Night Lamp (40 page)

“Sorry,” said Jaro. “I did not intend to offend you.”

There was silence around the table. At last Broy gave a stiff nod. “I am not offended; that is another impertinence! I merely indicate to you the need for keeping a respectful tongue in your head.”

“I shall do my best,” said Jaro meekly. He noticed that both Maihac and Ardrian were smiling quietly. Skirl looked from Jaro to Broy in scorn and disbelief, but managed to hold her tongue. The occasion proceeded, but no longer as informally as before.

Later Ardrian told Jaro and Skirl, “You behaved correctly, exactly as I wished. Broy of Carraw is a sultry young popinjay. He also has connections among the Urd clan, and thought to strike a grandiose posture at your expense. You need not be concerned; it means nothing.”

“I was not concerned,” said Jaro. “I was more amused than otherwise. He is no threat to me.”

“Don’t be too sure! He has an uncertain temper and he is an expert swordsman.”

“I’ll do my best not to provoke him.”

On the following day Jaro and Skirl were taken to view the abandoned palace Somar, seat of the long-extinct Soumarjian Sept. They were escorted by a pair of Ramy cavaliers and two others of Immir House. In awe Jaro and Skirl moved through the silence of the dim halls. In a library Skirl paused to examine the books which crowded the shelves. They were ponderous and thick, with covers of carved board and pages alternating text and hand-wrought illumination.

Roblay of Immir, who seemed to take a special interest in Skirl, stayed with her while the others went on into the grand salon. He explained the books. “At one time everyone kept a personal record in books of this sort. Each of these books tells the story of someone’s life. The books are more than diaries; they are works of artful beauty, mingled with passages of poetry and intimate revelation, which the chronicler could note without embarrassment, since only after death might anyone look in his book. Picture pages were created in loving detail, using the most delightful harmonies of color, sometimes striking, sometimes subdued and misty. The costumes of course are archaic, but if you read the text, the folk in the pictures come to life, and march through the pages in their glories and defeats. The drawing, as you can see, is fluid and flexible, and matches the personality of the chronicler. Sometimes the pictures are innocent, as if seen through the eyes of a child; sometimes they are quietly passionate. It is often said that the books express the chronicler’s wish to live forever. The folk believed, perhaps seriously, that they imparted the essence of themselves into their books, and that the books by some means would clasp time and make it a static thing, so that the person who created the book would forever be alive, half dreaming his way back and forth through the pages he had created so lovingly.” Roblay grimaced. “I must say that we treat the books with reverence, when sometimes we visit one or another of the old palaces.”

“And how old are the books?”

“The fashion came into vogue about three thousand years ago and continued for a thousand years or more. Suddenly, the fashion died out, and now no one would think of dedicating so much toil to a book.”

“It is better than dedicating your life to nothing.”

“Yes,” said Roblay thoughtfully. “I am sure you are right.” He took the book from Skirl and idly turned through the pages, pausing from time to time to study one of the exquisite decorations. “They were folk much like ourselves, of course, but it is amusing to see the quaint old costumes and try to feel the flow of their lives. They were a happier folk, or so it seems. Today there is weariness abroad. Romarth is decaying and can never be what it once was.” He put the book back on the shelf “I seldom look at these books. They put me in a dreary mood and afterward I gloom for days on end.”

“Too bad,” said Skirl. “If I were you, I would go out and explore the real worlds of the Reach, and perhaps find a congenial occupation.”

Roblay smiled wistfully. “That means I might be forced to labor incessantly for food and shelter.”

“It might turn out like that.”

“At Romarth I neither toil nor labor. I live in a palace and dine very nicely. The contrast is hard to ignore.”

Skirl laughed. “You live a sheltered life, like an oyster secure in its shell.”

Roblay raised his eyebrows. “You would not say so if you knew me better! I have fought four duels and twice I have gone out to hunt houseghouls. I am a captain of the Dragoons, but enough of me! Let us talk of you. For instance, and a very important question: Are you bonded to anyone?”

Skirl looked at him sidelong. “I am not sure that I understand you,”—though she did very well. Roblay was gallant and charming, and there was no harm in a bit of flirtation. In essence, so she explained to herself, she was studying the sociology of the Roum cavaliers.

“What I mean is this.” For an instant Roblay touched her shoulder. “Are you free to make decisions, without accountability?”

“Of course! I direct my own affairs.”

Roblay smiled. “You are an off-worlder; still you exercise a most curious appeal which I hardly know how to describe.”

“I am exotic,” said Skirl. “I reek with the tantalizing mystery of the unknown.” The two smiled at each other. Roblay started to respond, but stopped short and jerked his head around to stare at the bookcases. Skirl thought to hear a furtive sound. She looked over her shoulder and around the room, at the same time drawing the handgun which Maihac insisted that she carry. There was nothing to be seen. In a husky half-whisper she asked, “What was that?”

Roblay, still staring this way and that, said, “Sometimes there are secret passages behind the walls—perhaps here as well, although Somar is supposed to be a safe house. Nothing is ever certain, of course. The houseghouls like to spy; then, if the mood is on them, they reach out for someone who has not noticed them. They are unnerving beasts. Come; let us join the others.”

On the following day Jaro and Maihac were summoned to the Colloquary to consult with Morlock and a pair of councillors, which, according to Ardrian, meant that the adjudicators were taking the charges against Asrubal seriously. Skirl, at loose ends, went out to wander the boulevards of Romarth. She finally came to rest at a café on the edge of Gamboye Plaza. Here she was joined by Roblay of Immir. “I saw you sitting alone,” he told her. “I decided to join you and continue our conversation, which was interrupted by a creak in the woodwork.”

“It was more than a creak,” said Skirl. “It was a houseghoul, deciding whether we’d be good to eat.”

Roblay gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “So it might have been—though I don’t like to think of it. We have always felt secure in Somar, since it is well into the near neighborhood.”

“Why don’t you exterminate the creatures once and for all? If this were Gallingale, there would be no houseghouls in our basements.”

“We have set out on these expeditions a hundred times. When we venture into the crypts, we become vulnerable and they play awful tricks upon us, so that we become too sickened to proceed.”

“Something else which puzzles me is the Foundance. Tell me: how does it function?”

Roblay gave an uncomfortable grimace. “It is something no one wishes to talk about; in fact, it is off the edge of polite conversation, and in very poor taste to so much as notice the place.”

“I don’t mind a bit of vulgarity. Can we visit it and see for ourselves what goes on?”

Roblay seemed surprised. He looked toward the green-domed structure beside the river. “I have never thought to do so. I suppose there is nothing to stop us; the entrance ramp gives directly upon the Esplanade, for convenience.”

“What sort of convenience? Tell me. You have hinted of what you know and I am curious.”

“Very well. To start, I should say that one of every two hundred Seishanee is a sport; as he grows, he becomes something other than the usual Seishanee, and is known as a grichkin. He is ugly and squat, with a bald head, pointed on top, a long nose hanging over a little mouth and a trifle of chin. Most important of all, he is intelligent enough to think, to execute complex orders and to supervise the ordinary Seishanee. Every household employs grichkins as major-domos. The grichkins, so I believe, control the processes in the Foundance without interference from the Roum, who want nothing to do with the place. The grichkins take care of all the unpleasant household details. When a Seishanee servant reaches a certain age, he becomes careless and slothful; his skin turns yellow and his hair falls out; meanwhile, he becomes fat as a grape. In the early hours, when none of the Roum are abroad, the grichkins take the used Seishanee to the Foundance and slide him into the corpse bin, where he is processed and mixed into the slurry. When a Roum dies, we pretend that he is transported to a wonderful city among the clouds. This is the fable we tell our children when they ask what has happened to a relative who is suddenly gone. The truth is that the grichkins carry the corpse to the Foundance and slide him into the bin, and he joins the slurry.” Roblay laughed without humor. “So now you know as much as I do. If you wanted to inspect the processes at close hand, no one would stop you and the way is open, but you would not like what you saw.”

“Would I also be mixed into the slurry?”

“I think not. You would be ignored. The grichkins are mild and respectful, like the other Seishanee. Do you still want to visit the Foundance? I am told that the smell is not at all nice.”

Skirl looked toward the heavy structure beside the Skein. “I may want to go another time—but not now.”

“That is sound thinking, especially since I have plans which you will find far more interesting.” Roblay took off his hat and put it aside. “Do you care to listen?”

Skirl was amused. “I have nothing better to do.”

“Good! I will therefore assume that you are in a receptive mood.”

“At the very least, I am listening.”

Roblay nodded gravely, as if Skirl had uttered an aphorism of great profundity. “I will approach the matter indirectly. You are aware that the Roum way of life is different from all others.”

“Yes,” said Skirl. “I have noticed.”

“What you cannot know is that our aesthetic perceptions are extremely sensitive. It is expected of us from birth; we grow into these capacities, so that we use every part of our mind in full flexibility. Some of us are telepathy; others command as many as nine distinct sensory perceptions, so that our consciousness is enhanced to a corresponding degree. I myself have attained a relatively high level of sensitivity, and I would like to share some of these insights with you.”

Skirl smilingly shook her head. “Don’t bother. You would be using words I would not understand.”

“Ah, but the demonstration takes us far beyond talking! Naturally, you must be responsive and eager for exploration. What do you say to that?”

“I say that I want the program explained in greater detail.”

“Of course! Come; we will go to my apartment.”

“And then what?”

Roblay charged his voice with enthusiasm. “Our goal is to modulate the instants of existence as an impresario controls the musicians of his orchestra. Now then: do you believe me?”

“Of course! What happens first? Please explain, step by step.”

Now a trifle sulky, Roblay said, “As we enter the apartment, each of us lights a ceremonial candle and each inhales the scent arising from the other’s flame. This is a ritual of great antiquity and it symbolizes conjunction of the spirit at a certain level, which I will not define, since it takes us into the realm of mysticism. For the purposes of actuality, we carry the candles into my gray and lilac chamber and place them on the sideboard, to either side of my sacramental tourmaline, which is three feet high and a thing of great beauty. As we contemplate the shift of shades and lights, my servants disrobe us, so deftly that you never feel their hands. Next we are sprayed head to toe with a crust. For you the color shall be pistachio green; I will appear in a different tint and a different flavor. Next, we call for our masks.”

Skirl was mildly puzzled. “Masks? Don’t we know each other?”

“The masks are essential. They muffle the stirring of old doxologies. When the mask conceals your face, you will feel an airy floating sensation. Our outer selves are gone; we have become symbols.

“The servants will now arrange you on a table, where I chart a grid of half-inch squares upon your body, conforming to every curve and channel, all the nooks and swellings. Using the grid and a pulsing wand, I discover the sensitive zones of your personal surface. These are printed in color upon a large chart, which you will take away with you. It makes a splendid wall decoration, which your friends will admire.

“Now we delicately decrust each other, which is always amusing, and perhaps attempt a few erotic techniques, some orthodox, some novel, as the mood happens to overtake us. When fatigue arrives, the servants lift us upon membranes, carry us to a pool and lower us gently into warm water. As we float the water is activated, producing surges of turbulent bubbles. The effect is unusual, like felt music. The crust is now dissolved. The masks are removed and we are once more ourselves.

“The servants lift us from this languid pool on the membranes and carry us to another pool, where they place us on a slide. Down the slide we hurtle, into a pool of water colder than the coldest ice. There we float, enjoying the tingling of each dermal nerve. Finally, when we have exhausted the pleasures of the water, the servants remove us to a dais, where they stroke us with soft towels and dress us in costumes of white linen.

“It is now time to dine. By the light of the ceremonial candles the repast is served, and when the candles gutter and die, the occasion is at an end.” Roblay rose to his feet. “So—what do you think?”

Skirl considered a moment. “It sounds very inventive, also just a bit strenuous.”

“Not really,” said Roblay. “Once you are masked, you become quite relaxed.” He reached out to take her arm. “Come! Immir Palace is close at hand.”

Skirl shook her head. “It’s nice of you to ask, but even with the mask I don’t think I would like someone charting my zones. Still, you’ve helped me understand some of the Roum traditions, and now I think I know why the Roum birth rate is so low.” Skirl stood up, and backed away from Roblay’s attempt to clasp her. “Please excuse me; now I must return to Carleone.”