The Moon Moth and Other Stories (25 page)

Welibus turned to Rolver. “What about Kershaul? Could he be persuaded to give Ser Thissell some basic instruction?”

Rolver nodded judicially. “Kershaul might undertake the job.”

Thissell asked, “Who is Kershaul?”

“The fourth of our little group of expatriates,” replied Welibus, “an anthropologist. You’ve read
Zundar the Splendid? Rituals of Sirene? The Faceless Folk?
No? A pity. All excellent works. Kershaul is high in prestige, and I believe visits Zundar from time to time. Wears a Cave Owl, sometimes a Star Wanderer or even a Wise Arbiter.”

“He’s taken to an Equatorial Serpent,” said Rolver. “The variant with the gilt tusks.”

“Indeed!” marveled Welibus. “Well, I must say he’s earned it. A fine fellow, good chap indeed.” And he strummed his
zachinko
thoughtfully.

*******

Three months passed. Under the tutelage of Mathew Kershaul, Thissell practised the
hymerkin
, the
ganga
, the
strapan
, the
kiv
, the
gomapard
, and the
zachinko
. The others could wait, said Kershaul, until Thissell had mastered the six basic instruments. He lent Thissell recordings of noteworthy Sirenese conversing in various moods and to various accompaniments, so that Thissell might learn the melodic conventions currently in vogue, and perfect himself in the niceties of intonation, the various rhythms, cross-rhythms, compound rhythms, implied rhythms and suppressed rhythms. Kershaul professed to find Sirenese music a fascinating study, and Thissell admitted that it was a subject not readily exhausted. The quarter-tone tuning of the instruments admitted the use of twenty-four tonalities which, multiplied by the five modes in general use, resulted in one hundred and twenty separate scales. Kershaul, however, advised that Thissell primarily concentrate on learning each instrument in its fundamental tonality, using only two of the modes.

With no immediate business at Fan except the weekly visits to Mathew Kershaul, Thissell took his houseboat eight miles south and moored it in the lee of a rocky promontory. Here, if it had not been for the incessant practising, Thissell lived an idyllic life. The sea was calm and crystal-clear; the beach, ringed by the gray, green and purple foliage of the forest, lay close at hand if he wanted to stretch his legs.

Toby and Rex occupied a pair of cubicles forward, Thissell had the after-cabins to himself. From time to time he toyed with the idea of a third slave, possibly a young female, to contribute an element of charm and gaiety to the menage, but Kershaul advised against the step, fearing that the intensity of Thissell’s concentration might somehow be diminished. Thissell acquiesced and devoted himself to the study of the six instruments.

The days passed quickly. Thissell never became bored with the pageantry of dawn and sunset; the white clouds and blue sea of noon; the night sky blazing with the twenty-nine stars of Cluster SI 1-715. The weekly trip to Fan broke the tedium, Toby and Rex foraged for food; Thissell visited the luxurious houseboat of Mathew Kershaul for instruction and advice. Then, three months after Thissell’s arrival, came the message completely disorganizing the routine: Haxo Angmark, assassin,
agent provocateur
, ruthless and crafty criminal, had come to Sirene. ‘Effect detention and incarceration of this man!’ read the orders. ‘Attention! Haxo Angmark is superlatively dangerous. Kill without hesitation!’

*******

Thissell was not in the best of condition. He trotted fifty yards until his breath came in gasps, then walked: through low hills crowned with white bamboo and black tree-ferns; across meadows yellow with grass-nuts, through orchards and wild vineyards. Twenty minutes passed, twenty-five minutes passed, twenty-five minutes; with a heavy sensation in his stomach Thissell knew that he was too late. Haxo Angmark had landed, and might be traversing this very road toward Fan. But along the way Thissell met only four persons: a boy-child in a mock-fierce Alk Islander mask; two young women wearing the Red Bird and the Green Bird; a man masked as a Forest Goblin. Coming upon the man, Thissell stopped short. Could this be Angmark?

Thissell essayed a stratagem. He went boldly to the man, stared into the hideous mask. “Angmark,” he called in the language of the Home Planets, “you are under arrest!”

The Forest Goblin stared uncomprehendingly, then started forward along the track.

Thissell put himself in the way. He reached for his
ganga
, then recalling the hostler’s reaction, instead struck a chord on the
zachinko
. “You travel the road from the space-port,” he sang. “What have you seen there?”

The Forest Goblin grasped his hand-bugle, an instrument used to deride opponents on the field of battle, to summon animals, or occasionally to evince a rough and ready truculence. “Where I travel and what I see are the concern solely of myself. Stand back or I walk upon your face.” He marched forward, and had not Thissell leapt aside the Forest Goblin might well have made good his threat.

Thissell stood gazing after the retreating back. Angmark? Not likely, with so sure a touch on the hand-bugle. Thissell hesitated, then turned and continued on his way.

Arriving at the space-port, he went directly to the office. The heavy door stood ajar; as Thissell approached, a man appeared in the doorway. He wore a mask of dull green scales, mica plates, blue-lacquered wood and black quills—the Tarn Bird.

“Ser Rolver,” Thissell called out anxiously, “who came down from the
Carina Cruzeiro?
”

Rolver studied Thissell a long moment. “Why do you ask?”

“Why do I ask?” demanded Thissell. “You must have seen the space-gram I received from Castel Cromartin!”

“Oh yes,” said Rolver. “Of course. Naturally.”

“It was delivered only half an hour ago,” said Thissell bitterly. “I rushed out as fast as I could. Where is Angmark?”

“In Fan, I assume,” said Rolver.

Thissell cursed softly. “Why didn’t you delay him?”

Rolver shrugged. “I had neither authority, inclination nor the capability to stop him.”

Thissell fought back his annoyance. In a voice of studied calm he said, “On the way I passed a man in rather a ghastly mask—saucer eyes, red wattles.”

“A Forest Goblin,” said Rolver. “Angmark brought the mask with him.”

“But he played the hand-bugle,” Thissell protested. “How could Angmark—”

“He’s well-acquainted with Sirene; he spent five years here in Fan.”

Thissell grunted in annoyance. “Cromartin made no mention of this.”

“It’s common knowledge,” said Rolver with a shrug. “He was Commercial Representative before Welibus took over.”

“Were he and Welibus acquainted?”

Rolver laughed shortly. “Naturally. But don’t suspect poor Welibus of anything more venal than juggling his accounts; I assure you he’s no consort of assassins.”

“Speaking of assassins,” said Thissell, “do you have a weapon I might borrow?”

Rolver inspected him in wonder. “You came out here to take Angmark bare-handed?”

“I had no choice,” said Thissell. “When Cromartin gives orders he expects results. In any event you were here with your slaves.”

“Don’t count on me for help,” Rolver said testily. “I wear the Tarn Bird and make no pretensions of valor. But I can lend you a power pistol. I haven’t used it recently; I won’t guarantee its charge.”

Rolver went into the office and a moment later returned with the gun. “What will you do now?”

Thissell shook his head wearily. “I’ll try to find Angmark in Fan. Or might he head for Zundar?”

Rolver considered. “Angmark might be able to survive in Zundar. But he’d want to brush up on his musicianship. I imagine he’ll stay in Fan a few days.”

“But how can I find him? Where should I look?”

“That I can’t say,” replied Rolver. “You might be safer not finding him. Angmark is a dangerous man.”

Thissell returned to Fan the way he had come.

Where the path swung down from the hills into the esplanade a thick-walled
pisé-de-terre
building had been constructed. The door was carved from a solid black plank; the windows were guarded by enfoliated bands of iron. This was the office of Cornely Welibus, Commercial Factor, Importer and Exporter. Thissell found Welibus sitting at his ease on the tiled verandah, wearing a modest adaptation of the Waldemar mask. He seemed lost in thought and might or might not have recognized Thissell’s Moon Moth; in any event he gave no signal of greeting.

Thissell approached the porch. “Good morning, Ser Welibus.”

Welibus nodded abstractedly and said in a flat voice, plucking at his
krodatch
, “Good morning.”

Thissell was rather taken aback. This was hardly the instrument to use toward a friend and fellow out-worlder, even if he did wear the Moon Moth.

Thissell said coldly, “May I ask how long you have been sitting here?”

Welibus considered half a minute, and now when he spoke he accompanied himself on the more cordial
crebarin
. But the recollection of the
krodatch
chord still rankled in Thissell’s mind.

“I’ve been here fifteen or twenty minutes. Why do you ask?”

“I wonder if you noticed a Forest Goblin pass?”

Welibus nodded. “He went on down the esplanade—turned into that first mask shop, I believe.”

Thissell hissed between his teeth. This would naturally be Angmark’s first move. “I’ll never find him once he changes masks,” he muttered.

“Who is this Forest Goblin?” asked Welibus, with no more than casual interest.

Thissell could see no reason to conceal the name. “A notorious criminal: Haxo Angmark.”

“Haxo Angmark!” croaked Welibus, leaning back in his chair. “You’re sure he’s here?”

“Reasonably sure.”

Welibus rubbed his shaking hands together. “This is bad news—bad news indeed! He’s an unscrupulous scoundrel.”

“You knew him well?”

“As well as anyone.” Welibus was now accompanying himself with the
kiv
. “He held the post I now occupy. I came out as an inspector and found that he was embezzling some four thousand UMIs a month. I’m sure he feels no great gratitude toward me.” Welibus glanced nervously up the esplanade. “I hope you catch him.”

“I’m doing my best. He went into the mask shop, you say?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Thissell turned away. As he went down the path he heard the black plank door thud shut behind him.

He walked down the esplanade to the mask-maker’s shop, paused outside as if admiring the display: a hundred miniature masks, carved from rare woods and minerals, dressed with emerald flakes, spider-web silk, wasp wings, petrified fish scales and the like. The shop was empty except for the mask-maker, a gnarled knotty man in a yellow robe, wearing a deceptively simple Universal Expert mask, fabricated from over two thousand bits of articulated wood.

Thissell considered what he would say, how he would accompany himself, then entered. The mask-maker, noting the Moon Moth and Thissell’s diffident manner, continued with his work.

Thissell, selecting the easiest of his instruments, stroked his
strapan
—possibly not the most felicitous choice, for it conveyed a certain degree of condescension. Thissell tried to counteract this flavor by singing in warm, almost effusive, tones, shaking the
strapan
whimsically when he struck a wrong note: “A stranger is an interesting person to deal with; his habits are unfamiliar, he excites curiosity. Not twenty minutes ago a stranger entered this fascinating shop, to exchange his drab Forest Goblin for one of the remarkable and adventurous creations assembled on the premises.”

The mask-maker turned Thissell a side glance, and without words he played a progression of chords on an instrument Thissell had never seen before: a flexible sac gripped in the palm with three short tubes leading between the fingers. When the tubes were squeezed almost shut and air forced through the slit, an oboe-like tone ensued. To Thissell’s developing ear the instrument seemed difficult, the mask-maker expert, and the music conveyed a profound sense of disinterest.

Thissell tried again, laboriously manipulating the
strapan
. He sang, “To an out-worlder on a foreign planet, the voice of one from his home is like water to a wilting plant. A person who could unite two such persons might find satisfaction in such an act of mercy.”

The mask-maker casually fingered his own
strapan
, and drew forth a set of rippling scales, his fingers moving faster than the eyes could follow. He sang in the formal style: “An artist values his moments of concentration; he does not care to spend time exchanging banalities with persons of at best average prestige.” Thissell attempted to insert a counter melody, but the mask-maker struck a new set of complex chords whose portent evaded Thissell’s understanding, and continued: “Into the shop comes a person who evidently has picked up for the first time an instrument of unparalleled complication, for the execution of his music is open to criticism. He sings of home-sickness and longing for the sight of others like himself. He dissembles his enormous
strakh
behind a Moon Moth, for he plays the
strapan
to a Master Craftsman, and sings in a voice of contemptuous raillery. The refined and creative artist ignores the provocation. He plays a polite instrument, remains noncommittal, and trusts that the stranger will tire of his sport and depart.”

Thissell took up his
kiv
. “The noble mask-maker completely misunderstands me—”

He was interrupted by staccato rasping of the mask-maker’s
strapan
. “The stranger now sees fit to ridicule the artist’s comprehension.”

Thissell scratched furiously at his
strapan
: “To protect myself from the heat, I wander into a small and unpretentious mask-shop. The artisan, though still distracted by the novelty of his tools, gives promise of development. He works zealously to perfect his skill, so much so that he refuses to converse with strangers, no matter what their need.”