Throy (3 page)

“Ha! And you apply the word ‘weathervane’ to Kathcar, when it is he who remained loyal and who lifted the veil upon this astonishing development.” Sir Denzel took notice of his drink. He lifted the pewter pot and swallowed the contents at a gulp. “The words ‘integrity’ and ‘faith’ are unknown to the fellows of your cabal.”

For a moment Roby Mavil sat in gloomy silence. Then, after a cautious side glance, he said: “It is imperative that this misunderstanding be mended. I will arrange talks and no doubt we shall have an official apology; then, with good faith renewed, our team will continue its work, each to his scope and ability, as before.”

Sir Denzel gave another bark of laughter. “Allow me to quote you a passage from Navarth’s ‘Happenings’: ‘A virgin is raped four times in a thicket. The perpetrator is called to account and tries to make amends. He provides a costly salve to soothe the scratches on her buttocks, but his apologies fail to restore her maidenhead.’”

Roby Mavil heaved a deep sigh, and spoke in a voice of sweet reason. “Perhaps we should back away and use a wider perspective.”

“What?” Sir Denzel’s voice trembled. “I have reached the Ninth Sign of the Noble Way, and you suggest that I broaden my perspectives? Unbelievable!”

Roby Mavil went on doggedly. “As I see it, we are engaged in a struggle of the Ultimates: Good against Evil, a fact which generates its own imperatives. Our opponents are desperate; when they strike out we are duty-bound to ward off their blows. In short, we must swim in the river of reality, or sink and drown, along with all our dreams of glory.”

“Come now!” snapped Sir Denzel. “I have lived long in this world; I know that faith and truth are good: they enhance life. Deceit, coercion, blood and pain are bad, also the betrayal of trust.”

Roby Mavil said bravely: “It is not good to let a petty spasm of hurt feelings deter you from our great undertaking!”

Sir Denzel chuckled. “Yes, I am vain and peevish; I want everyone to approach me with reverence and kiss my foot. Is that your thinking? Quite so. Your goals are even more stark. You want me to pay over another large sum of money: a hundred thousand sols is what you expect.”

Roby Mavil managed a painful grin. “Dame Clytie said that you had agreed to one hundred and fifty thousand sols.”

“The figure was mentioned,” said Sir Denzel. “That phase has come and gone. We have entered the time when we recover funds wrongfully spent, down to the last dinket. I am determined on this; you shall not cheat me of my money and spend it upon horrid goods.”

Roby Mavil blinked and shifted his gaze. Tump and Farganger looked on imperturbably. Sir Denzel seemed to become aware of them. “I did not catch your names?”

“I am Torq Tump.”

“And you, sir?”

“I am Farganger.”

“‘Farganger’? Is that all?”

“It is enough.”

Sir Denzel inspected them thoughtfully, then spoke to Tump. “I wish to ask you some questions. I hope you will not take them amiss.”

“Ask away,” said Tump indifferently. “However, I expect that Mavil, yonder, would prefer to give you the answers.”

“So it may be. Still one way or another I intend to learn facts.”

Roby Mavil straightened in his seat, then scowled in new annoyance at the approach of Rufo Kathcar: a man tall, gaunt and pallid, with concave cheeks, burning black eyes under black eyebrows, with violet shadows surrounding. Black wisps of hair fell to the side of his white forehead; an untidy short beard fringed his bony jaw. His arms and legs were long and lank; with hands and feet so large as to seem ungainly. Kathcar greeted Roby Mavil with a cool nod, glanced sharply at Tump and Farganger, then spoke to Sir Denzel. “You seem a bit disconsolate, sir.” He drew up a chair and seated himself.

“‘Disconsolate’ is not the word,” said Sir Denzel. “You know the circumstances.”

Roby Mavil started to speak, but Sir Denzel silenced him with a gesture.

“It is the old story. I laugh and I cry to think of it, that such things could happen to me!”

Roby Mavil glanced nervously to right and left. “Please, Sir Denzel! Your dramatics are entertaining the entire terrace!”

“Then let them listen; perhaps they will profit from my experiences. These are the facts. I was approached with fulsome courtesy; everyone was anxious to hear my opinions - a novelty at which I could not help but wonder. Still, I expressed myself in clear, detailed terms; I left no room for misunderstanding.”

Sir Denzel gave his head an ironic shake. “The response surprised me. I was asked as to the source of my philosophy; I replied that I had done no more than provide a glimpse down the Noble Way, and everyone was impressed. They told me that at last a source dogma for the LPF party had been defined, and that everyone was charged with crusading fervor. I could not turn aside now; I was urged to implement my views with all means at my disposal, including financial support: after all, what better use could be found for a hoard of passive wealth? I agreed to fund a relatively large account at the Bank of Soumjiana. This account would be accessible only to three members of the Executive Council.  These three were nominated on the spot: Roby Mavil, Julian Bohost and, at my insistence, Rufo Kathcar as the third. I stipulated that no money might be spent in conflict with the precepts of the Noble Way; was this clear to all? Absolutely! The endorsement was unanimous, and Roby Mavil’s voice rang out loud and brave.

“So it was agreed in an atmosphere of emotion and bonhomie.

“This morning came the denouement. I learned that my trust had been abused, the Source Dogma cast aside like a piece of rotting meat, and my money given to ignoble uses. ‘Betrayal’ is a word which fits the case, and I face a new reality, which first of all must include the return of my money.”

Roby Mavil cried out in passion: “That is impossible! The money has been withdrawn from the account und used!”

Kathcar asked harshly: “To what exact amount?”

Roby Mavil turned him a glance of utter loathing. “I have tried to observe the amenities of polite discourse, but now I must allude to a situation which had better gone ignored, at least for the moment. The facts are these: Rufo Kathcar’s connection with the LPF Executive Council has lapsed. In blunt terms, he is no longer regarded as a good LPFer.”

“Good Peefer, bad Peefer: that is sheer tosh!” snapped sir Denzel. “Rufo Kathcar is my second cousin and a man of excellent connections! He is also my aide and I rely upon him.”

“No doubt,” said Mavil. “Nevertheless, Kathcar’s views are often impractical, or even startling. In the interests of procedural harmony, he has been excised from the directorate.”

Kathcar pushed back his chair. “Mavil, be good enough to hold your tongue while I state the facts. They are crude and ugly. The LPF is controlled by a pair of headstrong women, each more obstinate than the other. I need mention no names. In a gaggle of nincompoops and popinjays, among whom Roby Mavil is conspicuous, I was the last bulwark of good judgment against which the folly of these women beat in vain. They have pushed me aside, and the LPF is now an engine without a flywheel.” Kathcar rose to his feet. He addressed Sir Denzel. “Your decision is correct! You must deny this cabal all further credits and recover the funds you have already advanced!” Kathcar turned and stalked from the terrace. Sir Denzel also started to rise. Roby Mavil cried out: “Wait! You must listen to me! Second cousin or not, Kathcar has given you a false impression!”

“Indeed? His remarks sounded reasonable to me.”

“You have not heard the whole truth! Kathcar was expelled from the directorate, but more than clashing personalities was involved. There was a naked struggle for power! Kathcar declared himself better qualified to lead the campaign than either Dame Clytie or Simonetta, and assigned secondary roles to each of them. Both were outraged, and felt that Kathcar had displayed intolerable excesses of masculine vanity. Kathcar was not only thwarted; he was captured and severely punished, to such an extent that he is now motivated by hatred and spite.”

“Well, what of that?” demanded Sir Denzel. “He has mentioned his experiences on Shattorak to me, and in his place I too might be perturbed.”

Roby Mavil heaved a sigh of resignation. “Kathcar, however, has learned nothing. He is as reckless and as arrogant as before. He ignores correct LPF doctrine, and may well face new discipline. In the meantime, his advice is worth nothing - in fact, less than nothing, and might even tend to associate you with Kathcar when it comes time to reckon with his misdeeds.”

Sir Denzel transfixed Roby Mavil with a cold blue stare. “Can it be possible that you are threatening me with violence?”

Roby Mavil gave a prim cough. “Of course not! Still, realities are what they are, and should not be ignored, even by Sir Denzel Attabus.”

“You speak of ‘realities.’ It was certainly not Kathcar who deceived me and cheated me of my money. I will most definitely carry this affair to its ultimate conclusion.” He bowed curtly to Tump and Farganger, then marched off across the terrace.

Roby Mavil sank back into his chair, drained and apathetic. Tump watched him without expression. Farganger contemplated the vast distances south down the great cleft of Stroma Fjord and the blue-green water a thousand feet below.

At last Roby Mavil roused himself. “Nothing persists forever. It seems that at last the time for changes has come.”

Tump pondered a moment. “No man can fly.”

Roby Mavil nodded somberly. “This is a lesson many men have learned. I know of none who have profited from the knowledge.”

Neither Tump’s expression nor that of Farganger changed, and no one watching might have guessed the nature of their thoughts.

Chapter 1, Part II

Two days before his visit to Stroma, Egon Tamm communicated with Warden Ballinder. He announced his plans and asked that the council hall be made available for the occasion. Warden Ballinder agreed to do as requested.

On the day specified, during the middle afternoon, Egon Tamm arrived at the Stroma air terminal: a dark-haired man of compact physique, with features of such regularity and manners so easy that his presence was often overlooked. He came with Bodwyn Wook, Scharde Clattuc, Scharde’s son Glawen - all these Bureau B personnel – Hilva Offaw, High Justice of the Araminta Judiciary, and his daughter Wayness.

Up from Stroma had come a number of folk, including three Wardens, several other notables, a few students, and a miscellany of persons with nothing better to do. They waited beside the road which led along the brink of the cliff, hooded black cloaks flapping in the wind. As Egon Tamm approached, a gaunt young man with a red beard ran out to confront him. Egon Tamm paused courteously and the young man cried out: “Egon Tamm, why have you come here?”

“To speak to the folk of Stroma.”

“In that case you must tell us facts!” Truth was a rock to which a man could set his back, but there was none to be found at Stroma, where life had gone weird. If the Conservator had brought a message of hope, could he reveal something of what he was about to say, if only a hint?

Egon Tamm laughed. Very shortly his message would be made known to all; in the meantime he could only recommend patience.

The young man cried out, raising his voice to be heard against the wind: “But is it good news or bad?”

“It is neither,” said Egon Tamm. “It is reality.”

“Ah!” came the disconsolate cry. “That may be the worst of all!” He stood back; Egon Tamm and his party went to the lift and descended to Stroma.

With half an hour to spare, the party converged upon the Spaceman’s Rest, Stroma’s second tavern. Bodwyn Wook, Scharde and Glawen went out upon the terrace; Egon Tamm and Hilva Offaw remained in the taproom. Wayness found a group of acquaintances and arranged that all should meet at the old family residence. She went to announce her plans to Egon Tamm, who made a half-hearted objection. “I’ll be speaking in about twenty minutes or thereabouts,” he reminded her.

“No problem! We will listen to you on the screen.”

“As you like.”

Wayness left the taproom, climbed to the second level and set off at a brisk half trot to the east. Before long she saw ahead, the tall green serpentine-faced house where she had spent the years of her childhood. Then she had considered it unique: the nicest house of all Stroma, by reason of details and color which at the time had seemed of great significance. For a fact the houses of Stroma were much alike, tall, narrow, built one against the other, with the same clusters of tall narrow windows and high-peaked roofs, differing only in their somber colors, which might be dark blue, maroon, umber, ash gray, black, green, with the architectural detail picked out in white, blue or red.

The house where Wayness had lived was dark green, with white and blue trim, and was situated toward the eastern end of the second level: a prestigious area in status-conscious Stroma.

Wayness had been a thin little girl, pensive and self-contained. Her dark curls and olive-pale skin had been inherited from one of her great-grandmothers, a Cantabrian from Old Earth; her features were so regular as to seem unexceptional until the delicate modelling of the short straight nose, the jaw and chin, and the wide sweet mouth were noticed. She had been a warm-hearted friendly child, but neither gregarious nor aggressive. Her brain roiled with wonder and intelligence; more often than not she preferred her own company to that of her peers, and she was not as widely popular as some of her more conventional acquaintances. From time to time she felt a trifle lonely and a bit forlorn, yearning for something far away and unattainable, something she could not quite define, but presently the boys began to notice that Wayness Tamm was remarkably pretty, and the odd moods dissolved.

During those days there had been little dissension or factional dispute at Stroma, and even then it had been almost entirely confined to light-hearted argument and philosophical debate when friends gathered in each other’s parlours. Almost everyone considered existence to be settled, static and for the most part benign; only a few persons seemed to take their iconoclastic social theories seriously, and these became the nucleus of the Life, Peace and Freedom Party: the LPF.