Watson, Ian - Black Current 03 (7 page)

 
          
"Welcome into the
/ur-store," I said. "And may you not enter it too soon by tumbling
out of a hoganny."

 
          
"Never say that to a
junglejack!" he growled back. "It's ill luck."

 
          
As with Martan, I lowered my voice.
"Don't you know yet? There's no such thing as ill luck for us any longer.
There's only ill luck for everyone else in the galaxy."

 
          
"Eh?"

 
          
"Talk to Captain Martan. Keep
your ears open."

 
          
Moustache had argued strenuously in council
that the 'jacks should let Verrino go to rack and ruin just so long as Jangali,
cordoned by jungles, was okay. "What's Guineamoy to us?" he had said.
He had been proved wrong.

 
          
"What's Earth to us, when we
have our fortress of a /Ta-store? What does Marl's world matter?" The same
principle applied.

 
          
When my news of the stars broke, I
hoped Moustache would make the connexion and be conscious of why I'd spoken. He
was influential. He was my enemy (though maybe that's too strong a term). And I
was apparently impregnable. So why had I chosen to confide in him? This should
make him wonder if all was quite as it seemed.

 
          
But I was about to relate the
unexpected solution to my problem. . . .

 
          
The 'jacks had already departed
Pecawar a while since when the promised (or threatened) savant sailed in ex
Ajelobo. Chanoose took time out to present him formally in my throne room.

 
          
Would he turn out to be a grim
pedant? A smart pretentious
spark,
or what? I had no
inkling—and didn't much care, either way. All I foresaw from him was nuisance;
and who wants to brood on varieties of nuisance? (Well, some people do. ... I
once knew one such aboard the
Speedy
Snail
Nuisance possessed that particular lady to the virtual exclusion of
all else. Everything was a source of nuisance to her; including most of her
riversisters, turn by turn. She squandered half of her life by inflaming
herself at
this
nuisance, and railing
at
that
nuisance. She provided an
object lesson; and I hadn't allowed the prospect of our savant's arrival to
sour one moment of my writing.)

 
          
His name was Stamno. He was of medium
height and build, with receding fawn hair which was wispy and greasy (when I
first met him). An unfortunate centre parting made it look as though someone
had tried to
saw
his skull open. The surviving thatch,
he wore longer than suited him; fraying oily curls lapped the nape of his neck.
He must have been in his forties, yet his face was a very young one—so long as
you ignored some deep criss-cross creases around his eyes. His manner was
extremely courteous and attentive; unctuously so.

 
          
To anticipate somewhat: by that same
evening he had washed his hair, which had been soiled by travel, and during the
course of his stay in the temple he must have repeated the treatment at least
once every two days. He was a sort of sensual prude, if I can put it that way.
He was the kind of person who would flirt but never actually fondle, as if he
was holding himself in reserve . . . but for what?
Perhaps in
pursuit of some ideal.
One day he would wake up and his life would have
passed him by; meanwhile he wore a velvety maroon doublet and green hose,
washed his locks obsessively, and spoke in consciously well-turned phrases.

 
          
"I'm delighted to acquaint
myself with you, priestess!"

 
          
"And hullo to you."

 
          
"Of any service I can be to you,
only let me know." Sometimes he tried to speak too cleverly. His phrases
were so well turned that they turned head over heels. They tripped themselves
up, instead of tripping off his tongue.

 
          
"HI
be
sure
to, Stamno."

 
          
"Certain problems present
themselves to me, which I hope you may be able to clarify. For instance. . .
."

 
          
I listened to a string of
for instances
with mounting
exasperation, though I didn't let this show.

 
          
"An exegesis is called for,"
he concluded.

 
          
"A what?"

 
          
"An
interpretation of your book; a commentary.
Exposition.
Or should we say—" and he smirked ingratiatingly—"of your books in
the plural, since I understand that most happily you are busy upon—"

 
          
"Who's calling for a commentary?"
I interrupted.

 
          
"Why,
The Book of the River
itself calls out; surely."

 
          
Feel free! Comment away till you're
blue in the face. And meantime, the Godmind gets ready to bum brains.

 
          
"Oh, piss off," I muttered
under my breath.

 
          
I think Stamno heard me; and this was
the strangest thing, for his eyes seemed to light up gleefully. Pleased at
being able to interfere with me? I thought not. Pleased, for some other reason.
. . .

 
          
"We do hope you'll co-operate
with Savant Stamno," said Chanoose.

 
          
"Who could resist it?" I
said. "But I'm sure Stamno wants to settle in right now."

 
          
And Stamno smoothed his wayward,
failing hair.

 
          
In the event Stamno didn't make
himself too much of a nuisance, though he did keep on dropping convoluted hints
about my work in progress. I tossed him a few sprats of information to chew on.
He couldn't tell the guild anything they didn't already know.

 
          
Work on the dikes proceeded. I
carried on writing, at speed, and was nearly at the end of the book. Tam
continued crafting pots and bowls to be sold outside. Pilgrims persisted in
calling; and preparations for the Grand Regatta came to a head. Once the
regatta had seemed weeks away; all of a sudden the quays were crowded with
vessels once more, and men from Verrino, Gangee and even Gate of the South were
wandering around town. Not too many from Verrino. In the wake of looting and
other ravages of war, maybe they couldn't scrape up the fare. The weather was
hotting up.

 
          
Oh what a fine regatta it was, to be
sure! Masts high, scraping the sky—flags and bright rags of bunting—a small
orchestra on one deck, a flute and drum band on another! More fish-masks than
I'd ever seen being sported by riversisters; it seemed as though the contents
of the deep had hopped ashore. A conga-dance wormed along Pemba Avenue then all
around town. Races were run up rigging to release bladders painted silver and
red, inflated with watergas. And there was the marvel, as promised by Chanoose,
of an enormous passenger balloon.

 
          
This balloon was a sphere, open at
the bottom, buoyed up by hot air rising from a gas flame in the basket beneath.
The basket was big enough to hold half a dozen people including the operator,
with a fair-sized telescope for them to peer through. The flame was turned low
every ten minutes and the balloon guided back down by its tether rope to allow
as many brave spirits as possible to ascend. I need hardly add that the tether
was
essential,
else the balloon would have departed on
the breezes; which made me puzzle about the reliability of honeymoon flights.
Apparently means of steering were under investigation.

 
          
And there was a parade—and a
multitude of tasty snacks—and tipple a-plenty, not forgetting slugs of the
black current which I doled out for hours from a tented pavilion erected on the
waterfront. This was a bit of a bore. On the other hand I couldn't manage much
real tippling on my own account.
Spirit willing; body too
young.

 
          
Nor could I participate in the other
amusements except as spectator, for reasons of dignity, safety, short legs and
such. I did at one stage beg childishly to be allowed to go up in the
observation balloon;
not,
I hasten
to add, out of any sudden urge to heed the Worm's suggestion and leap to my
death. Donnah, ever nearby, put her foot down.

 
          
"If a lunatic slashed the rope,
you'd drift away. We could lose you."

 
          
Dad, who was sitting at a portable
table noting names and addresses and keeping a tally of newly-enrolled
devotees, nodded his entire agreement.

 
          
Round about the middle of the
afternoon, Tam sidled up to me.

 
          
"Popped back to the
temple," he murmured. "Found Stamno rifling your scritoire, reading
what you've written. He'd picked Peli's lock." In his hand he disclosed a
strong wire with a little hook on the end.

 
          
"Chanoose put him up to it! While
we're busy here! I bet she did."

 
          
"No, no. That's where you're
wrong. Guards didn't even try to delay me on the way in.
Just
nods and smiles from them.
They
didn
7
know.
Stamno seemed scared
I'd kick up an almighty
barney
, and they'd find out.
Practically begged me to shut up."

 
          
"That's odd. Are my papers
safe?"

 
          
"Made him lock
them up again."

 
          
"Tonight, Tam, you and I will
have a few words with Master Savant Stamno!"

 
          
We did indeed. And be damned how
tired I was feeling after my day's activities. (Or inactivities.)

 
          
Peli was also present when Tam
hustled Stamno into my chambers late that night. A single oil lamp burned. We
seated Stamno near this so that his face was brightly lit, while ours were in
the shadow. I noticed how Stamno had taken time out to wash his hair yet again.

 
          
"Well?" I said.
"Explain yourself, snooper."

 
          
Stamno worried at a fingernail;
though more as if he was manicuring it.

 
          
"With pleasure," he said.
"I'm delighted to tell you. For you are not quite as you seem, any more
than I am."

 
          
"Aren't I, indeed?"

 
          
"You wish to save other worlds
from the Godmind, not just ourselves.
How
this could be accomplished, you don't know. Nor do
I
.
But you wish it."

 
          
I nodded. "Carry on."

 
          
"Whereas the river guild want to
sew this one world of ours up tight—irrespective of the Sons, irrespective of
any other humans in the galaxy. Even irrespective of whether the Godmind might
attain reality and truth, though the price
be
high."

 
          
"You aren't rooting for the
Godmind, surely!"

 
          
"No; I belong to the Guild of
the Seekers of Truth."

 
          
"Never heard
of it."

 
          
Stamno shrugged. "If truth be
hidden, let its seekers also be concealed."

 
          
"Cutely put," said Peli.
"Doesn't that boil down to your belonging to some nutty little cult
consisting of about three members?"

 
          
Our savant pursed his lips. "We
have connexions with wise women in the Port Barbra hinterland."

 
          
"You mean those sex fiends who
orgasm for hours on a fungus drug?" I chipped in.

 
          
"Your information is distorted,
Yaleen. That is only an aspect." It was his first use of my name; hitherto
he had only called me "priestess". Suddenly his voice was full of
wonder, as though here at last was the ideal—the climax—for which he had
preened and prepared himself, and withheld himself waiting, all his bom days.
"To halt time itself, Yaleen!
To perceive the Real
beneath the flow of Phenomena! Why,
you
actually turned time back upon itself."

 
          
"Sure I did. Which gives us a
wee breathing space before most of the human race gets snuffed."

 
          
"That too is important," he
acknowledged.