Template: A Novel of the Archonate

by Matthew Hughes

  “Would you like to see a game?” Iriess asked.

  “Why not?” Conn said. “I am likely to be here for some time until I can engage an intercessor to act for me on Bashaw and free my assets.”

  A play-off match was scheduled for the next day. It would decide which of a pair of Red Division teams, the highly rated Incomparables and the upstart Jaunty Crabs, would advance to the championships. Iriess was particularly interested to judge the style and quality of the Crabs’ forward line, since he and his fellow Waves might have to face them if the Crabs won tomorrow and the Wave triumphed over the Deep in the upcoming Gold Division final. It was decided that Conn would accompany a group of Mordenes to the contest on Five Fingers Key.

  “But your father seemed displeased by the mention of gaming,” he said. “I would not want to transgress against the morals of my host.”

  Iriess waved away the concern. “My father does not condemn birl. Indeed, he was a handy player in his youth and even captained the Wave of his time to a championship.”

  “Then what is the conflict?”

  “He opposes the Tote,” Iriess said, “as do many of the older folk. We of the younger crowd see no harm in it.”

  “Load of fackle,” said the opinionated boy.

  “Blatant,” agreed another.

  “What is the Tote?” Conn said.

  Another multi-voiced explanation ensued from which Conn understood that the Tote was some form of mutual betting pool that handled wagers on birl matches and individual results, such as whether a particular player would score or win more encounters than he lost in rolling against a top-ranked rival.

  “Alwan Foulaine conceived the concept,” Iriess said. “It adds to the interest in matches. The setting of odds for and against this or that team or player can liven up a discussion over at Oplah’s Grotto.”

  “Oplah’s Grotto?” Conn said.

  Iriess described it as a congenial tavern on Darsh Strand, a short distance from Five Fingers Key across a shallow strait called the Ripple. Birlers and their supporters often went there for ale and fritters after a match.

  One issue puzzled Conn. “I was told that Shorraffis use no currency. With what do you wager?”

  Iriess said, “Alwan devised a system of tokens.”

  “Redeemable for goods and services?”

  Jenore’s brother looked shocked. “Of course not! The tokens are just a way of keeping score. He who best analyzes the many factors involved in predicting the outcome of a particular match or roll-off amasses the most tokens. It is an infallible method for deciding who is most handy at understanding the game of birl.”

  Their progress along the shore had brought them to a place where a cliff rose on the landward side of the beach. They followed its rising contours until they stood high over a narrow stretch of sand that was covered by a jumble of logs, snags and other storm-wrack.

  Offshore, across a narrow strait, was a rocky islet on which a remarkable structure had been built of the same kind of debris that littered the beach at their feet. It was low and rambling, for the most part, although a precarious second story had been constructed in the center of the sprawl, buttressed by driftwood logs whose butts were anchored in heaps of boulders.

  The place was still under construction. Conn could see a few men and boys splitting short lengths of fine-grained timber to make shingles for the roof. Another crew were spreading the shakes on a roof made of rough-sawn boards. The sound of hammers came faintly over the suffle of the wind.

  “What is that place?” Conn asked.

  “It is Alwan Foulaine’s,” said Iriess. “His family has split over the Tote. He was asked to leave.”

  The way Iriess hushed his voice to pronounce his last words signaled to Conn that behind the simple phrasing stood a fearsome concept. Clearly it was no small thing for a Shorraffi to be asked to leave his family steading.

  “If he has gone into exile, he has not gone far,” said Conn. “Nor has he gone alone.”

  “It was blatantly unfair,” said the opinionated youth. “Lots of us are helping him.”

  “And thereby making a bad situation worse,” said Iriess. “No good comes from division, especially when it splits a family.”

  The boy stood his ground. “Right’s right, though the world crack,” he said. A couple of the others spoke up in support of the young iconoclast but Conn saw discomfort on a number of faces.

  Iriess held up a hand. “It is a discourtesy to squabble so in front of a guest, especially a guest who has done us the kindness of bringing home our Jenore. Let us go back.”

  The group reversed its steps and headed back to the Mordene family compound.

  “I regret bringing up a painful issue,” said Conn.

  “You meant no ill,” Iriess said. “I am sorry you are not seeing us at our best.”

  He turned the conversation to other matters and Conn found himself being asked to relate some of his experiences in the arenas and game rooms at Horder’s. The younger Mordenes, hearing of his duels to the point of blood or breakage, forgot their differences over Foulaine. They pressed for details. Their eyes widened and they greeted Conn’s recounting of some of his experiences with exclamations of “Blatant!” and “Ferocious!” and “Mythical!”

  “Did you kill people?” one boy asked, and Conn read in his eyes that he both craved and dreaded the answer.

  “In virtual encounters, I slew hundreds.”

  “And in – what did you call it? – full-flesh?”

  “Very few sportsmen require that level of risk.”

  “But some do?” said the boy.

  “It is a serious matter, not to be lightly spoken of,” said Conn and though they pressed him he would say no more.

  When they returned to the rambling house, Jenore and her father were on the dock. Grove Gallister was aboard his ketch, a parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine under his arm and a happy expression on his face. He waved brusquely and let the impellor back the ship out into open water then turned her and raised the sail. As the wind took him away, Conn saw him unwrap the parcel to gaze at what it contained.

  The old man sent the young men and boys off to their occupations then led Conn to a circular wooden bench built around a dark leaved tree with a widespread crown that stood beside the house. They sat and Eblon Mordene gave the young man another close inspection. Conn saw nothing in the old man’s eyes to trouble him.

  “Jenore has told me of your situation,” Eblon said. “I am happy to help.”

  Conn started to speak but the old man cut him off. “I understand,” he said. “You are a transactualist. You wish to establish terms and so forth. Such concerns are meaningless to me.”

  “They are essential to me,” Conn said.

  “Very well. If you require a framework of this-for-that, consider this: anything I do for you is payment, though insufficient, for restoring my daughter to my house.”

  When on Haxxi, Conn thought. He said, “If it does not offend, I will consider that our contract.”

  “The we are agreed,” said Eblon. “Now, I have had no dealings with intercessors for longer than I can remember, but Rietlief Bublick over on Filberg built a houseboat for one some years back. We will go to Bublick. He will help.”

  Conn let his face show his discomfort.

  “Consider Bublick a subcontractor of mine,” Eblon said. “Then his relations with me do not concern you.”

  “That is true,” Conn said.

  Filberg Island was on the far side of Graysands, beyond a broad shallow channel and a salt marsh. They crossed Graysands by foot, the distance being inconsequential, then borrowed a stilt-hack from the family that farmed the southern half of the island. The craft carried them across the strait and marsh, its six segmented legs lengthening or shortening as the sea bottom rose or fell. Although at first sight of the vehicle Conn expected a bumpy ride he found the passage remarkably smooth, each leg moving in perfect synchronization with all the others.

  The s
tilt-hack’s leisurely pace brought them to their destination just as Rietlief Bublick and his crew were sitting down to a sumptuous lunch in the boatyard. A broad-beamed craft with high peaks fore and aft was in the ways, its keel well laid and half its overlapping strakes already adhered to the ribs by a strong smelling glue. “Keeps the sea worms away,” the boat builder said when Conn reacted as did all first-time visitors to the odor.

  Bublick was a small, neat man with bright blue eyes and oversized hands and forearms covered in fine sandy hairs flecked with sawdust. He beamed at Eblon Mordene and welcomed Jenore home from off-world as if she were a daughter of his own house. Conn was waved graciously to a seat at the long common table, fortunately at a distance and upwind from the bubbling glue pot. Fried breads, batter dipped fish and pressed seaweed cake, washed down with a pale ale, made a good lunch.

  After their mission was explained, Bublick took them into his office and had his integrator contact an intercessor named Lok Gievel in Olkney. The face that appeared on the screen was that of a subtle and experienced man beneath a crown of pink skin surrounded by snowy hair. After introductions were made, Gievel invited Conn to relate his situation, asked several pertinent questions then said he would contact the agency that handled business for the Thrais Arbitration in Olkney and make inquiries. It was agreed that he would report his findings through Eblon Mordene’s integrator within a day or so.

  The business settled, Bublick and Mordene fell into a meandering discussion involving events that had concerned them both in the past. The former mentioned the construction of a skiff as well as some minor repairs to the stern of the Mordene foranq. The latter recalled an ornate rack carved from bone and designed to accommodate the exact number and dimensions of certain pipes in Bublick’s possession.

  A silence fell and both men fell into contemplation. After a while Bublick said that he had been wondering if his formal dining table might be enhanced by a new centerpiece, perhaps something with dolphins. Eblon’s face took on a reflective cast. He recalled that he had carved a number of such pieces over the past year, some of them still in his workshop. If Bublick were to visit, he might examine them to see if one took his fancy.

  “I might be inclined to pay a visit,” Bublick said.

  “Come around lunch time. The berries have been exceptional this year and Munn’s pies are the best they’ve ever been.”

  It was agreed that Bublick would wander over to Graysands when he had a day to spare.

  On the return trip Conn and Jenore sat in the rear of the stilt-hack while the old man operated the controls up front. When they had traversed the salt marsh and were crossing the channel, Conn said, “The conversation between your father and Bublick concerning the centerpiece – my impression was that they were negotiating a price for Bublick’s engaging the intercessor.”

  “No,” said Jenore, “you measure everything to a Transactualist template. I heard only a discussion of matters of interest to them both.”

  “Yet there was a transaction.”

  “There was not. Did my father say, ‘Give me thus and I will repay you so?’“

  “He did not. Yet one gave and the other repaid.”

  “That is only how you see it.”

  “No. It was how it was though you refuse to see it.”

  She set her jaw. “It is you who refuses to see. Bublick did as he wished. So did my father. No one said, ‘If this then that. If not this, then nothing,’ as they would have done on Thrais.”

  Conn knew he was right. At the same time he recognized that the woman was equally sure of her interpretation. Both had seen the same event; each had viewed it through a lens shaped by culture. He remembered the Hauserian Farbuck and his inexplicable outrage over the mundane practice of selling superfluous children. Conn had thought the pastoralist mad. Now he wondered if on Hauser Conn Labro would seem the loon. The thought brought a vague discomfort.

  “You may be right,” he said to Jenore, more to end a fruitless dispute than to concede his position. Perhaps when his affairs were settled he would undertake a study of representational cultures of The Spray. Narrowness of focus could be useful in some endeavors, but a wise man was able to call on a diversity of perspectives. Someone had said as much to him somewhere back in his past, though he could not remember the occasion.

  Dinner was served on long trestle tables out in the yard, the news that an interesting off-worlder was staying with the Mordenes having motivated neighbors from several islands to drop in unannounced. But Conn noted that no one came without a steaming pot or well filled basket to add to the bill of fare.

  After they ate, he was importuned to tell more tales from his years in the gaming rooms and again deflected inquiries about full flesh contests that had gone to the ultimate outcome. After a while, he steered the conversation to a discussion of birl and tomorrow’s match but soon saw the discussion grow too technical for his grasp of the sport.

  When the eating was done and the arguments had finally worn down to trivialities, Eblon stood and announced that the company should now move to the family foranq for an evening of music and conviviality. Several Mordenes and a number of their guests retrieved musical instruments and rhythmics that had been left under the great tree then the patriarch led the way aboard the barge. He stepped aboard at the landward end of the vessel and threw wide a pair of doors carved in close detail, a scene that depicted an epic battle between fish and other sea creatures, some of them real sharks and tentacled decabrachs, others fanciful images of gilled men from maritime myth.

  Beyond the doors was a spacious hall. The old man waved a hand and hundreds of lumens set in a half a dozen ornate chandeliers threw a warm glow onto walls half-paneled in dark wood so deeply polished that they resembled somber mirrors. Above the wainscotting was a painted frieze of men and women visible from the shoulders up, their faces representationally rendered, though in a variety of disparate styles and clearly by many different hands. The effect was such that the panels seemed to be a barrier behind which a crowd stood to watch the goings-on on the wide dance floor of sprung wood. Conn examined some of the painted faces and saw resemblances between them and Jenore’s family.

  “Yes,” she said, when he asked the obvious question, “they are all Mordenes, all painted from life. My father is already there.” She pointed to a portrait of Eblon Mordene which looked to have been captured when the patriarch was decades younger.

  “Will your face be up there someday?” Conn asked.

  “If my handedness as a dancer is ever judged good enough,” she said, “though that’s not likely.”

  The musicians had grouped themselves on seats at one end of the hall. The family and guests brought chairs and benches in from the walls and became an audience, leaving a broad open space between them and the players – “Some will want to dance,” Jenore said – while the children sat on the floor or in their parents’ laps. She led Conn to a seat in the front row, next to her parents.

  A period of tuning and tentative exchanges of riffs and passages ensued, then the ensemble settled on a rolling rhythm that soon evolved into a rousing song about an energetic folk dance. Everyone joined in on the chorus, then a young man among the musicians stood and sang a verse that sounded to Conn as if it was made up on the spot. It concerned a young woman who had many suitors and kept them all uncertain of her intentions. When he had finished there was laughter. The musicians vamped until the merriment subsided then there followed another round of the chorus. Now a sharp-eyed girl rose from the audience and sang a verse about young men who were so full of themselves that they thought young women should abandon their own concerns to focus entirely on the vain fantasizings of idle fellows.

  It seemed to Conn that all of the verses referred to the faults and foibles of persons who were never named outright but referred to by nicknames and references to incidents familiar to all except Conn Labro. Still, he enjoyed the witty turns of phrase and clever puns even if he could not recognize the targets.

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nbsp; Next came a selection of ballads, each offered by a different soloist or duet. Eblon Mordene sang a lament in a rich baritone, an old man’s look back at lost youth that brought wry grimaces to the faces of the young and tears to the eyes of their elders. A pair of sisters from Bider’s Pool harmonized sweetly over the tale of a diver who went deep into the green sea to win a pearl for his true love and never came up.

  A cry went up for Jenore to dance. “Show us what you learned off-world,” called someone from amongst a knot of young men.

  “The Mizere Divestiture!” The suggestion came from someone who took care to remain anonymous and was met with expressions of disapproval from the older folks, though it drew a smattering of whistles and wordless hoots from the young bucks.

  Jenore’s composure was unshaken. “I will dance the third movement from Rimble’s Seventh,” she said.

  The musicians retuned to a minor key then went into a simple, elegiac melody. Jenore stood still with head bowed through the opening bars, waiting until the woodwinds came in behind the strings before lifting an arm then following its motion in a slow turn. She had put on a loose dress for the evening, sleeveless and knee-length. It swirled and flowed about her as she glided across the floor, stopping and turning as the music evolved into a complex counterpoint between the woodwinds and muted brass, the strings rising above their duet like wind sweeping across a darkening landscape.

  The music voiced a final statement of regret and ended on a diminuendo of departing spirits. Jenore executed a final pirouette, deliberately faltering as she sank to the floor. The hall was hushed. Then came a soft sound as the crowd exhaled a collective breath, followed by a burst of hand clapping and cries of approbation.

  Jenore rose and executed a formal posture of gratitude but her face was aglow with pleasure. When the applause died, she beamed at the assemblage, her eyes moving from face to face, and said, “Thank you. It is as if I had never left.”

  A single pair of hands resumed clapping. Conn saw Jenore’s face change as they came to rest at a point beyond the rear of the crowd. He turned to follow her gaze, hearing a scrape of chairs and a rustle of clothing as the rest of the room did likewise. Standing in the open doorway, a fleshy man, balding and jowly, slowly clapped. He wore an ankle-length robe of dark stuff with a starburst of gold and silver spangles on the breast and a supercilious expression on his face. Behind and to one side skulked a wiry, thin-shouldered fellow with his hair oiled straight back and his lips set in a practiced smirk.