by Jack Vance
Glawen seated himself in the passenger’s compartment. The driver, putting aside the journal he had been reading, looked over his shoulder with a cordial smile. “Where will it be, sir? You just name the place; we’ll get you there, in grand and glorious style: have no fear on that score! My name is Maxen.”
“Take me to Clattuc House,” said Glawen. In the old days the Yip driver, if not quite so affable, would have been on hand to load his luggage.
“Right, sir! We’re off to Clattuc House!”
Watching the familiar landmarks pass by, Glawen felt as if he had been away from home years beyond number. Everything was the same; everything was different, as if he were seeing with a fresh vision.
Maxen the driver looked over his shoulder. “Your first time here, sir? From your clothes I’d put you as a Soum, or maybe from Aspergill down the Wisp. Well, I’ll give you a hint. This is a remarkable place. I might even call it unique.”
“Yes, perhaps so.”
“Personally, I find folk a bit strange. The population is seriously inbred, that goes without saying, which seems to make for considerable, shall we say, eccentricity? That’s the general feeling.”
“I am a Clattuc of Clattuc House,” said Glawen. “I’ve been away for a period.”
“Oh-ah!” Maxen made a rueful face. Then he shrugged and chuckled. “Just so. You won’t find many changes. Nothing ever changes here; nothing ever happens, I’d like to see them put in a jolly fine dance hall, and a row of casinos along the beach. Also, why not some fried-fish shacks along Beach Road? They would not go amiss. The place needs a bit of progress.”
“It may well be.”
“You’re a Clattuc, you say? Which one of the tribe are you?”
“I am Glawen Clattuc.”
“Glad to know you! Next time I’ll recognize you from the start. Here we are at Clattuc House: too grand for the likes of me, I fear.”
Glawen alighted, removed his luggage from the bin while Maxen sat drumming his fingers on the wheel. Glawen paid the standard fee, which Maxen accepted with raised eyebrows. “And the gratuity?”
Glawen slowly turned to stare into the driver’s compartment.
“Did you help me load my luggage?”
“No, but -”
“Did you help me unload it?”
“By the same token -”
“Did you not tell me that I was inbred and eccentric, and probably weak-minded?”
“That was a joke.”
“Now can you guess the location of your gratuity?”
“Yes. Nowhere.”
“Quite right.”
“Hoity-toity!” murmured Maxen, and drove quickly away, elbows stylishly high.
Glawen entered Clattuc House and went directly up to his old chambers, at the eastern end of the second-floor gallery. He opened the door, took a step forward and stopped short.
Everything had changed. The solid old furniture had been replaced by flimsy angular constructions of metal and glass. The walls were hung with strange decorations pulsing with strident colors and astonishing subject matter. The rugs had been replaced with a garish yellow carpet; even the air smelled differently. Glawen stepped slowly forward, looking in wonder from right to left. Had his father gone mad? He entered the parlor, and here he discovered a buxom young woman standing before a tall mirror, apparently making final adjustments to her coiffure before going down to the House Supper. Looking at the reflection, Glawen recognized Drusilla, spouse to Arles and still-active member of Floreste’s Mummers.
Drusilla took note of Glawen’s reflection and looked around in mild curiosity, as if the image of a strange man in her mirror was neither a novelty nor cause for any great distress. After a moment of puzzled peering, she recognized her visitor. “Isn’t it Glawen? What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask the same question of you.”
“I don’t see why,” said Drusilla with an arch pout.
Glawen explained patiently: “Because these are my apartments, where I live with my father. Now I find a beastly yellow carpet on the floor, a bad smell and you. I can’t imagine the explanation.”
Drusilla laughed: a rich contralto gurgle. “It’s quite simple. The rug is the color known as Dizzy-flower; the smell is no doubt Gorton. I am my own unique and delightful self. I take it you have not heard the news?”
A clammy sensation gathered along Glawen’s back. “I just got off the ship.”
“All is explained.” Drusilla put on a solemn face. “Scharde went out on a patrol mission. This was months ago. He never came back and it is certain that he is dead. I’m sure this is a great shock for you. Are you well?”
“Yes. I am well.”
“Anyway, the chambers were empty and we moved in! Now, will you please excuse me? Rest as long as you like, but I must go down to supper or face a stern dressing-down.”
“I’m leaving too,” said Glawen.
“Already I’m a bit late,” Drusilla explained. “I will thereby annoy Arles, which is the inexcusable crime around here.”
Glawen followed Drusilla downstairs to the foyer, where he halted, leaning against the balustrade. It was not possible that his father, his dear father, was dead, lying somewhere with limbs askew, eyes staring blankly at the sky, seeing nothing! Glawen’s own legs became loose; he dropped upon a bench. In all his recent thinking, he had considered nothing so farfetched as this. Even in regard to the chambers, all logic and order seemed to be discarded; Arles and Drusilla had no right occupying them under any circumstances! The chambers of course were a trivial matter, if his father was truly dead. He became aware of an approaching presence, and looked up to find Spanchetta bearing down on him. She halted and stood with one hand on her hip, the other playing with the tassel of her purple sash. As always, she had bedecked herself in striking garments, and this evening she had enhanced the effect of her costume with three white plumes waving high above her magnificent mound of curls. “Drusilla mentioned that you were here,” said Spanchetta. “It seems that she told you the news.”
“In regard to Scharde? Is it certain?”
Spanchetta nodded. “He was flying close by Mahadion Mountain during a storm and was struck by lightning; at least that is the theory. Drusilla told you nothing more?”
“Only that she and Arles have moved into my chambers. They will have to move out again, and at once.”
“Not so. Unfortunately for you, Arles and Drusilla produced their son, Gorton, before your cutoff date, and he took precedence over you. You came in with a 21 and failed to gain Agency status. You are now a collateral and have no right to the chambers, and indeed are trespassing in Clattuc House at this very moment.”
Glawen stared up at Spanchetta in numb astonishment. She performed a swaggering little side step, and said: “Perhaps this is not the time to talk of such things, but your lineage was ambiguous in the first place, and you have no cause for complaint.”
Through the murk of Glawen’s thoughts came the ironic reflection: Spanchetta at last is having her revenge on Scharde – long delayed and somewhat vitiated by Scharde’s death, but revenge nonetheless, and sweeter than none at all.
Spanchetta turned back toward the dining room. She spoke over her shoulder: “Come, Glawen; you must learn to deal with reality; even as a child you were given to moping. You will find lodging adequate to your needs at the compound, and no doubt you will be assigned good and productive work.”
“You are right,” said Glawen. “I must not mope.” He rose to his feet, marched across the foyer on long strides almost at a run, and out the front door. Halfway down the avenue, he halted on sudden thought and returned to Clattuc House. In the majordomo’s office off the foyer he asked the footman on duty: “Where is my mail? I should have letters.”
“I don’t know, sir. There is nothing for you here.”
Once again Glawen departed Clattuc House. He made his way to Wook House. The footman on duty at the door, upon hearing Glawen’s name, became instantly polit
e. “Sir Bodwyn is at House Supper, but he wishes to be notified immediately upon your arrival. One moment, sir.”
The footman spoke into a mesh, and listened to the responding voice. To Glawen he said: “Sir Bodwyn asks that you join him at the table.”
Glawen looked down at his travel-worn clothes. “I don’t think that I am suitably dressed.”
“I mentioned as much, but a place has nevertheless been laid for you. Follow me, please.”
Bodwyn Wook stood waiting in the hall. He gripped both of Glawen’s arms. “You have heard about Scharde?”
“It’s true, then?”
“He set off in a flyer and never returned. That is all that is known for certain. He may be alive. More likely he is dead. Needless to say, I share your grief. Tell me, in three words, what have you learned?”
“From Spanchetta I learn that I am lucky to be a collateral. Elsewhere I discovered that Floreste organized the Thurben Island parties. On Tassadero he arranged to have me killed. I escaped, as you see. You will be interested in the full story. Is Floreste now at Araminta Station?”
“Indeed he is: home from tour and seething with grand new schemes.”
“You must take him into custody at once, at this very moment, before he learns that I am back.”
Bodwyn Wook laughed softly. “Rest easy! Tonight Floreste is totally at our disposal. In fact, he sits at table not twenty yards from where we stand! He drinks our best wine with verve and charms the ladies as they never have been charmed before. You will be seated directly across the table. It is a delicious situation. What of Kirdy? He is vague and I can get nothing from him.”
“Kirdy betrayed me. He cannot use mental disorder as an excuse. I don’t know the full story, but in effect he sent me off to what would have been my death, had I not escaped. I cannot feel kindly toward Kirdy.”
Bodwyn Wook gave his head a sad shake. “It is another tragedy. They pile one on the other, and never seem to stop. Let us go to the table.”
The two entered the dining room, and took their seats at the table. Glawen was placed next to Bodwyn Wook, with Ticia at his other side. Almost directly across the great round table sat Kirdy, with Floreste beside him. Each was caught up in conversation and for a few moments neither took note of Glawen.
Bodwyn Wook murmured in Glawen’s ear. “This is what Floreste himself might consider a moment of high drama. The tension builds as the two sit there all unknowing.”
Glawen nodded. He studied Kirdy with care, revulsion twisting at his viscera. At the moment Kirdy seemed in full command of himself, without oppression of the spirits or the morose introversion of the Kirdy who had accompanied Glawen on his mission; to the contrary, he seemed to demonstrate the heartiness and boyish simplicity which, with his big pink face, china-blue eyes and easy grin, had in the old days made him reasonably popular.
Glawen watched him in fascination. This hardly seemed the same Kirdy he had last seen in Fexelburg. Now Kirdy bent to eat a morsel of poached fish, then, raising his head, patted his mouth with a napkin. His gaze fell upon Glawen and he became still. Slowly his shoulders sagged and he looked down at the table, the jocundity gone from his face.
Bodwyn Wook muttered in Glawen’s ear: “There you see neither madness nor mistake. What is plain and evident is pure and unabashed guilt. I need no more to convince me. It is shameful. I must look into his pedigree.”
“He has changed since I saw him last. Floreste’s therapy has been remarkable. Look! He is now giving Floreste the news. Another supper ruined.”
At Kirdy’s muttered remark, Floreste jerked up his handsome head and glanced as if casually around the table, sliding his gaze past Glawen. Then he swung half around in his seat and chatted vivaciously with Dame Dorna Wook, who sat to his left.
Glawen waited for a pause, then called across the table. “Master Floreste, I see you are back from your tour.”
Floreste darted him a quick cold stare. “Yes, as you see.”
“It was a success?”
“About the ordinary. As always, we do our best, and hope for the best. Our creed is optimism.”
“It seems that we have a mutual acquaintance on Tassadero.”
“Really? That is no great surprise. I meet thousands of folk every week, or so it seems, and of course I remember none of them, save - ha, ha! - only the most charming.”
“And you consider the Ordene Zaa charming?”
“Ordene Zaa? And who might that be? And who cares? At the moment I am interested only in this exquisite fish.”
“In that case, I will say only that she sends her compliments. Her present circumstances are not at all happy. Were you aware of her troubles?”
“No.”
“She became involved in a set of remarkable crimes, which engaged the attention of the IPCC. They may even call on you to verify some of her allegations. Or they may refer the matter to the local IPCC affiliate, which of course is Bureau B.”
“Certainly it is nothing to concern me.” Floreste turned back to Dame Dorna, and continued his conversation.
Ticia, who had already taken critical note of Glawen’s garments, spoke to him in a crisp voice: “Am I mistaken or have you gone out of your way to make our local genius uncomfortable?”
“You are mistaken. I have not gone a single hair’s breadth out of my way.”
“This ‘Ordene Zaa’: is she one of Floreste’s lovers, or something of the sort?”
“Nothing would surprise me. Both are remarkable people.”
“Hmmf. You’ve been away, haven’t you? I don’t recall seeing you about for a while.”
“Yes, I’ve been away.”
“It is bad news about your father. Come to think of it, you’re now a collateral! Yet here you sit, large as life, at our House Supper, where collaterals are roundly snubbed.”
“Are you planning to snub me?”
“Henceforth, yes. I can’t very well do so tonight, since we are sitting beside each other, and it is all too easy for you to claim my attention.”
“I am not over sensitive,” said Glawen. “Snub me all you like.”
“I hardly need your permission,” said Ticia. “Indeed I snub almost everyone; it makes my favor ever so valuable.”
Bodwyn Wook told Glawen: “Pay no heed to the little fool; already she is losing her looks; in another ten years she’ll be all teeth, nose and clavicle like her aunt, Dame Audlis.”
Ticia said: “Tonight, Uncle Bodwyn, your wit is more entertaining than ever. You are becoming quite the enfant terrible in your old age.”
“Quite so, Ticia. I am much too mordant, and your stance is correct. Propriety must be maintained and collaterals must not be allowed to trade on old associations. Glawen, I can wait no longer to hear your story. Let us finish our supper in the side room.”
Bodwyn Wook and Glawen departed the room. In the corridor, Bodwyn Wook asked: “There is no doubt whatever as to Floreste’s guilt?”
“None.”
“In that case, I will have him taken up and conveyed to the jail. I must wait till after supper, however, lest I offend Ticia’s standards of gentility. What of Kirdy?”
“He betrayed me, you and the bureau. He was subject to mental stress, which was perhaps too much for him. I can’t evade the feeling that he knew very well what he was doing. But I would prefer that you form your own opinion.”
“My opinion was formed at the dinner table. Indeed, you are dealing too generously with Kirdy. He dealt you a last blow of which you are not aware. When he returned to Araminta, he assured me that you were dead, on absolute and definite authority. I therefore canceled the rescue mission which was on the verge of departure. He lied to me; he knows it and I know it. It could have meant the difference between life and death for you. I am not happy with Kirdy. He will face an inquiry, and at minimum lose Wook status.”
“He seems much saner now than when I left him at Fexelburg.”
“Come now; let us ingest the rest of our supper. We shall talk as
we eat.”
* * *
Chapter IX, Part 2
Glawen and Bodwyn Wook dined in a small parlor off the central gallery. In language as terse as possible Glawen told of his investigations and the difficulties he had encountered in the process. “As I sit here and think back over what happened, I feel a dozen emotions. The strongest is relief that it is all over. There were good moments, of course: when my feet hit the ground outside the seminary. Even tonight I took a certain cruel pleasure watching Kirdy and Floreste across the table.”
“And now come the tiresome details. Floreste will demand leniency. His victims were only Yips; they were the raw material of a new artistic technique; he is everywhere recognized as a genius and must not be bound by ordinary regulations. Dame Dorna may very well endorse such arguments; she dotes on him and is a member of the Fine Arts Committee.”
A footman entered the room. “Your instructions have been followed, sir.”
Bodwyn Wook nodded with satisfaction. “As I expected, Floreste and Kirdy, pleading fatigue, left the supper early. They were arrested at the door and taken into custody. The dignity of the House Supper has not been compromised. Well, then, enough of that. May I pour you some more wine? This is our best Chariste and excels anything else of its type produced at the station.”
“It is indeed very good.”
For a period the two sipped the wine. “Now, then,” said Bodwyn Wook, “we must give some thought to your personal problems.”
“I have already done so. I intend to find what has happened to my father.”
“Hm, yes. Well, I can’t hold out much hope. We searched with great care. We found nothing and heard no distress signals. There are dozens of possibilities; we’ve tried to analyze them all, with the same result: nothing.”
Glawen sat swirling the wine around in his goblet. Presently he said: “That is suggestive in itself, don’t you think?”
“Suggestive of what?”
“I don’t know. It must mean something. First of all, in the case of a crash, we would expect to find the wreckage.”
