark, had only been greeted with four! A slight which he had failed to notice.

The front portals had been flung ajar, and here stood Agnois, wearing a long white cloak crusted over with blue and silver embroidery and a complicated turban-like headdress: garments reserved for the most profoundly serious occasions. Efraim compressed his lips. What to do with the wretched Agnois, who had assisted him during the reception, but who had failed to warn him of whatever now was about to ensue?

The fanfare became a hysteria of yelling horns, to halt abruptly as a man, in splendid black garments, picked out with pink and silver stripes, strode through the portal. Behind him marched four eiodarks. All wore headgear of pink and black cloth, wound up on pronged fillets of silver.

Efraim halted a moment on the landing, then descended slowly. Agnois cried out: “His Majestic Force, the Kaiark Rianlle of Eccord!”

Rianlle halted, scrutinizing Efraim with pale hazel eyes under dark golden eyebrows. He stood stiffly erect, aware of the splendid spectacle he made: a man in, the fullest vigor of his life, not yet middle-aged, square-faced, with curling dark golden hair; a man of pride and passion, perhaps lacking in humor, but certainly not a person to be taken lightly.

Efraim stood waiting until Rianlle advanced another two steps. Efraim said: “Welcome to Benbuphar Strang. I am pleased, if surprised, to see you.”

“Thank you.” Rianlle turned abruptly away from Efraim and performed a formal bow. Down the stairs came Singhalissa, Destian, and Sthelany.

Efraim said: “You are of course well-acquainted with her Dignity the Wirwove, the Squire Destian, and the Lissolet Sthelany. This is the Noble Matho Lorcas, of Port Mar.”

Rianlle acknowledged the introduction by no more than a cold glance. Matho Lorcas bowed courteously. “At your service, Force.”

Efraim stepped aside and signaled to Agnois. “Conduct these noble gentlemen to appropriate chambers where they may refresh themselves, then come to the Grand Parlor.”

Agnois presently appeared in the Grand Parlor. “Yes, Your Force?”

“Why did you not notify me that Rianlle was to arrive?”

Agnois spoke in an injured voice: “I did not know myself, until Her Dignity upon leaving the salon ordered me to prepare a reception. I barely had time to accomplish the task.”

Efraim said, “I see. He wears his headgear in the castle; is this customary and polite?”

“It is formal usage, Force. The headdress signifies authority and autonomy. In a formal colloquy of equals both parties will dress similarly.”

“Bring me suitable garments and headgear, if any are available.”

Efraim dressed. “Conduct Rianlle here whenever he is so minded. If his retinue starts to come, explain that I prefer a private discussion with Rianlle.”

“As you wish, Force.” Agnois hesitated. “I might point out that Eccord is a powerful realm with victorious traditions. Rianlle is a vain man but not stupid.

He esteems himself and his prestige at an exalted level.”

“Thank you, Agnois. Bring in Rianlle; I will deal with him as carefully as possible.”

Half an hour later Agnois ushered Rianlle into the Parlor. Efraim rose to greet him. “Will you sit? Those chairs are quite comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Rianlle settled himself.

“Your visit is of course most welcome,” said Efraim “You will forgive me if I seem disorganized; I have hardly had time to collect my wits.”

“You returned at a most opportune moment,” observed Rianlle, his hazel eyes wide and luminous. “At least for yourself.”

Efraim sat back in his chair and inspected Rianlle a full five seconds. Then he said in a cool unaccented voice: “I did not time my return on this basis; I was unaware that Jochaim had been murdered until my arrival in Port Mar.”

“Allow me to offer my personal condolences and those of all Eccord upon this untimely death. Did you use the word murder?”

“The evidence indicates something of the sort.”

Rianlle nodded slowly and looked thoughtfully across the room. “I came both to express my sympathy and to consolidate the friendly relations between our realms.”

“You may take for granted my desire that they continue.”

“Excellent. I assume that you intend a smooth continuity between the policies of Jochaim and your own?”

Efraim began to sense a pressure behind Rianlle’s suave remarks. He said cautiously: “In many cases, no doubt this will be true. In others, the simple mutability of life and circumstance dictates changes.”

“A prudent and flexible point of view! Allow me to offer my commendation! In the relations between Eccord and Scharrode there will be no mutability; I would like to assure you that I intend to honor to the letter every commitment made by me to Jochaim; I would like to hear that the converse holds true.”

Efraim made an affable gesture. “Let us not talk high policy at this moment. I am not yet in command of all the facts and anything I could now say would be tentative. But since our two realms are so closely knit in amity, what benefits one benefits the other, and you may be assured that I intend to do my best for Scharrode.”

Rianlle glanced sharply at Efraim, then stared toward the ceiling. “Agreed; large matters may wait. There is one rather inconsequential issue which we can easily resolve now, without prejudice to your program. I refer to that trifle of territory along Whispering Ridge where I wish to build a pavilion for our mutual enjoyment. Jochaim was on the point of signing the parcel over to me when he met his death.”

“I wonder if there was any connection between the two events,” mused Efraim.

“Of course not! How could there be?”

“My imagination is overactive. In regard to Whispering Ridge I must admit an aversion toward yielding so much as a square inch of our sacred Scharrode soil; still, I will study the matter.”

“Not satisfactory!” Rianlle’s voice had taken on an edge, and sang like a vibrating wire. “I am thwarted in my wishes!”

“Is anyone ever continually and completely gratified? Let us talk no more of the subject. Perhaps I can induce the Lissolet to contrive a series of stimulating atmospheres …”

At the great twenty-sided table in the Formal Reception Chamber, Rianlle sat stiff and glum. Sthelany formulated a series of fumes, somehow suggesting a walk over the hills - soil and sunlit vegetation, water and wet rocks, the perfume of anthion and wood violet, mold, rotten wood, and camphor. She worked without Singhalissa’s deftness, rather seeming to amuse herself among the vials as a child might play with colored chalks. Sthelany’s fingers began to move faster; she bad become interested in her contrivances as a musician suddenly perceives meanings in his music which he is forced to explicate. Gone was the hillside, away the forest; the vapors were at first gay, tart, and light; gradually they lost character, only to become sweetly melancholic, like heliotrope in a forgotten garden. And this odor in turn became pervaded with a bitter exudation, then a salt pungency, then a final despairing black reek. Sthelany looked up with a twisted smile and closed the drawers.

Rianlle uttered an ejaculation: “You have performed with enormous artistry; you have shaken us all with cataclysmic visions!”

Efraim looked around the table. Destian sat toying with a silver bracelet; Singhalissa sat stiff and staring; the eiodarks of Eccord muttered together.

Lorcas stared in wonder toward Sthelany. Efraim thought: he is totally fascinated, but he had better make his emotion less overt, or he will be accused of sebalism.

Rianlle turned to Efraim. “When you said murder, you used an inglorious word to describe the death of the honored Jochaim. How then will you deal with that dog Gosso?”

Efraim held his face immobile against a surge of annoyance. He had used the word murder perhaps indiscreetly; but need Rianlle blurt out the details of what Efraim had considered a confidential conversation? He felt the sudden interest of both Singhalissa and Destian.

“I have made no precise plans. I plan to end the war with Gorgetto on one basis or another; it is useless and it bleeds us white.”

“If I understand you correctly, you intend to prosecute only useful wars?”

“If wars there must be, I intend to fight for only tangible and necessary goals.

I do not regard war as entertainment and I shall not hesitate to use unusual tactics.”

Rianlle’s smile was almost openly contemptuous.

“Scharrode is a small realm. Realistically, you are at the mercy of your neighbors, no matter how peculiar your campaigns.”

“Your opinions of course carry great weight,” said Efraim.

Rianlle went on in a measured voice. “I recall some previous discussion of a trisme, that the fortunes of Scharrode and Eccord might be joined. The subject at this moment is perhaps premature in view of the chaotic circumstances here in Scharrode.”

From the corner of his eye Efraim noted a shifting of positions around the table, as tense muscles demanded relief. He met the dark gaze of Sthelany; her face seemed as pensive as ever, and - could it be true? - somehow wistful.

Rianlle once more was speaking, and everyone about the table fixed their gaze upon that unnaturally handsome face. “Nevertheless, all will no doubt sort itself out. Accommodation between our two realms must be achieved. An imbalance now exists, and I refer to the unfulfilled contract in regard to Dwan Jar, the Whispering Ridge. If a trisme will facilitate the hoped-for equilibrium, then I must give the matter serious consideration.”