Template: A Novel of the Archonate

by Matthew Hughes

  “I was thinking more of adults, young men and women who believe they might someday find themselves in desperate situations. Or the young and socially prominent who might wish to defend their honor.”

  “It is not an appealing concept. I am not used to dealing with incompetence.”

  She shifted against him. “You could deal only with competents who wish to refine their technique.”

  He made a noncommittal noise.

  “Or you could be a police agent. You have a sharp eye for details and you can tell when people are attempting to deceive.”

  “True,” Conn said, “but apparently I am almost completely innocent of human nature. Also, I think my standards of morality only apply on Thrais.”

  “You could learn new standards. I believe you are at heart a good man.”

  He made the neutral noise again. In Jenore’s mind, the simple word “good” covered a great complexity of meanings.

  “Well,” she said, “we’ll think of something.”

  There was a world of assumptions in that assertion, he was sure. But he thought it best not to challenge or explore them at the moment because with her last remark she stood and stretched and announced that she was in the mood for breakfast.

  Contrary to Jenore’s prediction of the night before, morning had not produced a softened Eblon Mordene. When the family gathered for breakfast in the great room the generational division soon revealed itself to be deeper than when the disputants gone to bed.

  “It is like the tale of the fish coaxer who let the lutroid sun itself on his foredeck,” the old man said.

  “What is a lutroid?” Conn whispered to Jenore and learned that it was an aquatic mammal with webbed hands and almost human intelligence and sometimes more than human cunning.

  “When his boat had become a floating playground for lutroids and he was swimming home the man regretted his initial leniency,” the patriarch concluded. “I do not mean to make that mistake. I have drawn a line. Those who would choose money over family must do so now.”

  The older men of the family, Eblon’s brothers by blood or law, stood with him, as did most of the older women. Munn argued that they should all seek a middle ground. Her words were seconded by Jenore and Iriess and some of the ‘tween generation. But the tokeners did not offer any compromise, and the traditionalists would not have accepted one if it had been offered. So it was a cold breakfast no matter how much steam rose from the pots of porridge and punge.

  Eblon said, “I have been in touch with some of the other family heads. I can tell you that what is happening here is also happening in other houses. We are resolved to end this evil before it takes full root.”

  “Father,” said Iriess, from his place across the table from the old man, “‘evil’ is too strong a word. It is but a harmless pastime.”

  “Then it should not be a hardship to give it up.”

  “A forced acquiescence endures only while the fist is raised,” quoted Munn.

  “Enough!” said Eblon. “We have waited patiently for this scurrilous fad to run its foul course. Instead, its claws sink ever deeper into the young. The elders are resolute. Those who wish to sail in Alwan Foulaine’s wake may do so. But the doors of their family’s houses will be closed to them.” He paused and looked around the room. “As will the chambers of their foranqs.”

  This last declaration brought a hiss of astonishment and anger from several quarters. “Father,” Iriess said, “you cannot deny access to the foranq. It is every Mordene’s right by birth. You are saying that no one who disagrees with you can marry or name a child or even commune with the gone-bys.”

  Eblon’s face was set hard. “The foranq is in my keeping. I will say how it is used.”

  “In your keeping on behalf of all of us,” said Iriess. “And on behalf of those gone by and those yet to come. It is not yours to offer or withhold. Father, this is revolution.”

  “Foulaine’s money is also revolution,” said the old man, “yet you find it easy enough to swallow.”

  Some of the older Mordenes looked uncomfortable, but none of them broke ranks. The young, especially the older boys and the men newly come to adulthood, glowered and grumbled darkly. Last night’s breach had become a chasm. The unhappy rebels stalked off to pack their possessions and depart. Their equally unhappy elders went to work, leaving the common room to Conn and Jenore, Eblon and Munn.

  Jenore said, “Mother, ask him to reconsider.”

  Munn folded her hands and sighed. “I have done so,” she said. She looked at her husband, “I do so again.”

  “No,” said Eblon Mordene. “A stand must be taken.”

  Jenore stood. “I am sorry that I have come home to this,” she said. “When I was far out in The Spray, lost among strangers who treated each other in beastly ways, I used to dream of this room and these people. Every night it was my last thought before sleep.

  “Now I am here and it is all wrong. What has happened to us?” She sat down and conspicuously took Conn’s hand in hers.

  Her father peered at her from beneath lowered brows then turned to Conn. “That brings us to another matter,” he said. “Conn Labro, we are grateful to you for bringing Jenore back to us. If this were another time, the hospitality of our house would be yours for as long as you cared to partake of it.”

  The old man cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable as he continued, “But this is a difficult time for us. Thus it would be better for all if we were left to ourselves to resolve it. Without the complicating presence of strangers.”

  Conn’s first reaction was to note that this was an arbitrary alteration to the contract he and the patriarch had struck when they had talked beneath the tree outside. But the pressure that Jenore’s fingers exerted on his hand caused him to look at her. She had gone pale and he saw the distress in her face. She did not want him to confront her father.

  “I have no wish to remain where I am unwanted,” he said. “In any case, I have decided that I ought to be seeking the place, if it exists, where I belong. I will go to Forlor.”

  “This is the first I have heard of any decision,” Jenore said. He saw a hurt in her eyes that he could not account for.

  “I have just come to it,” he said.

  Her face reddened. “And this seemed the best time to tell me? Is there no one I can rely on?”

  She did not wait for an answer to either question but fled to an inner room.

  It seemed to Conn that he ought to go after her and explain but Munn let him know by quiet signs that that was not a good strategy. Instead, he asked the old man for the use of his integrator so that he could contact Lok Gievel and arrange matters.

  He was shown into Eblon’s study where he sat at the patriarch’s massive desk and bid the integrator contact the intercessor. When Gievel’s face appeared on the display Conn said, “Please advise Opteram that I agree in principle to the sale of Forlor, but that I wish to visit the planet first to ascertain if there is anything there that may help me discover my origins.”

  “I will convey the message to them,” Gievel said. “Judging by the speed with which they have responded so far, we may have an answer very soon.”

  “I will wait here.”

  As the intercessor had expected, an answer was not long in coming. Within minutes, Gievel was back to say that not only was Conn’s condition accepted but that he was welcome to travel to Forlor on Lord Vullamir’s space yacht, as the aristocrat was desirous of seeing the place as soon as possible.

  “He is eager,” Conn said. “Is there any indication as to the reasons behind his hurry?”

  Gievel’s image in the integrator’s display showed an expression somewhere between an appreciation of the ineffable and the comic. “Among Vullamir’s ilk,” he said, “reasons are often utterly idiosyncratic. They see mountains where we apprehend anthills, and vice versa. In any case, he will send an aircar to collect you whenever you say.”

  “I am ready now,” Conn said. Then he remembered to ask to h
ave his and Jenore’s luggage collected from the Brzankh Hotel in Olkney, the bill paid and the crystal ear drops recovered. Gievel said it would be done.

  Conn went looking for Jenore but found her mother instead.

  “She has gone over to her cousins’ place on Longstrand,” Munn said.

  “How do I get there? I would speak with her before I leave.”

  “To say what? That you are going? That you will return?” Munn said. “She already knows the first and know one knows the second.”

  “To ask her to come with me.”

  “She is all done with going far away. She is of a mind to stand still for a while, perhaps a long while, in the hope that life will stop rushing past her.”

  “I have to go,” Conn said. “I have to know where I came from. Where I belong.”

  “The two may not be the same.”

  “Yet I will not know that until I know more.”

  Munn sighed. “Then go. It may be more important to Jenore that you come back.”

  “I will,” Conn said.

  Munn’s mouth made no reply, but her face said that she hoped so, yet she had lived long enough to know that hopes can go unrewarded.

  Vullamir’s spaceship made his air yacht, parked beside it at a private terminal on the outskirts of Olkney, seem a trifle. The Martichor was almost as large as the Dan and far more lovingly maintained. Her forward component was a wide oval of burnished alloy, her rearworks an intimidating array of thrusters, obviators and drive housings, broadly striped in the Vullamir colors of black and yellow. An antique gonfalon flew from a gantry above the webbed cradle in which the ship nestled, the family’s arms popping in and out of view as a brisk wind snapped the fabric.

  When the aircar delivered Conn he found Lok Gievel and Ezrail Opteram standing at the foot of a gangway that led to a small port toward the ship’s stern. There were documents to sign and initial, establishing the agreement in principle and ending the lawsuit. Gievel announced that all of Conn’s encumbrances had been cleared. His luggage had been retrieved from the hotel and was already aboard. Jenore’s had been sent to her home.

  Conn gave Gievel the coordinates of Forlor. The intercessor passed them to Opteram who said he would convey them to the Martichor’s captain. Opteram said, “You should go aboard. My lord plans an immediate departure.”

  “Vullamir has already arrived?” Conn said.

  “Some time since.” He made a complex gesture to Gievel signifying that their business was done and went into the ship.

  Gievel brought out a small package from a pocket in his robe. “Here are the crystal eardrops,” he said. “The manager of the Brzankh seemed glad to be relieved of them.”

  “Please send them to Jenore,” Conn said. “She is staying with cousins on an island named Longstrand. There have been difficulties among the Mordenes.” He explained briefly about the Tote, then said, “Perhaps we can do business again. I have been satisfied with your assistance.”

  Gievel made his farewells and departed. Conn turned toward the spaceship and saw a man in yellow and black livery appear in the rear port. The fellow stood within the ship and struck an expectant pose.

  Conn went to the open port. As he made to enter he almost collided with a man who was coming out. He had the look of a veteran spacer, a stocky man moderately advanced in years, fair of skin and pale of eye. He wore an officer’s uniform of light-blue with the yellow and black of Vullamir’s house in a badge on his chest.

  “Who are you?” he said and when Conn had identified himself, the man made a polite gesture and said that he was Yalum Erkatchian, captain of the Martichor. “You are the one who provided the coordinates?”

  “I am,” said Conn.

  “And you are coming with us?”

  “Yes,” said Conn. “Did Lord Vullamir not inform you that I would be his guest?”

  “My lord Vullamir does not deal with a mere captain,” Erkatchian said. “His major domo informs me of the numbers of passengers to be accommodated, and the proportions by which they are divided into those who serve and those who are served. They even load their own provisions.”

  “I see,” said Conn. “Well, I had better come aboard.”

  The captain looked surprised. He glanced at the waiting servant whose eyes were fixed on a point in the air somewhere out on the landing field.

  “One grows tired of this,” the spacer said to no one in particular. Then he addressed Conn. “Do not enter through this port. It is for servants. You travel as the Lord Vullamir’s guest and should board the ship through the forward port.”

  “It makes small difference to me,” Conn said.

  “It will,” said Erkatchian. He beckoned peremptorily to the liveried servant and said, “You are in error. Conduct your master’s guest to the appropriate entry.” To Conn he said, “Do I detect the accents of Thrais?”

  “I was raised there.”

  “Have you spent much time on Old Earth?”

  “Only a few days.”

  The captain gave himself a confirmatory nod. “There is not time to acquaint you with the myriad peculiarities of Old Earth aristocrats,” he said. “But let me say this: their first perceptions are not of persons, but of ranks, and if they ever have second thoughts I am not aware of them. Unless you overcome that first hurdle you will have difficulty even in being seen and heard.”

  “The person with whom I traveled to Old Earth spoke of this,” Conn said.

  “The servants do not suffer from their masters’ perceptual flaw, but they act as if they do. Without a clear establishing of rank they might feed you on scraps and scrapings all the way to Forlor.”

  “I thank you again,” Conn said. He turned to the footman who waited with a air of condescension and an elevation of nose that Conn thought would be painful to the man’s neck if it were not such a patently practiced posture.

  “You understand that I am Lord Vullamir’s guest,” he said.

  The servant’s eyes flicked toward Conn then again regarded the upper air. “His lordship may have mentioned something. He was not specific.”

  “Did he specify anything to the contrary?”

  The man’s lips drew in briefly. “No.”

  “Shall we seek him out and ask him to state his wishes in detail?”

  Conn saw a flicker of alarm in the liveryman’s eyes. “No,” was the answer.

  “Sir,” said the captain.

  “No, sir,” said the footman.

  “Well, then,” said Conn.

  The servant made an obeisance. Erkatchian moved one hand in a way that indicated the servant’s gesture had been appropriate if not fully sincere. “I must conclude some formalities with the space port authorities, then we will lift off,” he said and departed.

  Conn motioned the footman to lead the way to the forward port. Here access was by a moving ramp. As they ascended toward the hull a circular portion cycled open to admit them then sealed itself.

  Conn followed the servant into an antechamber that led to a corridor paneled in dark wood with embellishments of crystal set in precious metals. The servant stopped and languidly inquired as to which part of the ship the master’s guest preferred to visit.

  “What is your name?” Conn asked.

  “Umlat,” was the answer.

  “Well, Umlat, I am innocent of the ship’s layout as well as of the etiquette appropriate to my situation,” Conn said. “How would you advise me?”

  In the footman’s eyes he saw hints of cruelty and an appetite for domination so he added, “You will bear in mind that on the planet we are bound for, until I transfer ownership to your master, I will quite likely be an unquestioned autocrat. If it pleases me to have you offered as dinner to whatever beasts we might find there, no one will deter me.”

  He saw that a new series of emotions had arisen behind Umlat’s gaze and he repeated his question, “How would you advise me?”

  “It would be proper to go to your quarters and refresh yourself.”

 
“Lord Vullamir would not expect me to pay my respects?”

  “It is now the Hour of Contemplating Essences,” Umlat said. “My lord and his other guests will each be in their separate quarters, mulling or meditating as their temperaments incline.”

  “Should I do the same?”

  Now Conn saw a blink of amusement in the man’s face, quickly subdued. “If you wish,” Umlat said.

  When on Haxxi, Conn thought, and said, “I will consider it. Lead on.”

  The footman led him to a spacious cabin, luxuriously appointed. “Where is my luggage?” Conn said.

  A tinge of anxiety accompanied the answer. “It appears to have been erroneously placed in another cabin, towards the stern.”

  “Probably smaller than this,” Conn suggested, “and in close proximity to a communal privy.”

  “I will bring it at once.”

  “I will also want you to advise me on what to wear,” Conn said. “Perhaps even to furnish suitable clothing if my own garments are not proper to an occasion.”

  Umlat showed another tinge of anxiety. “Those would be the duties of an undervalet.”

  “Has such a functionary been assigned to me?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Any others?”

  “One of the cooks has been detailed to learn your requirements. Also, a skivvy will maintain your quarters.”

  “And when would I have learned of all this?”

  The man looked abashed.

  “Send them to me now,” Conn said, “and bring my luggage. I will forgo contemplating essences.”

  “Yes, sir.” Umlat turned to leave.

  “And have the goodness to mention the matter of beasts and their dinners.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Conn’s interview with the staff went well. It was followed by a flurry of activity in which his luggage was brought and unpacked, his dietary preferences noted and the cabin’s various amenities were displayed to him. The skivvy, a gaunt woman of more than middle years with a rosaceous nose and a disinclination to meet Conn’s eyes, concluded the proceedings by turning down the bed.