Trullion: Alastor 2262

by Jack Vance

  Time passed; the carpet of stars slid across the sky. Slowly, slowly, from many directions, the components of consciousness began to wander back together.

  Something strong and cold seized Glinnes’ ankle, drew him down the path toward the water. Glinnes groaned and spread out his fingers to clutch the sod, without effect. He kicked with all his strength and struck into something pulply. The grip on his ankle loosened. Glinnes painfully hunched up on hands and knees and crawled back up the path. The merling came after him and resumed its grip. Glinnes again kicked out and the merling croaked in annoyance.

  Glinnes rolled weakly over. Under the Trullion starblaze man and merling confronted each other. Glinnes began to slide back on his haunches, a foot at a time. The merling hopped forward. Glinnes’ back struck the steps leading up to the verandah. Underneath were fence-staves cut from prickle-bush. Glinnes turned and groped; his fingers touched one of the staves. The merling snatched and once more dragged him toward the water. Glinnes thrashed like a grounded fish, and breaking free, struggled back to the verandah. The merling uttered a dismal croak and jumped forward; Glinnes grasped a stave and thrust it at the creature’s groin; it sagged away. Glinnes hunched himself up on the stairs, stave ready; the merling dared approach no further. Glinnes crawled into the house, forced himself to stand erect. He tottered to the light-switch, and brought glow into the house. He stood swaying. His head throbbed, his eyes refused to focus. Breathing tore at his ribs; conceivably several were broken. His thighs ached where his attackers had sought to make pulp of his crotch, failing only for the poor illumination. A new and sharper pang struck him; he felt for his wallet. Nothing. He looked down at his boot scabbard; his marvelous proteum knife was gone.

  Glinnes sighed in fury. Who had done this? He suspected the Drossets. Recalling the tinkle of merry laughter, he was certain.

  Chapter 8

  In the morning Marucha had not yet arrived home; Glinnes presumed that she spent the night with a lover. Glinnes was happy that she was not on hand; she would have analyzed every aspect of bis folly, for which he was not in the mood.

  Glinnes lay on the couch, aching in every bone, sweating with hatred for the Drossets. He staggered into the bathroom, examined his purple face. In the cabinet he found a pain-relieving potion, with which he dosed himself, then limped back to the couch.

  He dozed off and on throughout the morning. At noon the telephone chime sounded. Glinnes stumbled across the room and spoke into the mesh, without showing his face to the screen. “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Marucha,” came his mother’s clear voice. “Glinnes—are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Well then, show yourself; I detest speaking to persons I can’t see.”

  Glinnes fumbled around with the vision-push. “The buttons seems to be stuck. Can you see me?”

  “No, I cannot. Well, it doesn’t matter. Glinnes, I’ve come to a decision. Akadie has long wanted me to share his home, and now that you are back and presently will be bringing a woman into the house, I have agreed to the arrangement.”

  Glinnes only half restrained a mournful chuckle. How his father Jut would have roared in wrath! “My best wishes for your happiness, mother, and please convey my respects to Akadie.”

  Marucha peered into the screen. “Glinnes, your voice sounds strange. Are you well?”

  “Yes, indeed—just a bit hoarse. After you’ve settled yourself I’ll come over for a visit.”

  “Very well, Glinnes. Do take care of yourself, and please don’t be too stern with the Drossets. If they want to stay on Rabendary, where is the harm in it?”

  “I’ll certainly consider your advice, mother.”

  “Good-by, Glinnes.” The screen faded.

  Glinnes heaved a deep sigh and winced for the zig-zags of pain across his ribs. Were any broken? He explored with his fingers, prodding the most tender areas, and could come to no decision.

  He took a bowl of porridge out on the verandah and ate a dreary meal. The Drossets, of course, had departed, leaving a litter of rubbish, a pile of dead foliage, a dispirited outhouse of branches and fronds to mark the site of their camp. Three thousand four hundred ozols they had earned by their night’s I work, as well as the pleasure of punishing their persecutor. The Drossets were well-pleased today.

  Glinnes went to the telephone and called Egon Rimbold, the medical practitioner in Saurkash. He explained something of his difficulties and Rimbold agreed to pay him a visit.

  Limping out to the verandah, Glinnes lowered himself into one of the old string chairs. The view as always was placid. Pearl-colored haze obscured the distance; Ambal seemed a floating fairy island. His mind drifted… Marucha, ostensibly disdainful of aristocratic ritual, had become a hussade princess, risking the poignant humiliation—or was it glory?—of public exposure in the hope that she might make an aristocratic marriage. She had settled for the Squire of Rabendary, Jut Hulden. Perhaps at the back of her mind had lurked the image of Ambal Manor, where nothing could have persuaded Jut to live… Jut was dead; Ambal had been sold and Marucha now found nothing on Rabendary to keep her… To regain Ambal Isle he could repay twelve thousand ozols to Casagave and tear up the contract. Or he could prove Shira’s death, whereupon the transaction became illegal. Twelve thousand ozols were hard to come by, and a man taken down to the merling’s dinner table left few traces… Glinnes hunched around to look along the path. There: where the Drossets had waited behind the prickleberry hedge. There: where they had beaten him. There: the marks he had scratched into the sod. Not far beyond lay the placid surface of Farwan Water.

  Egon Rimbold arrived in his narrow black runabout. “Instead of returning from wars,” said Rimbold, “it appears that you’ve been through them.”

  Glinnes told him what had occurred: “I was beaten and robbed.”

  Rimbold looked across the meadow. “I notice that the Drossets are gone.”

  “Gone but not forgotten.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do for you.” Rimbold worked to good effect, using the advanced pharmacopoeia of Alastor and pads of adhesive constrict. Glinnes began to feel like a relatively sound man.

  Packing his instruments, Rimbold asked, “I suppose you reported the attack to the constabulary?” Glinnes blinked. “To tell the truth, the idea never occurred to me.”

  “It might be wise. The Drossets are a rough lot. The girl is as bad as the rest.”

  “I’ll see to her as well as the others,” said Glinnes. “I don’t know how or when, but none will escape.”

  Rimbold made a gesture counseling moderation, or at least caution, and took his leave.

  Glinnes reexamined himself in the mirror and took a glum satisfaction in his improved appearance.

  Returning to the verandah, and lowering himself gingerly into a chair, he considered how best to revenge himself on the Drossets. Threats and menaces might provide a temporary satisfaction, but when all was considered, they served no useful purpose.

  Glinnes became restless. He limped here and there around the property and was dismayed by the neglect and dilapidation. Rabendary was disreputable even by Trill standards; Glinnes once again became angry at Glay and Marucha. Did they feel no friendliness whatever for the old home? No matter; he would set things straight, and Rabendary would be as he remembered it from his childhood.

  Today he was too lame to work. With nothing better to do, he gingerly stepped into his boat and drove up Frawan Water to the Saur River, then over the top of Rabendary to Gilweg Island and the rambling old home of his friends the Gilwegs. The rest of the day was given to that typical Trill festivity which the Fanschers considered shiftless, untidy and dissolute. Glinnes became somewhat intoxicated; he sang old songs to the music of concertinas and guitars; he romped with the Gilweg girls and made himself so agreeable that the Gilwegs volunteered to come to Rabendary on the very next day to help clean up the Drosset camp.

  The subject of hussade was broached. Glinnes mentioned
Lord Gensifer and the Fleharish Gorgons. “So far the team is no more than a list of important names. Still, what if all became Gorgons? Stranger things have happened. He wants me at strike and I’m inclined to give it a try, if only for the sake of money.”

  “Bah,” said Carbo Gilweg. “Lord Gensifer doesn’t know wet from dry as far as hussade is concerned. And where will he find the ozols? Everyone knows that he lives from hand to mouth.”

  “Not so!” declared Glinnes. “I took a meal with him, and I can vouch that he stints himself very little.”

  “That may be, but operating an important team is another matter. He’ll need uniforms, helmets, a respectable treasure that amounts to five thousand ozols or more. I doubt if he can give substance to the idea. Who is to be his captain?”

  Glinnes reflected. “I don’t believe he specified a captain.”

  “There’s a sticking point. If he recruits a reputable captain, he’ll attract players more skeptical than yourself.”

  “Don’t think me so innocent! I gave him nothing but an expression of interest.”

  “You’d be better off with our good old Saurkash Tanchinaros,” declared Ao Gilweg.

  “For a fact, we could use a pair of good forwards,” said Carbo. “Our back line, if I say so myself, is as good as any, but we can’t get our own men past the moat. Join the Tanchinaros! We’ll sweep Jolany Prefecture clean.”

  “How much is your treasure?”

  “We can’t seem to push past a thousand ozols,” Carbo admitted. “We win one, then lose one. Frankly, we’ve got uneven quality. Old Neronavy isn’t the most inspiring captain; he never stirs from his hange, and he only knows three plays. I could go down the lineup, but it wouldn’t mean much.”

  “You’ve just persuaded me to the Gorgons,” said Glinnes. “I remember Neronavy from ten years ago. I’d rather have Akadie for captain.”

  “Apathy, torpor,” said Ao Gilweg. “The group needs stirring up.”

  “We haven’t had a pretty sheirl for two years,” said Carbo. “Jenlis Wade—bland as a dead cavout. She just looked puzzled when she lost her gown. Barsilla Cloforeth—too tall and hungry. When they stripped her no one even bothered to look. Barsilla marched off in disgust.”

  “We have pretty sheirls here”—Ao Gilweg jerked his thumb at his daughters Rolanda and Berinda—“except that they prefer to play something other than hussade with the boys. Now they can’t quite qualify.”

  Afternoon became avness, avness became dusk, dusk became dark, and Glinnes was persuaded to spend the night.

  In the morning Glinnes returned to Rabendary and began to clear the site of the Drosset camp. A peculiar circumstance gave him pause. A hole had been dug two feet into the ground on the site of the fire. The hole was empty. Glinnes could form no sensible conjecture to account for such a hole, at the precise center of the old fire-site.

  At noon the Gilwegs arrived, and two hours later every evidence of the Drosset presence had been expunged.

  Meanwhile the Gilweg women prepared the best meal possible, disparaging Marucha’s larder, which they considered austere. They had never cared much for Marucha to begin with; she gave herself too many airs.

  The Gilwegs now knew every detail of Glinnes’ troubles. They offered an amplitude of sympathy and as much conflicting advice. Ao Gilweg, the head of the family, had spoken to Lute Casagave on several occasions. “A canny character, seething with schemes! He’s not out there on Ambal Isle for his health!”

  “It’s the usual way with off-world folk,” his wife Clara declared. “I’ve seen many, all overwrought and anxious, fussy and fastidious. Not one knows how to live a normal life.”

  “Casagave is either bashful or blind,” said Carbo. “If you pass his boat he never so much as lifts his head.”

  “He fancies himself a great noble,” said Clara with a sniff. “He’s far too good for us ordinary folk. We’ve never tasted a drop of his wine, that’s for sure.”

  Clara’s sister, Currance, asked, “Have you seen his servant? There’s a sight for you! I believe he’s half Polgonian ape, or some such mixture. That one will never set foot in my house, that much I swear.”

  “True,” declared Clara. “He has the look of a villain. And never forget: birds of a feather flock together! Lute Casagave is undoubtedly as bad as his servant!”

  Ao Gilweg held up his hands in remonstration. “Now, now! A moment for sensible thought! Nothing has been proved against either of these men; in fact, they’re not even accused!”

  “He sequestered Ambal Isle! Isn’t that enough?”

  “Perhaps he was misled, who knows? He might well be a just and innocent man.”

  “A just and innocent man would relinquish his illegal occupancy!”

  “Exactly! Perhaps Lute Casagave is that man!” Ao turned to Glinnes. “Have you discussed the matter with Lute Casagave himself? I thought not.”

  Glinnes looked skeptically toward Ambal Isle. “I suppose I could speak to him. But one stark fact remains: even a just man would want his twelve thousand ozols, which I am not prepared to supply.”

  “Refer him to Glay, to whom he paid the money,” Carbo advised. “He should have assured a clear title before he! closed the bargain.”

  “It’s a strange circumstance, strange indeed… Unless he knew for a fact that Shira was indeed dead, which leads into a set of macabre speculations.”

  “Bah!” declared Ao Gilweg. “Take the bull by the horns; go speak to the man. Tell him to vacate your property and go for his money to Glay, the man to whom he paid it.”

  “By the Fifteen Devils, you’re right!” exclaimed Glinnes. “It is absolutely clear and obvious-he hasn’t a leg to stand on! I’ll make this clear to him tomorrow.”

  “Remember Shira!” spoke Carbo Gilweg. “He may be a man without restraint!”

  “Best to carry a weapon,” Ao Gilweg advised. “Nothing to induce humility as well as an eight-bore blaster.”

  “At the moment I have no weapon,” said Glinnes. “Those Trevanyi villains gleaned my belongings like a rumblesnout sucking bugs from a box. Still, I doubt if I’ll need weapons; if Casagave, as I hope, is a reasonable man, we’ll quickly reach an understanding.”

  Between Rabendary dock and Ambal Isle lay only a few hundred yards of still water, a trip that Glinnes had made uncounted times. Never had it seemed so long.

  Ambal Isle showed no activity; only Casagave’s gray runabout indicated his presence. Glinnes moored bis boat, jumped up on the dock as jauntily as his still-aching ribs permitted. As etiquette demanded, he touched the bellbutton before starting up the walk.

  Ambal Manor was much like Gensifer Manor: a tall white structure of extravagant complexity. Bays projected from every wall; on fluted pilasters rested the roof: four milk-glass domes and a central golden spire. No smoke issued from the chimney; no sound could be heard from within. Glinnes touched the doorell.

  A minute passed. There was movement behind a bay window; then the door opened and Lute Casagave looked for a man considerably older than Glinnes, thin-legged, stoopshouldered, in a loose off-worlder’s suit of gray gabardine. Silver hair hung beside a sallow face, which included a long bony nose, long gaunt cheeks, eyes like chips of cold stone. Casagave’s face expressed a stern and alert intelligence, but it did not seem the face of a man who might contribute twelve thousand ozols to the cause of abstract justice.

  Casagave spoke neither greeting nor question but stared silently forth, waiting for Glinnes to define the reason for his presence.

  Glinnes said politely, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Lute Casagave.”

  “You may address me as Lord Ambal.”

  Glinnes mouth went slack. “‘Lord Ambal’?”

  “This is how I choose to be known.”

  Glinnes shook his head dubiously. “That’s all well and good; your blood may be the noblest of Trullion. Still, you can’t be Lord Ambal, because Ambal Isle is not your property. That’s the bad news to which I referred.” />
  “Who are you?”

  “I am Glinnes Hulden, Squire of Rabendary, and I own Ambal Isle. You gave my brother Glay money for property he neglected to own. It’s an unpleasant situation. I certainly don’t intend to charge you rent for your time here, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find another residence.”

  Casagave’s eyebrows contracted; his eyes became slits. “You talk nonsense, I am Lord Ambal, the sanguineal descendant to that Lord Ambal who illegally sought to dispose of the ancestral property. The original transaction was invalid; the Hulden title was never good to begin with. Be grateful for your twelve thousand ozols; I was not obliged to pay anything.”

  “Now then!” cried Glinnes. “The sale was made to my great-grandfather. It was recorded with the registrar at Welgen and cannot be invalidated!”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said Lute Casagave. “You are Glinnes Hulden? This means nothing to me. Shira Hulden is the man from whom I bought the property, with your brother Glay acting as his agent.”

  “Shira is dead,” said Glinnes. “The sale was fraudulent. I suggest that you make representations to Glay for your money.”

  “Shira is dead? How do you know?”

  “He is dead, probably murdered and dragged off by the merlings.”

  “‘Probably’? Probably has no legal standing. My contract is sound unless you can prove otherwise, or unless you die, when the question becomes moot.”

  “I don’t plan to die,” said Glinnes.

  “Who does? The event comes on us all willy nillyy”

  “Do you threaten me now?”

  Casagave merely gave a dry chuckle. “You are trespassing on Ambal Isle; you have ten seconds to remove yourself.”

  Glinnes’ voice shook with rage. “The shoe is on the other foot. I provide you three days, and three days only, to get off my property.”

  “And then?” Lute Casagave’s voice was sardonic.