Night Lamp (24 page)

“This afternoon it all came clear. Skirl discovered that Gilfong Rute needs to spread his project across Merriehew. His plans are extremely secret. Mildoon would like nothing better than to whipsaw Gilfong Rute into a large settlement.”

“Sweet revenge, indeed!” said Gaing. “Now you need only wait until Rute appears with an offer, and you can name your own price.”

“The same thought has occurred to me.”

Gaing pushed away the empty platter and called for more beer. Jaro watched him carefully, wondering what might be gnawing at his mind.

Gaing turned half the contents of the tankard down his throat, then scowled off across the room. Jaro silently waited. Gaing swung back to stare fixedly at Jaro, who began to feel a quiver of uneasy guilt. He searched his mind, but could recall no recent mistakes.

Gaing spoke. “I have something to tell you; I don’t know where to start.”

Jaro became more alarmed than ever. “Is it my work? Have I done something wrong?”

“No, nothing like that.” Gaing tilted his tankard again and set it down with a thump. He growled: “It’s something you know nothing about.”

“That’s a relief, or so I suppose. Tell me what it is.”

“Very well.” Gaing signaled for more beer, which arrived immediately. Gaing drank and set down the tankard. “You’ll remember that Tawn Maihac brought you to the machine shop.”

“I remember, of course.”

“He introduced you to Trio Hartung and to me. You became my apprentice.”

“I remember that too. How could I forget?”

“The arrangement was not accidental. Maihac and I are old shipmates. We found that you had been brought here by the Faths. We expected that the man who killed your mother might come here to kill you. His name is Asrubal. We waited and watched, but Asrubal did not come, and you are still alive. We consider this a success.”

“Yes; it is nice,” said Jaro. “I like being alive. Why should Asrubal want to kill me?”

“Asrubal would not kill you outright. First he would question you with great care. He wants to find some documents and he thinks you know where they are hidden.”

“Ridiculous! I know nothing of the sort. I don’t remember anything.”

“Asrubal probably realizes this, which is why you have led a placid life.”

“It doesn’t seem placid to me. But why should you and Maihac worry so strenuously about keeping me alive.”

“No mystery! I worry because I do not want to train another apprentice. Maihac worries because he is your father.”

“My father!” Jaro, after an instant, was not as astounded as he felt he should be. “Why didn’t he tell me himself?”

“Because of the Faths. You were part of the family and everyone was happy; the truth would have brought the Faths much distress and grief. Now they are gone, and there is no reason why you should not learn the truth.”

“So why did Maihac leave Gallingale?”

“Many reasons. I’ll let him tell you himself; he’ll be back very shortly.”

“And when he comes back to Thanet—what happens next?”

Gaing shrugged. “I suspect he has plans of a sort, but what they are I have no idea.” He rose to his feet. “Now I’m going home, because I do not want to talk anymore.”

By noon of the next day Jaro had finished his house-cleaning. Out the door had gone threadbare old rugs, sagging furniture, a great deal of accumulated detritus from attic and cellar. Finally, little of the Faths’ remained to haunt the house save for Althea’s candlesticks, which Jaro knew he could never discard.

Jaro sat down to decide what to do next. He was interrupted by a call from the Faths’ lawyer, Walter Imbald. After making polite inquiries as to how Jaro was coping with his new position in life, Imbald said, “I have on hand a letter and a parcel which Hilyer and Althea Fath intended that I should deliver to you, under certain circumstances. Do you care to call at my office?”

“I’ll be there at once,” said Jaro.

Imbald maintained a modest office halfway along the Flammarion Prospect. A female clerk of uncertain age and severe disposition announced Jaro to Imbald, then took him into the inner office. Imbald rose politely, and Jaro saw a middle-aged gentleman, slight of physique, keen of feature and sharp of eye. Strands of mouse-brown hair had been marshalled sternly back across his scalp. His emblem denoted membership in the obscure and dull Titulary’s Club, while a small black and green button indicated association with the more lively Brummagems. His comporture therefore would be limited, not at all fashionable but sedate, solid and consequential: a ledge or two short of the Squared Circles, much less the Lemurians or the Val Verde. Imbald greeted Jaro without effusiveness, and indicated a chair. “Please be seated.” He resumed his own place. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

“Sorry,” said Jaro. “I’ve been busy sorting myself out. Everything has come at me in a rush.”

Imbald nodded briskly. “As you must know, the Faths bequeathed everything to you, without qualification. Their assets are conservatively invested, providing you a very handsome income. The principal, I might add, cannot be adjusted or tampered with until you are forty years old, and presumably at an age of discretion. This stipulation was inserted at my earnest importunity. In any case, the Faths contrived to make you a very fortunate young man.”

Jaro said stiffly, “I am properly grateful, though I would much prefer to have them back.”

“They were fine people,” said Imbald, without any fire of conviction. “What, may I ask, are your plans for the house and property?”

“I’m in no hurry to make up my mind.”

Imbald pursed his lips judiciously. “Just so. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call on me. But now to our principal business. About three months ago the Faths put a letter and a parcel into my custody. I will give you the letter now.”

Imbald opened a drawer of his desk and brought out a long brown envelope which he handed to Jaro. “I do not know the contents of this letter. I assume that it pertains to the parcel which was also put into my care.”

Jaro read the letter.

“Dear Jaro: This is written as a hedge against a set of highly unlikely circumstances: which is to say, the sudden death of both of us. If you read this letter—the Pates forfend!—it means that these unlikely and sorrowful circumstances have cataclysmically come to pass, and we therefore mourn (along with you, so we hope) the passing of our lives. We are now talking to you from beyond the vale! A strange thought, as I sit here writing this! But, as you know, we try to be both logical and providential. It is foolish to leave anything to chance, when this element can be eliminated. So—if you read this, the event we all deplore has occurred, and we are dead! Nor, on a less awful scale, will you have finished your curriculum at the Institute. We recognize that you are susceptible to impulses which might propel you out upon a wild crusade in search of your origins, before you take your degree. We believe this to be inadvisable, and hope to make a rational sequence of events easier and hence preferable to you.

“Be assured! We sympathize with your anguish, and we are reluctant to be the agents of your frustration, but we are convinced that it is in your best interests that you gain that education which will establish for you a solid and respected place in society. It is an excellent thing to have earned a degree at the Institute!

“So, to this end, we have placed the information which is yours by right in a trust account, which will be opened to you the day after you are graduated from the Institute with representative honors.

“Naturally we hope that you will never read this letter. On the day following your matriculation you will be mystified by the little ceremony we make of its burning.

“Your loving foster parents, Hilyer and Althea Fath.”

Jaro looked at the lawyer. “I do not intend to continue at the Institute.”

“Then you will never receive the parcel placed in the trust account.”

“Is there no way to bypass these provisions? Neither Hilyer nor Althea Fath fully understood the urgency which presses on me.”

The lawyer inspected Jaro curiously. “If I may ask a personal question, why not obey the wishes of your foster parents? They seem reasonable enough, and there are many worse fates than a career at the Institute.”

“I have a friend with a great deal of experience,” said Jaro. “He explained that the Institute is like a fancy aviary for tame birds. No one flies very far afield. The biggest bird sits on the highest perch. Everyone below must keep a wary eye cocked upward.”

Walter Imbald rose to his feet. “I am happy to have met you. If and when you are graduated from the Institute, please call on me again.”

Jaro took his leave and returned to Merriehew. The visit to Walter Imbald had been disheartening. Imbald, while perfectly correct in his conduct, had projected a mood of cold disapproval and even something close to dislike, as if Jaro, in defying the wishes of the Faths, had thereby revealed himself to be an ingrate and a vagabond.

Jaro sat brooding, his mind flitting from one set of ideas to another. He noticed, with a twinge of regret, that already his feelings toward the Faths were altering, and becoming abstract; in fact, he could not avoid a low-key resentment for their attempts to coerce him into a structured style of life, where he could never be comfortable.

Perhaps they had loved him not so much for himself but as the ideal exemplar of all their philosophical ideas, and if Jaro failed to conform to this ideal image, then he must more or less subtly be punished. Still, he would not allow peevishness to distort his thinking.

What of Merriehew? Gilfong Rute had confidently situated his wonderful Levyan Zarda across the Merriehew acreage; the act seemed more than a little arrogant in its assumptions. Perhaps Rute foresaw no difficulties in dealing with an inexperienced young student. Perhaps a few thousand sols more or less, to be paid out to this student, was a negligible item in the full tally of Rute’s putative expenses. Perhaps there would be attempts to awe him, or employ agents of intimidation. In any event, there was no point in considering renovating, or even so much as a new coat of paint, until the issues had been clarified. And what of the most disturbing development of all, which was Tawn Maihac?

Jaro telephoned Gaing at the space terminal. “Jaro here.”

“Yes, Jaro?”

“Have you had any news of Maihac?”

“Nothing more than what you already know.”

Jaro spoke again of Gilfong Rute and his need for Merriehew and its acreage for the Levyan Zarda development. “Rute seems very confident he can take up Merriehew whenever he finds it convenient.”

Gaing thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you have a will?”

“No.”

“I suggest that you make a will, now if not sooner. If you were to die tonight, Maihac would inherit, but Rute does not know this. He probably thinks that you would die intestate and that there would be no near relative, whereupon he would find means to acquire the property. So make a will at once, and let everyone know that a will exists. This is cheap insurance.”

In a subdued tone Jaro asked, “Do you really believe that Rute would have me killed to get hold of Merriehew?”

“Of course. Such things happen.”

Jaro wasted no time placing a call to Walter Imbald.

“Walter Imbald here.”

“This is Jaro Fath.”

“Ah, Jaro. What is the problem?”

“No problem, except that I want to make a will at once, this very afternoon.”

“That is possible. Is it a complicated will?”

“No, quite simple.” Jaro described the terms of the will. “If you will draw up the document, I’ll come to your office and sign it immediately.”

Imbald showed no surprise. “The will can be ready in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be there.”

Jaro took himself to Imbald’s office and signed the document which Imbald had ready for him. Imbald at last permitted some of his curiosity to show. “These legatees: Tawn Maihac, Gaing Neitzbeck—who are they? I know the identity of Skirl Hutsenreiter, of course.”

“Maihac is my father; Gaing Neitzbeck is a friend, as is Skirl.”

“And why the haste?”

“Gaing Neitzbeck advised it, when he found that Gilfong Rute might want to acquire Merriehew for a big development.”

“Ah yes! I understand his thinking. I agree. The will is a good idea.”

Jaro drove the Fath’s old runabout back along Katzvold Road, arriving at Merriehew House just as the sun sank behind the low hills to the west. He entered the house and stood for a moment in the hall. He felt restless and irresolute. Too many things had happened, or were about to happen or might happen; there was imminence in the air, and Jaro felt uneasy. He decided that he was hungry and went into the kitchen. He consulted the larder, wondering what to feed himself. Soup might be nice, along with bread and cheese, and a salad. He brought a carton from the pantry, then halted, listening. The sound of light footsteps running across the porch. A moment later the chime sounded. Jaro went to the door and opened it, to find Lyssel Bynnoc smiling up at him. Jaro stared, nonplussed; of all the persons he knew, here was the one he least expected.

Lyssel spoke, with a gay lilt: “May I come in, Sir Orphan?”

Jaro hesitated, looking her up and down. He stepped aside, and Lyssel, turning him a saucy side-glance, moved past him into the house. She was using her most beguiling mannerisms, which suggested to Jaro that she had some practical purpose in view.

Jaro thoughtfully closed the door and turned to look after her. Today she wore dusky-white pantaloons, tight at the hips, loose at the ankles and a pink blouse. Her hair was gathered into a tuft, tied with a pink ribbon.

Jaro asked formally: “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Lyssel gave her hand a jaunty wave. “Oh—a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Also a dollop of curiosity, to see how you are managing your very own, very private, life.” Jaro studied her, as if she were a strange being from a far world. Lyssel protested, laughingly: “Jaro! Why do you look at me like that? Am I so startling? Or am I too plain for your taste?”