Maske: Thaery (2 page)

The perrupters marched on, compressing their ranks where the path pinched them between mountainside and loosely stacked stones. The rider spoke something over his shoulder and accelerated his pace. The perrupters jogged forward, and the entire half-finished wall, collapsing, bursting apart, tumbled down the slope. Stones struck Jubal, knocking him down. Hugging his head with hands and arms he curled into a ball, and rolled down-slope with the rocks. He fell over a ledge and frantically sought shelter.

At the far side of the gap the rider halted his ercycle. Serenely he gazed down at the new rock-slide; then, giving his hat a twitch, he turned, and proceeded eastward. The perrupters followed at a trot. The entire column disappeared around a bend in the trail.

The three Djan, convinced that work was finished for the day, returned to their location. An hour later Jubal, bruised and bleeding, with a broken arm, broken ribs, and cracked collarbone, crawled up to the trail. He rested several minutes, then heaving himself erect he staggered away toward Ivo.

In due course, Jubal again set out westward along the High Trail. At Mount Cardoon he spent ten minutes in contemplation of the new revetment, then continued toward Glentlin. After an afternoon’s detour south into Djanad he reached the village Murgen, and the next day crossed into Glentlin.

At Droad House he found an affectionate welcome. Trewe urged him to remain upon the land, as bailiff and overseer. “We will build a new mole at Ballas Cove and a fine house on Junchion Meadow! Where is there a better prospect?”

“I know of none,” said Jubal. “Still, I am restless; in all my life I have achieved nothing.”

“Work and fatigue are well-known cures for restlessness! And what is achievement after all? Another name for vanity!”

“I agree to all you say. I am vain and brash. I consider myself equal to the best, but I’d like to prove this belief, if only to myself.”

“All very well,” argued Trewe, “but how and where? You know the difficulties, with twenty hands reaching for every plum. Also, never forget that you are a Glint among Thariots, hardly an advantage.”

“True, all true. But I refuse to surrender before I am defeated, in fact before I have even tested my weapons. Would you deny me this exercise? And there is also another business which presses on my mind.”

“The mysterious ercycle rider? A madman! Let someone else punish him!”

Jubal snorted and shook his head. “When I think of him my blood boils, and I grind my teeth. He is no madman, and I will never rest until I touch him with a warrant.”

“A serious risk. Suppose he wins the arbitration?”

“Small chance. I can bring forward three witnesses, and other evidence even more damning. He will not escape.”

“It is foolish to waste so much emotion! Think of Junchion Meadow, with its cliff and waterfall and forest: the land of the Droads. This should be the goal of your ambitions, not intrigues and warrants and stealthy dangers in Wysrod.”

“Give me time! Let me work out my rage, then we shall see.”

Trewe threw up his arms and would have spoken more, but a visitor was announced. “He gives his name as Zochrey Cargus.”

“Cargus? Zochrey Cargus?” mused Trewe. “Where have I heard that name?”

“Cadmus off-Droad’s mother was Cargus ilk.”

“Well, bring him in; we’ll find what he wants.”

Zochrey Cargus appeared: the Thariot litigator who a year before had pressed Cadmus off-Droad’s claims. On this occasion he declared himself not an adversary but a negotiator. He said to Trewe, with a look askance toward Jubal: “Our discussion might better be conducted in private, if you have no objection.”

“This is my brother,” said Trewe. “There is no need for privacy.”

“As you wish,” said Zochrey Cargus. “I will go immediately to the gist of my business. Perhaps you recall that I attempted negotiations on behalf of your unfortunate half-brother.”

“I remember the circumstances, and I am surprised to see you again.”

Zochrey Cargus spoke on, his voice suave and mild. “At the time I familiarized myself with the Droad lands, and on this basis was able to advise a person of exalted ilk—needless to say, not Cadmus off-Droad. My client wishes to secure a parcel of scenic land. I suggested that neck, or peninsula, at the far north of your property: Cape Junchion. My principal has authorized me to explore the possibility of negotiations.”

Trewe’s voice was puzzled. “You are asking me to sell Cape Junchion?”

“That is the general effect of my proposals.”

“To whom?”

“My principal prefers to remain anonymous.”

Trewe laughed rather impolitely. “I would not sell an old shoe to someone I did not know.”

Zochrey Cargus took no offense at the remark. “This is a not unreasonable point of view, and I must beg your tolerant understanding. My principal—I can tell you this much—is born to one of the noble ilks.

You will be honored to deal with him.”

“Does he not have estates of his own?” demanded Jubal. “Why does he want Cape Junchion?”

“Solitude appeals to him. Cape Junchion in my opinion fits his needs.”

Trewe rose to his feet. “Had you telephoned, I could have saved you an inconvenient journey. I will not sell Cape Junchion or any other Droad land.”

Cargus remained seated. “I carry a substantial sum in toldecks. And I can make you a generous part-payment.”

“Cape Junchion is not for sale,” said Trewe gruffly. “Now or ever.”

Cargus rather reluctantly rose to his feet. “I am sorry to hear you say this. I hope you will reconsider.”

Trewe merely shook his head and Cargus departed.

An hour later Cargus telephoned Droad House. “I have conferred with my principal,” he told Trewe. “He prefers outright sale, but will agree to a lease, upon terms to be discussed.”

“The answer remains the same,” said Trewe. “I suggest that your client look elsewhere.”

“He is absolutely determined upon Cape Junchion.” And Cargus added thoughtfully: “It might be a mistake not to cooperate with him. He is an influential man—a valuable friend, a dangerous enemy.”

Trewe digested the remarks in silence, then said coldly: “I want him for neither. The subject is closed.”

Cargus spoke on, as if he had not heard. “A lease perhaps is to your best advantage. You retain title while gaining income. And, importantly, you will please, rather than offend, my client.”

Trewe could no longer restrain his anger. “Do you dare to threaten me? You wisely chose to use the telephone.”

“A prediction is not a threat.”

“Do you care to name your client? I would like to hear these threats from his own mouth.”

There was no response; the connection was dead.

Days passed, and a week. Trewe made a few acrid references to Zochrey Cargus and his client, and again discussed with Jubal a new tide-mole and locks across Ballas Cove. Jubal almost agreed to join him in the project, but was deterred by an emotion he could not quite define. He had undertaken Yallow; his wanderlust should be allayed; in fact, he wanted no more aimless wandering. At the top of his mind rankled the recollection of Mount Cardoon; a matter which cried out for resolution, and so it would be.

Then what?

Perhaps Vaidro, his somewhat mysterious uncle, might offer a hint. Vaidro had traveled the length and breadth of Maske, and now lived like a minor magnate in an ancient hunting lodge, once the property of the Cimbar of the now-extinct Cimbar ilk. If Vaidro could not provide constructive advice, no one could.

Jubal borrowed Trewe’s old ercycle and rode thirty miles up the side of Eirse Mountain, through forests of stunted ebane and tall thin thyrse, across stony glades and dark dells, and finally arrived at Vaidro’s antique house: a rambling tall-roofed structure of dark wood. Vaidro, a somber man, compact and economical of movement, came out to meet Jubal and conducted him to a shaded terrace. They sat in wicker easy-chairs, and a Djan maid brought a silver tray with a carafe of wine and a dish of biscuits.

Vaidro leaned back in his chair with a goblet of wine and studied Jubal through half-closed eyes. “Yallow has changed you, more than I might have expected.”

“I have aged a year, certainly.”

“How did you find Thaery?”

“Soft and lovely. The wines are sweet and the girls are charming. I visited every county except Dorvo. I avoided Wysrod. I destroyed thousands of thistles; I sifted acres of beach; I built a stone wall along the front of Mount Cardoon.”

“So now, after Yallow, what do you propose for yourself?”

“This is a hard question to answer.” Jubal tilted his goblet back and forth, to watch the silken oscillations.

“I saw enough of Thaery to discover what I do not want to do. I find that certain careers are earmarked for a few high-caste Thariots, and these, as luck would have it, are the careers which appeal to me.”

Vaidro nodded, with a faint smile. “What is the advantage of caste, after all, if it does not entail privilege?”

“I understand this,” said Jubal, “but I am not reconciled to it. I have only a single life. I want to use it as best I can.”

“The forces of society work against you,” said Vaidro. “To displace a Varest, or an Ymph, or a Lamfery, simple resolve is not enough. You must present unique capacities. Can you do so?”

“If nothing else I can offer energy, forthrightness and candor.”

Vaidro grimaced. “Why these? Certainly no one insists upon them.”

“They could be the more valuable for their novelty.”

“Perhaps they have already been tried and found wanting. Energy? Forthrightness? Both embarrassing.

The only folk who can afford candor are those so securely powerful that they fear nothing.”

Jubal managed a strained smile. “So, I may seem secure and powerful.”

“And candor thereby becomes the greatest duplicity of all. Drink more wine. I congratulate you.”

“I am more than half-serious,” said Jubal. “At Wysrod everyone asserts his privileges and demands accommodation from everyone else. I am a Glint; how can I succeed unless I assert and demand with the best of them?”

“In theory the idea has merit,” said Vaidro. “Practically—well, who knows? When do you go to Wysrod?”

“Something else lies on my mind. I would value your advice.”

Vaidro refilled the goblets. “For whatever it is worth.”

“You have traveled the High Trail; you must know the village Ivo. Two miles west the trail curves around Mount Cardoon…”

As Vaidro listened, his manner altered from detachment to concentrated attention. He said in an earnest voice: “You are a lucky man.”

“Lucky? I escaped with my life; true enough.”

“You are anxious for a career. It lies within your grasp, if you can stifle your candor.”

“Please explain.”

“Tomorrow you must go to Wysrod. You will fly by Blue Disk; I will supply a letter to a most important magnate: Nai the Hever. Deliver the letter only into his hands and at the earliest possible moment. I will write: ‘This is my nephew, who wants employment. He brings information of great interest.’ But you must relinquish your information only after Nai the Hever makes a definite commitment.”

Jubal inspected Vaidro in awe. “How is it that you know the Wysrod magnates?”

“An accidental circumstance; please keep it confidential. In regard to candor and forthrightness: use them sparingly; don’t give away advantages! Drive a hard bargain! You are a Glint and you must compensate by one means or another. About Nai the Hever: he is neither kind nor generous; he is neither candid nor forthright, unless you are of no use to him, when he becomes extremely direct. Unless you can control him, he will control you. He’ll show no gratitude; on the other hand he bears no grudges. Trust him for nothing! If you manage correctly, your fortune is made.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Jubal.

Wysrod occupied the shores of Duskerl Bay: a sober city of irregular narrow-fronted buildings, each different from all the others. The Marine Parade skirted Duskerl Bay; all the other main boulevards, planted heavily with ebanes, moirs and deodars, converged upon Travan Square, the principal node of Thariot government. The Cham, a wooded finger of land, hooked around Duskerl Bay and was joined to Point Sul on the mainland by a massive mole, with two tide-locks.

With Mora two hours high, the Blue Disk landed at Wysrod Station. Jubal alighted, checked his two valises into a locker and left the depot. A dozen hacks awaited patronage, the hackmen in stiff black carapace-like uniforms, pinched, flared, scalloped like the back of a violin, with brass knobs fixed to the epaulettes.

Jubal approached the nearest of the hacks. The hackman saluted without punctilio. “Where to, sir?”

“Hever House, if you please.”

“Hever House?” The hackman considered Jubal’s clothes. “As you will. Climb aboard.”

Somewhat nettled, Jubal seated himself. In due course he would dress to the Wysrod modes; until that time his present clothes, which were at least clean and durable, must suffice.

The hack moved along Sul Road to the Incline, and all Wysrod revealed itself through the crisp morning air: a million lines and angles, defining shapes of gray, black, pale lavender, white, each in turn showing smoke-colored tracings of further detail. Around Travan Square clustered the offices of government, windows glittering back sun-reflections. Out on the bay floated a dozen National feluccas.

Descending to the Marine Parade, the hack drove east beside Duskerl Bay, past shoreside inns and restaurants. The Marine Parade ended; the hack swung up the Baunder, turned left and proceeded along the ridge of the Cham to a stone arch, on which was displayed a two-headed flying snake of black iron: the emblem of the Hevers.

The driveway wound among deodars and rhodopods, past banks of purple daisies, white chanterbells, scarlet trangles. Hever House appeared: a tall gray structure with vast windows of a hundred panes and a roof of a dozen glass-bayed gables.

The hack halted; Jubal alighted and stood a moment appraising the structure. The hackman pointed.

“Yonder is the main entrance, but you’ll no doubt want the path around to the side. You’ll find it among those bushes.”

Jubal turned a cold glare upon the man. “Your remarks are insolent!”

“Take them as you like. Just pay me my quarter-toldeck and I’ll be away.”

The hack departed. Jubal resumed his inspection of Hever House. A stately mansion indeed. Ignoring the path to the side, he mounted broad steps, crossed a verandah and approached a pair of narrow twelve-foot-high doors, studded with iron rondels bearing flying snake motifs. They parted to reveal a footman in dark green livery, who stepped quickly forward. “Yes? What is your errand?”

“I wish to speak with Nai the Hever.”

“The Nobilissimus
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is not available for casual interviews.” Jubal brushed him aside and entered a grand six-sided foyer. It was clear that Nai the Hever lived in circumstances of elegance and comfort. The floor displayed a Djan rug of two or three lifetimes: a confection of astounding intricacy, each colour glowing with rich and subtle fervor. Archways opened into adjacent chambers; a staircase swept down from a balcony.

The major-domo appeared. He spoke in a coldly polite voice: “Yes sir?”

“I wish a word with His Excellency Nai the Hever. You may announce the Honorable Jubal Droad.”

“Impossible. May I deliver a message?”

“Please inform His Excellency that I carry an urgent letter, which must be delivered into his hand alone.”

A cool-faced young woman descended the stairs. She was slender, an inch taller than ordinary, and beautiful beyond anything of Jubal’s experience. Glistening pale blonde hair with dark golden glints under the surface flowed smooth as water to her jaw-line, then flared to the sides. She wore tight white trousers and a loose gray blouse; a fashionable wisp of white cloak dangled down her back. She seemed not to see Jubal at all. “What is the difficulty, Flanish?”

“No difficulty whatever, Lady Mieltrude. This person carries a message for His Excellency.”

“Take the message and place it on the library desk. Then have the conveyance brought around.”

“The message, so I am informed, is urgent,” said Flanish, “and apparently must be delivered to His Excellency’s hand alone.”

Mieltrude inspected Jubal; he thought he had never seen a gaze so devoid of expression. “His Excellency has gone to the Parloury. Is the message instantly urgent?”

Jubal responded in a voice as calm and chill as her own. “Nai the Hever will be able to judge this for himself.”

Mieltrude gave her head a jerk of mild annoyance; her hair rippled and gleamed and showed its various colours. “You had better come with me; I am going to the Parloury and I will arrange an occasion for you.”

Jubal performed a crisp bow. “As you suggest.” But he addressed her already retreating back, so he discovered when he raised his head. Summoning his dignity, he followed her out upon the terrace, across the drive to a small black power-carriage. She stepped up into the compartment; Jubal entered and sat beside her. She stiffened, then gave a shrug of resignation. Jubal saw that she had intended him to ride with the chauffeur. Jubal managed a wintry smile. Ambition had suddenly crystallized into resolution. He would pursue a career; by sheer personal force he would excel, and command the attention of whomever he chose: perhaps even this stunning creature who now rode beside him.

The carriage proceeded by a complicated route through the wooded hills, beside mossy walls and tall hedges of fairy-spangle. The air carried an odor of dank growth: moir, tree violet, heliotrope: a redolence somehow to be associated with ancient wealth and long habitation. At a tall old mansion overgrown with vines, the carriage halted; the portal opened; a brown-haired girl ran out. She approached the carriage and started to enter. At the sight of Jubal she paused. “Oh, do we have company? Who is this?”

Mieltrude looked at Jubal as if seeing him for the first time. “A courier of some kind, I would think. He carries a message to my father.” She said to Jubal: “You might more properly ride with the chauffeur.”

“Quite wrong,” said Jubal. “It is proper that I ride where I am.”

The brown-haired girl climbed into the carriage. “Tush, it’s not important.”

Mieltrude said fretfully: “This is a formal occasion, and I think he’s a Glint.”

“I am a Glint and of high caste,” said Jubal. “Your concern has absolutely no basis.” He called to the chauffeur: “Proceed!”

The two girls turned him wondering glances, then both shrugged and thereafter ignored him. The carriage rolled away, down-slope, toward the center of the city. The girls made inconsequential conversation reflecting upon events and persons remote from Jubal’s knowledge. The brown-haired girl’s name was Sune; she was remarkably pretty, thought Jubal, with a personality much warmer and more volatile than Mieltrude’s. He found her face fascinating, with curls low over her forehead, long eyes, wide cheekbones, flat cheeks slanting to a pointed chin. A susceptible man, reflected Jubal, might find this face maddening, with all its mutable expressions. She could not ignore Jubal quite as ostentatiously as did Mieltrude, and gave him an occasional quick sidelong glance which seemed to imply that, Glint or not, he was not offending her by his presence.

They spoke of a certain ‘Ramus’ with whom both were acquainted, and of a fête they planned to attend.

Mieltrude showed little interest in the event and laughed when Sune reproached her. “After all,” said Mieltrude, “there may be no celebration whatever. We can’t be certain of these things.”

“Of course there will be a celebration!” declared Sune. “Ramus has made the arrangements himself!”

“But he might not be urged. The process is not automatic.”

In disquietude Sune peered into Mieltrude’s face. “Do you know definitely how events will go?”

“I have heard my father speak. Quorce and Mneiodes will not certify.”

Jubal became aware that frivolity had vanished. Mieltrude seemed to be playing a cat-and-mouse game with Sune.

“Angeluke and your father remain; we need only a single acclamation.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Then why do you cast doubts? Surely your father will acclaim?”

“So I would suppose. Why else would he put me in such a peculiar situation?”

“Then we need not fear,” said Sune confidently.

Mieltrude looked out the window, her glance passing Jubal as if he were air.

Sune presently spoke in a low voice: “There are many hateful things abroad… You know that, don’t you?”

“Our world is as we have made it.”

“It is cramped and dull,” said Sune positively. “It needs remaking. Ramus speaks often to this effect.”

“Maske is far from perfect: agreed.”

“So Ramus must be acclaimed!”

The carriage, entering Travan Square, was forced to halt by reason of a multitude of folk streaming toward the Parloury.
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The driver spoke through the voice-pass: “Shall I press on, Lady Mieltrude? There may be delay.”

Mieltrude uttered a quiet expletive and looked across Travan Square. “We’d better walk,” she told Sune, “if we’re to meet my father.”

Jubal jumped to the ground and gallantly prepared to assist Mieltrude and Sune. They looked at him with raised eyebrows, as if he had performed an odd antic, then, descending from the carriage by the opposite door, the two set off across Travan Square toward the Parloury. The crowd impeded progress; Mieltrude and Sune moved this way and that, trying to make haste. Jubal followed, a half-smile frozen on his face.

Arriving at the Parloury, the two girls went to a side entrance marked with the five iron emblems of the Servants: a squat fer, a Dohobay slange, a gryphon, a four-finned fish, a winged two-headed snake: tokens respectively of the Mneiodes, Ymph, Quorce, Angeluke, and Hever ilks. Two guards in black and purple uniforms saluted Mieltrude and Sune, but stepping forward crossed ceremonial maces to bar Jubal. “Let him through,” said Mieltrude. “He’s a courier with a message for my father.”

The guards drew back their maces; Jubal was admitted. Mieltrude and Sune hurried along a passage, with Jubal trotting behind in what he felt must be a ridiculous fashion. They entered a salon illuminated by a green glass cupola and carpeted in dark green plush. A dozen men and women in formal robes stood by a white marble sideboard taking refreshment. Mieltrude scanned the group then spoke to an elderly man, who responded with an inclination of the head and a gesture. Mieltrude signaled to Jubal. “Give me the letter; I will take it to him. He has gone to our private box.”

“Impossible,” said Jubal. “You may or may not be reliable.”

Sune laughed; Mieltrude looked at her with a careful absence of expression and Sune stopped laughing.

Mieltrude said to Jubal: “Come along, then. We still may catch him.”

She hurried off along a passage, halted at a door, urged Jubal to haste with an imperious jerk of the head that set her pale hair flying. She touched a lock; the door slid back and all three passed through, into a wood-paneled booth at the front of a vast chamber, now crowded to capacity with the magnates of Thaery. Conversations, muffled laughs, subdued ejaculations created a musical murmur. Scents enriched the air: attars from Wellas, polished wood, cloth and leather, the exhalations of three thousand magnates and their ladies; their snuffs and pastes and pastilles and sachets.

A pale slender man in robes of black and white stood on the rostrum, not fifty feet away. Mieltrude signaled but he failed to notice. Mieltrude beckoned to Jubal. “There stands His Excellency. If the matter is critically urgent, take your message to him yonder. Otherwise you must wait until after the ceremony.”

Jubal found himself in a delicate position. Vaidro had counseled him to crafty maneuvers; Nai the Hever was now preoccupied and certainly unable to discuss Jubal’s future in that mood of relaxed and constructive concentration which would produce optimum results. Jubal said thoughtfully: “I will wait.”

He looked around the box and seated himself on a long couch of purple cushions.

Mieltrude spoke to Sune in a mutter of hushed amazement. Both turned to look at Jubal, and Sune’s barely suppressed amusement exasperated Mieltrude; she flung herself down upon the couch and sat in tight-lipped silence.

From a gong high in the cupola came a shimmering mellow reverberation. Four men came out upon the rostrum and seated themselves at four ebony desks, identified by iron emblems: a gryphon, a fer, a fish, and a flying two-headed snake. The animate murmur of the chamber became an almost palpable hush.

The Parloury Nunciant stepped upon the rostrum and flinging wide his arms rendered a declamation: “Magnates of Thaery! We have suffered a loss! One of our great leaders is gone. His wisdom guided us across the years; his generosity was a balm and a blessing; he is sorely mourned by all the folk of Thaery.

The Grand Unctator of the Natural Rite will conduct the eulogy and guide his monic spire toward the Lambent Nescience. Revered Unctator, we hear you!”

The Grand Unctator stepped out on a balcony above the rostrum. In one hand he carried a crystal orb to represent the cosmos, in the other a lavender lulade blossom signalizing the fragility of life.

The ritual proceeded the stipulated twenty-three minutes, the Unctator calling out the challenges and the audience singing the rebuttals and finally uttering that aspirate ascending call signifying the lift of the deceased into the Diffusion
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. The Unctator, doffing his white and black mitre, then spoke the Seven Words. With orb and lulade blossom he departed the balcony.

The Nunciant returned to the rostrum and continued his declamation. “I speak again of the Ymph ilk! The lulade blossoms are fresh on the grave; the mourning knots are not yet unbound; still they will not renounce their famous program of Servantry. Again they dedicate their noblest and best! Who is this nominee? He is a man of caste and substance. He understands the lot of a Servant: the lonely burdens, the unrequited toil, the hours of soul-searching, prayer and creative vision; he does not shrink back.