by Jack Vance
A moment passed. Floreste looked up with a frown. “Are you still here?”
“I just arrived.”
“It has been long enough. As you see, I am busy with this book.”
“You must make a definite decision, one way or the other.”
Floreste gave a sour laugh. “All the most urgent decisions have definitely been made.”
“And your new Orpheum?”
“The Fine Arts Committee will carry on the work. The chairman is Lady Skellane Laverty; I have known her many years and she is devoted to the cause. She has brought me this book, long one of my favorites. Is it known to you?”
“You have not shown me its title.”
“The Lyrics of Mad Navarth. His songs hang in the mind forever.”
“I am familiar with some of them.”
“Hmm! I am surprised! You seem a - well, I will not call you a dull dog - let us say, a rather somber fellow.”
“I don’t think that of myself. The fact is that I am worried about my father.”
“Let us talk about Navarth instead. Here is a particularly delicious segment. He glimpses a face for a single instant, but before he can look around it is gone. Navarth is haunted for days, and at last he pours his imaginings into a dozen wonderful quatrains, wild and fateful, surging with rhythm, and each tagged with the refrain:
“So shall she live and so shall she die
And so shall the winds of the world blow by.”
“Very nice,” said Glawen. “Do you intend only to recite poetry to me?”
Floreste haughtily raised his eyebrows. “You are privileged!”
“I want to know what has happened to my father. It seems that you know. I can’t understand why you won’t tell me.”
“Do not try to understand me,” said Floreste. “I myself make no effort in those directions. I use the plural form advisedly.”
“Tell me at least if, for a fact, you know what has happened. Which is it: yes or no?”
Floreste rubbed his chin. “Knowledge is a complex commodity,” he said at last. “It must not be flung here and there like a farmer scattering manure. Knowledge is power! That is an aphorism worth committing to memory.”
“You still have given me no answer. Do you intend to tell me anything whatever?”
Floreste spoke weightily: “I will say this, and you should listen closely. Clearly our universe is subtle and, one might say, palpitant. Nothing moves without jostling something else. Change is immanent to the structure of the cosmos; not even Cadwal of the Charter can evade change. Ah, beautiful Cadwal, with its fine lands and noble provinces! The meadows are verdant in the sunlight; they invite the general habitancy wherein all creatures may take their special pleasures. Animals may browse and birds may fly, while men sing their songs and dance their dances, in peace and harmony. So it should be, with each consuming his share and each performing the work he finds needful. This is the vision of many noble folk, both here and elsewhere.”
“So it may be. But what of my father?”
Floreste scowled and made an impatient gesture. “Are you so dense? Must everything be shouted into your ear? Do you subscribe to those ideals I have just cited?”
“No.”
“What of Bodwyn Wook?”‘
“Not Bodwyn Wook, either.”
“What of your father?’
“Nor my father. In fact, almost no one at Araminta Station.”
“Others elsewhere have more advanced views. But I have said enough and now you must go.”
“Certainly,” said Glawen. “Just as you wish.”
Glawen departed the jail and went off about his affairs, which kept him busy the rest of the day and the following morning as well. At noon, Bodwyn Wook found him taking his lunch in the Old Arbor.
“Where have you been hiding?” demanded Bodwyn Wook. “We have searched everywhere for you!”
“You did not search in the Archives, or you would have found me. What is so urgent?”
“Floreste is beside himself with excitement. He insists upon conferring with you at the earliest possible moment.”
Glawen rose to his feet. “I’ll look in on him now.”
Glawen crossed the river and proceeded to the jail. Marcus Diffin said: “Here you are at last.”
“I’m surprised to find myself so popular. The last time I was here he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
“Be warned: he’s had a bad day and it’s put him out of sorts.”
“How so?”
“First it was Namour, and the two had a rousing quarrel. I was about to interfere when Namour left, his face like a thundercloud.
Next, Dame Skellane. She upset Floreste all over again, and he began shouting for you.”
“I think I know what’s troubling him,” said Glawen. “Perhaps I can calm him down a bit.”
Marcus Diffin opened the door and called into the chamber: “Glawen Clattuc is here.”
“None too soon! Send him in!”
Glawen found Floreste standing by the table, glowering in angry accusation. “Your conduct is brazen beyond belief! How dare you interfere with my arrangements?”
“You refer to my conversation with Dame Skellane Laverty?”
“I do indeed! My money is impounded and she learns that you will be made some absolutely grotesque settlement! Our plans will be smashed!”
“I explained this, but you chose not to listen.”
“Naturally I ignored such poppycock.”
“I will explain again. In exchange for information, I will not prosecute. Quite simple, don’t you agree?”
“I do not agree and it is not simple! You put me in an abominable dilemma! Haven’t I made that clear?”
“Not in terms that I understand.”
“No need for you to understand. You must accept my assurances.”
“I’d rather take a million sols of your money.”
Floreste sagged back against the table. “You are vandalizing my last few hours!”
“You need only give me the information I want.”
Floreste struck his fists together. “Could I trust you?”
“I must trust you, to tell me all you know. You must trust me.”
Floreste gave a weary sigh. “I have no other choice, and for a fact I believe you to be honest, though vicious.”
“So what is it: yes or no?”
Floreste asked craftily: “Exactly what must I tell you?”
“If I knew, why should I ask? In the main, I want to know everything there is to know about my father: how he disappeared, why, and who is responsible, where he is now. There may be other questions which I will also want answered.”
“How should I know all these things?” grumbled Floreste. He walked back and forth across the room. “So I must choose. Give me time to think. Come back in a day or so.”
“It will then be too late, and if you think that I will relent after you are dead, think again. Your Orpheum means nothing to me. I will take all your money and buy the space yacht I have long coveted.”
Floreste seated himself in the wooden armchair and glared across the table at Glawen. “You force me to break one faith in order to honor another.”
“That is a side issue, so far as I am concerned.”
“So be it. I will do your bidding. I will write out certain information which I hope will satisfy you. But you may read it only after I am dead.”
“Why not just tell me now what I want to know?”
“I have certain arrangements which might be compromised if I told you now.”
“That is not entirely satisfactory. You might choose to withhold some critical fact.”
“By the same token you might consider it wise to accept a large settlement from my estate. Trust must be a bond between us, disparate creatures as we are.”
“In that case” - Glawen brought out the photograph he had taken from Zaa’s desk – “look at this picture and name off these ladies.”
Floreste studied t
he faces with care. He peered sidewise at Glawen. “Why do you show this to me?”
“You spoke of trust. If there is no truth, there can be no trust. And if I cannot trust you, then you cannot trust me. Am I clear?”
“Unnecessarily clear.” Again Floreste studied the photograph. “I must forgo all reserve. This is Zaa, as you know. Her name originally, as I recall, was Zadine Babbs. This is Sibil Devella. And this” - here Floreste hesitated - “this is Simonetta Clattuc.”
“By what other name do you know her?”
Floreste reacted to the question with remarkable vehemence. He jerked up his head and stared at Glawen, then blurted: “Who told you this other name?”
“It’s enough that I know. I want to hear what you have to say.”
“It is incredible!” muttered Floreste. “Did Namour tell you? No, of course not; he would never dare. Who, then? Zaa? Yes! It must have been Zaa!, Why should she do such a thing?”
“She intended to kill me - at your suggestion, of course. She talked for hours.”
“Perverse demented woman! Now all cohesion is gone!”
“I don’t understand what you are saying.”
“No matter. I do not intend that you understand. Come back tomorrow at noon. Your papers will be ready.”
Glawen returned to Archives in the recesses of the Old Agency. Halfway through the afternoon he came upon what he had hoped, though not with any assurance, that he might find. He immediately telephoned Bodwyn Wook. “I have something to show you. Can you come to Archives?”
“Now?”
“If possible.”
“You sound morose.”
“I’ve just stirred up a swarm of old emotions. I thought they had lost their force, but I was wrong.”
“I will be there at once.”
Bodwyn Wook arrived, and Glawen took him to the viewing room. “Something Floreste said gave me an idea. I went to look - well, you shall see for yourself.”
The two went into the viewing room. Two hours later they emerged, Glawen wan and silent, Bodwyn Wook grim and taut to the strain of his own emotions.
Out in Wansey Way they found that evening had come to Araminta Station. Bodwyn Wook halted, and for a moment stood pondering. “I would like to clear this matter up now, at this very instant - but the time is late, and tomorrow will do as well.
Tomorrow at noon it shall be. I will issue the necessary instructions after we take our supper.”
The two dined alone in Bodwyn Wook’s chambers. Glawen told of his interview with Floreste. “I left him, as usual, with my head spinning. I asked him in regard to Simonetta’s other name, thinking of Madame Zigonie on Rosalia. Floreste was extremely perturbed: who would dare tell me such secret information. He must know her by another name. Who could it be, that would cause him such excitement?
“Then again: he will write what he knows about my father, but I may not read the material until after he is dead. I tried to learn his reasons; he would not tell me. I am confused! Where is the difference?”
“It is not all that confusing,” said Bodwyn Wook. “There is the notable difference of an entire day, during which much can happen.”
“That must be the reason,” said Glawen. “I am ashamed to be so dense. And since a day makes no difference to Floreste, the time must be important to someone else. Who?”
“We will watch events with great care and be ready for anything.”
* * *
Chapter IX, Part 6
Halfway through the following morning Glawen went to the jail, to find Floreste closeted with Dame Skellane Laverty. Neither seemed pleased when he entered the cell.
Floreste waved toward the door. “As you see I am conferring with Dame Skellane.”
Glawen asked: “What of the information you were to prepare for me?”
“It is not ready. Come back later!”
“There is not much ‘later’ left. Time is getting short.”
“I need no reminders! I think often of this fact.”
Glawen addressed Dame Skellane. “Please don’t distract him. If he doesn’t do his work you will see none of his money. I will cruise the Reach in my space yacht, and you will whistle for the new Orpheum.”
“Truly, that is crass language!” cried Dame Skellane in a passion. “I am shocked!” She turned to Floreste. “It seems that we must abbreviate our little chat, which I had hoped might comfort you.”
“My fate is upon me, dear lady! I must obey this saturnine young Clattuc, and reveal all my secrets. Glawen, come back later! I am not yet ready for you. Dame Skellane, you must excuse me.”
Dame Skellane turned angrily upon Glawen. “You should not hector poor Floreste during the last hours of his life! You should soothe and console him.”
“In Floreste’s case the only remedy is time,” said Glawen. “In thirty years his crimes will be forgotten and everyone will think him a saintly old martyr. What a fine joke! He would cut your throat on this instant if he thought he could gain his liberty or save himself a hundred sols.”
Dame Skellane turned to Floreste. “How can you tolerate this abuse so placidly?”
“Because, my dear, it is true. The first and most noble function of life is art! My own art, in particular. I am a mighty vehicle which careens across the cosmos bearing a precious if frangible cargo. Should anything impede my progress, or my existence, or my convenience, or my account at the Bank of Mircea, it must yield or be overridden by my trundling wheels! ‘Ars gratia artis’: that was a favorite dictum of the poet Navarth. And there you have it!”
“Oh, Floreste, I will never believe such things.”
Glawen went to the door. “Come, Dame Skellane, we must go.”
Dame Skellane had a final word for Floreste: “At least I have restored you to your normal high spirits!”
“Quite so, dear lady! Thanks to you, I will die happy.”
* * *
Chapter IX, Part 7
At noon Bodwyn Wook entered his office. Looking neither right nor left, he marched to his black tall-backed chair and seated himself. Finally he allowed himself to survey the occupants of the room. “Is everyone present? I see Kirdy, Drusilla and Arles. I see Glawen, Ysel Laverty, Rune Offaw, and yonder sits Lieutenant Larke Diffin of the Militia. Who is missing? Namour? Rune, where is Namour?”
“Namour has been somewhat fractious,” said Rune Offaw. “He declares himself too busy to attend the meeting. I sent a pair of sergeants in full uniform to bring him here, and if I am not mistaken, I hear them now.”
The door opened and Namour came into the chamber.
“Ah, Namour!” said Bodwyn Wook. “I am pleased that you are able to appear after all! It is just possible that we will need you to confirm or elaborate upon some element of our inquiry.”
“Into what are you inquiring?” demanded Namour, with no show of cordiality. “In all probability I know nothing of the matter, in which case I would wish to excuse myself, since today I am pressed for time.”
“Come, come, Namour! You are too modest! It is widely believed that you know everything!”
“Not so! I am interested only in my own concerns.”
Bodwyn Wook gave his hand a casual flourish. “Today they must be subordinated to the work of Bureau B, which, as an organ of the Charter, naturally commands the full cooperation of everyone.”
Namour smiled a cool sardonic smile. “I have been brought willy-nilly to your inquiry; please do not expect me to kowtow as well. As soon as my help is no longer necessary, I hope that you will allow me to leave.”
“Of course!” said Bodwyn Wook heartily. He reflected a moment, then signaled to Rune Offaw and Ysel Laverty. They came forward and the three conferred a few moments in soft voices. Then the “Boar” and the “Stoat” returned to their places.
Bodwyn Wook cleared his throat. “Today we revert to a most unpleasant subject which many of us have relegated to the back of our minds. We do so only for good reasons, which will satisfy even Namour when he hears them.
I refer to the atrocious murder of Sessily Veder, at the Parilia of several years ago.
“The files have never been closed, but only the persistence of Captain Glawen Clattuc has allowed us to resolve the case. Glawen, I will ask you to present the findings, since you are more familiar with the details than I.”
“Just as you like. I will try not to be discursive. To start with, we had the clues discovered during the original investigation: mainly fibers found in the winery truck. They might have come from either Namour’s satyr legs or two ‘primordial’ costumes in the Mummers’ wardrobe. All the Bold Lion costumes were cut from different stuff.
“Namour was able to account for his movements during the critical time. Arles and Kirdy were supposed to be marching patrol at the Yip compound. Their signatures and countersignatures seemed to exculpate them both.
“However! Ysel Laverty discovered in the photographic record a figure sitting in the Old Arbor. It turned out to be Arles, wearing a primordial costume. It seemed certain that we had discovered the murderer. Arles admitted falsifying the record. Kirdy admitted that he had tolerated the falsification, on the grounds that he and Arles were both Bold Lions and so could do no wrong. Arles admitted going to the Mummers’ wardrobe, which is in a warehouse close by the compound. He dressed in his primordial costume, then hurried to the Old Arbor to keep his appointment with Drusilla. Kirdy was left to walk the patrol alone.
“Drusilla corroborated Arles’ statement, more or less, though without any firm conviction; in fact, she was drunk. Still, they apparently watched the Phantasmagoria together, and it seems unlikely that Arles would have rushed from Drusilla’s fascinating company to perform a set of outrages upon Sessily. “As I checked the photographic record again, I saw Namour in his satyr costume stop outside the arbor, look in through one of the arches and talk a few moments with someone sitting just inside. Namour, do you remember this episode?”
“No. I can’t say that I do. It’s a long time ago, and I had been drinking wine.”
