Marune: Alastor 933 (16 page)

Efraim laughed and shook his head. “Trisme is a responsibility I do not care to assume at the moment, especially since Your Force displays such clear misgivings. Indeed, your perceptions are remarkable; you have correctly defined the situation here. Scharrode is a welter of mysteries which must be resolved before we can move onward.”

Rianlle rose to his feet, as did his retinue of eiodarks. “Scharrode hospitality is as always correct, and induces us to prolong our visit, but we must take our leave. I trust that Your Force will make a realistic assessment of past, present, and putative future and act to the best interests of us all.”

Efraim and Lorcas went out to the parapets of Deistary Tower and watched as Rianlle and his retinue climbed into the rented
1
aircar, which a moment later lifted high and flew north.

Lorcas had retired to his refectory to take a furtive meal; then he planned to sleep. Efraim remained on the parapets looking off over the valley, which in the light of half-aud presented so entrancing a vista that his heart missed a beat.

From this land the substance of his body had been drawn; it was his own, to nurture and love and rule, for all foreseeable time; yet how useless! how forlorn! Scharrode was lost to him; he had broken the crust of tradition. Never again could he be a Rhune, nor could the damage be mended. He would never be a whole man in Scharrode, nor elsewhere; never would he be content.

He studied the landscape with the intensity of a man about to go blind. Light slanting down across Alode the Cliff illuminated a hundred forests; the irradiated foliage seemed to glow with internal light: bitter lime, intense gray-blue given pointillist fire by scarlet seedpods, dark umber, black-blue, black-green. Surrounding stood the great peaks, each named and known in ancient fable: aloof Shanajra bearded with snow, who, resenting the mockery of the Bird Crags, turned his face to the south to stand forever brooding; the Two Hags Kamr and Dimw, rancorous above Danquil, enchanted and sleeping under a blanket of murre trees; there, Whispering Ridge, coveted by Rianlle, where the Fwai-chi walked to their sacred places among the Lenglin Mountains. His land forever, his land never; and what was he to do? In all the realm was but a single man he could trust, the Port Mar vagabond Matho Lorcas. Gosso might or might not interpret his offer as an admission of weakness. Rianlle’s not too subtle threats might or might not be intended seriously. Singhalissa might yet intrigue with sufficient finesse to cause him woe. Efraim decided that he must, without further delay, call together the Scharde eiodarks, to assist him with his decisions.

The landscape dimmed, as Osmo dropped behind Alode the Cliff. Furad hung low in the sky over Shanajra.

A slow step sounded on the marble flags; turning, Efraim saw Sthelany. She hesitated, then came to join him. Together they leaned on the parapets. From the corner of his eye Efraim studied Sthelany’s face. What transpired behind that clear pale brow; what prompted the half-wistful half-mocking twist of the lips?

“Mirk is near,” said Sthelany. She glanced toward Efraim. “Your Force no doubt has thoroughly reconnoitered the passages which lead here and there about the castle?”

“Only in order to protect myself from the surveillance of your mother.”

Sthelany shook her head smilingly. “Is she really interested in your activities?”

“Some female of the household has demonstrated that interest. Could it be you?”

“I have never set foot in a mirk-way.”

Efraim took note of the equivocation. “To answer your question precisely, I have indeed explored the mirk-ways, and I am arranging that they be interrupted by heavy iron doors.”

“Then it would seem that Your Force does not intend to exercise the prerogatives of rank?”

Efraim arched his eyebrows at the question. He responded in what he hoped to be dignified tones: “I certainly do not intend to violate the persons of anyone against their will. Additionally, as I’m sure you know, the passage to your chambers is blocked by masonry.”

“Indeed! Then I am reassured once and once again! It has been my habit during mirk to sleep behind triply locked doors, but Your Force’s assurances make such precautions unnecessary.”

Efraim wondered: did she flaunt? Did she entice? Did she tease? He said: “I might change my mind. I have adopted certain off-planet attitudes and they prompt me to confess that I find you fascinating.”

“Psssh! These are matters we must not discuss.” Sthelany, however, showed no sign of outrage.

“And what of the three bolts?”

Sthelany laughed. “I cannot imagine Your Force engaging in such an outrageous and undignified escapade; the bolts are evidently unnecessary.”

Even as they spoke Furad, slipping low to the horizon, dipped half-under, and the sky went dim. Sthelany, her mouth half-open in an expression of child-like wonder, exclaimed: “Is mirk upon us? I feel a strange emotion.”

Her emotion, thought Efraim, seemed real enough. Color had come to her cheeks, her bosom heaved, her eyes glowed with dark light. Furad sank even lower, all but leaving the smoky orange sky. Was mirk upon them indeed? Sthelany gasped and seemed to sway toward Efraim; he sensed her fragrance but almost as he reached to touch her hand, she pointed. “Furad floats once more; mirk is averted, and all things live!”

With no more words Sthelany moved away across the terrace. She paused to touch a white flower growing in a pot, turned a fleeting glance back over her shoulder, and then she moved on.

Efraim presently went into the castle and descended to his office. In the corridor he came upon Destian, apparently bound for the same destination.

Destian however gave a frigid nod and turned aside. Efraim closed the door, telephoned the rental agency at Port Mar and ordered out an aircar, requesting a pilot other than the redoubtable Flaussig. He left the office, hesitated, turned back, locked the door and took away the key.

1. The Rhune Realms are allowed no aircars because of their aggressive proclivities. When a Rhune wishes to make a journey he must call into Port Mar and hire a suitable vehicle for the occasion.

Efraim and Matho Lorcas climbed into the aircar and were earned high above the valley of the Esch River: up, up, until they hovered on a level with the surrounding peaks. Efraim called off their names: “Horsuke, Gleide Cliff, the Tassenberg; Alode the Cliff, Haujefolge, Scarlume and Devil Dragon, Bryn the Hero; Kamr, Dimw, and Danquil; Shanajra, the Bird Crags, Gossil the Traitor - notice the avalanches - Camanche, and there: Whispering Ridge. Driver: take us yonder to Whispering Ridge.”

The peaks shifted across other farther, peaks of other farther realms. Under the cloud-piercing claw of Camanche, Whispering Ridge came into full view - an upland meadow rather than a true ridge, to the south overlooking Scharrode and the valley of the Esch, to the north the multiple valleys of Eccord. The aircar landed; Efraim and Lorcas jumped out into ankle-deep grass.

The air was calm. Trees grew in copses; Whispering Ridge was like an island in the sky, a place of total peace. Efraim held up his hand. “Listen!”

From an indeterminate source came a low whisper, fluctuating musically, sometimes sighing into silence, sometimes almost singing.

“Wind?” Lorcas looked at the trees. “The leaves are still. The air is still.”

“Strange in itself. Up here one would expect a wind.”

They moved across the sward. In the shade of the forest Efraim noticed a group of Fwai-chi watching them impassively. Lorcas and Efraim halted. “There they stand,” said Lorcas, “walking their ‘Path through Life,’ all shags and tatters, typical pilgrims in any language.”

They continued across the meadow and looked over Eccord. Belrod Strang was lost among the folds of the forested hills. “The view is superb,” said Lorcas. “Do you intend to deal generously with Rianlle?”

“No. The fact remains that he could send a thousand men up tomorrow to clear the site, and another thousand to start building his pavilion, and I could do very little to stop him.”

“Peculiar,” said Lorcas. “Peculiar indeed.”

“How so?”

“This place is magnificent - superb, in fact. I’d like a pavilion here myself.

But I have been studying the maps. The realms are thick with places like this. In Eccord alone there must be twenty sites as beautiful. Rianlle is capricious to insist on this particular spot.”

“Odd, I agree.”

They turned back across the meadow, to find four Fwai-chi awaiting them.

As Efraim and Lorcas approached they drew a few steps back, hissing and rumbling among themselves.

The two men halted. Efraim said: “You appear disturbed. We are bothering you?”

One spoke in a guttural version of Gaean: “We walk the Life Road. It is a serious work. We do not wish to watch men. Why do you come here?”

“For no particular purpose: to look about a bit.”

“I see you plan no harm. This is our place, reserved to us by a very old treaty with the kaiarks. Do you not know? I see you do not know.”

Efraim gave a bitter laugh. “I know nothing - of the treaty or anything else. A Fwai drug took my memory. Is there an antidote?”

“There is no antidote. The poison breaks the roads to the memory tablets. These roads will never mend. Still, you must remind your Kaiark -“

“I am the Kaiark.”

“Then you must know the treaty is real.”

“The treaty won’t mean much if the land is transferred to Eccord.”

“That may not be done. We repeated to each other the word ‘forever.’”

“I would like to see this treaty myself,” said Efraim. “I will carefully check my records.”

“The treaty is not among your records,” said the Fwai-chi, and the group shuffled back to the forest. Efraim and Lorcas stood looking after them.

“Now what did he mean by that?” demanded Efraim in wonder.

“He seems to feel that you won’t find the treaty.”

“We’ll soon find out,” said Efraim.

They continued across the meadow toward the aircar.

Lorcas paused and looked up toward Camanche. “I can explain the whisper. The wind pushes up over Camanche, and around. It splits and swirls and passes the meadow by. We hear innumerable small frictions: the sound of air against air.”

“You may be right. Still I prefer other explanations.”

“Such as?”

“The footsteps of a million dead pilgrims; cloud fairies; Camanche reckoning up the seconds.”

“More convincing, I agree. Where to now?”

“Your idea of twenty equivalent sites in Eccord is interesting. I would like to look upon these sites.”

They flew north, through the peaks, domes, and ridges of Eccord; and within an hour discovered a dozen high meadows with prospects at least as appealing as those of Whispering Ridge. “Rianlle is most arbitrary,” said Lorcas. “The question is, why?”

“I cannot even speculate.”

“Suppose he gains the meadow and proceeds with his plans. Then what of the Fwai-chi?”

“I doubt if Rianlle would enjoy Fwai-chi pilgrims trooping through his pavilion, resting on his terraces. But how could he stop them? They are protected by the Connatic.”

The aircar spiraled down into Scharrode and landed at Benbuphar Strang. As the two. alighted, Efraim said: “Would you not like to return to Port Mar? I value your companionship, but there is nothing to amuse you here; I foresee only unpleasantness.”

“The temptation to leave is strong,” Lorcas admitted. “The food here is abominable, and I don’t like to eat in a closet. Singhalissa oppresses me with her cleverness. Destian is insufferable. As for Sthelany - ah, the magic Sthelany! I hope to persuade her to Port Mar for a visit. This may seem an impossible task but every journey begins with a single step.”

“So then, you plan to stay at Benbuphar Strang?”

“With your permission, still a week or two.”

Efraim dismissed the aircar; the two returned to the castle. “You have exercised your charm upon her?”

Lorcas nodded. “She is curiously ambiguous. To say that she blows first hot then cold is inaccurate; she blows first cold, then colder. But she could easily order me to keep my distance.”

“Has she mentioned the horrors of mirk?”

“She assures me that she bolts her doors with three bars, clamps her windows, keeps vials of offensive odors at the ready, and generally is unavailable.”

They halted and looked up at the balcony behind which were Sthelany’s rooms.

“A pity the mirk-way is blocked,” mused Lorcas. “When all else fails one can always pounce on a girl through the dark. Still she’s hinted rather pointedly that I’m not to come around. In fact, after I tried to kiss her in the Garden of Bitter Odors she told me quite bluntly to keep my distance.”

“Why not try Singhalissa? Or has she also warned you off?”

“What a thought! I suggest that we take a quiet bottle of wine together and search the archives for the Fwai-chi treaty.”

The Index to the Archives mentioned no treaty with the Fwai-chi. Efraim summoned Agnois, who denied all knowledge of the document. “Such an understanding, Your Force, would hardly be expressed as a formal treaty in any case.”

“Perhaps not. Why does Rianlle want Whispering Ridge?”

Agnois raised his eyes to a point above Efraim’s head. “I sippose that he intends to build there a summer pavilion, Force.”

“Surely Rianlle treated with the Kaiark Jochaim on this matter?”

“I cannot say, Your Force.”

“Who maintains the archives?”

“The Kaiark himself, with such help as he requires.”

At Efraim’s nod, Agnois departed.

“So now, no treaty,” said Efraim glumly. “Nothing whatever to show Rianlle!”

“The Fwai-chi declared as much.”

“How could they know? Our archives are nothing to them!”

“The treaty probably was an oral understanding; they knew that no document existed.”

In frustration Efraim jumped to his feet. “I must take counsel; the situation has become intolerable.” Once again he summoned Agnois.

“Your Force requires?”

“Send messages to the eiodarks; I wish them to meet me here in twenty hours. The occasion is urgent; I will expect everyone.”