by John Brunner
If the interrogation of Higgins had reached a dead end, the only thing to do was to head back to Jorque and continue his investigations on the spot where the mask had turned up. Accordingly, he left Londres that same evening by fast coach, and passed a miserably uncomfortable night in wishing that someone would hit on a safe means of adapting time apparatus to ordinary land-travel. In extreme emergencies, theory suggested, it could in fact be used for such a purpose, by employing the spatial displacement factor; it was not, however, judged safe to turn this notion into practice, because the travellers must inevitably arrive a small fraction of a second before leaving their starting-points, and the effects of this phenomenon were inherently unpredictable.
Therefore there were coaches, with horses to drag them along . . . and maybe nothing more was needed than better roads, complained Don Miguel's tortured bones as he made his way after a hasty breakfast from the staging-inn to the Jorque office of the Society, a great house set in spacious grounds not far from the cathedral.
Here he was received by an old-young man with a pale face and high, hesitant voice whose eyes fastened greedily on the Prince's seal at the foot of Don Miguel's commission. He was probably a failed Licentiate, Don Miguel diagnosed from his manner and his tone.
"We have much discussed the problem which you are come to look into," said the fellow fawningly, having introduced himself as Don Pedro Diaz. "We are all impressed with the way you saw straight to its heart."
Don Miguel was in no mood for hollow flattery. He countered brusquely, "It was no more than anyone of intelligence fit to grace the Society must necessarily have deduced! As yet, moreover, the heart of the matter still eludes me. Since my departure for Londres, have you found out anything further concerning the stranger who's alleged to have brought the mask for sale?"
The other looked disconcerted. "Why, we were not told to do so," he objected. "Was it not enough to have arrested the merchant Higgins and his clerks?"
Sometimes Don Miguel found himself wondering how it was that almost a century had safely passed since Borromeo turned time-travel loose in this imperfect world. Right now he was tempted to draw his sword on this idiot and inscribe his hide with a message to be memorised concerning the responsibilities of the Society. However, he controlled himself.
"It was not enough," he said shortly. "If that's all you can offer me, though, I'll make a start with it. Where are these clerks you referred to?"
"At once!" Don Pedro exclaimed. "I'll take you to see them myself!"
But the clerks were even less helpful than Higgins had been. Their story, to the truth of which the local inquisitors testified, was that their master had conducted both the purchase and the later sale of the mask himself, as he often did when the other party involved was of noble status. That, Don Miguel had to concede, was logical enough -- he could imagine any nobleman compelled to dispose of family heirlooms and replenish a shrinking coffer wanting to treat in confidence with a discreet merchant, and he already knew that Higgins's reputation for discretion had brought him many such transactions.
The clerks maintained stoutly that they had been unaware of the mask's existence until their master was arrested, and their story -- like Higgins's own -- had so far defied the best efforts of the inquisitors to undermine it.
Sighing, Don Miguel left the cell in which they were incarcerated and headed back through the fine grounds of the Society's office. Having gone some distance with Don Pedro silent at his side, he suddenly spoke up.
"This market, now, where the mask was sold to Don Arcimboldo -- it's outside the city wall, is it not?"
"Indeed it is, sir," Don Pedro answered. "Save for freemen of Jorque, who seldom engage in trade, no one may buy or sell goods within the wall; there was a bylaw passed in the last years of last century. Thus the custom arose of going beyond the walls to trade, and now indeed the market district has grown almost into a new city of itself."
"Good. I want to inspect this market. Call me a coach and let's be gone."
"With pleasure, sir," declared Don Pedro fervently.
While they were waiting before the Society's office for the vehicle to arrive, Don Miguel turned to the other subject he was currently interested in.
"Tell me, Don Pedro, what do you know about Don Arcimboldo Ruiz? Is he a prominent figure here in Jorque?"
"He's . . ." Don Pedro hesitated oddly. "He's of a prominent family in the north."
Don Miguel nodded. "As to him personally, though?" he prompted.
"I can tell you rather little, I'm afraid. I do know he inherited large estates over the Scottish border, but prefers to live in Jorque for the sake of our social life. I also know he's highly regarded as a collector of Saxon and Irish antiques -- men speak of him as having expert knowledge on that subject. Beyond that . . ." He concluded with a shrug.
Of course, this was no news to Don Miguel; Don Arcimboldo had come straight out and said he collected antiques, but New World artefacts were not his speciality. His verdict on the personality of the Marquesa had indicated a healthy cynicism, and implied that if he had had any cause to suspect Higgins of selling him contraband he would have taken steps to protect himself. He would hardly have given such a splendid gift to the Marquesa, knowing its existence would be public knowledge within the day, had he feared it was an unlicensed import. Either he would not have bought it, or he would have kept it secretly for his own collection. Yes, the argument was colourable.
And yet . . .
Don Miguel's train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the coach Don Pedro had called for. But the tiny crease of puzzlement which had developed between his eyebrows remained there throughout the coach-ride.
They called the place a "market"; in fact, as Don Pedro had forewarned him, it had grown until it was almost a city in its own right. Wide roads, well paved, traversed it and separated the plots of ground leased to various traders, on which had been erected booths backed by solid stone warehouses. During the day goods were brought forth from the latter and displayed under awnings, or by the most prosperous merchants in little huts sided with glass, while brawny slaves guarded them with clubs. At night they would be taken back into the warehouses and firmly secured against robbers.
Instructing Don Pedro to dismiss the coach for an hour, Don Miguel set forth on foot for a tour of the market. He paused apparently at random -- to test the quality of nutmegs at a spicer's, to feel some splendid Eastern brocades in a draper's, to examine a set of candlesticks in a silversmith's -- and as he did so he asked casual-seeming questions of the staff. Somehow, to Don Pedro's increasingly obvious admiration, he contrived to introduce into each such conversation the names of Higgins and Don Arcimboldo.
The expiry of the hour saw them emerging from a bookbinder's, where gold-leaf glittered on fine calf bindings and the air was rich with the scent of leather and size, and with that Don Pedro's patience ran dry.
"Sir!" he exclaimed. "The subtlety of your inquiries has amazed me -- truly it has!"
"Subtlety?" Don Miguel echoed with a scowl, striding in the direction of the spot where they were to rejoin their coach. Their course was taking them through the heart of the market, and at this noontide juncture the place was crowded. Retainers from noble families, bearing conspicuous crests, kept shoving their way through with arrogance, a fact which greatly annoyed Don Pedro but which Don Miguel put up with stoically. They could have cleared a path for themselves by merely mentioning the name of the Society, let alone displaying its arms -- the scythe and hourglass which Borromeo had personally chosen for its insignia -- but it was a bad time to draw attention to themselves.
"Subtlety?" he said again, and added a savage chuckle. "Well, if it's subtle to fail completely in trying to answer an all-important question, I'll agree . . . Don't bother me for a moment, if you please! I'm desperately struggling to think!"
Embarrassed, Don Pedro shut his mouth like a rat-trap, and did not utter another word apart from inviting Don Miguel to precede him into the coa
ch, until the latter spoke again nearly halfway back to the Society's office.
"Don Pedro! A word of advice from you!"
"You do me much honour,' Don Pedro said nervously. "I trust I can provide what you want."
"Well, I can't figure it out for myself. You have a go. Imagine you were in Don Arcimboldo's place, heir to lands in Scotland and and a highly respected collector of antiques: why would you give a very rare and costly mask of solid gold to a lady who is -- to be blunt -- far past the age of courtship?"
Don Pedro's eyes widened. For a long moment he said nothing; then finally he ventured, "Well, perhaps from motives of simple friendship . . . ?"
What Don Arcimboldo had said about the Marquesa during her party ruled out that possibility, in Don Miguel's view. He dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand, not bothering to explain why.
"Another reason?" he invited.
"Well . . ." Don Pedro swallowed enormously. "Far be it from me to impute anything to someone as respected as Don Arcimboldo, but . . . Perhaps one might assume he stood to gain by his action?"
"I'm very much afraid one might. Don Pedro, instruct your coachman to detour by way of Higgins's residence in the town. I trust you're not in a great hurry for your lunch -- this may take a little time."
In fact, the stop at Higgins's home lasted a mere twenty minutes, but when he came away Don Miguel was frowning like thunderclouds and responded to Don Pedro's attempts at conversation only with frigid grunts.
Then, on their return to the Society's office, he found a message awaiting him, received by semaphore telegraph from Londres a few minutes before. It was a report from Red Bear's field-teams, informing him that the gold mask was almost certainly the work of a celebrated Aztec goldsmith called Nezahualcoyotl -- Hungry Dog. And that established its origin in the middle fifteenth century, most likely in the great town of Texcoco.
Another puzzle for him! If the mask was the work of such a famous craftsman that Red Bear's staff could identify it so positively, why should a collector of art-objects give it away, even if he didn't want it for his own collection? Surely the logical thing would be to sell it, and use the proceeds to enlarge . . .
A great light suddenly broke in on Don Miguel. Facts clicked together in his mind and formed a pattern, a pattern which made sound sense. He slammed fist into palm and rounded on Don Pedro.
"I see itl And yet I do not see it! If -- Don Pedro, send speedily to the Holy Office here in Jorque and ask for a skilled inquisitor to attend me and answer certain questions. Then have a coach reserved for me, and be sure the driver knows the way to the home of Don Arcimboldo, for I purpose to call on him tonight."
"It shall be done," promised Don Pedro, and hurried away.
Don Miguel conversed lengthily with the inquisitor who came in answer to his request, in private and alone. When they parted it was near dark, yet he refused Don Pedro's invitation to stay and take a bite to eat. Instead, he buckled on his sword, threw a cloak about him, and headed into the dusk as though fiends were hot on his heels.
VII
Don Arcimboldo's town house in Jorque, though far from new, was handsome and spacious and stood in extensive grounds. The interior bespoke luxury and good taste. The same raw materials that Don Miguel had encountered at the Marquesa's -- creeping plants trained on sculptured artificial boughs, hothouse flowers that turned the rooms into miniature gardens, exquisite tiling and panelling and many priceless antique ornaments -- had been employed here, but by someone with far superior judgment.
It seemed a shame, Don Miguel felt, to come here for the first time on such an errand. But, weighted down with his burden of suspicion, he hardened his heart.
The major-domo who had admitted him presented his master's apologies, saying that he was at dinner but would shortly be finished and would wait on his distinguished guest; in the meantime, would Don Miguel be so kind as to occupy himself in the library?
Don Miguel would. Wine was brought for him by a Guinea-girl -- exceptionally beautiful, hence either very expensive or born into the service of the family, for slaves were prohibitively costly nowadays -- who poured him his first glass and offered it with a curtsey, then retired to sit in the darkest corner among the bookcases, her white eyes and white teeth glimmering in the shadow.
Glass in hand, Don Miguel wandered absently around the room. It was not merely a library, despite its name. It was almost a museum, and shelf after shelf contained ornaments and curios. The majority of them were, as he had been led to expect, of Saxon, Norse and Irish origin; there were, however, many Moorish and Oriental items, in gold and silver and turquoise and even jade.
He nodded in bitter satisfaction and shifted his attention to the books, which proved that Don Arcimboldo enjoyed truly catholic -- but definitely not Catholic -- taste. There was one case which would probably have sent Father Peabody into hysterics . . . or perhaps not. Reconsidering the idea, Don Miguel concluded that his long acquaintance with the Marquesa had probably cured the priest of his tendency to hysteria. Nonetheless, the maiority of these volumes were on the Index, and not by any means all for simple heresy.
He selected a finely illustrated edition of the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter to pass the time until Don Arcimboldo should enter, and settled himself in a superb leather chair, very comfortable and tooled all over with gilt.
When at length the host did appear, he was full of apologies for making Don Miguel wait. But Don Miguel waved his protestations aside.
"I should have sent ahead to say you must expect me," he declared. "But I've not regretted the time I've spent browsing here. It's given me excellent insight into your tastes as a collector, both of curios and of books."
Don Arcimboldo dropped into a chair that was the twin of Don Miguel's and snapped his fingers for the Guinea-girl to fetch him wine. "What taste I have, to be candid, is dictated by little more than the desire to surround myself with beautiful objects. However, if my self-indulgence affords pleasure for others, I see no reason to deny it." He gave a soft chuckle and sipped his drink.
"Incontestably you have a remarkable collection," said Don Miguel. "Tell me, did you acquire all of these things here in Jorque?"
"Very many of them, including most of the best. Our great market -- you've seen it, yes? -- is a splendid hunting-ground for rarities. As a matter of fact, I bought most of the gold and silver from Higgins, who's a specialist in that area. I wonder: have you any news of him?"
"He sticks to his uneonvincing story of having acquired the Aztec mask from a stranger."
"Poor fellow!" Don Arcimboldo murmured. "I wonder what can have possessed him!"
There was a pause, during which the Guinea-girl came to see whether their glasses needed replenishing. Having spilled a symbolic drop into each, she would have returned to her corner, but her employer dismissed her from the room.
"An interesting choice of phrase," Don Miguel said, as soon as the door had closed behind the slave.
Don Arcimboldo blinked at him. "I don't think I quite . . . ?"
"Your saying you don't know what possessed Higgins," Don Miguel amplified, turning his wineglass between his fingers. "The term is almost too literal, you know. The inquisitors beileve him to have been enchanted."
"Villainous!" Don Arcimboldo exclaimed. "What a foul trick to play on an honourable tradesman!"
"Yes," Don Miguel agreed, and once more there was a short silence.
"By the way," Don Arclmboldo resumed at length, "there's something I suppose I should have said to you in Londres."
Don Miguel inclined his head and looked politely alert.
"I hold no grudge against you for acting as you did in this matter. Of course not. I fully understand how seriously any question of temporal contraband must be regarded."
"I'm pleased to hear it," Don Miguel murmured. "Some people seem to treat the dangers over-lightly."
"I'd never do so! Oh, I'm hardly one to talk, of course -- I confess I should have made inquiries about the ma
sk, in view of its perfect condition. But as you know that's not my speciality . . . Tell me, though, if you're free to do so: how was it that the mask got brought to the present? Surely only Licentiates are permitted to travel in time, and one can hardly imagine a Licentiate being corruptible!"
"It would appear," Don Miguel said after a moment's debate with himself, "that certain -- ah -- outsiders have contrived to grease the necessary palms and get taken on visits to the past. Doubtless one of them brought the mask back."
"Terrible!" Don Arcimboldo widened his eyes. "And yet . . . Well, I could find it in my heart to envy such outsiders." He grinned with engaging frankness. "You wouldn't appreciate the urge which someone like myself feels to walk among the people to whom the rare and beautiful objects I collect were modern -- virtually commonplace! Do you suppose, Don Miguel, the day will come when private applicants, properly indoctrinated against the risk of interfering with the past, will be permitted to share the marvel of time-travel?"
