9 Tales of Henghis Hapthorn

by Matthew Hughes

  Table of Contents

  Introduction: The Birth and Doom of Henghis Hapthorn

  The Immersion

  Mastermindless

  Falberoth's Ruin

  Relics of the Thim

  Finding Sajessarian

  Thwarting Jabbi Gloond

  The Gist Hunter

  Sweet Trap

  About the Author

  Nine Tales of Henghis Hapthorn

  Copyright Matthew Hughes 2013

  ISBN: 978-0-9881078-2-3

  Cover design by Ben Baldwin; eBook conversion by Bradley W. Schenck

  Introduction: The Birth and Doom of Henghis Hapthorn

  In 2003, in the long run-up to the publication of my first (and only) novel from Tor, I thought it would be a good career move to start writing short stories for the sf magazines. People who read the shorts would recognize my name when they saw it on a novel, and the rest would be history.

  I keep a file on my hard drive where I note down interesting story ideas when they occur to me, because otherwise I’ll forget them. I found one that said, “Suppose you came to realize you were living in a world that was the result of somebody’s three wishes going wrong?”

  I said, “Okay, let’s see where that goes,” and started a story. I’m a crime writer at heart, so I made the protagonist a Sherlock Holmesian detective. I decided to set the story in the same universe as the Tor novel: the Archonate, an entirely improbable far-future milieu one age before Jack Vance’s incomparable Dying Earth cycle. And off I went.

  The result was Mastermindless, the first tale of Henghis Hapthorn, Old Earth’s foremost freelance discriminator. I sent it to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and was delighted to receive a contract and check within a couple of weeks.

  Henghis turned out to be popular with a segment of the F&SF readership, so I wrote five more stories about him over the next year or so. I thought it would be good to make them follow an overall story arc, so I cannibalized an idea I’d originally floated in Fools Errant, the first Archonate novel: that, every few thousand years, the basic operating principle of the universe arbitrarily alternates between rationalism (i.e., cause-and-effect) and sympathetic association, (i.e., magic). Hapthorn, a superb rationalist who disdains the very notion of magic, is horrified to discover that he’s living in the last days of rationalism, just before the next big switcheroo comes to destroy his way of life.

  The success of the Hapthorn stories led to three novels, Majestrum, The Spiral Labyrinth, and Hespira, which carry on the tale of impending doom from the six-story arc that began with Mastermindless and continued on to The Gist Hunter. This collection contains those six, plus three other Hapthorn tales: Sweet Trap, which, though a self-contained story, is also the first two chapters of The Spiral Labyrinth; Fullbrim’s Finding, which takes place just after Hespira; and The Immersion, which is set before the rationalism-vs-magic story arc begins. In the latter case, I just wanted to take Henghis out for a spin in his pure, untroubled state. Because of that time signature, I’ve made it the first story in this collection.

  I hope this ebook draws new Hapthorn fans. I wouldn’t mind writing more adventures for him, in short or novel-length form, if there turns out to be a market. We’ll just have to see.

  The Immersion

  The who’s-there at the front door of my lodgings announced that one Feroz Pandamm was seeking admittance.

  “Feroz Pandamm, the essences magnate?” I asked my assistant.

  It instantly consulted with the who’s-there and said, “The same,” while deploying its display screen.

  I regarded the image of Pandamm’s pugnacious countenance hanging in the air before me: a wide-brimmed slouch hat dipped over one cold eye; an upturned high collar hid his heavy jowls. I looked at the time and saw that he had waited until the streets were evening-dark, well after my customary receiving hours, to make his call.

  “It would seem,” I said, “that he does not wish to be seen consulting Olkney’s foremost freelance discriminator.”

  “Yet there he stands,” said the integrator. “Need coupled with embarrassment often combine to yield a substantial fee.”

  “Or it could be that his need to take revenge upon me has swelled until he cannot resist scratching the itch.” I weighed the chances then said, “Admit him, but be on your guard.”

  The who’s-there opened the portal while the integrator disabled the holds and discouragements that protected me from certain operatives among Olkney’s halfworld. There were more than a few career criminals who resented the roles I had played in overturning their illicit plots and mischiefs. But the enmity directed my way did not emanate only from the halfworld–in the best parts of our ancient city there also stood manses and houses-in-town whose owners rarely uttered my name without a prefacing profanity.

  One such manse was the great pile built of blocks of volcanic glass on a cul de sac at the upper end of Tsant Prospect. There Feroz Pandamm sat and concocted stratagems to enrich himself further. Two years earlier, I had frustrated his campaign to gain an unfair advantage over the House of Esk, a rival in the viciously competitive trade in rare essences; Pandamm had gulled one of Tarq Esk’s enumerative cadre into an invidious situation, then threatened to expose the fellow’s peccadilloes unless Pandamm was fed proprietary information on his employer’s plans and weaknesses.

  But Tarq Esk had “smelled a turd behind the tapestry,” as he put it when he engaged me to identify the informer. I did so in short order, after which Esk turned the situation against Pandamm, using the suborned clerk to feed his competitor allegedly secret information about the quality of the jupelle harvest on the planet Whilom. The false details had induced Pandamm to prebuy most of the jupelle crop, only to find, when the blossoms were delivered, that they were infested by a fungus that was rapidly turning them into a foul-smelling sludge.

  Tarq Esk regaled the members of the Essenters Guild with the entire story, making Feroz Pandamm the butt of many a joke. Esk had also revealed my part in the scheme’s undoing. Thus it was nothing less than truth when I told my unexpected visitor, “I am surprised to find you crossing my threshold.”

  “No more than I am to be here,” he said as he heaved his substantial bulk the last few steps up to my work room. He doffed the hat and turned down the collar and I saw that the artful coiffure that was one of his most recognizable features, and of which he was unnaturally proud, was not in evidence. Where it had been was now a broad expanse of bare scalp mottled an angry purple, right down to the roll of fat on the back of his neck.

  “Something has happened to your hair,” I said.

  “How discerning of you to notice,” he replied, and I deduced that whatever had motivated him to seek me out had not warmed his opinion of me.

  “If you have come to me for help,” I said, “you would do well to consider your tone.”

  I saw his eyes flash. My forthright remark had not been to his taste, yet I saw him make the effort to swallow it. I have learned that with some specimens of Olkney’s commercial elite a short, sharp shock on first encounter can clear the field of misconceptions. Now I asked him plainly what I could do for him.

  “Find out who has done this,”–he indicated his empurpled pate–”to me.”

  “And?” I said.

  His downturned lips showed an even grimmer frown. “And tell me.”

  “You plan revenge, of course.”

  “My dignity has suffered enough affronts of late,” he said. After a portentous pause, he added: “As you should know.”

  I sighed. “I cannot be party to a crime.” I forestalled with a brusque gesture the objection he was about to make. “Do not tell me it is none of my concern. If you take di
rect action against the offender, and I am the hound that has pointed you at him, I am morally and legally implicated in your unlawful conduct. The least consequence that I might expect to suffer would be revocation of my license.”

  I might have added, but did not, that Captain-Investigator Brustram Warhanny of the Archonate Bureau of Scrutiny would not be satisfied with such a light punishment, could he ever catch me on the wrong side of the thin and often smudged line that separated the licit from the felonious. Three times in the recent past I had resolved cases–important cases–that had baffled the Bureau, with the result that many scroots had removed themselves from the legion of my admirers.

  None of that, however, was Pandamm’s concern. “Tell me,” I said, “what happened.”

  The incident had occurred the previous evening, though when he told me of it his anger was as fresh as if it had happened only moments before. He had dined at his club, the Monopolists, and had decided to walk off the effects of seven courses, two bottles of wine and several post-prandial snifters with a clique of cronies in the revivifying room. He had dismissed his air-car at the club door and set off across the banded pavements of Tirramee Plaza toward the thoroughfare that would lead to Tsant Prospect and the winding climb to his door.

  His route was not a perilous one. Although there were districts of Olkney through which it was inadvisable for muzzy-headed tycoons to stroll, Pandamm had more sense than to visit them, and scant reason to do so. He strode across the glittering bands of Tirramee’s pavement, the murmur of its multi-tiered fountains comforting his ears. It was well past the hour at which indentors and their spouses liked to promenade in their finery and he encountered no one to whom it was expected he would speak. He had just passed by the spiraled obelisk of filigreed marble that commemorated the reign of the Archon Imreet IV, when he was struck.

  “It came from above,” he said, “and behind. Like a splash of cold, dense liquid, heavy enough that my knees bent and I almost pitched forward. I reached up, with both hands, and felt a viscous mass clinging to my head and shoulders. I sank my fingers into it and tore it from me, flung it to the pavement without looking at it.”

  “What did you look at?” I said.

  “The air above, of course. I wanted to see who had done this to me.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No air-cars, omnibuses, freight vehicles?”

  “None.”

  “Whose house was nearby?”

  “Some lordling’s.”

  “No one you know? Socially?”

  The answer was a grunt. I understood. Wealth and rank in Olkney might occasionally travel together but more often they diverged to follow separate courses. Members of the aristocracy would be prime customers for Pandamm’s essences, the rarest of which only his vendory could provide, but any transactions would be conducted through servants.

  “Integrator,” I said, “display a schematic of Tirramee Plaza.” A map appeared. I said to Pandamm, “Indicate your course.”

  His blunt index finger traced a path from the front door of the Monopolists across the square, moving from south to north and diverting as it went around the interlocked circles of the fountain on the west side.

  “You did not go straight across, through the wide space between the fountains,” I said.

  “A troupe of buskers occupied the middle ground,” he said. “They were packing up their stilts and instruments. I did not care to be importuned.”

  “And where were you struck?”

  “Here!” A thick-nailed fingertip poked through the display. “Just this side of Imreet’s Column!”

  “That,” I said, “would put you right outside the house-in-town of Lord Chavarie, would it not?”

  “Are you saying that Dizmah Chavarie is the culprit?” I saw that the lines of Pandamm’s face easily shaped themselves into a mask of ridicule.

  “I am not saying that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “At this point,” I said, “I am asking. The saying will come in due course, if”–and here I raised an emphatic finger–”I decide to take the case.” He began to offer some further observation that I was sure would not be helpful, so I spoke over him. “When you saw nothing above, did you then look down to see what had struck you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And...”

  “And, again, I saw nothing.”

  “The viscous mass had disappeared?”

  “As if it had never been.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “What is your conclusion?”

  I had no conclusion to offer. The facts were, so far, too scant, though some unformed idea was tickling the back of my mind. I told him it would be premature to say, particularly as I had not yet accepted the discrimination.

  “But you will,” he said.

  Would I? I was not sure. I had never cared for Feroz Pandamm, even when he was a remote figure on the far horizon of my affairs. Seeing how he had casually ruined the life of a hapless Esk functionary did nothing to warm my regard for him, and now at close quarters I was finding him even less endearing. I offered him a cool look beneath raised eyebrows; it was an unspoken contradiction of his view.

  He was not accustomed to being gainsaid. His color darkened and his square chin tucked itself down into its own folds. “Name your fee,” he said.

  “It is not a matter of fees,” I said, “but of time. Integrator, how is my schedule for the next few days?” The phrase, whenever uttered in front of a third party, was a code between my assistant and me. The device replied that I was heavily engaged on three discriminations of a serious nature, all involving members of Olkney’s elite. “Well,” I said, “there it is.”

  “Not acceptable,” he said. His eyes had both widened and somehow contrived to bulge forward in their sockets. I saw him struggle to control an impulse, which was clearly toward physical action. Whether he constrained himself out of civility or the logical expectation that, here in my lodgings, my person would not be undefended, I could not say. But he subsided and growled, “What will it take to free up your time?”

  My own impulse was to tell him that nothing would move me. I did not like him, and one of the attractions of a freelance discriminator’s calling was the ability to choose whom I would serve. But I checked my first inclination; the circumstances of the assault on Pandamm, if it had indeed been an assault and not some sort of freakish accident, were intrinsically interesting–at least I could not immediately discern what had struck him to leave him bald and discolored.

  Few enough of my cases offered me an intellectual challenge: I was all too often commissioned to retrieve purloined goods of the wealthy, to bring back spoiled scions of the aristocracy led astray by appetites they had never learned to restrain, to locate errant spouses who had wearied of what had once fulfilled them to perfection, to set right petty wrongs–or, worse, to assist in some even pettier revenge.

  Pandamm’s motives were not complex. He had been wronged, deprived of a personal attribute that he much valued; that was an affront to his concept of a well ordered cosmos, which could have no other reason to exist than to accommodate his will. But the circumstances were unusual enough, and I had not been fully engaged by a discrimination for far too long. It was just coming up to ten years since I had built my assistant and taken up the life of a freelance discriminator. I had enjoyed it at first, when the challenges were fresh and novel, but of late I found myself grown jaded and often quite bored.

  “I will take the case,” I said.

  I saw that the universe was once again functioning more in accordance with Feroz Pandamm’s expectations: his chins unfolded and something almost like a smile briefly gasped for life on his lips. “Have your integrator contact mine for the fiduciary arrangements.”

  “No,” I said. Another impulse had bubbled up in me and this time I acceded to it.

  “What do you mean, ‘No?’“ The chins had bunkered themselves again. />
  “I will not charge a fee,” I said. “Instead, you will owe me a service, to be performed when I call for it.”

  His brows contracted. “What kind of service?”

  I did not know. The impulse had been strong but not informative. Again, I fell back upon my usual response when I had nothing useful to offer: “It is premature to say. But you may take my price or take your leave.”

  As it happened, he took both, in that order.

  * * *

  In the morning I decanted my integrator into its traveling armature, which resembled a plump stole made of flexible though tough material, and placed it over my shoulders. Tirramee was both a fair walk and a stiff climb from my lodgings in Shiplien Way, the six-sided plaza being set into the foothills that gradually sloped up to become the base of the Devenish Range, which culminated in the stark heights along which sprawled the Palace of the Archonate. I went up to the roof of my lodgings and had my assistant attract the attention of the next omnibus.

  The vehicle was not crowded and I was not forced to share a seat as it carried me to its northern terminus, a tower of modest height whose observation platform overlooked, though at a distance, the scene of the incident. I had my integrator apply its percepts and examined the image it delivered privately to my retinas.

  “There is a Bureau of Scrutiny volante on the roof of the manse to the left of the plaza,” I said. My assistant confirmed my comment and tightened its focus onto a window below the parapet above the building’s top floor. Agents in black and green uniforms could be seen inspecting a bedchamber. Just then the officer in command of the scroot detachment turned and looked out of the window. I regarded the pendulous ears and elongated nose, the drooped eyelids and protruding lower lip and wondered, not for the first time, if gravity might somehow have a stronger effect on the countenance of Brustram Warhanny than on the rest of us.

  The thought had scarcely passed away before I saw the Captain-Investigator’s ever-moist eyes rise then briefly cast about before locking onto my own distant gaze.