Night Lamp (41 page)

Two days later Ardrian announced that a formal banquet was in prospect at Ramy Palace, residence of Kasselbrock, Patriarch of the Ramy Sept. Kasselbrock’s invitation had included not only Ardrian and his kin, but also his three off-world guests.

“You may or may not enjoy the evening,” Ardrian told them. “There will be ceremonies which you will not understand and formal conduct is a necessity. If you choose to participate, the servants will dress you in proper costumes, and I will ask my nephew Alonso to instruct you, at least to some small degree, in the elements of formal etiquette. Everything considered, I think you will profit by the experience, and you will be forgiven any small gaffes.”

“It sounds delightful,” said Skirl. “I am not concerned for my manners; my father, a Clam Muffin like myself, was something of a martinet. At an early age I learned gentility in all its phases. What is good enough for Sassoon Ayry is good enough for Ramy Palace.”

Ardrian smiled grimly. “I see that my concern lacks basis, at least in your case. Tawn Maihac has learned from his previous experience, but Jaro is an unknown quantity.”

“I will watch Skirl closely,” said Jaro. “She will advise me if my conduct verges into the coarse and brutal. Still, I suspect that both Skirl and I will profit from any refinements your nephew sees fit to suggest.”

Ardrian nodded. “So it shall be.”

During the morning Jaro and Skirl wandered down the Esplanade, past the Gamboye Plaza. Ahead of them the brown Foundance huddled over the water, showing a high row of small windows and three flat domes of green glass. Jaro and Skirl approached. They halted, to gaze in something like awe at the ugly bulk of the structure. From the Esplanade a ramp led to a squat archway opening through the heavy walls. Within a wide hall could be glimpsed a partition, half glass, half concrete, at the left-hand side. For a time the two stood looking at the building. Jaro pointed to the ramp. “The way is open; do you want to look inside?”

Skirl hesitated. “I think not. I might see something I don’t care to see. Also, I’m told that it smells bad.”

“I’m not all that curious,” said Jaro. “All across the Gaean Reach are things I don’t care to know. This may well be first on the list.”

Skirl said, “After some research you could write a book entitled: ‘Things I Wish I Didn’t Know,’ or perhaps, ‘Sights I Wish I Had Never Seen.’ ”

“Hmf.” Jaro reflected. “I’d rather write a book called ‘Things I like about Skirlet Hutsenreiter.’ ”

Skirl took hold of his arm. “How can I ever be vexed with you when you say nice things like that?”

Jaro grinned down at her. “I thought you regarded me as perfect.”

“Close—but not quite.”

“So where am I deficient?”

“You don’t always obey me. And you want to wander around the Reach forever.”

“And you don’t?”

“Believe it or not; I’m sometimes homesick for Thanet.”

Jaro laughed. “Sometimes I am too, when I think of Merriehew, but not seriously.”

“Would you ever want to live there again?”

Jaro considered. “I don’t think so. I’d be very restless.”

“I could get you into the Clam Muffins,” said Skirl thoughtfully.

“That would be nice. But both Sassoon Ayry and Merriehew are gone. Meanwhile, we have the
Pharsang
for a home, and there’s the whole Reach to explore.”

“True,” said Skirl. And musingly: “Worlds without number.”

Jaro turned her a glance of puzzled speculation, but made no comment. The two returned along the Esplanade, across Gamboye Plaza and back to Carleone Palace.

The time was mid-afternoon. Jaro and Skirl retired to their apartments, and with the help of Seishanee servants prepared for the banquet.

Ardrian escorted the three off-worlders to the Ramy Palace early, and for an hour ushered them through the magnificent halls and chambers, which were alive with light, color and the stir of human presence, where the corresponding places at abandoned Somar, no less magnificent, were drab and dull. Seishanee moved quietly through the shadows: slight supple creatures with pale skins and taffy-blond hair fringing their foreheads. A pair of pages stood flanking the base of the grand staircase. They appeared to be female, wore the uniforms of ancient guardsmen, and stood stiff and rigid, their hair caught up into peaks above their heads like candle flames. Each gripped the haft of a slender lance fifteen feet tall. They stood without so much as the twitch of an eyelid while the group passed in front of them.

Jaro noticed a low arch at the back of the stairs. It opened upon a flight of stone steps descending into the dark. In response to his question, Ardrian said, “There are crypts below all the palaces. They are used for storage and the aging of wine. Below are more sinister places as well: dungeons, if you like, now for the most part blocked off against the houseghouls. They date back to what we call the Bad Times, when for a hundred years the houses made sly secret war upon enemy houses. It was a terrible era, of hate and revenge, of gruesome plots and awful deeds, of murder in the gardens, of kidnap and imprisonment forever in one of the deep dungeons. Some of the septs were destroyed to the last man, and only the abandoned palaces remain. Do not bring the subject into your conversation; it is considered bad form. In fact, I suggest that you volunteer no opinions, unless so required. If questions are put to you, answer as briefly and mildly as possible. I think that you will understand the logic behind this program.”

The three off-worlders were introduced to their host, who seated them at the foot of the oblong table. Sixteen other guests took their places and Seishanee footmen served the first courses.

The banquet proceeded. Jaro and Skirl modeled their conduct upon that of other guests and apparently committed no egregious blunders. As Ardrian had recommended, they spoke little, drank sparingly and held both arms and elbows demurely close to their bodies. They found the cuisine palatable, if flavored with unfamiliar condiments. The company comprised gentlemen and ladies, of obvious respectability and rashudo. Skirl and Jaro encountered impersonal courtesy, but little cordiality. Halfway through the banquet, a plum-cheeked gentleman with a ruff of white hair and a small white goatee, having consumed considerable wine, addressed Skirl in a rather waggish manner, “You are enjoying the banquet?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Good! Enjoy yourself while you have the opportunity. A banquet such as this must be unique to your experience.”

“To some extent,” said Skirl. “The palace is magnificent. My own home, Sassoon Ayry, is not nearly so grand, but not by the choice of my father, who lost all our money through foolish speculation. Grandeur like that of Ramy Palace is impossible without money, since workers must be paid high wages and slavery is illegal everywhere across the Gaean Reach.”

“Aha!” said the gentleman. “You miss the point! The Seishanee are not slaves; they are, simply, Seishanee. Our way is much the better way.”

Skirl agreed that the gentleman undoubtedly knew best. She ate a crystallized flower petal, and the banquet proceeded.

The next morning Ardrian reported that the Adjudicators, responding to pressure from Urd House, would sit during the afternoon. The Urd grandees felt that Asrubal was suffering inconvenience by reason of irresponsible accusations and desired that all restrictions upon his freedom be lifted at once.

The Adjudicators convened as before, in the Grand Hall of the palace Varcial, which was scarcely less sumptuous than Ramy Palace. As before, Asrubal was brought out by the Regulators and conducted to the massive chair beside the wall. As before, Asrubal sat stiff and still, his bone-white face blank of expression. From time to time he fixed his round black eyes upon Jaro, to cause a curious squirming sensation in Jaro’s viscera. If he closed his eyes the frightening old images appeared.

The Panel, after muttered interchanges, began its deliberations. Asrubal’s counsel, Barwang of Urd, addressed the Panel: “Honorable sirs, I request that my kinsman Asrubal be discharged at once from this absurd situation. What we are seeing is an outlandish farce, hanging upon purported wrongs done to an off-world huckster. And how does he support these claims? By proudly calling upon his son, who has admittedly suffered brain damage. All of us have noticed his blinking and sniffing and his vacuous expression. He is obviously neither reliable nor alert. This trial cannot be taken seriously. Asrubal is guilty of nothing whatever; still he is excoriated for nonexistent crimes! I ask you, is this the justice of Romarth?”

The Magister held up his hand. “To what crimes do you refer? Asrubal has been charged with misconduct of several categories.”

“For a start,” said Barwang, “I will deal with the charges of the first category.” He read from a sheet of paper. “They include swindling, fraud, larceny, peculation, treachery, inveiglement, collusion and betrayal of trust.” Barwang rapped the paper with the back of his hand. “All bunkum, of course. Even if true, the charges should be dismissed, so that we might expeditiously resume our ordinary pursuits.”

After a glance toward Jaro, Barwang continued. “The allegations are based upon nearly illegible records kept slapdash by—”

“One moment,” said Morlock, Tawn Maihac’s counsel. “The ledgers are totally readable. They were meticulously maintained by a painfully honest clerk.”

Barwang bowed politely. “That, sir is a matter of opinion. The clerk is a well-known mooncalf, lacking the acumen which distinguishes Asrubal and which has guided his expert financial policies.”

“So stipulated,” said Morlock, “it goes to explain why Asrubal commands vast wealth and Yamb lives in poverty.”

“Irrelevant, in all respects,” said Barwang. “Asrubal has better things to do than to haggle over every tin of pickled fish. That is work for the pettifoggers, a term which will never be applied to my intrepid kinsman!” He turned to Asrubal. “Am I right, sir?”

“You are right!”

Morlock asked, “And is that your defense? The fact that Asrubal is not a pettifogger?”

“Of course not!” declared Barwang. “I was merely claiming the attention of the court. Our defense is simple. Asrubal cannot be convicted on grounds of larceny or peculation! Why not? Because such offenses are not cited in the criminal Code. How can this be? Simple enough. Over the centuries such offenses were unknown at Romarth. On this basis I assert that Asrubal has been charged with nonexistent crimes. I therefore ask that the charges be dismissed and Asrubal be awarded punitive damages.”

“Not so fast,” declared the Magister. “The Code is not encased in steel. We all know the nature of these crimes. Your arguments are disingenuous. To amend the Code will require at most ten minutes, and we will make the new statute a century retroactive, which surely will encompass the worst of Asrubal’s crimes.”

For a time Barwang stood disconsolate; then he said, “Sirs, it appears that Asrubal might have been a bit careless, preoccupied by his visionary schemes. I believe that the Panel in its wisdom should dismiss Asrubal with a caution, and perhaps a word or two of advice. Then no more need be said of these rather trivial faults.”

The Magister said, “Your recommendation is noted. Tomorrow we will render a verdict and take up the subject of the murders. This is swift justice indeed, but the grandees of Urd House have asked for such despatch, and if it means the early conviction and execution of Asrubal, they have only themselves to blame. That is all for today. We will reconvene tomorrow at the same time.”

On the following day Ardrian and his guests arrived early at the grand hall in Varcial Palace and took their places. At the appointed hour the Regulators brought Asrubal into the room and seated him in the chair by the wall. Barwang joined him, and the two spoke in murmurs.

Finally, ten minutes late, the Adjudicators appeared and settled themselves behind the table. The Magister called the session to order. “In the case of Asrubal, we cannot find him guilty of peculation or larceny, because the Roum never commit such crimes—until the advent of Asrubal, of course. But no matter; Asrubal has committed crimes against the public welfare, and so we find him guilty of baneful conduct. No, Barwang, we do not care to hear your outcries. Asrubal, we now proceed to your sentence. Please state the totality of your financial holdings.”

Asrubal’s face became even more stern and pinched than before. “That is my private business. I do not care to divulge these facts to anyone.”

Barwang leaned close to Asrubal and spoke urgently. Asrubal’s thin mouth sagged. He said, “I am advised that candor is my only option.”

“Excellent advice.”

Asrubal raised his eyes and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I have on hand, here at Romarth, about two thousand sols. At Lorquin Agency I maintain a fund of about five thousand sols, for emergency expenses. At the Natural Bank of Loorie, I keep my basic balance, like all the others of Romarth. It amounts, so I suppose, to perhaps twenty or thirty thousand sols.”

“Is that all?” asked the Magister.

“I may have some small accounts elsewhere of more or less negligible value.”

“Just so. Which are the ‘more negligible’ and which are the ‘less negligible’? Please explain in detail.”

Asrubal made a gesture which was almost coy. “I can’t remember the exact amounts. I am not a mercenary man.”

“You have a list of these holdings?”

“Yes, I should think so.”

“Where is this list?”

“It is in the security box in my private study.”

The Magister addressed the Regulators. “Take Asrubal to his study, allow him to open his security box, then draw him aside. Bring the contents of the box here, at once. No, Barwang of Urd; you will remain here.”

The Regulators pulled Asrubal to his feet. “Come.”

A few moments later the Regulators returned with the contents of Asrubal’s security box. The Adjudicators studied them for several minutes. Then they looked at Asrubal in something like awe. Asrubal’s pinched white face remained expressionless.

The Magister said, “This is all very interesting. Your financial irregularities take on a new dimension. There are five accounts, in as many banks. These ‘more or less negligible’ funds appear to total over a million sols. The Lorquin Agency has been amazingly profitable.”