Trullion: Alastor 2262 (22 page)

“I expected nothing less.”

Akadie went off to his telephone. Vang Drosset said in a surly voice, “Are you done? At my camp there’ll be great grief tonight, and all due to the Huldens.”

“The grief is due to your own murderousness” said Glinnes. “Need I go into details? Never forget how you left me for dead in the mud.”

Vang Drosset marched sullenly to the door, where he turned and blurted, “No matter what, it’s fair exchange for the shame you put on us, you and all the other Trills, with your gluttony and lust. Horns all of you! Guts and groins, so much for the Trills. And you, Glinnes Hulden, stay out of my way; you won’t have it so easy next time.” He turned and stamped from the house.

Akadie, returning to the study, watched him go with nostrils fastidiously pinched. “You had best guard your boat,” he told Glinnes. “Otherwise he’ll drive away and leave you to swim.”

Glinnes stood in the doorway and watched Vang Drosset’s burly form recede along the road. “He carries grief too heavy for the boat, or any other mischief. He’ll find his way home by Verleth Bridge. What of Lute Casagave?”

“He refuses to answer his telephone,” said Akadie. “You must postpone your triumph.”

“Then you must postpone your fee,” said Glinnes. “Did the messenger find his way here?”

“Yes indeed,” said Akadie. “I can justly say that he carried away a great load of my responsibilities. I am gratified to-be done with the business.”

“In that case, perhaps you have a cup of tea to offer me? Or is your business with Ryl Shermatz absolutely private?”

“You may have tea,” said Akadie ungraciously. “The conversation is general. Ryl Shermatz is interested in the Fanscherade. He wonders how a world so generous and easy could breed so austere a sect.”

“I suppose we must consider Junius Farfan as a catalyst,” remarked Shermatz. “Or perhaps, for better comparison, let us think in terms of a super-saturated solution. It seems placid and stable, but in a single microscopic crystal produces disequilibrium.”

“A striking image!” declared Akadie. “Allow me to pour out a drop of something more energetic than tea.”

“Why not indeed?” Shermatz stretched out his legs to the fire. “You have a most comfortable home.”

“Yes, it is pleasant!” Akadie went to fetch a bottle.

Glinnes asked Shermatz, “I hope that you find Trullion entertaining?”

“I do indeed. Each world of the cluster projects a mood of its own, and the sensitive traveler quickly learns to identify and savor this individuality. Trullion, for instance, is calm and gentle; its waters reflect the stars. The light is mild; the landscapes and waterscapes are entrancing.”

“This gentle aspect is what strikes the eye,” agreed Akadie, “but sometimes I wonder as to its reality. For instance, under these placid waters swim merlings, creatures as unpleasant as any, and these calm Trill faces conceal terrible forces.”

“Come now,” said Glinnes. “You exaggerate.”

“By no means! Have you ever heard a hussade crowd cry out to spare the conquered sheirl? Never! She must be denuded to the music of what? The emotion has no name, but it is as rich as blood.”

“Bah,” said Glinnes. “Hussade is played everywhere.”

Akadie ignored him. “Then there is the pruanshyr. Amazing to watch the rapt faces as some wretched criminal demonstrates how dreadful the process of dying can be.”

“The prutanshyr may serve a useful purpose,” said Shermatz. “The effects of such affairs are difficult to judge.”

“Not from the standpoint of the miscreant,” said Akadie. “Is this not a bitter way to die, to look out upon the fascinated throng, to know that your spasms are providing a repast of entertainment?”

“It is not a private or sedate occasion said Shermatz with a sad smile. “Still, the folk of Trullion seem to consider the prutanshyr a necessary institution, and so it persists.”

“It is a disgrace, to Trullion and to Alastor Cluster,” said Akadie coldly. “The Connatic should ban all such barbarity.”

Shermatz rubbed his chin. "There is something in what you say. Still, the Connatic hesitates to interfere with local customs.”

“A double-edged virtue! We rely upon him for wise decisions. Whether or not you love the Fanschers, at least they despise the prutanshyr and would obliterate the institution. If they ever come to power they will do so.”

“No doubt they would expunge hussade as well,” said Glinnes.

“By no means,” said Akadie. “The Fanschers are indifferent to the game; it has no meaning for them, one way or the other.”

“What a grim fastidious lot!” said Glinnes.

“They seem even more so by contrast with their varmous parents,” said Akadie.

“No doubt true,” said Ryl Shermatz. “Still, one must note that an extreme philosophy often provokes its antithesis.”

“That is the case here on Trillion,” said Akadie. “I warned you that the idyllic atmosphere is delusive.”

A glare of light flooded the study, persisting only a moment. Akadie uttered an ejaculation and went to the window, followed by Glinnes. They saw a great white cruiser coming slowly across Clinkhammer Broad; the masthead searchlight playing along the shore, briefly touching Akadie’s manse, had illuminated the study.

Akadie said in a wondering voice, “I believe it’s the Scopoeai, Lord Rianle’s yacht. Why should it be here in Clinkhammer Broad, of all places?”

A boat left the yacht and made for Akadie’s dock; simultaneously the horn sounded three peremptory blasts. Akadie muttered under his breath and ran from the house. Ryl Shermatz wandered here and there about the room inspecting Akadie’s clutter of mementos, bric-a-brac, curios. A cabinet diplayed Akadie’s collection of small busts, each one or another of the personages who had shaped the history of Alastor — scholars, scientists, warriors, philosophers, poets, musicians, and on the bottom shelf, a formidable array of anti-heroes. “Interesting,” said Ryl Shermatz. “Our history has been rich, and the histories before ours as well.”

Glinnes pointed out a particular bust. “There you see Akadie himself, who fancies himself one with the immortals.” Shermatz chuckled. “Since Akadie has assembled the group, he must be allowed the right to include whom he pleases.”

Glinnes went to the window in time to see the boat returning to the yacht. A moment later, Akadie entered the room, face ash-gray and hair hanging in lank string “What’s wrong with you?” demanded Glinnes. “You look like a ghost.”

“That was Lord Rianle.” croaked Akadie. “The father of Lord Erzan Rianle, who was kidnaped. He wants his hundred thousand ozols back.

Glinnes stared in amazement. “Will he leave his son to rot?”

Akadie went to the alcove where he kept his telephone and switched the set back into operation. Turning back to Shermatz and Glinnes, he said, “The Whelm raided Bandolios’ haven. They captured Bandolio, all his men and ships; they liberated the captives Bandolio took at Welgen, and many more besides.”

“Excellent news!” said Glinnes. “So why walk around like a dead man?”

“This afternoon I sent away the money. The thirty million ozols are gone.”

Glinnes led Akadie to a chair. “Sit down, drink this wine.” He turned a glance toward Ryl Shermatz, who stood looking into the fire. “Tell me, how did you send the money off?”

“By the messenger you directed here. He carried the correct symbol; I gave him the parcel; he went away, and that is all there is to it.”

“You don’t know the messenger?”

“I have never seen him before.” Akadie’s wits seemed to snap back in place. He glared at Glinnes. “You seem very concerned!”

“Should I be uninterested in thirty million ozols?”

“How is that you did not hear the news? It’s been current since noon! Everyone has been trying to telephone me.”

“I was working in my orchard. I paid no heed to the telephone.”

“The money belongs to the people who paid the ransoms,” declared Akadie in a stern voice.

“Indisputably. But whoever retrieves it might legitimately claim a good fee.

“Bah,” muttered Akadie. “Have you no shame?”

The gong sounded. Akadie gave a nervous start and stumbled to the telephone. After a moment he returned. “Lord Gygax also wants his hundred thousand ozols. He won’t believe that I sent off the money. He became insistent, even somewhat insulting.”

The gong sounded again. “You are in for a busy evening,” said Glinnes, rising to his feet.

“Are you going?” asked Akadie in a pitiful voice.

“Yes. If I were you I’d turn the telephone off again.” He bowed to Ryl Shermatz. “A pleasure to have met you.”

Glinnes drove his boat at full speed west across Clinkhamer Broad, under the Verleth Bridge, down Mellish Water. Ahead shone a dozen dim lights: Saurkash. Glinnes drifted into the dock, moored his boat and jumped ashore. Saurkash was quiet except for a few muffled voices and a laugh or two from the nearby Magic Tench. Glinnes walked along the dock to Harrad’s boat agency. An overhead light shone down on the rental boats. He went to the shop and looked in through the door. Young Harrad was nowhere to be seen, though a light glowed in the office. One of the men at the tavern rose to his feet and ambled down to the dock. It was Young Harrad. “Yes, sir, what might you be wanting? If it’s boat repair, nothing till tomorrow … Ah, Squire Hulden, I didn’t recognize you under the light.”

“No matter,” said Glinnes. “Today I saw a young man in one of your boats, a hussade player I’m anxious to locate. Do you recall his name?”

“Today? About mid-afternoon, or a trifle earlier?”

“That would be about the time.”

“I’ve got it written down inside. A hussade player, you say, He didn’t look the type. Still, you never know. What’s next for the Tanchinaros?”

“We’ll be back in action soon. Whenever we can collect ten thousand ozols for a treasury. The weak teams won’t play us.”

“For good reason! Well, let’s look at the registe … This might well be his name.” Young Harrad turned the ledger first one way, then the other. “Schill Sodergang, or so I make it out. No address.”

"No address? And you don’t know where he can be found?”

“Perhaps I should be more careful,” Young Harrad apologized. “I’ve never yet lost a boat, except when old Zax went blind on soursap."

“Did Sodergang have anything to say to you? Anything whatever?”

“Nothing much, except to ask the way to Akadie’s house.”

“And when he came back what then?”

“He asked what time the Port Maheuhl boat came past. He had to wait an hour.”

“He had a black case with him?”

“Why yes, he did.”

“Did he talk to anyone?”

“He just sat dozing on the beach yonder.”

“It’s no great matter,” said Glinnes. “I’ll see him another time.”

Glinnes drove pell-mell down the dark waterways, past the groves of silent trees, black stencils fringed with star-silver. At midnight he arrived in Welgen. He slept at a dockside inn and early in the morning boarded the east-bound ferry.

Port Maheul, named for its busy spacefield rather than its site on the shores of the South Ocean, was the largest town of Jolany Prefecture and perhaps the oldest city of Trullion. The principal structures were built to archaic standards of solidity with glazed russet brick, timbers of ageless black salpoon, and steep roofs sheathed with blue glass shingles. The square was reckoned as picturesque as any in Merlank, with its perimeter of ancient buildings, black sulpicella trees, and herringbone pavement of russet-brown bricks and cobbles of mountain hornblende. At the center stood the prutanshyr, with its glass caldron, through the sides of which a criminal being boiled and the rapt crowd might inspect each other. Off the square sprawled an untidy market, then a clutter of ramshackle little houses, then the gaunt glass and iron space depot. The field extended east to the Genglin Marshes, where, so it was said, the merlings crept up through the mud and reeds to marvel at the spaceships coming and going.

Glinnes spent a toilsome three days in Port Maheul searching for Scjhil Sodergang. The steward of the ferry that plied between the Fens and Port Maheul vaguely remembered Sodergang as a passenger but could recall nothing else not even Sodergang’s point of debarkation. The town roster listed no Sodergangs, nor was the name known to the constabulary.

Glinnes visited the spaceport. A ship of the Andrujukha Line had departed Port Maheul on the day following Sodergang’s visit to the Fens, but the name Sodergang failed to appear on the manifest.

Oh the afternoon of the third day Glinnes returned to Welgen, and then by his own boat to Saurkash. Here he encountered Young Harrad, whom he found bursting with sensational information, and Glinnes had to delay his own questions to listen to Young Harrad’s gossip which was absorbing enough in itself. It seemed that an act of boldest villainy had been effected almost under Young Harrad’s nose, so to speak. Akadie, whom Young Harrad never had wholly trusted, was the cool culprit who had decided to seize opportunity by the forelock and sequester to himself thirty million ozols.

Glumes gave incredulous laugh. “Sheer absurdity!”

“Absurdity?” Young Harrad looked to see if Glinnes was serious. “The lords all hold this opinion; can so many be wrong? They refuse to believe that Akadie closed off his telephone on the precise day that news of Bandolio’s capture arrived.”

Glinnes snorted in disparagement. “I did exactly the same thing. Am I a criminal on that account?”

Young Harrad shrugged. “Someone is thirty million ozols the richer. Who? The proof is not yet explicit, but Akadie has helped himself not at all by his actions.”

“Come now! What else has he done?”

“He has joined Fanscherade! He’s now a Fanscher. It’s the common belief that they took him in because of the money.”

Glinnes clutched his spinning head. “Akadie a Fanscher? I can’t believe it. He’s too clever to join a group of freaks!”

Young Harrad stuck to his guns. “Why did he depart in the dark of the night and travel up to the Vale of Green Ghosts? And remember, for ever so long he has worn Francher clothes and aped the Francher style. “

Akadie is merely somewhat silly. He enjoys a fad.”

Young Harrad sniffed. “He can enjoy what he likes now, that’s certain. In a way, I respect such audacity, but when thirty million ozols are at stake a switched off telephone sounds pretty thin.”