The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (81 page)

Thissell shook his head in exasperation. "Nothing of
this was explained to me! I knew of the masks, of course, and the painstaking
integrity of the craftsmen, but this insistence on prestige—
strakh,
whatever
the word is . . ."

"No matter," said Rolver. "After a year or
two you'll begin to learn your way around. I suppose you speak the
language?"

"Oh indeed. Certainly."

"And what instruments do you play?"

"Well—I was given to understand that any small
instrument was adequate, or that I could merely sing."

"Very inaccurate. Only slaves sing without
accompaniment. I suggest that you learn the following instruments as quickly as
possible: the
hymerkin
for your slaves. The
ganga
for
conversation between intimates or one a trifle lower than yourself in
strakh.
The
kiv
for casual polite intercourse. The
zachinko
for more
formal dealings. The
strapan
or the
krodatch
for your social
inferiors—in your case, should you wish to insult someone. The
gomapard
[v]
or the
double-kamanthil
[vi]
for ceremonials." He considered a moment. "The
crebarin,
the
water-lute and the
slobo
are highly useful also—but perhaps you'd better
learn the other instruments first. They should provide at least a rudimentary
means of communication."

"Aren't you exaggerating?" suggested Thissel.
"Or joking?" Rolver laughed his saturnine laugh. "Not at all.
First of all, you'll need a houseboat. And then you'll want slaves."

Rolver took Thissell from the landing field to the docks of
Fan, a walk of an hour and a half along a pleasant path under enormous trees
loaded with fruit, cereal pods, sacs of sugary sap.

"At the moment," said Rolver, "there are only
four outworlders in Fan, counting yourself. I'll take you to Welibus, our
Commercial Factor. I think he's got an old houseboat he might let you
use."

Comely Welibus had resided fifteen years in Fan, acquiring
sufficient
strakh
to wear his South Wind mask with authority. This
consisted of a blue disk inlaid with cabochons of lapis-lazuli, surrounded by
an aureole of shimmering snake-skin. Heartier and more cordial than Rolver, he
not only provided Thissell with a houseboat, but also a score of various
musical instruments and a pair of slaves.

Embarrassed by the largesse, Thissell stammered something
about payment, but Welibus cut him off with an expansive gesture. "My dear
fellow, this is Sirene. Such trifles cost nothing."

"But a houseboat-"

Welibus played a courtly little flourish on his
kiv.
'I’ll
be frank, Ser Thissell. The boat is old and a trifle shabby. I can't afford to
use it; my status would suffer." A graceful melody accompanied his words.
"Status as yet need not concern you. You require merely shelter, comfort
and safety from the Night-men."

"Night-men?"

"The cannibals who roam the shore after dark."

"Oh yes. Ser Rolver mentioned them."

"Horrible things. We won't discuss them." A
shuddering little trill issued from his
kiv.
"Now, as to
slaves." He tapped the blue disk of his mask with a thoughtful forefinger.
"Rex and Toby should serve you well." He raised his voice, played a
swift clatter on the
hymerkin. "Avan esx trobu!"

A female slave appeared wearing a dozen tight bands of pink
cloth, and a dainty black mask sparkling with mother-of-pearl sequins.

"Fascu etz Rex ae Toby."

Rex and Toby appeared, wearing loose masks of black cloth,
russet jerkins. Welibus addressed them with a resonant clatter of
hymerkin,
enjoining
them to the service of their new master, on pain of return to their native
islands. They prostrated themselves, sang pledges of servitude to Thissell in
soft husky voices. Thissell laughed nervously and essayed a sentence in the
Sirenese language. "Go to the houseboat, clean it well, bring aboard
food."

Toby and Rex stared blankly through the holes in their
masks. Welibus repeated the orders with
hymerkin
accompaniment. The
slaves bowed and departed.

Thissell surveyed the musical instruments with dismay.
"I haven't the slightest idea how to go about learning these things."

Welibus turned to Rolver. "What about Kershaul? Could
he be persuaded to give Ser Thissell some basic instruction?"

Rolver nodded judicially. "Kershaul might undertake the
job."

Thissell asked, "Who is Kershaul?"

"The third of our little group of expatriates,"
replied Welibus, "an anthropologist. You've read
Zundar the Splendid? Rituals
of Sirene? The Faceless Folk?
No? A pity. All excellent works. Kershaul is
high in prestige, and I believe visits Zundar from time to time. Wears a Cave
Owl, sometimes a Star-wanderer or even a Wise Arbiter."

"He's taken to an Equatorial Serpent," said
Rolver. "The variant with the gilt tusks."

"Indeed!" marveled Welibus. "Well, I must say
he's earned it. A fine fellow, good chap indeed." And he strummed his
zachinko
thoughtfully.

Three months passed. Under the tutelage of Mathew Kershaul
Thissell practised the
hymerkin,
the
ganga,
the
strapan,
the
kiv,
the
gompard,
and the
zachinko.
The
double-kamanthil,
the
krodatch,
the
slobo,
the water-lute and a number of
others could wait, said Kershaul, until Thissell had mastered the six basic
instruments. He lent Thissell recordings of noteworthy Sirenese conversing in
various moods and to various accompaniments, so that Thissell might learn the
melodic conventions currently in vogue, and perfect himself in the niceties of
intonation, the various rhythms, cross-rhythms, compound rhythms, implied
rhythms and suppressed rhythms. Kershaul professed to find Sirenese music a
fascinating study, and Thissell admitted that it was a subject not readily
exhausted. The quarter-tone tuning of the instruments admitted the use of
twenty-four tonalities which multiplied by the five modes in general use,
resulted in one hundred and twenty separate scales. Kershaul, however, advised
that Thissell primarily concentrate on learning each instrument in its
fundamental tonality, using only two of the modes.

With no immediate business at Fan except the weekly visits
to Mathew Kershaul, Thissell took his houseboat eight miles south and moored it
in the lee of a rocky promontory. Here, if it had not been for the incessant
practising, Thissell lived an idyllic life. The sea was calm and crystal-clear;
the beach, ringed by the gray, green and purple foliage of the forest, lay
close at hand if he wanted to stretch his legs.

Toby and Rex occupied a pair of cubicles forward. Thissell
had
the
after-cabins to himself. From time to time he toyed with the
idea of a third slave, possibly a young female, to contribute an element of
charm and gayety to the menage, but Kershaul advised against the step, fearing
that the intensity of Thissell's concentration might somehow be diminished.
Thissell acquiesced and devoted himself to the study of the six instruments.

The days passed quickly. Thissell never became bored with
the pageantry of dawn and sunset; the white clouds and blue sea of noon; the
night sky blazing with the twenty-nine stars of Cluster SI 1-715. The weekly
trip to Fan broke the tedium. Toby and Rex foraged for food; Thissell visited
the luxurious houseboat of Mathew Kershaul for instruction and advice. Then,
three months after Thissell's arrival, came the message completely
disorganizing the routine: Haxo Ang-mark, assassin,
agent provocateur,
ruthless
and crafty criminal, had come to Sirene.
Effective detention and
incarceration of this man!
read the orders.
Attention! Haxo Angmark
superlatively dangerous. Kill without hesitation!

Thissell was not in the best of condition. He trotted fifty
yards until his breath came in gasps, then walked: through low hills crowned
with white bamboo and black tree-ferns; across meadows yellow with grass-nuts,
through orchards and wild vineyards. Twenty minutes passed, twenty-five
minutes; with a heavy sensation in his stomach Thissell knew that he was too
late. Haxo Angmark had landed, and might be traversing this very road toward
Fan. But along the way Thissell met only four persons: a boy-child in a
mock-fierce Alk-Islander mask; two young women wearing the Red-bird and the
Green-bird; a man masked as a Forest Goblin. Coming upon the man, Thissell
stopped short. Could this be Angmark?

Thissell essayed a stratagem. He went boldly to the man,
stared into the hideous mask. "Angmark," he called in the language of
the Home Planets, "you are under arrest!"

The Forest Goblin stared uncomprehendingly, then started
forward along the track.

Thissell put himself in the way. He reached for his
ganga,
then recalling the hostler's reaction, instead struck a chord on the
zachinko.
"You travel the road from the space-port," he sang. "What
have you seen there?"

The Forest Goblin grasped his hand-bugle, an instrument used
to deride opponents on the field of battle, to summon animals, or occasionally
to evince a rough and ready truculence. "Where I travel and what I see are
the concern solely of myself. Stand back or I walk upon your face." He
marched forward, and had not Thissell leapt aside the Forest Goblin might well
have made good his threat.

Thissell stood gazing after the retreating back. Angmark?
Not likely, with so sure a touch on the hand-bugle. Thissell hesitated, then
turned and continued on his way.

Arriving at the space-port, he went directly to the office.
The heavy door stood ajar; as Thissell approached, a man appeared in the
doorway. He wore a mask of dull green scales, mica plates, blue-lacquered wood
and black quills—the Tarn-Bird.

"Ser Rolver," Thissell called out anxiously,
"who came down from the
Carina Cruzeiro?"

Rolver studied Thissell a long moment. "Why do you
ask?"

"Why do I ask?" demanded Thissell. "You must
have seen the space-gram I received from Castel Cromartin!"

"Oh yes," said Rolver. "Of course. Naturally."

"It was delivered only half an hour ago," said
Thissell bitterly. "I rushed out as fast as I could. Where is
Angmark?"

"In Fan, I assume," said Rolver.

Thissell cursed softly. "Why didn't you hold him up,
delay him in some way?"

Rolver shrugged. "I had neither authority, inclination
nor the capability to stop him."

Thissell fought back his annoyance. In a voice of studied
calm he said, "On the way I passed a man in rather a ghastly mask—saucer
eyes, red wattles."

"A Forest Goblin," said Rolver. "Angmark
brought the mask with him."

"But he played the hand-bugle," Thissell
protested. "How could Angmark—"

"He's well-acquainted with Sirene; he spent five years
here in Fan."

Thissell grunted in annoyance. "Cromartin made no
mention of this."

"It's common knowledge," said Rolver with a shrug.
"He was Commercial Representative before Welibus took over."

"Were he and Welibus acquainted?"

Rolver laughed shortly. "Naturally. But don't suspect
poor Welibus of anything more venial than juggling his accounts; I assure you
he's no consort of assassins."

"Speaking of assassins," said Thissell, "do
you have a weapon I might borrow?"

Rolver inspected him in wonder. "You came out here to
take Angmark bare-handed?"

"I had no choice," said Thissell. "When
Cromartin gives orders he expects results. In any event you were here with your
slaves."

"Don't count on me for help," Rolver said testily.
"I wear the Tarn-Bird and make no pretensions of valor. But I can lend you
a power pistol. I haven't used it recently; I won't guarantee its charge."

"Anything is better than nothing," said Thissell.

Rolver went into the office and a moment later returned with
the gun. "What will you do now?"

Thissell shook his head wearily. "I'll try to find
Angmark in Fan. Or might he head for Zundar?"

Rolver considered. "Angmark might be able to survive in
Zundar.

But he'd want to brush up on his musicianship. I imagine
he'll stay in Fan a few days."

"But how can I find him? Where should I look?"

"That I can't say," replied Rolver. "You
might be safer not finding him. Angmark is a dangerous man."

Thissell returned to Fan the way he had come.

Where the path swung down from the hills into the esplanade
a thick-walled
pisi-de-terre
building had been constructed. The door was
carved from a solid black plank; the windows were guarded by enfoliated bands
of iron. This was the office of Comely Welibus, Commercial Factor, Importer and
Exporter. Thissell found Welibus sitting at his ease on the tiled verandah,
wearing a modest adaptation of the Waldemar mask. He seemed lost in thought,
and might or might not have recognized Thissell's Moon Moth; in any event he
gave no signal of greeting.

Thissell approached the porch. "Good morning, Ser
Welibus."

Welibus nodded abstractedly and said in a flat voice, plucking
at his
krodatch.
"Good morning."

Thissell was rather taken aback. This was hardly the
instrument to use toward a friend and fellow out-worlder, even if he did wear
the Moon Moth.

Thissell said coldly, "May I ask how long you have been
sitting here?"

Welibus considered half a minute, and now when he spoke he
accompanied himself on the more cordial
crebarin.
But the recollection
of the
krodatch
chord still rankled in Thissell's mind.