The Blue World (2 page)

“What I want
to do,” said Meril, “is to make a careful new study of the
Memoria. I want to note each of the absurdities and try to understand
it, try to relate it to all the other absurdities—because I
can’t believe that the men who wrote the Memoria considered these
passages absurdities.”

Sklar Hast gave a
shrug of indifference. “Incidentally, your father suggested that
you might care to be tested. If you like, you can come to my float
any time after tomorrow morning—Coralie Vozelle will then be
leaving.”

Meril Rohan
compressed her lips in mingled amusement and vexation. “My
father is trying to marry me off long before I care to be so dealt
with. Thank you, I do not care to be tested. Coralie may exert
herself on your behalf yet another week, for all of me. Or another
month. Or a year.”

“As you wish,”
said Sklar Hast. “It probably would be time wasted, since we
obviously have no community of soul.”

Shortly thereafter
Meril Rohan departed Tranque Float for the Scriveners’ Academy on
Quatrefoil. Sklar Hast had no idea whether or not Meril had mentioned
his solicitation to her father, but thereafter the relationship
congealed. In due course Meril Rohan returned to Tranque with her own
copies of the Memoria. The years on Quatrefoil had changed her. She
was less careless, less flamboyant, less free with her opinions, and
had become almost beautiful, though she still ran to leg and a
certain indefinable informality of dress and conduct. Sklar Hast
twice had offered to test her. On the first occasion she gave him an
absent-minded negative; on the second—only a day or two before—she had informed him that Semm Voiderveg was planning to
espouse her without benefit of testing.

Sklar Hast found
the news incredible, disturbing, unacceptable. Semm Voiderveg, a
Hooligan by caste, was Tranque Intercessor, with a prestige second
only to that of Ixon Myrex, the Float Arbiter. Nevertheless Sklar
Hast found a dozen reasons why Meril Rohan should not become spouse
to Semm Voiderveg, and he was not at all diffident in imparting them.

“He’s an old
man! You’re hardly more than a girl! He’s probably an Eighth! Maybe a
Ninth.”

“He’s not so
old. Ten years older than you, or so I should guess. Also he’s a
Tenth.”

“Well, you’re
an Eleventh, and I’m an Eleventh!”

Meril Rohan looked
at him, head at a sidelong tilt, and Sklar Hast suddenly became aware
of matters he had never noticed before: the clear luminosity of her
skin, the richness of her dark curls, the provocative quality that
once had seemed boyish abruptness but now was—something else.

“Bah,”
muttered Sklar Hast. “You’re both insane, the pair of you. He
for wiving without a test, you for Ringing yourself into the
household of a kragen-feeder. You know his caste? He’s only a
Hooligan.”

“What a
disrespectful attitude!” she exclaimed. “Semm Voiderveg is
Intercessor!”

Sklar Hast peered
frowningly at her in an attempt to learn if she was serious. There
seemed to be a lightness to her voice, a suppressed levity which he
was unable to interpret. “What of it?” he asked. “When
you add everything together, the kragen is only a fish. A large fish,
true. Still, it seems foolish making so much ceremony over a fish.”

“If he were an
ordinary fish, your words would have meaning,” said Meril Rohan.
“King Kragen is not a fish, and he is—extraordinary.”

Sklar Hast made a
bitter sound. “And you’re the one who went to Quatrefoil to
become a scrivener! How do you think Voiderveg will take to your
unorthodox ideas?”

“I don’t
know.” Meril Rohan gave her head a frivolous toss. “My
father wants me married. As spouse to the Intercessor I’ll have time
to work on my analysis.”

“Disgusting,”
said Sklar Hast, and walked away. Meril Rohan gave her shoulders a
shrug and went her own way.

Sklar Hast brooded
on the matter during the morning and later in the day approached
Zander Rohan: a man as tall as himself, with a great mop of white
hair, a neat white beard, a pair of piercing gray eyes, a pinkish
complexion, and a manner of constant irascible truculence. In no
respect did Meril Rohan resemble her father save in the color of her
eyes.

Sklar Hast, who had
the least possible facility with tact or subtlety, said, “I’ve
been speaking to Meril. She tells me you want her to espouse
Voiderveg.”

“Yes,”
said Zander Rohan. “What of it‘?”

“It’s a poor
match. You know Voiderveg: he’s portly, pompous, complacent,
obstinate, stupid—“

“Here, here!”
exclaimed Rohan. “He’s Intercessor to Tranque Float! He does my
daughter great honor by agreeing to test her!”

“Hmm.”
Sklar Hast raised his eyebrows. “She told me he’d waived
testing.”

“As to that, I
can’t say. If so, the honor is even greater.”

Sklar Hast drew a
deep breath and made a hard decision. “I’ll marry her,” he
growled. “I’ll waive testing. It would be a much better match
for her.”

Rohan drew back,
lips parted in an unpleasant grin.

“Why should I
give her to an assistant hoodwink when she can have the Intercessor?
Especially a man who thinks he’s too good for her, to begin with!”

Sklar Hast held
back his anger. “I am a Hoodwink, as is she. Do you want her
attached to a Hooligan?”

“What
difference does it make? He is Intercessor!”

“I’ll tell you
what difference it makes,” said Sklar Hast. “He can’t do
anything except caper for the benefit of a fish. I am Assistant
Master Hoodwink, not just an assistant hoodwink. You know my
quality.”

Zander Rohan
compressed his lips, gave his head a pair of short sharp jerks. “I
know your quality—and it’s not all it should be. If you
expect to master your craft, you had best strike the keys with more
accuracy and use fewer paraphrases. When you meet a word you can’t
wink, let me know and I will instruct you.”

Sklar Hast clamped
his throat upon the words that struggled to come forth. For all his
bluntness, he had no lack of self-control when circumstances
warranted, as they did now. Staring eye to eye with Zander Rohan, he
weighed the situation. Should he choose, he might require Zander
Rohan to defend his rank, and it almost seemed that Rohan were daring
him to challenge: for the life of him Sklar Hast could not understand
why—except on the basis of sheer personal antipathy. Such
contests, once numerous, now were rare, inasmuch as consideration of
dignity made resignation of status incumbent upon the loser. Sklar
Hast had no real wish to drive Zander Rohan from his position, and he
did not care to be driven forth himself … He turned his back and
walked away from the Master Hoodwink, ignoring the contemptuous snort
that came after him.

At the foot of the
tower he stood staring bleakly and unseeingly through the foliage. A
few yards away was Zander Rohan’s ample three-dome cottage, where,
under a pergola draped with sweet-tassel, Meril Rohan sat weaving
white cloth at the loom—the spare-time occupation of every
female from childhood to old age. Sklar Hast went to stand by the low
fence of woven withe which separated Rohan’s plot from the public
way. Meril acknowledged his presence with a faint smile and continued
with her weaving.

Sklar Hast spoke
with measured dignity. “I have been talking with your father. I
protested the idea of your espousal to Voiderveg. I told him I would
marry you myself.” And he turned to look out across the lagoon.
“Without testing.”

“Indeed. And
what did he say?”

“He said no.”

Meril, making no
comment, continued with her weaving.

“The situation
as it stands is ridiculous,” said Sklar Hast. “Typical of
this outlying and backward float. You would be laughed out of
countenance on Apprise or even Sumber.”

“If you are
unhappy here, why do you not go elsewhere?” asked Meril in a
voice of gentle malice.

“I would if I
could—I’d leave these insipid floats in their entirety! I’d
fly to the far worlds! If I thought they weren’t all madhouses.”

“Read the
Memoria and find out.”

“Hmm. After
twelve generations all may be changed. The Memoria are a pedant’s
preserve. Why rake around among the ashes of the past? The scriveners
are of no more utility than the intercessors. On second thought, you
and Semm Voiderveg will make a good pair. While he invokes blessings
upon King Kragen, you can compile a startling new set of Analects.”

Meril halted her
weaving, frowned down at her hands. “Do you know, I think I will
do exactly this?” She rose to her feet, came over to the fence.
“Thank you, Sklar Hast!”

Sklar Hast
inspected her with suspicion. “Are you serious?”

“Certainly.
Have you ever known me otherwise?”

“I’ve never
been sure … How will a new set of Analects be useful? What’s wrong
with the old ones?”

“When
sixty-one books are condensed into three, a great deal of information
is left out.”

“Vagueness,
ambiguity, introspection: is any of it profitable?”

Meril Rohan pursed
her lips. “The inconsistencies are interesting. In spite of the
persecutions the Firsts suffered, all express regret at leaving the
Home Worlds.”

“There must
have been other sane folk among the madmen,” said Sklar Hast
reflectively. “But what of that? Twelve generations are gone;
all may be changed. We ourselves have changed, and not for the
better. All we care about is comfort and ease. Appease, assuage,
compromise. Do you think the Firsts would have capered and danced to
an ocean-beast as is the habit of your prospective spouse?”

Meril glanced over
Sklar Hast’s shoulder; Sklar Hast turned to see Semm Voiderveg the
Intercessor, standing by with arms clasped behind his back, head
thrust forward: a man of maturity, portly, but by no means
ill-favored, with regular features in a somewhat round face. His skin
was clear and fresh, his eyes a dark magnetic brown.

“These are
impertinent remarks to make of the Intercessor!” said Semm
Voiderveg reproachfully. “No matter what you think of him as an
individual, the office deserves respect!”

“What office?
What do you do?”

“I intercede
for the folk of Tranque Float; I secure for us all the benevolence of
King Kragen.”

Sklar Hast gave an
offensive laugh. “I wonder always if you actually believe your
own theories.”

“‘Theory’
is an incorrect word,” stated Semm Voiderveg. “‘Science’
or ‘doxology’ is preferable.” He went on in a cold
voice. “The facts are incontrovertible. King Kragen rules the
ocean, he lends us protection; in return we gladly tender him a
portion of our bounty. These are the terms of the Covenant.”

The discussion was
attracting attention among others of the float; already a dozen folk
had halted to listen. “In all certainty we have become soft and
fearful,” said Sklar Hast. “The Firsts would turn away in
disgust. Instead of protecting ourselves, we bribe a beast to do the
job.”

“Enough!”
barked Semm Voiderveg in a sudden cold fury. He turned to Meril,
pointed toward the cottage. “Within—that you need not
hear the wild talk of this man! An Assistant Master Hoodwink!
Astonishing that he has risen so high in the guild!”

With a rather vague
smile Meril turned and went into the cottage. Her submission not only
irked Sklar Hast; it astounded him.

With a final
indignant glance of admonition Semm Voiderveg followed her within.

Sklar Hast turned
away toward the lagoon and his own pad. One of the men who had halted
called out. “A moment, Sklar Hast! You seriously believe that we
could protect our own if. King Kragen decided to depart?”

“Certainly,”
snapped Sklar Hast. “We could at least make the effort! The
intercessors want no changes—why should they?”

“You’re a
troublemaker, Sklar Hast!” called a shrill female voice from the
back of the group. “I’ve known you since you were an infant; you
never were less than perverse!”

Sklar Hast pushed through the group,
walked through the gathering dusk to the lagoon, ferried himself by
coracle to his pad. He entered the hut, poured himself a cup of wine,
and went out to sit on the bench. The halcyon sky and the calm water
soothed him, and he was able to summon a grin of amusement for his
own vehemence—until he went to look at the arbors plucked
bare by King Kragen, whereupon his ill-humor returned.

He watched winks
for a few moments, more conscious than ever of Zander Rohan’s brittle
mannerisms. As he turned away, he noticed a dark swirl in the water
at the edge of the net: a black bulk surrounded by glistening cusps
and festoons of starlit water. He went to the edge of his float and
strained his eyes through the darkness. No question about it: a
lesser kragen was probing the net which enclosed Tranque Lagoon!

Sklar Hast ran across the pad, jumped
into his coracle, thrust himself to the central float. He delayed
only long enough to tie the coracle to a stake formed of a human
femur, then ran at top speed to the hoodwink tower. A mile to the
west flickered the Thrasneck lamps, the configurations coming in the
unmistakable style of Durdan Farr, the Thrasneck Master Hoodwink:
“
… thirteen … bushels … of … salt … lost … when …
a … barge … took … water … between … Sumber … and …
Adelvine …
”

Sklar Hast climbed
the ladder, burst into the cupola. Zander Rohan swung about in a
surprise that became truculence when he saw Sklar Hast. The pale pink
of his face deepened to rose; his lips thrust out; his white hair
puffed and glistened as if angry in its own right. It occurred
fleetingly to Sklar Hast that Zander Rohan had been in communication
with Semm Voiderveg, the subject under discussion doubtless being
himself. But now he pointed to the lagoon. “A rogue, breaking
the nets. I just saw him. Call King Kragen!”

Zander Rohan
instantly forgot his resentment, dashed the cut-in signal. His
fingers jammed down rods; he kicked the release. “
Call … King
… Kragen!
” he signaled. “
Rogue …in … Tranque …
Lagoon!
”

On Thrasneck Float
Durdan Farr relayed the message to the tower on Bickle Float, and so
along the line of floats to Sciona at the far west, which thereupon
returned the signal: “
King … Kragen … is … nowhere … at
… hand.
” Back down the line of towers flickered the message,
returning to Tranque Float in something short of twelve minutes.

Sklar Hast had not
awaited the return message. Descending the ladder, he ran back to the
lagoon. The kragen had cut open a section of the net and now hung in
the gap, plucking sponges from a nearby arbor. Sklar Hast pushed
through the crowd which stood watching in awe. “Ha! Ho!”
cried Sklar Hast, flapping his arms. “Leave us, you dismal black
beast!”

The kragen ignored
him and with insulting assurance continued to pluck sponges and
convey them to its maw. Sklar Hast picked up a heavy knurled joint
from a sea-plant stem, hurled it at the turret, striking the forward
eye-tube. The kragen recoiled, worked its vanes angrily. The folk on
the float muttered uneasily; though a few laughed in great
gratification. “There’s the way to deal with kragen!”
exulted Irvin Belrod, a wizened old Advertiserman. “Strike
another blow!”

Sklar Hast picked
up a second joint, but someone grabbed his arm—Semm
Voiderveg, who spoke in a sharp voice. “What ill-conceived acts
are you committing?”

Sklar Hast jerked
free. “Watch and you’ll see.” He turned toward the kragen,
but Voiderveg stepped in his way. “This is arrogance! Have you
forgotten the Covenant? King Kragen has been notified; let him deal
with the nuisance. This is his prerogative!”

“While the
beast destroys our net? Look!” Sklar Hast pointed across the
water to Thrasneck Tower, where the return message now flickered:
“
King … Kragen … is … nowhere … to … be … seen.
”

Semm Voiderveg gave
a stiff nod. “I will issue a notice to all intercessors and King
Kragen will be summoned.”

“Summoned how?
By calling into the night with lamps held aloft?”

“Concern
yourself with hoodwinking,” said Semm Voiderveg in the coldest
of voices. “The intercessors will deal with King Kragen.”

Sklar Hast turned,
hurled the second joint, which struck the beast in the maw. It
emitted a hiss of annoyance, thrashed with vanes, and breaking wide
the net, surged into the lagoon. Here it floated, rumbling and
hissing, a beast perhaps fifteen feet in length.

“Observe what
you have accomplished!” cried Semm Voiderveg in a ringing voice.
“Are you satisfied? The net is now broken and no mistake.”

All turned to watch
the kragen, which swung its vanes and surged through the water, a
caricature of a man performing the breast-stroke. Starlight danced
and darted along the disturbed water, outlining the gliding black
bulk. Sklar Hast cried out in fury: the brute was headed for his
arbors, so recently devastated by the appetite of King Kragen! He ran
to his coracle, thrust himself to his pad. Already the kragen had
extended its palps and was feeling for sponges. Sklar Hast sought for
an implement which might serve as a weapon; there was nothing to
hand: a few articles fashioned from human bones and fish cartilage, a
wooden bucket, a mat of woven fiber. Leaning against the hut was a
float-hook, a stalk ten feet long, carefully straightened, scraped,
and seasoned, to which a hook-shaped human rib had been lashed. He
took it up and now from the central pad came Semm Voiderveg’s cry of
remonstrance. “Sklar Hast! What do you do?”

Sklar Hast paid no
heed. He ran to the edge of the pad, jabbed the float-hook at the
kragen’s turret. It scraped futilely along the resilient cartilage.
The kragen swung up a palp, knocked the pole aside. Sklar Hast jabbed
the pole with all his strength at what he considered the kragen’s
most vulnerable area: a soft pad of receptor-endings directly above
the maw. Behind, he heard Semm Voiderveg’s outraged protest: “This
is not to be done! Desist! Desist!”

The kragen quivered
at the blow, twisted its massive turret to gaze at Sklar Hast. It
swung up its fore-vane, slashing at Sklar Hast, who leaped back with
inches to spare. From the central pad Semm Voiderveg bawled, “By
no means molest the kragen; it is a matter for the King! We must
respect the King’s authority!”

Sklar Hast stood
back in fury as the kragen resumed its feeding. As if to punish Sklar
Hast for his assault, it . passed close beside the arbors, worked its
vanes, and the arbors—sea-plant stalk lashed with fiber—collapsed.

Sklar Hast groaned.
“No more than you deserve,” called out Semm Voiderveg with
odious complacence. “You interfered with the duties of King
Kragen—now your arbors are destroyed. This is justice.”

“Justice?
Bah!” bellowed Sklar Hast. “Where is King Kragen? We feed
the gluttonous beast; why isn’t he at hand when we need him?”

“Come, come,”
admonished Semm Voiderveg. “This is hardly the tone in which to
speak of King Kragen!”

Sklar Hast groped
through the shadows, retrieved the float-hook, to find that the bone
had broken, leaving a sharp point. With all his power, Sklar Hast
thrust this at the kragen’s eye. The point slid off the hemispherical
lens, plunged into the surrounding tissue. The kragen humped almost
double, thrust itself clear of the water, fell with a great splash
and, sounding, sank from sight. Waves crossed the lagoon, reflected
from the surrounding floats, subsided. The lagoon was quiet.

Sklar Hast went to
his coracle, pushed himself to the mainland, joined the group which
stood peering down into the water.

“Is it dead?”
inquired one Morgan Resly, a Swindler of good reputation.

“No such
luck,” growled Sklar Hast. “Next time—“

“Next time—what?” demanded Semm Voiderveg.

“Next time,
I’ll kill it”

“And what of
King Kragen, who reserves such affairs to himself?”

“King Kragen
doesn’t care a fig one way or the other,” said Sklar Hast.
“Except for one matter: if we took to the habit of killing
kragen, we might begin to look him over with something of the sort in
mind.”

Semm Voiderveg made
a guttural sound, threw up his hands, turned, walked rapidly away.

Poe Belrod, nominal
Elder of the Belrod clan even though Irvin surpassed him in actual
age, asked Sklar Hast, “Can you really kill a kragen?”

“I don’t
know,” said Sklar Hast. “I haven’t given the notion any
thought—so far.”

“They’re a
tough beast.” Poe Belrod shook his big, crafty head in doubt.
“And then we’d have the wrath of King Kragen to fear.”

“It’s a matter
to think about,” said Sklar Hast.

Timmons Valby, an
Extorter, spoke. “How is King Kragen to know? He can’t be
everywhere at once.”

“He knows, he
knows all!” stated a nervous old Incendiary. “All goes well
along the floats; we must not cause grief and woe from pride;
remember Kilborn’s Dictum from the Analects: ‘Pride goeth
before a fall?”

“Yes, indeed,
but recall Baxter’s Dictum: “There shall no evil happen to the
just, but the wicked shall be filled with mischief?”

The group stood
silent a moment, looking over the la-goon, but the kragen did not
reappear.

“He’s broken
through the bottom and departed,” said Morgan Resly, the
Swindler.

The group gradually
dispersed, some going to their huts, others to Tranque Inn—a
long structure furnished with tables, benches, and a counter where
wines, syrups, spice-cake, and pepperfish were to be laid. Sklar Hast
joined this latter group, but sat morosely to the side while every
aspect of the evening’s events was discussed. Everyone was vehement
in his detestation of the rogue kragen but some questioned the method
used by Sklar Hast. Jonas Serbano, a Bezzler, felt that Sklar Hast
had acted somewhat too precipitously. “In matters of this sort,
where King Kragen is concerned, all must consult. The wisdom of many
is preferable to the headlong rashness of one, no matter how great
the provocation.”

Eyes went to Sklar
Hast, but he made no response, and it remained for one of the younger
Belrods to remark, “That’s all very well, but by the time
everyone argues and debates, the sponges are eaten and gone.”

“Better lose
an arbor of sponges than risk the displeasure of King Kragen!”
replied Jonas Serbano tartly. “The sea and all that transpires
therein is his realm; we trespass at our peril!”

Young Garth
Gasselton, an Extorter by caste though a pad-stripper by trade, spoke
with the idealistic fervor of youth. “If conditions were as they
should be, we would be masters of all: float, lagoon, and sea alike!
The sponges would then be our own; we would need bow our heads to no
one!”

At a table across
the room sat Ixon Myrex, the Tranque Arbiter, a Bezzler of great
physical presence and moral conviction. To this moment he had taken
no part in the conversation, sitting with his massive head averted,
thus signifying a desire for privacy. Now he slowly turned and fixed
a somewhat baleful stare upon young Garth Gasselton. “You speak
without reflection. Are we then so omnipotent that we can simply wave
our hands across the sea and command all to our sway? You must
recognize that comfort and plenty are neither natural endowments nor
our rightful due, but benefits of the most tentative nature
imaginable. In short, we exist by the indulgence of King Kragen, and
never must we lose sight of the fact!”

Young Gasselton
blinked down at his cup of syrup, but old Irvin Belrod was not so
easily abashed. “I’ll tell you one thing that you’re forgetting,
Arbiter Myrex. King Kragen is as he is because we made him so. At the
beginning he was a normal kragen, maybe a bit bigger and smarter than
the others. He’s what he is today because somebody made the mistake
of truckling to him. Now the mistake has been made, and I’ll grant
you that King Kragen is wise and clever and occasionally serves us by
scaring away the rogues—but where will it end?”

Wall Bunce, an old
Larcener crippled by a fall from the Tranque tower yardarms, held up
an emphatic finger, “Never forget Cardinal’s Dictum from the
Analects: ‘Whoever is willing to give will never lack someone
to take!’”

Into the inn came
Semm Voiderveg and Zander Rohan. They seated themselves beside Ixon
Myrex: the three most influential men of the float. After giving
Voiderveg and Rohan greeting, Ixon Myrex returned to Wall Bunce:
“Don’t go quoting the Analects to me, because I can quote in
return: ‘The most flagrant fool is the man who doesn’t know
when he’s well off!’”

“I give you,
‘If you start a fight with your hands in your pockets, you’ll
have warm hands but a bloody nose!’ “`called Wall Bunce.

Ixon Myrex thrust
out his chin. “I don’t intend to quote Dicta at you all evening,
Wall Bunce.”

“It’s a poor
way to win an argument,” Irvin Belrod remarked.

“I am by no
manner of means conducting an argument,” stated Ixon Myrex
ponderously. “The subject is too basic; it affects the welfare
of Tranque and of all the floats. There certainly cannot be two sides
to a matter as fundamental as this!”

“Here, now,”
protested a young scrivener. “You beg the question! All of us
favor continued prosperity and welfare. We’re at odds because we
define ‘welfare’ differently.”

Ixon Myrex looked
down the bridge of his nose. “The welfare of Tranque Float is
not so abstruse a matter,” he said. “We require merely an
amplitude of food and a respect for institutions established by wise
men of the past.”

Semm Voiderveg,
looking on into mid-air, spoke in measured minatory voice. “Tonight
an exceedingly rash act was performed, by a man who should know
better. I simply cannot understand a mentality which so arrogantly
preempts to itself a decision concerning the welfare of the whole
float.”

Sklar Hast at last
was stung. He gave a sarcastic chuckle. “I understand your
mentality well enough. If it weren’t for King Kragen, you’d have to
work like everyone else. You’ve achieved a sinecure, and you don’t
want a detail changed, no matter how much hardship and degradation
are involved.”

“Hardship?
There is plenty for all! And degradation? Do you dare use the word in
connection with myself or Arbiter Myrex or Master Hoodwink Rohan? I
assure you that these men are by no means degraded. and I believe
that they resent the imputation as keenly as I do myself!”

Sklar Hast grinned.
“There’s a dictum to cover all that: ‘If the shoe fits,
wear it.”

Zander Rohan burst
out, “This caps all! Sklar Hast, you disgrace your caste and
your calling! I have no means of altering the circumstances of your
birth, but thankfully, I am Guild-Master. I assure you that your
career as a hoodwink is at an end!”