Lutramella’s fingers commenced to fly over her vambrace. “I am composing our solicitation right now.”
The next three weeks were a mix of anxious waiting, intense boredom, and a few fleeting moments of forgetful pleasure during which the weighty affair of Verano’s fate could be shuffled out of mind. When not hanging around the hostel or the port anticipating a response to their advertisement, Johrun and Lutramella availed themselves of the cheapest daytrips to local attractions—defined as those no further than ten thousand kilometers distant. The outings all originated from the Quadrant Ninety-five Hundred port.
They visited the Moresby Firefalls, where they amused themselves by flash-roasting over the fiery spume the raw goat kebabs purchased from vendors. They went swimming in the luminescent waters at Biondine Beach, where Lutramella cavorted like a pup. And they made a trip to see the Isolato, a living mountain that occasionally answered the questions of visitors in an oracular fashion. Out of a mossy cleft in hillside issued a reply to Johrun’s query.
“Shall I ever return to my beloved home world and call it mine again?”
“Call any world home, and the answer becomes yes.”
The frustration occasioned by this opaque truism was the only time Johrun actually felt even momentarily downcast during the three weeks. Mostly he discovered that he appreciated this expansion of his life and sensibilities, even though it had been forced upon him at great cost. The influx of youthful vitality that he had felt immersed in—before his disappointment with the results of the mesh interrogation—returned in full force, imbuing him with a sourceless and perhaps indefensible optimism. Lutramella seemed to share in his good mood.
And on the twenty-fourth day since placing their solicitation, when they had begun to doubt anyone would express interest, they received their first response.
The invitation to meet and explore terms came from an individual who provided the digichop of “Celestro.” His ship, the Mummer’s Grin, had just arrived from Gwethalyn, and was now docked at the port.
Hastily arranging a meeting time for later that very day, Johrun and Lutramella raced through a quick meal next door to the hostel as usual, then hopped on the port’s free fifth-force trolley, which traversed a neverending circuit of all berths on the expansive concourse. Ships small and large came and went silently overhead, weaving the bonds of commerce, knowledge and desire that held the Quinary together.
“I’ve just worked up a quick vitagraph of this Celestro,” Lutramella said. “He appears to be an entertainer of some sort, peripatetic by nature. Most recently, he spent a month on Gewthalyn, and before that he was on Bangsund, Tappenzee, and Gamma Corvi III for similar periods.”
“What is the exact nature of his act?”
“It’s hard to say. He bills himself as a “Cognoscente of Cosmic Clairsentience and Comic Conducement.”
The Mummer’s Grin was a not unrespectable craft, a Stonefish Class boita whose stardust-pitted exterior reflected at least fifty years of hard travel, but also betokened regular upkeep. Since its ramp was down with no barrier to entry, Johrun and Lutramella stepped onboard.
A central salon was decked out with a profusion of overstuffed hand-quilted pillows, colorful throws and carpets, and an elaborate water-pipe from which diffused the remnant heavy perfumes of its combustible contents.
Johrun called out a greeting. An inner door opened, and Celestro emerged.
A middle-aged man of average height and build, with skin the bold shade of saffron, Celestro had chosen either not to remedy a genetic disposition to partial baldness, or to engineer such a look. In either case, his mostly bare cranium was partially circled, for an inch above his ears, with a border of silver hair, a strip that made a striking contrast to his complexion. His features were rather large and coarse, but his yellow-pupil’d gaze was piercing. His attire utilized about three times the amount of gaudy blue and orange fabric necessary for mere coverage, with a ballooning of tight-cuffed sleeves and pants legs. His shoes turned up at the toes.
Celestro’s booming voice conjured up associations with deep canyons and a strong wind surging through brushy treetops.
“Might I assume that I stand in the presence of my potential clients, Vir Johrun Corvivios and Mir Lutramella von Creche Eight Thousand Forty-nine Backslash Rippington Dash Fifteen Ought Eighty-seven?”
Johrun was impressed that Celestro bothered to confer an honorific on Lutramella and cite her Indranet-accessible birth code that served as surname. That small nod to her individuality conveyed a sense of dignity and caring to the man’s otherwise somewhat pompous presentation.
“Yes, this is correct. And you are Celestro?”
“None other. Please, take a seat, and I shall summon up some refreshments before we begin our discussion.”
Johrun fully expected the man to pull viands and drinks out of thin air, but instead Celestro caused them to be fetched in an utterly conventional but unanticipated manner.
“Taryn! Your service is required.”
From the same door through which Celestro had come, a young woman emerged.
Her looks and demeanor could not have presented a greater contrast to Celestro’s. Perhaps a year or three younger than Johrun, she carried herself with a natural grace and dignity that was nonetheless overlaid with a weary air of subjection and compromise and lack of any future prospects. Her clothing consisted of a utilitarian mouse-grey coverall and black work boots akin to those of the braneship mechanics who roved the yards. The shapeless coverall hinted at what might be a fine figure. Her short sandy hair, blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, pert nose, and demure lips added up to an over-the-backyard-fence attractiveness dimmed by early lines of sorrow and fatigue.
“Mir and Vir, this is Taryn Endelwode. She is a restavek from Anilda. No parents, no kin. I have taken her into my service as general dogsbody, companion, and assistant in my performances. Her virtues are several, her only vice a foolish and impossible longing for fields beyond the ken of man, and certainly above her status. Taryn, these are the people I told you about who want to rent our ship.”
Taryn gave a polite but sincere and wistful smile which struck Johrun directly in his core. Hearing her status as orphan—a plight that matched his—he was instantly disposed to sympathize. And the woman’s gentle bearing further stirred his compassion.
“I’m very pleased to know you both.”
“Taryn, bring us those anise cookies and the decanter of plum brandy.”
While Taryn was in the galley, Celestro immediately and forthrightly addressed the reason for their gathering.
“You wish to hire my ship to take you to Itaska. I assume you intend to confront the legendary Honko Drowne for some nontrivial purpose.”
“Precisely so.”
Celestro clapped his hands together. “Perfect! This consorts with my own desires. If you have entrée to Drowne’s company, then I will certainly be able to perform for him. Once accounts of my performance are disseminated across the Quinary, immense luster and an outlaw panache will accrue to my reputation, and I will afterwards be able to command much greater sums for my act.”
Johrun chose not to disclose the tenuous nature of his actual connection with Drowne, and the uncertainty regarding access to the pirate. “It seems as if our desires lie along precisely the same vector then. What, by the way, does your act involve?”
“I create amusing astonishments by a variety of methods, distracting my grateful audiences from their mundane cares and existential doubts. I pluck personal and mildly embarrassing secrets from the air, esoteric knowledge from the cosmic substrate. Moreover, by my skills of psychic conducement I am able to instill in my subjects uncanny temporary abilities, desires, and visions. In short, I manifest the wonders of creation which all of us in our grim diurnal trudging need to be reminded of.”
To illustrate, Celestro snatched up one of the pillows at his elbow. “Mir Lutramella, if I may borrow your knife for a moment . . .”
&
nbsp; Lutramella handed over her poignard. Celestro split open the pillow with it. He shoved his hand inside and emerged with a gun.
“I believe this is yours, Vir Corvivios.”
Johrun took the Kingslake glial jammer in his hand, and the gun came alive in response to Johrun’s genetic signature.
“Remarkable!”
Celestro waved aside the compliment. “Mere frippery. Now, as to price. I would need thirty thousand chains to cover the investment of my time and ship.”
Johrun looked to Lutramella. They both knew that after three weeks no other offers seemed ever likely to materialize. The splice nodded.
“We agree.”
“Excellent! Now we have a real reason to toast, other than mere proximity as thirsty strangers!”
Taryn returned bearing a tray with the refreshments. Celestro poured the drinks, including one for Taryn.
“To the success of our mutual endeavors!”
Johrun took passing notice of Taryn’s slight hesitation in raising her own drink to her lips, her failure to engage his glance, but never thought more of it until many, many days later.
CHAPTER 12
The ineluctable transit time from Bodenshire to Itaska across the infinite topological complexities of branespace occupied six days. A few additional hours on either end of the journey, moving through basalspace against the inhumanly resplendent background glories of the stars and planets in each system, made the trip last approximately a week. During that time, Johrun had plenty of empty hours in which to contemplate his untroubled youth and his dubious future; to plan his exact angle of attack upon Honko Drowne’s uncertain sympathies; and to get to know both Celestro and Taryn better.
The former proved to be, paradoxically, at once transparent and impenetrable. He was extremely voluble and forthcoming about his performing career, providing a steady stream of often quite entertaining anecdotes. “That night on Tullia, entertaining the Conclave of Majordomos, I excelled myself. With one elegant whisk of my hand, I caused the Serenissima’s skirt to vanish!” He also liked to lecture on the theories behind his art. “The Pensativists believe that the implicate order of the multiverse is merely the obverse of the human racial consciousness. Thus they maintain that access to the entire range of the powers of creation are inherent in all individuals, but must be brought out with a course of controlled sensory derangement.” And he was far from shy about sharing even intimate moments of his biography. “The Diabolerinas of Overland Gap boast that no man can withstand their persuasions for more than ninety seconds without attaining complete and utter ecstasy. But they sheepishly confess that alone among their conquests, I, the Omnipotent Celestro, held out until three full minutes had elapsed!”
All these accounts naturally contributed to the positive side of the Celestro ledger. Johrun felt confirmed in his choice of hire.
On the other hand, when questioned about his deep past or his ultimate goals for his career—what was his native world; how had he come into this line of work; did he foresee an end to his peregrinations and a cozy retirement?—he managed artfully to divert the conversation to other topics. Johrun could claim no solid sense of the arc of the man’s life, or his ethical principles. He seemed as wayward and irresponsible as a cloud.
Celestro’s behavior consorted with his speech: flamboyant and amusing, inconsequential and whimsical as a butterfly’s path through the skies. He continued to spring upon his passengers the occasional seemingly impossible feat, reveling in the honest applause from Johrun and Lutramella. (When alone with Lu, Johrun wondered aloud, “Is the man truly endowed with paranormal abilities or not?” Lutramella said, “After all these millennia, science has yet to decisively affirm or deny such wild talents, and much can be simulated with technics. We will see if he can pull off such stunts on Itaska, with its Supressor fields.”) At regular intervals outside of sleep hours, Celestro mysteriously retreated to his room alone. “Please excuse my momentary unsociability, but I must regather my forces by meditating beneath the Shroud of Nubilio until all my metachakras are realigned.”
As for Taryn Endelwode, she commenced the journey almost as a taciturn appliance, politely refusing all conversational gambits while responding to commands and requests with deference and a minimum of speech. But by the third day, she had let down her guard so entirely as to become nearly chatty—especially during those hours when Celestro was sequestered beneath the Shroud.For this transformation, Johrun could take little enough credit. The catalyst for Taryn’s opening-up was Lutramella.
From the first, the young woman had appeared fascinated with the splice, standing closer to her when serving food than to others; asking if Lutramella needed special nutrition; offering to bring her extra blankets and pillows if desired; asking timidly to stroke her fur. It was obvious that Taryn longed to converse at length with Lutramella, but was unsure how to proceed. Then, early on the morning of the third day, Johrun awoke to discover that Lutramella was not in their private room with him. He stepped out quietly a pace or two into the darkened salon, then halted. Lutramella and Taryn were sitting side by side, heads lowered and almost touching, whispering together. The splice held one of Taryn’s hands in both of her own.
Johrun backed into the bedroom and closed the door.
That morning at breakfast, Taryn hummed a lightfooted melody while she served. Celestro looked somewhat annoyed at the unwonted sprightliness of his servant girl, but refrained from direct criticism.
That afternoon, during Celestro’s recuperative retreat, Taryn dropped down on the couch next to Johrun as, deprived of his own vambrace, he was holding an old-fashioned slate and reading about their destination, Itaska.
“Vir Corvivios, please tell me about your planet. Lu says it’s paradise.”
The prospect of conveying the wonders of lost Verano was a bittersweet one, but Johrun could hardly refuse.
“I’ll do so on two conditions. First, you must call me Johrun. And second, when I’m done you must tell me about your past on Anilda, and what brought you here.”
Taryn mused on the stipulations as if she were being asked to sign a peace treaty to end a hundred years of war. “I can do that—Johrun. Now, is it true that your family raises snails as big as this ship?”
The afternoon passed all too swiftly. Johrun found Taryn to be an appreciative, sharp-witted listener. Her own limited experience caused her to ask for many clarifications, but Johrun didn’t mind.
Celestro’s gruff reemergence put an end to their conversation that day, but over the next few days Johrun gathered a substantial outline of Taryn’s history.
The island continent on Anilda on which she had been born was a mix of vast interior deserts and seaside lushness. One trading town, Remy’s Post, hosted a Quinary-level culture, but elsewhere the scattered isolated inhabitants lived simply, outside modernity. Alongside subsistence fishing, her native village, Vevaliah, relied exclusively on its extensive orchards of nut palms for sustenance and outside income. The citizens of Vevaliah were all toddy-tappers. From earliest childhood they learned to climb the palms and harvest the big nuts for their meat and juice and weavable shell fibers. Taryn had been the only child of Cleuza and Shen. Life had been rewarding and pleasant, albeit not eventful, until four years ago, when Taryn was fifteen. A plague had arrived that killed all the nut trees. Desperate, the villagers had thought to migrate, but soon learned that conditions were the same everywhere on the continent.
It was at that point that Cleuza and Shen sold their daughter into restavek servitude.
Johrun was horrified. “But surely there was some alternative that could have kept you all together as a family?”
Taryn registered no lingering debilitating shock or regret, but only a mild sense of an inevitable loss mellowed by time. “No, none. No help was available from local sources. Everyone was in the same fix.”
“But what about an appeal to the Quinary and their vast resources?”
“I knew nothing about the Quinary back then. B
ut from what I have learned since, the omniafirms take no interest in extending charity to non-customers. And often not even to those who do inhabit their mutual economic sphere. Only profits and losses and market share apply.”
Johrun had to admit that Taryn’s barefaced but neutral assessment of the Quinary’s self-interests was accurate. He had simply never been put in circumstances that would force him to acknowledge the same.
“But for your parents to send you into near-slavery . . .”
“Oh, they were so kind! I honor their sacrifice every night before I go to sleep, with a prayer to Apma Tagaro. They knew it was the only way I would live. Both of them died of starvation when the fish went extinct, along with everyone else left in Vevaliah.”
Johrun found his heart going out to this young woman who had suffered losses equal to his. For had she not felt, on some instinctive level, that she owned her planet as much as he owned Verano, only to lose it as well? And had her whole family not gone down into dust just as his had, if less dramatically?
Serving with her new family in Remy’s Post (“They gave me fine quarters, right above the kennels.”), Taryn had attended, on her one monthly free day, a show put on by a visiting entertainer: the Omnipotent Celestro. Awed and curious about this stranger and his magical ways, Taryn had sought him out backstage after the performance. Flattered by her attentions and in need of an assistant, Celestro had bought her from her current owners the very next day.
“All this happened a little over a year ago. Since then, my life has been as you have seen. Except that you haven’t witnessed how I help in the act.”
The Summer Thieves Page 16
