The Skies Discrowned (11 page)

All the sour black misery of his fathers death and his own exile rose up and choked him. Tears stung his eyes; he clenched his teeth and drove his fist against the brick wall of Ludlow Alley. He stood there motionless for a full minute, leaning against the wall; then, he straightened up and strode off, impatient with himself for having indulged this maudlin side of his nature.

When he entered Orcrist’s sitting room he had forced himself to become quite cheerful. He poured a good-sized glass of scotch, took a deep sip of it, and then set it down while he fetched his pipe and tobacco. Orcrist had brought him a can of good Turkish tobacco, thickly laced with spicy black latakia, and he was beginning to like the stuff. Now he was even able to keep the pipe lit. Soon the pungent smoke hung in layers across the room as he absorbed himself with a book of A. E. Housmans poetry.

“Well, Frank!” boomed Orcrist’s voice. “I didn’t expect to see you this early. Didn’t Rutledge show up?”

“Oh, he was there,” answered Frank. “We broke up early, that’s all. By the way, it’s been an eventful evening. The Leethee, if you haven’t yet heard, is
packed
with fugitive farmers from the Goriot Valley, all headed for the Deptford Sea—the south coast, I guess. And then on the way home Rutledge and I were stopped by four Transport cops, and we had to kill them all.”

“They were down here?” asked Orcrist. “Understreet?”

“That’s right. Four of them, asking for identification cards.”

Orcrist shook his head. “Something, I’m afraid, has got to be done.”

Frank nodded and put down his pipe. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “The Subterranean Companions are a well-organized group, armed
and more-or-less disciplined. What if we recruit and arm a few hundred of these homeless farmers and then overthrow the whole Transport-Costa government?”

Orcrist chuckled as he poured himself a scotch.
“Overthrow
is an easy word to say, Frank.”

“But we could!” Frank insisted. “The Transports are having all kinds of financial difficulties—they couldn’t maintain a long siege. And Costa is no military genius.”

“No,” said Orcrist, sipping his drink, “he isn’t. But I’ll tell you what he is. He’s the blood son of Topo, and that’s what counts. Even if we did, somehow, take over the palace and kill Costa, we couldn’t hold it because we have no one with royal blood to set up as a successor. And that is a prerequisite. The citizens of Octavio may not be fond of Costa, and they aren’t, you know, but they’re bound up by centuries of tradition. They won’t even consider accepting a duke who isn’t of the royal blood.”

“Ignorant cattle,” muttered Frank, aware in spite of himself that he, too, was unable to picture a duke who was not the descendant of a lot of other dukes.

“But”
said Orcrist thoughtfully, “we might figure out a way to keep Understreet Munson, at least, free of Transport influence. I’ll have to bring the matter up at the next meeting. Anyway, stop bothering your brains with politics and go put on a clean shirt. I’ve invited Kathrin Figaro over for a late glass of sherry.”

Frank stood up. “Righto,” he said, heading for the hallway. “Oh,” he said, turning, “I was just curious—I don’t suppose theres any
truth
to George Tyler’s stories about being Topo’s son?”

Orcrist shook his head. “Come on, Frank. You’ve heard his stories. George is a good friend; and a moderately good poet, but a prince he is not.”

“I didn’t really think so,” said Frank, leaving the room.

Just as Frank re-entered, buttoning the cuff of a new shirt, a knock sounded at the door. Frank threw himself into his chair and snatched up his pipe, then nodded to Orcrist, who proceeded to open the door.

“Kathrin!” he said. “Come in. You remember Frank Rovzar?”

“Of course,” smiled Kathrin as Frank stood up and kissed her hand.

Orcrist took Kathrin’s badger-skin stole and went to hang it up while Frank poured three glasses of sherry.

“There you are,” he smiled, handing her one of them.

“Thank you. Was there a fire in here? I smell burning rugs or something.”

“That’s my new tobacco.”

“Oh? What happened to that wonderful cherry stuff you were smoking before? That smelled delicious.”

“I think he lost his taste for it,” said Orcrist. “Kathrin, tell Frank about your new job.”

“Oh, yes. Frank, I’ve got a job in a dress shop on the surface! I’m a fashion designer. So you see you aren’t the only one around here who can draw.” Orcrist smiled wickedly and winked at Frank. “What were you reading there?” she asked, pointing at Franks book.

“A. E. Housman’s poetry,” Frank answered. “Have you ever read any of it?”

“No, but I love poetry. In fact, I wrote a poem last week. Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure,” answered Frank. “Bring it over some time. Would you like some more sherry?”

“No thank you. But I have the poem right here, in my purse.” She rummaged about in the purse while Frank and Orcrist exchanged worried glances. “Ah, here it is.” Then, in an embarrassingly over-animated voice, she began to read:

After a moment Kathrin raised her eyes. “It’s very personal,” she explained.

Frank caught Orcrist’s eye and looked quickly away. My God, he thought, I can’t laugh! He bit his tongue, but still felt dangerously close to exploding. Picking up his glass, he drained his sherry in one gulp, and choked on it. He coughed violently and thus managed to get rid of the most insistent edge of his laughter.

“Are you all right?” asked Kathrin.

“Oh yes,” he assured her, gaspingly. “But some of the sherry went down the wrong way.”

“Well, what did you think of my poem?”

“Oh, well, it … it’s very good.” Behind her Frank could see Orcrist doing bird imitations with his hands. I will not laugh, Frank vowed. “I liked it.”

“I feel poetry should just …
flow
from the heart,” she went on. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Precisely,” nodded Orcrist. “Now, I’m an old man and I need my rest, so I’ll be turning in. Why don’t you take Kathrin for a ride down the Tirnog Canal, Frank? That’d be pleasant, and I don’t imagine any of the Goriot fugitives would have wound up there.”

Frank nodded, grateful that the conversation had been steered away from the subject of Kathrin’s horrible poem. “That sounds good to me,” he said. “Have you ever taken a boat ride down the Tirnog?”

“No,” said Kathrin. “Is it safe?”

“Absolutely,” Orcrist assured her. “Even if it weren’t, Frank is one of the five best swordsmen in Munson Understreet, and maybe on the whole planet. You’ve got nothing to fear.” He fetched her wrap, draped it about her shoulders, and surreptitiously slipped Frank a five-malory note. Frank got his coat and strapped on his sword and they were ready to go.

“So long, Sam,” said Kathrin as they were leaving. “At least
Frank
doesn’t run down at ten o’clock.”

“I envy him his youth,” smiled Orcrist as he closed the door.

A night wind sighed eerily down the length of the Tirnog Canal, wringing soft random chords from the many Aeolian harps and wind chimes hung from the low stone ceiling.

Kathrin leaned on Frank’s shoulder. Frank put his arm around her—it seemed in some undefined way to be expected of him.

Paper lanterns, red, green and yellow, glowed everywhere, casting a dim fantastic radiance. By their fitful light were visible several ponderous, ribbon-hung barges rocking in the water, each one piloted by a tall, hooded gondolier who carried a long punting pole. Frank waved at the nearest boatman and the man pushed his barge to the padded dock.

“Passage for two,” Frank told him, “to Quartz Lane and back.”

“Two malories,” said the pilot. Frank handed him the five and got change. He helped Kathrin aboard, and they sat close together on the wide leather seat in the bow while the gondolier pushed away from the dock. Frank trailed the fingers of his left hand in the cool water, and eventually put his right arm around Kathrin, who obligingly snuggled up under his chin.

Neither of them spoke as the barge drifted down the tunnel; the only sound was the soft bump of the pilot’s pole as he corrected the barge’s course from time to time. As the distance grew between them and the dock, the paper lanterns became fewer; soon they were in total darkness. Then, gradually, dim moonlight began to filter through cracks and holes in the ancient masonry that passed by over their heads, for Tirnog Canal, in several places, reached the surface, and the roof that had been built over it in such places was in bad repair. Some of the holes were a foot across, and the stars were plainly visible; and once Frank saw, like a thin chalk line across a distant blackboard, the luminous vapor trail of a Transport freighter hanging in the night sky.

Without premeditation Frank leaned over and kissed Kathrin, and was half surprised to find that she didn’t object. Afterward she rested her head on his chest and he thoughtfully stroked her long brown hair.

At Quartz Lane, an abandoned stretch of once stately houses, the pilot laboriously turned the barge around and began working his way
back up the slow stream, the thumping of his pole sounding regularly now, like a pulse.

When Frank got back to Orcrist’s place he found a courier nodding sleepily in the easy chair. It was after midnight.

“Are you … uh … Francisco de Goya Rovzar?” the courier asked as Frank shed his coat.

“Yes. Why?”

“I have a letter for you from his majesty King Blanchard, and I’ve got to deliver it directly into your hands. Here. Now goodnight.” Abruptly the courier put on his hat and left.

“Goodnight,” said Frank automatically. Blanchard wrote a letter to
me?
He remembered his only sight of the old king, burly and white-bearded and gruff, at the first meeting of the Subterranean Companions he had attended.

He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

—BLANCHARD

Well, by God, thought Frank. It’s quite the social climber I’m becoming. I’ll show this to Orcrist in the morning. Right now all I want to do is sleep.

He put the letter on the table and stumbled off to bed. He woke up once during the night when a deep, echoing rumble shook the building; but it had stopped by the time he came fully awake, and so he just rolled over and went back to sleep.

The next morning Frank put on his smoking jacket and wandered out to the breakfast room. The table was empty.

“Pons!” Frank called hoarsely. “Dammit, Pons! Where’s my breakfast, you lazy weasel?” He knew Pons hated to be yelled at.

Orcrist entered the room. It was the first time Frank had ever seen him unshaven. Something, clearly, has happened, Frank told himself.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“All kinds of things, Frank.” Orcrist sat down and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “There was a demonstration last night on the surface, near Seventh and Shank. Shopkeepers or something, a whole crowd, hollering and demanding that Costa break all connections with the Transport. And from somewhere, God knows where, came flying an airplane with
the Transport insignia. The damned thing circled the square where this demonstration was taking place, twice, and then dropped a bomb right in the middle of it.”

“A
bomb?
“ Frank was incredulous.

“That’s right. Wiped out most of the shopkeepers, of course, but more to the point it tore a hole through four understreet levels, and caused collapses in five below that. The Companions alone have lost an estimated hundred members. Pons’s wife was among the casualties.”

“Pons was
married?”

“Yes, he was. She went insane about four years ago and was committed. He put her in an old asylum up on Seventh; this explosion shook loose the roof of her cell.”

“Bad business,” said Frank.

“You could say so. Well then—” Orcrist looked up at him, “—any news on the home front?”

“Oh, yes There is.” Frank went into the next room and got the letter from Blanchard. “Look at this.”

Orcrist blinked over the letter for a minute, then put it down. “Not bad, Frank,” he said. “I guess fencing has been your true calling all along.”

“Maybe so.” Frank stepped to the kitchen door. “Wait two minutes and I’ll make some eggs and toast and coffee,” he said.

“Thank you, Frank,” said Orcrist. “Why don’t you throw some rum in the coffee, eh?”

“Aye aye.”

Later in the morning Frank went to see the crater where the bomb had fallen. He approached it from a little alley about two levels below the surface, so that when he stood on the alley’s crumbling lip he could look down into a rubble-and-debris strewn valley in which workmen stumbled about, or up at the blue sky framed by the ragged outlines of the crater. Curls of smoke eddied up from the wreckage below, and fire hoses on the surface streets were sending arching streams of water into the abyss.

Six men were in Orcrist’s sitting room when Frank returned; they wore muddy jeans and boots, and had a wet, mildewy smell about them.

“Who’s the kid?” growled one of them, jerking his thumb in Franks direction.

“Partner of mine,” said Orcrist, who strode in from the hallway, knotting a scarf around his neck. “Hullo Frank. We’re going to go drop bricks on a party of Transport sewer-explorers. Want to come along?”

“Sure, I guess so.
What
is it you’re going to do?”

“Oh, the Transport cops are puzzled by all the underground tunnels this bomb has revealed. They didn’t know the understreet city extended
that far. They’d be surprised if they knew how far it does extend! Anyway, they’re sending exploring crews down into the crater to follow any tunnels they find and arrest whoever gets in their way. So we’re going to go impede them.”