Night Lamp (38 page)

Twee Pidy tilted her head and scrutinized Maihac through narrowed eyes. “I recall you, well enough. It was a long time ago, and here you are again. What do you want now of poor Yamb?”

“We will tell him when we see him.”

Twee flapped her arms against her hips. “Well, if you must, you must.” Twee stood back from the door, to admit the visitors. She took them down a hall, meanwhile speaking over her shoulder: “He has been taking jinjiver tea to help his ague, but it only seems to make his eyes water; he has become very languid, and can no longer exert himself at toil of any description.”

They were shown into Yamb’s bedroom. Yamb lay flat on his back, staring toward the ceiling through red-rimmed eyes. The room was dark and heavy with frowst.

Maihac introduced the group. Yamb peered from face to face. He spoke querulously: “I am far from well, so what do you want?”

“Nothing much,” said Maihac. “Consider this a social call. I have not seen you for twelve years.”

“ ‘Twelve years’?” Yamb raised his head to stare in moony puzzlement. “Now I remember! You are the man who was lost on Fader and thought dead! Your name is—let me think—Tawn Maihac.”

“Correct. Asrubal sold me to the Loklor but I escaped. So what do you know of Asrubal?”

Yamb slumped back upon his bed. “You are speaking of a basilisk; do not mention his name, even though he is now back on Fader. Twelve years ago I did rash deeds; by a quirk of fate I escaped detection. When I think of what might have happened, chills chase along my body like scurrying mice with cold feet. Ah! What days those were, to be sure!” Yamb spoke on, in a dreary monotone. “Twelve years ago—it seems an aeon! Dame Waldop ruled the office with her mighty bosom and fearful haunches. But even Dame Waldop could not resist Asrubal’s fury, and was sent away in disgrace. I fared better, and came into my own at last. At the first opportunity I called myself ‘Managing Director’ and sat at the counter where old Pounter stands today. My moment in the sun was short. I tried to open up the Fader trade to Primrose, so that we could sell goods directly to Romarth bypassing the Lorquin Agency, but Asrubal turned ugly. To make a long story short, I was beaten, threatened and discharged from my post. So passed my proudest moment: the culmination of my career, so to speak.” Yamb gave a soft groan. “It is truly the stuff of tragedy; do you not agree?”

Twee was becoming ever more restive. She called out: “You are tiring poor Yamb and taking up my valuable time! Already we have exceeded the reasonable demands of hospitality—unless, of course, you are planning compensation?”

“Nonsense,” declared Maihac. “We are doing you a favor talking over old times. If anything, you should be preparing a feast of celebration.”

Yamb uttered a choked guffaw. “At least you have brought me a gasp or two of amusement, which is all too rare in my life.” Yamb gave a hacking cough. “Ah, my poor throat—dry as rusk! Woman, have we no tipsic to drink? Is not life to be lived as a glorious adventure, with tipsic to be shared among friends? Or must we whimper and tiptoe around all the good things, proud only of our frugal austerity? We cannot drink tipsic once we are dead! Bring out the bottle, woman! Pour with a loose wrist and an eager hand! This is a great day!”

Twee, tight-lipped, poured out tots of a yellow-green liquor, which tasted of aromatic pollen and left a tingle on the tongue.

Yamb smacked his lips. “That is the real stuff! I find that four tots of this spirit excites what I will call the ‘romantic genius by which a gentleman converts dull ideas of the moment into paradisiacal illusions.’ The episodes are sweet because they are so fragile. A jar, a jolt and dismal reality returns, nor will four more tots of tipsic repair the misfortune.”

Twee interposed a bored admonition: “Come, come, Yamb; these folk are not all agog to hear your dithyrambs. If you have something to say, speak to the point, like a man of good sense!”

Yamb gave a hollow groan and fell back on his pillow.

“No doubt, my dear, but what you are right! Still, in a world better than this one, I would be served both ramp and pot-cheese with my gruel and show a fine leg as I danced.”

“You are a complete visionary,” muttered Twee. “Why are you not happy with what you have? There are many dead people who would gladly change places with you.”

Yamb seemed to muse. “For a fact, it gives one to wonder as to the pros and cons.”

Twee grumbled. “Put the idea out of your mind; it’s hard enough taking care of you in your present condition.”

Maihac rose to his feet. “A last question: Do you expect Asrubal back at Loorie soon?”

Yamb said fretfully: “I know nothing of his plans. At the moment he resides on Fader; no doubt, when he sees fit, he will return.”

The
Pharsang
departed Loorie Spaceport and set off on a course which took it out and away, toward the brink of nothingness. Yellow Rose slid past off the port beam, dwindled to a saffron spark, and vanished. Fringe stars appeared, moved astern, and presently no longer could be seen. Far ahead the luminous smudges of other galaxies showed against the black.

Time passed. The
Pharsang
drifted outward through open space. A far point of light indicated a lonely lost star: Night Lamp.

Aboard the
Pharsang
the tranquil routines began to alter, as Night Lamp became the focus of attention. In due course Night Lamp took on rotundity, and revealed itself to be a yellow-white dwarf of middle size with an entourage of four planets. The first two were small lumps of seared crags and molten lava. The fourth and most remote was a dismal waste of black basalt and frozen gases. Third in the sequence was Fader, a world of wind, water, forest and steppe accompanied by a pair of moderately large moons.

The
Pharsang
approached and the horizons of Fader expanded below. The physiography was simple. On one side of the world a single continent sprawled across the north temperate zone; the rest of the world, except for polar icecaps, was submerged under a single all-inclusive ocean.

The
Pharsang
circled the planet and descended into the atmosphere. It dropped through a high scurf of alto-cirrus and finally drifted across the landscape at an altitude of five miles. Maihac studied the terrain, using a map to orient himself With rueful fascination he watched the tawny landscape slide below. “We are over the Tangtsang Steppe,” he told the others. “I see places I had hoped never to see again. Look over yonder!” He pointed. “See that huddle of sheds? That is Flad, the spaceport. Gaing, what do you make out?”

Gaing, turned the macroscope upon Flad. “There is a ship on the field—the
Liliom
, I believe.”

“What are they up to?”

“The after bay is open. They’ve just started to discharge cargo.”

“Hm,” said Maihac. “I hope Asrubal is not planning a trip off-world. I would not like to lose him now.”

“No one works too hard at Flad,” said Gaing. “The ship should be in port another two or three days, maybe longer.”

“That ought to be time enough, or so I hope,” said Maihac. “Still, we’ll take precautions.”

“We can always put a hole in the
Liliom
’s forward sponson,” Gaing suggested. “That will keep the mechanics busy a week or two.”

“It may come to that—if Asrubal is mysteriously missing from Romarth. Most likely it won’t be necessary.”

The
Pharsang
turned aside, and followed the road which led from Flad across the steppe to the barge terminus on the Skein River, then continued to the southeast across Blandy Deep Forest.

Toward the end of the afternoon Romarth appeared below.

The
Pharsang
hovered invisibly at an altitude of three miles. Maihac identified what he remembered of the city’s landmarks. “The irregular area with the six fountains, where the boulevards converge is the Gamboye Plaza. The two colonnaded buildings just over the bridge are the Justiciary and the chambers of law. The structure to the side is the Colloquary, where the councillors sit. That squat brown building with the three green glass domes is the Foundance—one of the oldest structures of Romarth. It is a mysterious place where the Seishanee are brought into being and raised in a crèche until they are transferred to training camps along the river. It is considered poor taste to talk about the Foundance.”

“How so?” asked Jaro. “What goes on at the Foundance?”

“I don’t know. Jamiel was like everyone else; she never discussed the place.”

“Peculiar.”

Maihac grinned in sardonic recollection. “Among so much that was peculiar, I barely gave it a thought. By this time I was anxious to leave Romarth.”

Skirl looked down through the observation window. “It’s a city out of fairyland. What else is down there?”

“Hundreds of palaces. Some are in use; others have been abandoned to time and the white houseghouls. The city reeks with history. Notice the wide boulevard beside the river; that’s the Esplanade, where the cavaliers and their ladies go for their promenades. To the side are small cafés; everyone has his favorite, where he stops to take refreshment and watch his friends stroll by. An hour before sunset they all return home, to change into formal clothes for the evening’s social occasions.”

Skirl asked in wonder: “And no one works?”

“Only the Seishanee.”

Skirl compressed her lips in disapproval. “It seems a vapid way of life. Have they no ambition? Perhaps they strive to join their best clubs?”

“Nothing like that. They are concerned only for ‘rashudo.’ ”

“And what is that?”

Maihac reflected. “Only a Roum could explain. I think that if you mixed vanity, truculence, egotism, reckless disdain for danger, obsession with honor and reputation, the result might be close to ‘rashudo.’ The Roum observe an elegant etiquette, which you will constantly be violating. But no matter; it can’t be helped. From the Roum point of view, we are barely civilized. It is useless to become irritated; it only serves to amuse them.”

Skirl gave a sour laugh. “I can control myself. But already I don’t think I like this beautiful city.”

“Nor do I. When our business is done I hope to leave with great speed and never return.”

Night Lamp set in a flare of melancholy colors. Dusk fell over the landscape. One of the moons climbed the sky followed by the other, where they glowed soft and silken like pearls in milk.

After some thought, Maihac seated himself at the saloon table and composed a short letter, using the stiff characters of Roum calligraphy:

To Ardrian of Ramy at his palace Carleone:

Sir:

I regret that I must cause you distress, but it cannot be helped. I am Tawn Maihac; almost twenty years ago I took your daughter Jamiel in marriage. Six years later she was murdered, at Point Extase on the world Camberwell.

The murderer is known to me. He is a Roum of Romarth.

I have learned his identity only recently but I am here now to avenge this deed, by one means or another.

With me is Jaro, who is Jamiel’s surviving son. We wish to speak with you at once, privately, at which time we will deliver certain documents of importance. You will find us waiting near your front entrance.

Tawn Maihac

Jaro and Maihac changed into garments similar to the informal costume of the Roum cavalier. They equipped themselves with appropriate gear, then climbed aboard the flitter, and descended upon Romarth. They landed in the garden of the palace Carleone, where Jamiel had once lived, then sent the flitter aloft by remote control, to hover inconspicuously three hundred feet above the garden.

Maihac went to the front door while Jaro waited in the shadows for a moment, then wandered across the terrace to a marble balustrade. The garden, in the light of the two moons, spread away to a wall of tall trees. As Jaro stood by the balustrade, an eery dreamlike mood came over him: a feeling from his childhood, when he had sometimes glimpsed this garden in half-waking moments. Then it had affected him with a wistful melancholy, suffused with sad-sweet overtones, like the fragrance of heliotrope.

Jaro stood leaning on the balustrade, collecting his thoughts. The mystery of the lost garden was now resolved. Another mystery remained: the woeful groans, which had persisted until the FWG Associates’ Dr. Fiorio had choked them off. Jaro listened, wondering if echoes of the voice might still reverberate at the back of his brain. He heard only the whisper of wind in the foliage.

Maihac’s voice broke into his musing. He turned away from the garden and crossed the terrace. At the door Maihac stood with a gray-haired man of spare physique, with a square face and resolute features. His posture was stiff and his manner formal, as if Maihac were someone he was not happy to see.

Maihac spoke to Jaro: “This is your grandfather, Ardrian of Ramy House.”

Jaro bowed politely. “I am happy to meet you, sir.”

Ardrian returned a curt nod. “Yes; it is an occasion, to be sure.” He turned back to Maihac. “Your appearance here is not a welcome surprise; it stirs memories far better left quiet.”

“That is beside the point,” said Maihac. “My message must have informed you of our purposes.”

Ardrian made a skeptical sound. “The message, to say the least, was hyperbolic.”

Maihac grinned. “I know the man who murdered your daughter and your grandchild Garlet. I thought it proper to notify you before approaching the Justiciar. If you prefer, we will disturb you no longer.”

Ardrian said gruffly, “You are welcome at my house. Please enter, and I will listen to you with full attention.” He stood back. Maihac and Jaro entered an octagonal atrium. Jaro looked about the room in awe. This was magnificence transcending anything of his experience. A high vaulted ceiling was supported by eight attenuated caryatids, which separated the circumference of the room into eight bays. Two of the bays, to right and left, opened into corridors. Another bay embraced the front door; the bay opposite opened into a parlor. The four remaining bays were paneled and painted in moth-wing colors to represent archaic landscapes. Jaro thought that the scenes so depicted had been inspired by folklore, or even memories of Old Earth.

Ardrian ushered his guests into the parlor, which Jaro found as impressive in proportion, richness of material, delicacy of color and detail, as the atrium and far more comfortable on a human scale. At the far end of the room four Seishanee arranged flowers in a large blue ewer, evidently creating a centerpiece for the table. They darted sly sidelong glances at Jaro, and Maihac, their half-smiles suggesting—what? Jaro could not decide. Secret mischief? Serenity? Innocent happiness? As they worked, they murmured together; Jaro wondered what they were saying. They were fascinating to look at, he thought: clean, deft, their features small and regular, their pale hair cut short in a fringe around their heads. To the side stood another Seishanee, wearing splendid green and gray livery. Jaro thought that he must be a Seishanee of advanced years, so different was he from the others. His torso was plump, his legs thin and bird-like, his head heavy, with a high dome of a forehead, a long thin nose hooking over a small heavy mouth and a nubbin of a chin. His manner, unlike that of the other Seishanee, was sedate and a trifle pompous.

Jaro seated himself beside Maihac. Ardrian asked, “May I offer you refreshment?”

“Not just yet,” said Maihac. “We have a great deal to tell you. So that we need not repeat ourselves, I suggest that you call the Justiciar and ask him to come here, privately and alone, as soon as possible.”

Ardrian smiled grimly. “For a fact, I am taken aback. You appear out of the night in a state of tremulous excitement and insist that I share your emergency. The logic of this evades me.”

Maihac said patiently, “The reason for haste is not only logical; it is practical. If the murderer learns that I am here he might try to escape.”

“Remote and unlikely,” declared Ardrian. “First of all, who is this purported murderer?”

“You know him well. His name is Asrubal of Urd.”

Ardrian raised his eyebrows high. “I know Asrubal of Urd; he is a grandee of high place. Your charge is serious.”

“Of course.”

Ardrian reflected a moment, then said heavily, “It is not for me to judge.” He took a telephone disk from the sideboard. “I will do as you wish.” He spoke into the disk, listened, spoke again, then put the disk aside. “Justiciar Morlock will arrive shortly. He lives close at hand; we will not have long to wait.”

For a time there was silence, broken by the hushed voices of the Seishanee. Ardrian studied his visitors without cordiality, then said, “You have brought me bad news, but I am not surprised. When you took Jamiel off-world, I knew that she would come to a tragic end.”

Maihac responded flatly, “You were her father; you loved her as much as I did and you have a right to bitter feelings—but they should be focused not upon me but upon her murderer. He was not an off-worlder; he was a Roum of Romarth.”

After a moment Ardrian asked, “Do you intend to describe the circumstances of her death?”

“Certainly. She was killed while I was a captive of the Loklor. It has taken me thirteen years to discover where she had been killed and who had killed her. The only witness was Jaro. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—his memory is incomplete.” Maihac placed a parcel wrapped in brown paper on the table. “This is the parcel to which I referred. There is a letter inside, addressed to Jaro and written just before Jamiel died. When you read it, you will agree that justice must be done.”

Ardrian’s face became fractionally less severe. He seemed to give a small internal shrug and, rising to his feet, he went to the sideboard, where, after deliberation, he brought out a number of bottles, flasks and earthenware pots. He called over his shoulder to the portly Seishanee in the green and gray livery. “Fancho! Bring us a few trifles of this and that, if you please.”

With stately tread, Fancho left the room. “That is my new major-domo,” Ardrian told his guests. “You would not remember him. He is quite efficient, though a bit pompous. I often wonder what goes on in his mind.” He returned to his bottles and with intense concentration poured fluids into a green glass carafe.

Pausing in his work, he inquired of Maihac, “Do you recall the art of mixing from your previous visit?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Maihac. “Still, I remember that you were considered a master of the craft.”

Ardrian showed a faint smile and continued with his mixing. “It is a minor art, to be sure, but one with a surprising range. The potion must accord with the mood of the company, which is sometimes a delicate judgment. But one does what one can.” He finished his mixing and returned to his seat. Fancho, the grichkin major-domo wheeled up a service cart laden with oddments of pastry, skewers of toasted meat, pickled fish, crusts in pots of white sauce and pots of black sauce, honey-bulbs and the like. Fancho placed the cart where it was convenient to everyone, then went to the sideboard, poured liquid from the green glass carafe into goblets and served them with a flourish to Maihac, Jaro and Ardrian. “Well done, Fancho,” said Ardrian. “Every day you become more expert.”