However, for those few raised to a single narrow squint, the discovery of even a second perspective on the smoke and swirl of the evanescent world can be important, shocking, and joyful. This is good if it leads to new vistas, and bad if the second perspective is mistaken for Final Truth.
Timur i Leng, vizier of Chagatay under Suyurghatmish, discovered one day that the world looks different from forty feet in the air and was overwhelmed. He gathered his army and overran Khorasan, Jurjan, Mazandaran, Sijistan, Azerbaijan, and Fars. In each place he raised a pyramid of skulls forty feet high and limped to the top in the hopes of recapturing that first thrilling rush—and missed the point completely.
Sir Henry the Trog stood in danger of similarly refining too greatly on a single new view of the world. He would not come out of his costume no matter what his wife said. He was quiet about it—when he did not forget himself and dance or sing to savor once again the puzzling and pleasing strangeness of it all—but he was adamant. He would not come out.
His mind had been busy and kept him from sleep, but at last he had fallen into warm electric dreams. When he woke he turned his woolly head and saw that his wife had risen. He did not seek her company immediately but lay awake and let the butterflies in his mind take spotted wing. He hummed.
He was still humming when be located Lady Oliphaunt eating a solitary breakfast. By the debris before her, she was nearly finished.
“Ah, my dear,” he said. “Charles said I should find you here.” And mused off into a hum again.
“No,” she said, looking at him and then looking back at her buttered bun. “I’m not here.” Meaning that she wished she weren’t.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, not wishing to.
She said, “Henry—darling—won’t you at least take the costume off for breakfast?”
She began to scour her plate with the last of her bun. To a lesser degree, she shared her husband’s failing. When she was young she would never have dared to do anything so vulgar as mop her plate. It was only eventually that she had learned that anything is proper if it is done with supreme confidence and ultimate style, and now she scoured her plate when and as she pleased, carelessly, thoughtlessly, freely. If she had been sensitive to her own easy excess she might have been more easily forgiving of Sir Henry’s.
He said, “Oh, thank you, but it isn’t necessary. In fact I think it’s a very good thing. It will give me practice in managing food. I shouldn’t want to appear clumsy before the good people of Delbalso. We want to give them every reason to think well of Empire, and we must remember that ultimately it is we who will stand for Empire out here. Charles will be serving me here at any moment, I should think.”
He began to experiment with Trog-handed shadow pictures with the aid of his light cone.
Lady Oliphaunt said, “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to stay and keep you company. The sooner I go to town the better. I have still to find a costume.”
“That’s true. That’s true. But I dislike the thought of your traveling alone in the dark. Why don’t you see whether Lord Charteris or Mr. Firnhaber will bear you company?”
“Charles said that both milord’s nephews rose early and left in company for town. I’ve missed the opportunity, it seems, but I truly don’t mind going alone. Truly not.”
He gave that a moment’s consideration. Then he said, “I’ll bypass breakfast! I’ll escort you to town myself. The least I can do is see that we complement each other.”
Lady Oliphaunt was sadly lacking in apparent enthusiasm for this show of consideration. Perhaps she should never have married. The heart of marriage is a sharing of company and aim.
Instead she asked, “And would you be wearing that costume?”
“Well, yes, my dear. I thought . . .”
She turned her head to the wall and said definitely, “I won’t go.”
* * *
Lord Semichastny sat up in bed when Charles entered to serve him his breakfast melon. He had slept later than he intended, and he had contingencies on his mind. The melon was to provide him strength to cope.
Charles rolled to the bed and served breakfast. Besides melon, there was a toasted scone, sweetmold front Protopapis, an advance piece of crisply roasted skin and fat sliced from a goose in the kitchens, dogbone, drennel, and tea. However, Lord Semichastny had the courage of his compulsions and counted this mere dressing to the melon.
“Have there been any calls?” he asked before taking his first bite.
“None, milord. It has been generally quiet.”
“None?”
“None, milord.”
After a moment’s reflection, Lord Semichastny began his breakfast. He needed at least the scone as fuel for his temper, so he dug in heartily the sooner to start the steam rising.
“I have another letter for Lord Charteris,” he said. “Did you give him the first?”
“Yes, milord, but Lord Charteris has departed the house. He and Mr. Firnhaber left for town hours ago.”
“Did he pick out a costume?”
“No, milord. I did suggest it to him as you said to do—most politely—but he said his attendance remained to be seen.”
“He did, did he?”
“And he said that you overelaborate your points, milord.”
“He did, did he?” Lord Semichastny looked at his robot butler as though suspecting him of taking delight in the simple messages he was entrusted to relay. Limited Volition hardly extends so far as delight.
“Your pardon, milord. May I be excused? I should be overseeing the musical arrangements.”
“No, damn it! You’ll stay until I give you leave to go. You say that Lord Charteris and Mr. Firnhaber left for town together?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Well, perhaps Lord Charteris intends to lend a hand in locating a cross section of Delbalso for the fete.”
“I think not, milord. He spoke of mailing a package and other business.”
“Catlap!” said Lord Semichastny through his breakfast. “Catlap! Get out of here, Charles! Go answer the door. Go see to the music. Go.”
However, some fifteen minutes later Lord Semichastny, chewing his piece of goose skin, wandered through the darkened house until he found Charles, who indeed was overseeing the musical arrangements. Within the limited sphere of running this house, Charles was a versatile creature, although in the wild world outside he would have been nearly helpless.
“Where are Sir Henry and Lady Oliphaunt?” Lord Semichastny asked. “I can’t seem to find them.”
“Gone to town, milord. They too,” Charles answered. “Would you like to review the music I’ve chosen?”
“As long as you know the tunes are those I like, I’m sure you will choose adequately. Did they travel with Lord Charteris and Mr. Firnhaber?”
“No, milord. They said something of choosing a costume for Lady Oliphaunt. I took it upon myself to suggest to Lady Oliphaunt that we could do very well for her here. Semiramis Among the Doves could be both popular and successful.”
“What were you thinking of?” Lord Semichastny asked. “That’s not for Amita. Semiramis Among the Doves is Kitty-Belle Armbruster’s style.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. My taste is not good. Lady Oliphaunt had the good sense to share your opinion, milord, and rejected the suggestion. After some discussion she and Sir Henry left in a flitter for town.”
“And no one has called?”
“No, milord.”
“But it’s getting later.”
“Have no fear, milord. All shall be ready here before the hour. I think you will have reason to be proud of your loyal staff of robots and mechanicals.”
But Lord Semichastny was not mollified. He paced through the empty house mumbling to himself. He took hasty notice of food, drink, music, and decoration, but he did not pause for long. He waited for someone to come. He waited for someone to call. No one called. No one came. And so he paced.
At last he said, “I’m going into town.
Run out a flitter, Charles.”
* * *
And at first Charles was too busy to notice. Supervision is necessary if you expect a staff to do more than it possibly can. But Charles was not the only member of the Merry Majordomos on Delbalso by happenstance. He was a member because he was capable of prodigies. His staff not only did more than it possibly could, but it finished with time to spare.
It was only then that Charles truly noticed that the house was empty. All the humans had gone away.
Charles had done exactly as he ought, and the party was ready. But there were no people.
The house was without light, Even Charles’s yellow courtesy light no longer glowed. It was not needed.
With all ready for service—food held hot and cold in stasis, walls strung, entertainments ready for release on command or trip, mechanicals shiny and well-rehearsed, and flower petals in an urn by the door—there was no one to serve.
Charles rolled to the dressing room, and there he looked for some time at a green polka-dotted silk sarong, a diaphanous blouse of cream, and an orange tarboosh. It was only at times like this that being a chattel weighed heavily. He had been built to serve, after all. But not to be abused by orange! At last, however, thinking that he heard the approach of a flitter, he put the uniform on. And he was right—orange did not become him.
He was wrong, however, in thinking he detected a flitter. When he returned upstairs, he found nothing but the robots and mechanicals of the house in gathering. He shooed them into the main hall to wait.
They waited and they wondered.
“Will the people come?” they asked.
“Who knows?” Charles said. “Be patient.” To pass the time, he told them stories in the dark hall as he often had on winter nights when the house was closed and the robots wondered about spring and the reality of Lord Semichastny.
He began: “There was a man dwelt by a churchyard,” which is a good story, full of sprites and goblins, though a trifle sad. However, the mechanicals had heard it too often before and cried him halt.
“Tell another story,” they said.
“And let it be scary,” said the shiny serving table that had brought the message to Villiers.
“But not too scary,” they said.
So Charles began again:
“Once there was an old man and a woman and a little household robot, and they all lived in a house made of hempstalks. The old man had a dog, and he was a little dog, and the little dog’s name was Turpie. And one night the Hobyahs came and said, ‘Hobyah! Hobyah! Hobyah! Tear down the hempstalks. Eat up the old man. Eat up the old woman. Carry off the little household robot!’ But little dog Turpie barked so that the Hobyahs ran off.”
And he held the attention of the room. As they waited.
7
IF MY MOTHER’S ADVICE WERE TAKEN AS WIDELY as she would give it, every man would have two professions. For the common man in a common time, two professions do keep life from becoming commonplace, or so my mother would have it. In headier times, when the palm flourishes and the dates hang heavy and sweet, a second interest keeps a man from bruiting the price of dates over his second helping of date-nut pudding and being a bore to his guests. And in times of drought, a second skill keeps a man.
Like much of the folk wisdom inherited from her simple peasant ancestors, this is sensible conservative advice. It keeps men alive and peasants peasants.
Every man should have two professions—at the least for reasons of security. But lest security become cloying, one of the professions should be a flyer. Something like poetry, or astrology. Or selling ornamental rugs.
Poetry and astrology each had a brief moment of glory, poetry in the days when language was wild and whirling and a man with his words about him could kill with a lightning phrase; and astrology when it was finally realized that everything in the universe affects everything else and that something as consequential as a star or planet must have its effects on human lives. But poetry became shackled by grammars and dictionaries, and astrology became lost in the science of universal ecology. Astrology and poetry have been secondary professions ever since, limited by the normal modesty of people who do not care to have their names linked with stars unless it be done surpassingly well.
As for ornamental rugs, they are notoriously uncertain.
And it is true that two ordinarily chancy professions can be strangely successful in combination. Any pairing of poetry, astrology, and ornamental rugs, for instance, can mean synergetic miracles.
And the trinity, the three-in-one, can mean a saint, a ruler of the sevagram, or Omar Khayyám. Unfortunately, the combination is rare.
* * *
A great heavy bell rolled and tolled above them as Slyne and McBe harried the midnight streets. They coursed a long, sloping cobbleway. Slyne felt close to the questionable Trog. McBe felt terror held in abeyance. As long as he concentrated on following Slyne and didn’t think, he was functional, but when they paused or when he thought, he was afraid.
As the last bell peal finished echoing, they were suddenly surrounded by a crowd of middle-aged men in yellow shorts with embroidered jumper fronts.
“Hold,” they said.
Slyne held, feeling the game whose dim track he had followed so well would escape him. When Slyne stopped, McBe stopped, too. It was that, and not the cry to hold, that caused him to look up. When he saw the strange yellow circle, he nearly fell. He kept his feet by seizing Slyne’s moleskin arm.
“Oh, not now,” said Slyne in a mixed agony of exaltation and exasperation. He inhaled once, a quick sniff, and then he said, “Who are you?”
One swept off a feathered cockade in a grandiose gesture, limited by fat. “Rafael Abdelnoor of the Xochitl Sodality, at your service. You can tell by our colors, of course, that we belong to Schermerhorn House, the best house in the best Monist Association in the quadrant.”
Another said reprovingly, “Don’t be un-Monist, Rafe.”
“Sorry,” said the first, chastened. In less inflated tones, he said, “We’re playing Wonders and Marvels tonight. And we’ve chosen you.”
Then he said to his critic, “I was just enjoying myself.”
Slyne said, “I am sorry. It cannot be. We—my assistant and I—are on urgent affairs on behalf of the Empire. Much as we would like to observe your rituals, I am afraid that we cannot stay.”
Abdelnoor said, “But you’re here. That means you’re playing. You shouldn’t be out tonight if you’re not serious about playing. By the way, what are you?”
To this pertinent question, Slyne replied, “I am an Auxiliary Executive Overseer (NIS/9) (Pending).” This was apparent to the trained eye from his uniform, right down to the (Pending), but Slyne did not expect a trained eye in this crowd, so he included the fact.
“No. No, no. What are you? What is your ethnos?”
“Oh. I am an Orthodoxou.”
“Well, we haven’t had one of those before.”
What happened next is unpleasant to recount. Mr. Abdelnoor of the Xochitl Sodality had one set of plans for the night and Mr. Slyne of the Rock had another. If they had reasoned calmly with each other, no doubt they could have come to agreement—perhaps a third alternative altogether, halfway between the mountains and the seashore. However, they lost their tempers, raised their voices, and fell into rhetoric.
When the subject became the relative power to command of the Nashuite Empire and the Schermerhorn Chapter of the Xochitl Sodality, windows were opened and the people of the neighborhood made comment.
“Take it away from here! We let you have the streets. Leave us a little peace.”
Mr. Abdelnoor settled his point, which was that while the power of the Nashuite Empire was concededly great, so was it also distant, and that the power of the Schermerhorn Chapter of the Xochitl Sodality, overall totaling considerably less, was immediately somewhat the greater, by having Mr. Slyne picked up bodily by two mature initiates and carried off through the streets. They didn’t pick up Mr. McBe
and carry him off, perhaps out of oversight. After all, when it is dark and noisy and sudden, it is extremely easy to be careless of details.
McBe ran after them protesting the oversight, but they were laughing and took no notice. He overtook a trailing two.
“Wait, there! What are you doing with Mr. Slyne?”
“Ho-ho,” they said.
The two turned upon him and used him hardly. They whipped a blindfold over his eyes, and laughed, and spun him dizzyingly until he sat down plump on the damp cobbles.
And then they ran off, their middle-aged feet thumping away into the universal dark that surrounded McBe’s unsettled mind and blindfolded eyes. He sat on the street and cried, and very slowly took the blindfold off. He unknotted it and smoothed it, and then folded it neatly.
While he sat, folding and crying and wondering desolately what to do, happy Christian bells of joy began to chime again.
* * *
It was near peelgrunt, and Villiers had not yet arrived. Parini was not only awake, but agitated.
“Where is he?” he asked. “Do you suppose he took me overseriously when I told him to let us have a good sleep? I never considered him to have much of a sense of humor.”
Miriam Parini said, “But of what use? Those papers for that beast haven’t come.”
“True, but the name has. And Villiers will pay twenty royals for that. What could Treleaven have been thinking of to change his mind so suddenly? Old men are too capricious.”
He began to pace. With Treleaven’s departure, he was suddenly dependent on Villiers’ purse to pay his way free of the Winter-Summer Laws. He tried to see where the advantage lay, and the arguments that would emphasize the advantage. His biggest argument was that he had the name of the man who had twice hired the notorious assassin Solomon “Biff” Dreznik, to put a period to Villiers’s life. That was substantial information.
“Jules, could we ask Zvegintzov’s man for money away? Once off Delbalso we could pay them back in no time, and they know that.”
New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Page 37
