Aurorarama (3 page)

“I suppose this airship worries you as much as it worries everybody,” said Brentford.

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

“I have four anti-aircraft guns pointed at the thing. Whatever it is, it should worry as well.”

He seemed to reflect for a while, then turned toward Brentford.

“What is your take on it, Mr. Orsini?”

“I hear a lot about ‘aerial anarchists.’ But I think anarchists would be either more discreet or more aggressive. So far, this airship has been more inoffensive than it appears.” Brentford also thought that anarchist threats were a well-known trick used by the authorities to keep everyone in line, but he did not find it necessary to inform Mason of that opinion.

“In my trade, as you know, nothing is inoffensive,” said Mason, walking back to his desk. “Either something is dangerous, or it could well be dangerous.”

“Why not simply blow it up, then?” asked Brentford, faking naïveté.

“Some things or people can be more dangerous when they are destroyed. By the way, have you heard of this book, Mr. Orsini?” he said, with a smile that Brentford, busy trying to regain his balance and control his own reaction, did not have time to interpret.

The book that Mason was showing him was a thin black leather-bound quarto with silver lettering, that reproduced in font and style a seventeenth-century pamphlet. It was signed by a certain Henry Hotspur and was entitled
A Blast on the Barren Land, or The Standard of True Community Advanc’d
. In spite of its garb and guise, it was a transparent thrashing of the Council
of Seven that bordered on a call to arms, and indeed it was not unknown to Brentford.

“By reputation,” he answered, as coolly as possible. “I am surprised you have it in your hands.”

“The Council wanted me to read it. Which I did. And what is
your
take on it?”

“It sounds like one of those hoaxes. People tend to get bored, you know.”

“I have not been here for very long time,” said Mason, “but I know that a hoax can be as effective here as any real thing.”

“Certainly so,” Brentford admitted. “Do you think it could be connected to the airship?” he asked, indicating the window with his chin.

“I also know,” Mason persisted, “that everything has been, is, or will be connected at some point or other. This is a small place, after all.”

“Once again, I could not agree more.”

To Brentford’s relief, Mason put down the book. But it was only to stare at him in a way that made him feel slightly uneasy. He welcomed the knock on the door and the announcement that the Inuit had arrived and were waiting for them in the maps room. They were, after all, not so late.

S
ince Gabriel d’Allier had discovered he could not allow himself to keep a full-time housekeeper anymore, he dined out more and more often. Not that he minded that much: he had always had a taste for market-stall and stadium food, and, as long as he could maintain a three-foot-radius bubble of empty space around him, he was perfectly happy to be among the busy crowds of his beloved city.

He was now having some shrimp from the smorgasbord at a Swedish specialties counter in the Pleasance Arcade, letting the spectacle of the food market alley paint itself on his retinas. As far as the eye could see, the mock castles and the nicely handcrafted wooden shops extended under the iron-and-glass roof
like mirrored reflections of one another, overbrimming with shiny cans, fish and seals beached on gleaming ice, muskox and reindeer carcasses hanging upside down, pyramids of shining fruits and thick groves of vegetables (Brentford seemed to be doing a great job running the Greenhouse), giving to the place a kind of Lubberland atmosphere that pleasantly lulled him. It was not the rush hour yet, and the crowd of passers-by and patrons was mostly composed of Inuit and Russian maids running errands for their employers, and of a few fur-coated, black-hatted flâneurs like himself, whose interest in the generous offerings of Nature was, it seemed, directed as much toward the kissable as toward the edible.

The bubble burst as two men arrived and sat on either side of Gabriel. As he could see from the mirror running behind the counter, one was a tall, broad-shouldered swell with a blond moustache, sporting a black overcoat of the finest cut, a white silk scarf and a top hat, as if he were just out of some theatre matinee; the other, of a lesser bulk, showed a rounder, black-moustached face, and his jowls were framed by a bowler hat and a fur-lined collar. From the corner of his eye, Gabriel could make out on the enormous signet ring worn by the fair buck an emblem showing a moonlit round temple guarded by an owl and a lion, and circled by the inscription
watch & ward
, thereby confirming his apprehension that this was one of the Gentlemen of the Night, whose path one does not cross without good reasons or bad feelings.

“Please, sir, excuse my indiscretion,” said the tall dandy, turning toward him, “have I the honour of speaking with the Honourable Earl Gabriel Lancelot d’Allier de St-Antoine?”

Gabriel sighed ostentatiously.

“You have that honour, indeed.”

“I am mightily pleased to meet you, Mr. d’Allier, a man who is preceded by such a reputation,” answered the man, with an slight inflection that hovered just below the acceptable level
of irony. “Let me introduce myself: I am Sealtiel Wynne and I have the honour to serve the Council of Seven.”

Gabriel nodded, casting a wistful look at the smorgasbord, which seemed to dwindle in the distance, like some enchanted island disappearing in the fog as soon as apperceived.

“I am truly sorry to disturb you, but it happens that it is my unfortunate duty to ask a favour of you. Do you think, Mr. d’Allier, that you could follow us to a more comfortable place?”

“I suppose I
could,”
said Gabriel, trying to face the blue eyes towering too many inches above his own dark brown, twin-barrel look. “But would I
want
to?”

“Let us say that it would be very
kind
of you, if you did.”

“How much I regret it, that I am not
reputed
to perform random acts of kindness,” answered Gabriel, as coldly as he could, which was not much, for a natural distaste for all kinds of authority quickly gave him the williwaws in such circumstances. “Now, please, would you be so kind yourself as to leave a peaceful citizen to have his lunch quietly?”

“A peaceful citizen. How I love this expression, Mr. d’Allier. It sounds almost as good as ‘obedient citizen’ or ‘law-abiding citizen,’ which, I must admit, are the sweetest music to my ears. But, as an intelligent man like you certainly must know, it is, alas, not the citizen himself who decides if he is peaceful or not. Let us imagine that, in a few seconds, a loaded gun should inadvertently fall from your coat pocket. Then, much to my dismay, it would be harder for me to simply take your word for it, and I would have to consider the unpleasant notion that you are a threat to your fellow citizens.”

“Is that gun already about to fall?” asked Gabriel, turning suspicious eyes toward the reflection of the other man.

“Accidents happen quickly, by definition,” Wynne answered, with a fatalistic shrug of his shoulders. “Listen, sir. We would
certainly hate to embarrass you. What I propose to you is this: my friend and I are going to walk to that place I have been talking of, and which is, by chance, not very far from here. Why don’t you follow us there from a
respectable
distance? We will not of course hinder you from finishing that appetizing lunch, so we can very well wait till you are done.”

“I don’t think I’m very hungry anymore. Why don’t you leave now?”

The man rose from his stool and bowed in perfect synchrony with his silent companion.

“As you wish, Mr. d’Allier. And
au plaisir de vous voir.”

The Hôtel de Police in Frislandia, a vast nexus of chiaroscuro corridors, muffled suites, and immense meeting rooms lined with gilt-framed mirrors and succulent plants, was like a five-star palace, except the shortest stay there was always deemed the best. The office in which they received Gabriel was, as promised, very comfortable. The floors were covered with thick woollen rugs, and the walls, of a subtle creamy tint, seemed to be padded with satin. A reproduction of Manet’s
Bar des Folies-Bergères
was hung on the wall and its barmaid contemplated Gabriel with an air of weary concern as he sat in an upholstered club armchair, holding a glass of Courvoisier that had just been offered to him together with a cigar, which he had declined.

“Would you care for some music, Mr. d’Allier?” asked Wynne, coming back from the drinks cabinet and pointing at a phonograph standing against the wall. “We have just received the latest record by the Clicquot’s Cub-Clubbers.”

“Are we yet at the point where my screams have to be drowned?” asked Gabriel, with an archness not quite devoid of nervousness.

“Ah, wit! The next best thing after wisdom!” said Wynne, sitting next to his silent partner behind the mahogany desk that
was, Gabriel reflected, as wide and black as the stone slab of a mortuary. “No, no,” he continued, “we simply like our interlocutors to feel at ease. You see, Mr. d’Allier, our occupation, which should be counted among the noblest, as it deals with such valued and time-honoured notions as peace, order, and harmony, is too often marred by useless indelicacy, instead of the courtesy, protectiveness, and respect that would be only adequate. We see no reason why this should be so, and neither does the Council, in its generosity.”

“Does this generosity extend to my having a lawyer with me?”

“It does, indeed. I am the lawyer,” said the other fellow, standing up and offering his hand to Gabriel, who could not but take it. “Mr. Robert DeBrutus, to help and assist you in all legal matters pertaining to this interview and its consequences.”

“This gentleman is controlling my activity on your behalf,” said Wynne, as the other sat down. “I hope he has no reason to complain about the way things have been handled so far.”

DeBrutus, nodding his head, radiated some shortwaves of approval.

“I must say I have none, Nor, I suppose, has my client.”

Gabriel felt the arms of the Club chair tighten around him and the seat suck him down like some sort of tar pit. As far as he knew, he had not done anything
really
outside the law, but he was also aware, as Wynne himself had understated, that his own opinion was not of the greatest weight in the matter.

“And since we have your rights so much at heart,” Wynne kept on, handing a leather folder to Gabriel, “I will let you know, as it is my duty and pleasure to do, that you are entitled to see the file that we have been carefully putting together about your honourable self.”

Gabriel, casting a look dark enough to snuff out a candle, put down his glass, took the folder and browsed through it,
his life passing in front of his eyes as if he were a drowning man. Everything, from his résumé and professional activities to his less official occupations, had been duly recorded and archived, including his (extremely rare) forays into “poletics” and his (more numerous) sexual proclivities and episodes of drug abuse.

“It is a truly engrossing read, isn’t it?” said Wynne. “You have had a very active life in our community. You should write a book about it sometime.”

“I can see it is already written,” said Gabriel, handing back the folder to Wynne with a shudder that was a blend of fear, disgust, and aggressiveness.

“In a sense, yes. Though I admit it sadly lacks style, the content is certainly instructive. I hope you appreciate the lengths to which our Recording Angels have gone to get the facts down as accurately as possible, so that we, the Guardian Angels, can act at your service in the most useful and enlightened way. It helps us, gathering statistics on facts that you yourself are not necessarily aware of in the course of your everyday life, but that, from an objective and impartial point of view, draw interesting patterns. For instance,” he kept on, pointing to some page in the file, “you may not have noticed it, but it seems that the age of your friends of the fair sex is getting increasingly younger. We certainly encourage the dialogue between generations, but we would not want your commitment as a professor to lead you into
uncharted
territories.”

“Each profession has its own risks,” said Gabriel, with what he hoped would come across as insolence.

“Certainly so, Mr. d’Allier,
les risques du métier …
We are also worried about your health. You seem to have taken, on a basis that can roughly be regarded as regular, products that have been subjects of stern warnings from the Surgeon-General. Mostly psylicates, from what we gathered. Are you not afraid
that these habits might prove to be incompatible with your professional activities as well?”

“I think that they’re not only compatible with my teaching, but necessary to it, though that would be long and probably boring to explain, should I ever want to justify myself on this.”