Wyst: Alastor 1716 (19 page)

Aleida Gluster spoke in her coldest tones. “Jantiff Ravensroke
has been accused of murder: this is true. The victim was Clode Morre, clerk in
the Connatic’s service, and the deed occurred upon the extraterritorial grounds
of Alastor Centrality. Responsibility for the detection and punishment of this
crime, therefore, is beyond the legal competence of the Mutuals.”

After a pause of ten seconds, the baritone voice spoke. “Our
orders are definite. We must do our duty and search the premises.”

“You shall do nothing of the sort,” said Aleida Gluster. “At
your first move I will touch two buttons. The first will destroy you, through
robot sensors; the second will call down the Whelm.”

The baritone voice made no response. Jantiff heard the
measured thud of retreating footsteps. The door opened: Aleida looked in at
him. “Quickly now, go after them; it is your only chance. They are confused and
return for orders, and they will find that—I waived extraterritoriality when I
reported Clode’s murder.”

“But where shall I go? If I could get aboard, a spaceship, I
have my passage voucher—”—

“The Mutuals will certainly guard the space-port. Go south!
At Salad’ there is a space-port of sorts; go there and take passage for home.”

Jantiff grimaced sadly. “Balad is thousands of miles away.”

“That may well be. But if you stay in Uncibal, you will surely
be taken. Leave now, by the rear exit. When you reach Salad, telephone the
Agency.”

Jantiff had departed. Aleida Ouster gave her head a shake of
outrage and indignation, and composed a message:

To the Connatic at Lusz, from the Alastor Centrality at Uncibal, Arrabus:

Events are flying in all directions here. Poor Jantiff Ravensroke
is in terrible danger; unless someone puts a stop, they’ll have his blood or
worse. He is accused of a vile crime but he is surely as innocent as a child. I
have ordered him south into the Weirdlands, despite the rigors of the way.
Cursar Bonamico is unfortunately nowhere to be located. I send this off in
agitation, and with the hope that help is on the way.

Aleida Gluster, Clerk
The Alastor Centrality,
Uncibal.

With hunched shoulders and smouldering gaze, Jantiff rode
Uncibal River west; away from the space-port, away from Alastor Centrality,
away forever from the detestable Old Pink, where all his troubles had
originated. Fragmented images whirled through his mind, churned by rage and by
sick misgivings at the prospect of traversing the Weirdlands. How far to Balad?
A thousand miles? Two thousand miles? An enormous distance, in any event,
across a land of forests, mouldering ruins and great sluggish rivers, gleaming
like quicksilver in the Dwanlight… Something tickled Jantiff’s mind: the
mention of an omnibus, its terminus at the Metallurgical Syndicate. Someone had
joked of riding all the way to Balad, so presumably a connection existed.
Regrettably, transportation came dear on Wyst when bought with Arrabin tokens,
of which Jantiff had but few in any case. Glumly he thought of his family
amulet: a disk of carved rose quartz on a stelt armstrap. Perhaps this might
buy his passage to Balad.

So Jantiff rode across the waning afternoon, through the
twilight and into the night. Diverting to the Great Southern Adit he was
carried along the route of the bonterfesters. How far now seemed that occasion,
though only four days gone! Jantiff’s stomach twisted at the recollection.

South through the fringes of the city he rode. Night had fallen
in earnest: a damp dark night by reason of a low overcast. Strands of cold
mist blew along the avenues of District 92, and the overhead lamps became eerie
puffs of luminosity. Few folk were abroad at this time, and as the adit slanted
away from the city their number dwindled even further, so that Jantiff rode almost
alone.

The way climbed a long slope; Uncibal, behind and below,
became a ribbon of hazy light, streaming far to the right and far to the left;
then the way swung into Outpost Valley and Uncibal was blotted from sight.

Ahead appeared the lights of the Metallurgical Syndicate.

The fence came to parallel the man-way, and the fat bolts of
energy playing among the strands were more sinister than ever through the darkness.

Mounds of ore, slag and sinter loomed against the sky; a
barge discharged ore into an underground hopper, to create a clattering roar.
Jantiff watched in sudden interest. Presumably, after unloading the, ore, the
barge would return to the mines, somewhere in Blale, at the southern fringe of
the Weirdlands. Here was transportation quick and cheap, if he could avail
himself of it. Jantiff moved to the side of the way and stepped off. The barge
slid off and stationed itself under another hopper, again came a clatter as
material poured into the barge. Jantiff appraised the situation. The fence no
longer barred the way, but between himself and the barge interposed an area
illuminated by overhead lamps; he would surely be seen if he approached from
the direction of the man-way.

Jantiff returned to the man-way and rode a hundred yards
past the lighted area. Alighting once more, he set off across the dark field,
which was dank with seepage from the slag piles; the mud released an acrid reek
as Jantiff trudged through. Cursing under his breath, he approached the
shadow side of the mound, where the ground became somewhat firmer. Cautiously
Jantiff moved to where he could view the field: just in time to see the barge
lift and sweep away through the night.

Jantiff looked forlornly after the receding side-lights:
there went his transportation south. He hunched his shoulders against the
chill. Standing in the shadows he felt more alone than ever before in his life:
as isolated and remote as if he were already dead, or floating alone in the
void.

He stirred himself. No point standing stupidly in the cold,
though indeed he could see small scope for anything better.

Lights slid across the sky: another barge! It settled upon
the discharge hopper, the operator leaning from his cab to perceive signals
,from the hopper attendant.

The compartments tilted; out poured the ore with a rush and
a rattle. Jantiff poised himself at the ready. The barge slid to a hopper near
the slag pile; slag roared down the chute into the barge. Jantiff bounded at
best speed across the intervening area He reached the barge and climbed upon a
horizontal flange at the base of the cargo bins. Grasping for a secure
handhold, he found only vertical flanges; he would lose his grip as soon as the
barge lurched to a cross gust. Jantiff jumped, caught the upper lip of the ore
compartment; kicking and straining he hauled himself up, slid over the lip into
the compartment, which just at this moment received its charge from the hopper
above. Jantiff danced and trod this way and that, and climbed sprawling across
the slag and so managed to avoid burial. In the cab the operator turned his
head; Jantiff threw himself flat. Had be been seen?… Evidently not. The
loaded barge lurched aloft and slid away through the darkness. Jantiff heaved a
great shuddering sigh. Arrabus lay behind him.

The barge flew a mile or two, then slowed and seemed to
drift. Jantiff lifted his head in perplexity. What went on? A lamp on top of
the control cab illuminated the cargo area; the operator stepped from his cab
and walked astern along the central catwalk. He called harshly to Jantiff. “Well,
then, fellow. What’s your game?”

Jantiff crawled across the slag until, gaining his feet, he
was able to look up at the menacing figure. He did not like what he saw. The operator
was a notably ugly man. His face, round and pale, rested directly upon a great
tun of a torso; his eyes were set far apart, almost riding the cheekbones. The
nose, no more than a button of gristle, seemed vastly inadequate for the
ventilation of so imposing a body. The operator repeated himself, in a voice as harsh as before: “Well then: what’s the game: Haven’t you read the notices?
We’re sharp for restless custodees.”

“I’m no custodee,” cried Jantiff. “I’m trying to leave Uncibal;
I only want to ride across Weirdland into Blale.”

The operator looked down in sardonic disbelief. “What are
you seeking in Male? You’ll find no free wump for certain; everyone earns his
keep.”

“I’m not Arrabin,” Jantiff explained eagerly. “I’m not even
an immigrant; I’m a visitor from Zeck. I thought I wanted to visit Wyst, but
now I’m anxious only to leave.”

“Well, I can believe you’re no custodee; you’d know better
than to ride the ore-barge. Can you guess how you might have fared, had I not
taken pity on you?”

“No, not exactly,” mumbled Jantiff. “I intended no harm.”

The operator spoke in a lordly tone. “First, to clear Daffledaw
Mountains, I raise to three miles, where the air is chill and the’ clouds are
shreds of floating ice. So then, you freeze rigid and die. No, no, don’t argue,
I’ve seen it happen. Next. Where do you think I take this slag? To be set into
a tiara for the contractor’s lady? No indeed. I float over Lake Nernan, where
Contractor Shubart builds his ramp. I turn up the compartments; out pours the
slag, and your frozen corpse as well, to fall a mile into the black water. And
what do you think of that?”

“I was not aware of such things,” said Jantiff mournfully. “Had
I known, I would certainly have chosen some other transportation.”

The operator rocked his head briskly back and forth. “You’re
no custodee; this is clear. They know well enough what happens to illicit
vagabonds.” The operator’s voice became somewhat more lenient. “Well then, you’re
in luck. nil fly you to Blale—if, you pay a hundred owls for the privilege.
Otherwise you can take your chances with the chill and Lake Neman.”

Jantiff winced. “The Arrabins robbed me of everything I own.
I have nothing except a few tokens?’

The operator stared down a long grim moment. “What do you
carry in that sack at your belt?”

Jantiff displayed the contents. “Fifty tokens and some bits
of kelp.”

The operator gave a groan of disgust “What good is such trash
to me?” He wheeled and marched back along the catwalk toward the cab.

Jantiff stumbled and slid in the loose slag as he tried to
keep pace. “I have nothing now, but my father will pay; I assure you of this?”

The operator turned and scrutinized the compartments with
exaggerated care. “I discern no one else; where is your father? Let him come
forth and pay.”

“He is not here; he lives at Frayness on Zeck.”

“Zeck? Why did you not say so?” The operator reached down
and yanked Jantiff up to the catwalk. “I’m a Gatzwan
ger
from Kandaspe,
which is not all that far from Zeck. The Arrabins? Madmen all, and slovens, as well.
Into the cab with you; I marvel to see a decent elitist in such a plight.”

Jantiff gingerly followed the operator’s great bulk into the
cab.

“Sit on the bench yonder. I was about to take a bite of
food. Do you care to join me, or would you prefer your kelp?”

“I will join you with pleasure,” said Jantiff. “My kelp has
become a bit stale.”

The operator set out bread, meat, pickles, and a jug of
wine, then signaled Jantiff to serve himself.

“You are a lucky man to have fallen in with me, Lemiel
Swarkop, rather than certain others I could name. The truth is, I despise the
Arrabins and I’ll ferry away anyone who wants to leave, custodee or not. There
is a certain Booch, now Contractor Shubart’s personal chauffeur, but a one-time
operator. He shows a kind face only to obliging girls, and even then is
fickle—if one is to believe his tales.”

Jantiff decided not to mention his acquaintance with Booch. “I
am grateful both to you and to Cassadense.
[31]

“Whatever the case,” said Swarkop, “the Weirdlands are no
place for a person like yourself. No one maintains order; it is every
man for himself, and you must either fight, hide, or run, unless you have a
submissive disposition.”

“I only want to leave Wyst,” said Jantiff. “I am going to
the Balad space-port for this purpose only.”

“You may have a long wait.”

Jantiff instantly became alarmed. “Why so?”

‘Salad space-port is just a field beside the sea. Perhaps
once a month a cargo ship drops down to discharge goods for Balad township and
Contractor Shubert; you’d be in great luck if you found a ship to carry you
toward Zeck.”

Jantiff pondered the information in gloomy silence. At last
he asked: “How then should I return to Zeck?”

Swarkop turned him a wondering gaze. “The obvious choice is
Uncibal Space-port, where ships depart each day.”

“True,” said Jantiff lamely. “There is always that possibility.
I must give it some thought.”

The barge slid south through the night. Overcome by fatigue,
Jantiff drowsed. Swarkop sprawled out on a couch to the side of the cab and
began to snore noisily. Jantiff went to look out the front windows, but found
only darkness below and the stars of Alastor Cluster above. Down to the side a
flickering light appeared and passed abeam. Who might be abroad in that dark
wilderness? Why were they showing so late a light? Gypsies? Vagabonds? Someone
lost in the woods? The light fell astern and was gone.

Jantiff stretched himself out on the bench and tried to
sleep. Eventually he dozed, to be aroused some hours later by the thump of
Swarkop’s boots.

Jantiff blinked and groaned, and reluctantly hunched himself
up into a sitting position. Swarkop washed his face at the basin, gurgling,
blowing and snorting like a drowning animal. A bleary gray light gave substance
to the interior of the cab. Jantiff rose to his feet and went to the forward
window. Dwan had not yet appeared; the sky was a sullen mottled gray. Below
spread the forest, marked only by an occasional glade, out to a line of hills
in the south.

Swarkop thumped a mug of tea down in front of Jantiff. He
peered down at the landscape. “A dreary morning! The clouds are dank as dead
fish and the Sych is the most dismal of forests, fit only for wild men and
witches!” He raised his hand and performed a curious set of signals. Jantiff
eyed him askance but delicately forbore comment. Swarkop said heavily: “When a
wise man lives in a strange place he uses the customs and believes the beliefs
of that place, if only as sensible precaution. Each morning the wild men of
the Sych make such signs and they are persuaded of the benefits; why should I
dispute them, or despise what, after all, may be a very practical technique?”

“Quite true,” said Jantiff. “This seems a sensible point of
view.”

Swarkop poured out more tea. “The Sych guards a thousand
secrets. Ages ago this was a. fruitful countryside; can you believe it? Now the
palaces are covered with mold.”

Jantiff shook his head in awe. “It seems impossible.”

“Not to Contractor Shubert! He intends to break the forests
and open up the land. He’ll establish farms and homesteads, villages and
counties, and then he’ll make himself King of the Weirdlands. Oh, he has a
taste for pomp, does Contractor Shubart; never think otherwise!”

“It seems an ambitious program, to say the least.”

“Ambitious and expensive. Contractor Shubert milks a golden
stream from the Arrabin teat, so there’s no lack of mots. Oh, I’ll fly his
barges and work to his orders, and someday I’ll be Viscount Swarkop. Booch no
doubt will ordain himself Duke, but that’s nothing to me, so long as he keeps
to his own domain. Ah well, that’s all for the future.” Swarkop pointed to the
southeast. “There—Lake Neman, where Contractor Shubert builds his causeway, and
where I must relinquish your company.”

Jantiff had hoped for transportation all the way to his destination.
He asked despondently, “And then how far to Baled?”

“A mere fifty miles; no great matter.” Swarkop put a plate
of bread and meat before him. “Eat; fortify yourself against the promenade, and
please do not mention my name in

Balad! The news of my altruism would soon reach the Contractor’s
manse and I might be deprived of my title.”