She had lost Villiers somehow. Her fear was peculiar. It was not so much that he was dead as it was that she would never find him again.
The halls began to take on a nightmarish quality. They led nowhere final, but simply led on. She and Alice were playing hide-and-go-seek in a labyrinth. Somewhere were warmth and color and people, but not here. She was cold—there were goosepimples on her arm. Everything seemed faded around her. The few people she saw were distant and their voices muted.
“Where are we going?” Alice asked.
“I’m going to ask this man,” Louisa said.
She stopped the old gentleman. “Excuse me, sir. We’re looking for the dueling gallery. Could you direct us?”
He stood only feet away, but he was distant and his voice was muted in her ears by more than his Imperial moustache.
“Certainly,” he said. “It’s not far. But aren’t you girls a little young for dueling galleries?”
“Please, sir. There was a duel tonight. A friend was challenged and I have to know if he is all right.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go in if I were you. I’d wait outside. Too rough. Walk back with me and I’ll direct you.”
They followed his directions and shortly arrived at the dueling gallery. To no real surprise of Louisa’s, there was no one outside and no noise within.
“Is this the right place?” Alice asked, looking about. “Where is everybody?”
“I don’t know,” Louisa said. “It’s probably all over.”
She was certain that it was, that it was beyond her power to hurt or help. There were stairs at either hand that led up to the galleries, and directly in front of them the brown doors to the main floor half rolled back. It was dark within. Louisa stepped forward between the doors and raised her hand to bring on the lights. They came up slowly. The narrow floor was bare and gleaming marble. There were more stairs from the floor to the galleries.
Louisa didn’t know what she expected to see. There was no public announcement posted. There was no telltale pool of blood. There was only a long, bare cold room.
“We could go back to the casino,” Alice said. “People there ought to know.”
“No,” Louisa said.
“Why not? It’s reasonable.”
“I don’t want to find out that way. Let’s go to his rooms.”
“Oh, great!” Alice said.
Louisa’s feeling of strange anxiety continued as they made their way through the halls again. As though to accentuate it, they encountered no one. She almost wanted to call to everyone to come out of hiding, but then she was afraid of what would happen if she did. She wanted to run, or cry, or claw at the wall. Above all, she wished desperately she knew that key word that spoken would make the world run right again. And in the meantime, she continued to walk as steadily as she could.
To Alice, this excursion was so far no more than an excuse for vicarious pleasure. She was stepping along happily beside Louisa, her mind filled with romantic thoughts.
If Villiers was alive, it was up to them to find him. If he were in public, public reunions are dramatic. If he were in private, private reunions are poignant. The idea of a sexual liaison between Villiers and Louisa still held her, uncertain though she was in her heart of hearts that Louisa was made of the stuff of successful mistresses. And reunions, either poignant or dramatic, along with self-concealment in appropriate closets, are the stuff on which successful fantastic passions are founded.
On the other hand, if Villiers were not alive, it was still in order to find him as efficiently as possible. Once found, his dead (or even better, dying) body was the perfect platform from which any young lady of proper sensibility could express her grief in terms and tones to inform the most unfeeling and insensate listener with an appreciation of her emotion. And once dead, well, beautiful things could be done in a school like Miss McBurney’s with an aptly handled unhappy past. She was realist enough to know that.
Alice only hoped that Louisa would make the most of her absolutely terrific chances. If she failed now, in this hour of perfect possibility, a strain would be put on the friendship for Alice, and she wouldn’t like that.
* * *
The results of what we do are hidden to us. We act as best we can and hope that what will happen is for the better rather than the worse. But we can never know beforehand.
The apparently simple—say, the ingestion of acetylsalicylic acid (C9H8O4) that was common between the vogues for phrenology and manarveling—may have unforeseen consequences: several centuries of cumulated genetic damage that requires several further centuries to repair.
The apparently complex series of interconnections when flipped and viewed from a new angle may in fact have a single key linkage. Touch it and the Chinese puzzle falls apart.
The apparently frightening and hopeless situation may turn out to have a candy-cream interior. That has been the main premise of the happy ending since the return of Ulysses.
But all you do see in fact is the simple end of a headache, the myriad interlocked pieces of a puzzle whose key cannot be found, or the frightening and hopeless.
Perhaps, if our minds were trained to accept the idea and our language permitted, it would be altogether better not to believe in causality. Perhaps lines of occurrence in which events are not caused but occur of their own volition would be more satisfactory. This might salve the hurt presently resulting either from failure or success in perceiving the results of our actions.
If Louisa had not believed in causality, she would not have been blaming herself. First, was there anything to be blamed for? Louisa couldn’t know, but nonetheless, such was her feeling of anxiety, it seemed to her that there ought to be. Otherwise, why should she feel blameworthy? Second, where was her fault? Dig deep enough and you’ll find one. Villiers wouldn’t have been in the casino if not to please her, and he would not have been saying things that could be taken so personally by Godwin. Both of these, of course, were untrue, but both were good enough for Louisa. She blamed herself.
She stood in front of the entryway to the Palatine Suite, Alice hanging a little behind her. Then she stepped forward and sounded the door, taking a pace back when she heard the ring inside.
After a moment there was a heavy trudge toward the door, there was a click while she was surveyed, and then the door slid open. Torve the Trog stood there, fur brushed and looking ruggish, eyes a luminous blue in the light, holding a book in his splayed fingers. If you had asked him and he could have put it neatly and intelligibly, Torve’s view of what had transpired was this: the bell had a life-line stretching from coincidental creation to the moment its component atoms separated themselves at the name of an anonymous urge, and stretched along this line were a number of random rings. One of these had existed at a point slightly prior to one of a number of occasions that his life-line had taken him over to open the door. No involvement at all—merely the close approach of two lines of occurrence.
“Hello. Is girl from casino, Miss Parini, and female friend from the ship Orion.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Torve.” Now that she was here, Louisa didn’t feel able to rip away into the subject. Tentatively, she asked, “Um, is Mr. Villiers here?”
Behind her, Alice felt ashamed. Not half what it ought to be. Louisa was just too young, she supposed.
“I have not seen him since we were together in casino.”
“But he was in a duel. He was in a duel and I wasn’t there. He may he dead.” Abruptly, Louisa burst into shocked tears.
Alice thought more highly of her then, though a faint would have been better.
Torve folded her against his fur. “He is not dead. I am sure of that. I would know instmently.”
Louisa was soothed by his warmth of manner and warmth of fur. Imagine yourself being cuddled by a giant softly furry brown toad—appealing, isn’t it? It turned her tears into occasional racking sobs, and the sobs into a quiet sniff.
“We must act,” Torve said. “We are to go separate ways in dete
rmination. They may have taken him to cellars. Secret places.”
“Oh, I know about that,” she said. “He told me.”
“Is good. You go there. Look for him as best you can. In meantime, I will rouse help and search in higher places.”
Silently, Louisa nodded.
“Go,” said Torve. “Go well.”
Louisa took Alice by the arm and turned. The door slid shut behind them. Torve opened his book, fingered through the pages, and then stopped when he had found his place. Reading, he crossed the room, found a warm spot on the floor that he particularly favored, and lowered himself in stages into his folded sitting position. He established himself comfortably inside his book.
“Thurb,” he went. “Thurb, thurb.”
* * *
Some distance away, on their course to the basements, the girls remained in an uncertain world in which Villiers might be either alive or dead. Their lines of occurrence and his had momentarily neared and then separated again, but never touched.
Soberly, Alice said, “I thought he was ugly. I mean I thought that when we were on the ship. But he’s not.”
“Oh, no,” said Louisa. “He’s understanding. He made me feel comfortable.”
In fact, the edge of her anxiety was gone, and she no longer felt either blamed or blameable. She was still worried, but she also had the feeling that abler hands than hers had things in charge.
After a few minutes of walking, Alice said, “What are we looking for?”
“I’m not certain exactly,” Louisa said.
She began to tell Alice a suitably edited version of the thriller that Villiers had told her. Alice was caught by every word. This was so much better than the little romance and duel that had previously occupied the stage. But she was also frightened for the first time.
“It should be somewhere below us. Mr. Villiers was going to his rooms when he became lost.”
They were in a stairwell, proceeding downward. “How are you going to tell when you reach the right floor?” Alice asked.
Louisa was opening the door on each floor as she reached it.
“I don’t know. When it feels right,” she said. “Then if I’m wrong, we’ll try again.”
“Maybe you should have let the creature explore down here while we went for help,” Alice said slowly.
Louisa let the door close and went down the next flight. She tried the door.
“This is promising,” she said.
“What?”
“Well, it’s locked.”
Louisa set to work on the door. In a moment she had it open.
“You said your brother is in the Navy?” Alice asked. “He must be all right. I’ve always liked uniforms.”
“Come on,” Louisa said.
They were in a corridor like other corridors. Its color was a functional light blue. The lights that came up in recognition of their presence were dim, and revealed the blue only as gray. They walked tentatively, the lights behind fading as they passed, the lights ahead springing to pale life like well-trained clusters of fireflies painstakingly taught the pleasures of unity.
“I don’t think there’s anything down here,” Alice said. “I don’t see anything.”
“Hush a moment.”
“I don’t hear anything, either.”
“Hush.”
They made themselves soft and absorbent and lurked to catch any sound unwary enough to present itself.
“Nothing,” reported Alice at last, not sure whether it was preferable that there be something or that there be nothing. Nothing, she decided firmly and finally.
“Well, I thought I did hear something,” Louisa said. “It was just for a moment there at the beginning.”
“Well, what sort of noise was it?”
Louisa looked at the larger girl and tried to decide. “Maybe footfalls,” she said, at last.
“Well, that might have been . . .”
Alice stopped, trying to think what it could have been or what it could have been instead of that, and couldn’t think of anything better or anything worse. Louisa looked at her, waiting, and then shook her head slightly and set out again. Alice followed after.
9
WHEN MANAGERS OF ILLICIT TRAFFIC MEET, their biggest plaint is the employment problem. In a word, henchmen. There are all too few young crooks willing to take training service under older and more accomplished men.
Shirabi was well aware of this. He did not own Star Well. He managed it for other men, who were themselves rather large managers of illicit traffic.
But did he have proper help? No.
He had employees enough. Two hundred and thirty-six of them. But first, over two hundred of those were contract labor and contract labor cannot be trusted. It either isn’t bright enough or it isn’t stupid enough. If it is stupid enough, it can’t be used for very much—and crime can be demanding. If it is bright enough, it knows Rule J, that contract labor is legally responsible for the effect of the orders it obeys.
Part of the trouble was that the wages of sin are poor. The big men, the Zvegintsovs, quite rightly want to keep as much of what they make as they can. They don’t share it readily.
Then, too, many young men are personally ambitious. The long, slow road uphill has no attraction. They go into small business for themselves.
Finally, Star Well was simply not an attractive duty station unless you were at least a submanager. People were bored here. Shirabi had, in fact, been assigned four extra hands, but they somehow hadn’t gotten around to turning up. Deliberately ducking, he was sure.
So that left him how many active henchmen? Fourteen. That’s all. Twelve of them were scheduled in the casino in three shifts. If there was anything else, a ship to load with thumbs, for instance, help at extra pay had to come from the off-duty shifts. He hated to think of how much sleep he’d lost, how many evenings he’d had to postpone pruning, how much of the actual work he’d done.
This point is included for clarity. It wouldn’t be fair to have you imagine a band surrounding Louisa and Alice, a horde to be met by the sturdy minions of Empire, an army ranked behind Hisan Bashir Shirabi. This is a small story. Outside is a vast Empire set in a vaster universe. Billions delve and spin, fight and love. Storms and wars shake whole planets and are never noticed. Nonetheless, here money, love and life hang in the balance; important enough things, I think you will agree, without the necessity for overstatement.
* * *
Derek Godwin looked at the filled seats on either side of the marble dueling floor. The number of witnesses pleased him. They would see him doing what he did best. The tune was still running through his mind and he concentrated on that while he waited. He was ready. Only the weapons and Villiers were not.
The choice of weapons had been up to Villiers, and he had made an infelicitous choice for himself—tinglers and knives.
Of all his weapons, Godwin loved his tingler best. If he resembled Ian Steele at all, it was when he held a tingler.
Tinglers are tapering wands, brown or black. A brown practice tingler delivers a flowering shock. A good stroke leaves a welt that persists for a week. Well-used, a practice tingler can knock an opponent unconscious. A black dueling tingler destroys nerves with its touch. A shrewd stroke demands surgical repair. A dueling tingler, well-used, can kill.
And Godwin had no objections to using a knife. He was a left-handed man at heart, and knives are left-handed weapons. They distract, if distractions are needed. They parry, if parries are called for. And they cut, if a throat should be misguided enough to present itself.
Godwin’s second, a fat young man named Harvey Chapeldaine, had helped him out of his coat and drapeau. These had been laid aside along with Godwin’s curdler.
Villiers had also taken his coat off, but he was not ready. He was asking for a ribbon to tie his hair back out of his eyes. Godwin sniffed. His hair was held back at all times by ornamental pins.
No one presented a ribbon immediately. Then a lady in the gallery bent,
tore a strip of blue cloth free and threw it down. There was applause and Villiers bowed before tying his hair.
Chapeldaine and Srb met with Shirabi. Shirabi offered a box of knives. These were matched, tested for balance, tested for edge, and two were chosen. Then Shirabi held out two black tinglers. They were a fair match. He switched them both on to show they operated satisfactorily and then switched them off and handed them to the seconds. They returned with them to the principals.
“Here, Mr. Godwin,” Chapeldaine said.
Godwin took the knife first. He tested it in his left hand, feeling the heft, and then with Villiers at the end of his eye, he made a slice through the air.
Then he accepted the tingler, did an arm exercise with it and found it satisfactory. He turned it on, brought it a millimeter too close to Chapeldaine and then turned it off.
The dueling master was not Shirabi. He would have doubted his ability to bring it off, and in his doubting insured his own failure. Perhaps in a leafy glade, but not here. The master was named Bledsoe. He had been the first to present credentials. Shirabi liked the air of the professional, and took him on. Godwin, too, liked having a professional dueling master overseeing things. It improved the occasion.
Bledsoe stepped forward. He was middle-aged, grave, sure, a trace too thin-lipped to be likable. He waved for the principals. He had no flash, but rather the air of a Talmudic scholar.
Chapeldaine said, “Good luck, Mr. Godwin.”
Godwin didn’t answer, but stepped forward feeling the bounce in his stride and appreciating the electric thrill of anticipation. The weight of his weapons was good. The footing was good. The crowd was good. The dueling master was good. And the opponent was just fine. Villiers didn’t look altogether inept: he showed no nervousness, he didn’t drop his weapons, and he was fit. But he was small and his reach was short. He could be held at arm’s length and picked to pieces. Best was that he was due to have his balloon pricked and Godwin relished the idea of doing the pricking.
Bledsoe said, “Is there any possibility of resolving your differences amicably?”
Villiers raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Godwin said, “Let’s get on.”
New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Page 11
