“That makes her suspect?”
“That and the rest of it, including the transport she said she rented but didn’t. I suspect she brought it with her for transporting whatever props would be needed in the plot against Jorno. The funny thing is that we were both touring Rinoly for the same reason—no reports! I was looking for your man Brance, and she was looking for Wes Alof, who seems to be the conspiracy’s link with the artists. Like Brance, Alof got interested in painting. I was able to write Brance off as soon as I heard what had happened, but she had to spend the entire day looking—unsuccessfully—for Alof. Probably he saw her coming and hid. Someone invested a lot of money in moving the Zrilund artists to Rinoly. Someone was counting on making use of them. No wonder she ended the day in a foul mood!”
“Call me back in an hour,” Wargen said.
She did so, and he answered with a note of elation in his voice. “There is no Mora Seerl registered at the Institute or any museum. There is no student, visitor, or tourist registered on a Mora Seerl from either Kurnu or Qwant. The transport registration is in the name of Ronony Gynth.”
“Say—do you suppose—”
“I think it quite likely that you’ve met the mysterious Ronony. You say she was at Garffi?”
“She’s probably visited all of the art colonies to discreetly test out various undertakings in iniquity.”
Wargen chuckled. “And just as she was about to succeed, all of her henchmen turned artist! It’s almost a poetic touch. In fact, it’s a lovely exit line. On Donov, all of her plots turned to art. Our line and her exit—I’ve thought regretfully for a long time that the day would come when we’d have to do something about her.”
“Yesterday she said she had three more days here. I’d guess that she’ll be looking for Alof again tomorrow.”
“I’d guess that she won’t. Demron will have her picked up tonight. If she’s registered under that false name we can hold her incognito while we investigate her various other iniquities. I’ll also have all of her employees picked up. Perhaps one of them will talk.”
“About what?”
“Sornor has confessed its responsibility for the thieves—with the evidence we have it couldn’t very well do otherwise—and the Sornorian ambassador, who I think means well, swears by the teeth of his ancestors that he knew nothing about it, that his government knew nothing about it, that it was a pernicious scheme fostered by the former ambassador in revenge for our kicking him out. He also swears that Sornor had nothing to do with poisoning Donov’s oceans. I’ve wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t without evidence pointing to another plausible candidate. Now we have it.”
“Ronony Gynth?”
“Mestil. All this time I couldn’t see how Zrilund fitted into the plot, and I should arrest myself for stupidity. The idea wasn’t to ruin Jorno, you can’t ruin a multi-multimillionaire by sabotaging a little resort he runs as a hobby. The idea was to arouse so much antagonism against his meszs that they’d be expelled from Donov. It was damned cleverly done—utter devastation at Zrilund and only a little damage at Virrab, topped off with a forged mesz footprint, and the artists swallowed the notion that Jorno wrecked Zrilund and purposely did token damage to Virrab to divert suspicion from himself.” He beamed at her. “And that was when the plot turned to art. You did quite a piece of work today. Do you have anything else?”
“Franff is in Rinoly.”
“He’s been there for several days. What are the countess and Lilya doing?”
“Eating too much and being fawned on by Jorno.”
“Splendid. I take it that you’re doing the same?”
“I missed lunch today,” Eritha said bitterly. “I walked through all the back lanes in Rinoly looking for your Mr. Brance and keeping an eye on the phony art critic. I haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“Cheer up! Your grandfather will award a medal to you. He might even raise your allowance—tonight he’ll be able to sleep well for the first time since the poison was dumped. And you can drop the scanning and have yourself a real vacation.”
“While you’re in such a generous mood I don’t suppose you’d lend me some money,” Eritha said. “No, you wouldn’t. Never mind.” She cut off.
18
Eritha said wistfully, “Lilya, would you lend me some money?”
The countess turned on them with a disapproving frown. Lilya smiled and said, “Of course, Pet. How much would you like?”
“Would you lend me a lot of money?”
Lilya’s smile vanished. “How much is a lot?”
“Two thousand dons.”
“Oh.” Lilya smiled again. “I thought maybe some gigolo had latched onto you, but gigolos come much higher than that—or so I’ve heard.”
“Eritha,” the countess said, impaling her with the frown. “What do you need two thousand dons for?”
“I want to buy some paintings.”
“Oh, well.” The countess sniffed reproachfully. “I suppose we all have our little foibles.”
“Listen,” Lilya said. “I asked this innocent to buy me a painting when she was at Garffi, and she did. Cost me five hundred dons, and I thought she’d let one of her friends put something over on the two of us. A week later Harnasharn saw it at one of my revs, and he offered me seven-fifty. When Eritha talks about paintings, I listen.” She paused. “Two thousand dons is a lot of money for a painting, Pet. What kind of painting?”
“Paintings. A lot of paintings. None of them is very expensive, but some day they’ll be worth lots of money. Why don’t you two come along? You might find something you like, and in a very short time these particular paintings are going to be the rage.”
“Heaven forbid I should hang anything on my walls that’s going to be a rage!” the countess said.
But when morning came she was ready to accompany them. Eritha heard her say to Lilya, “When you’ve seen Virrab Island once, you’ve seen it.”
They boarded the limousine Jorno provided, and the Rinoly landscape sustained the countess’s interest almost as far as the village of Ruil. While Eritha was selecting paintings from the village sepulcher—she took six by Todd W’iil—the two older women prowled about restlessly and fixed painting after painting in dual stares of puzzlement.
“You say, Pet, that these things are going to be valuable?” Lilya kept saying.
Tiring of that, they went to look at the village. A short time later Lilya hurried back and called to Eritha. Two lumbering wrranels were passing with an enclosed cart. The single passenger was an elderly woman, and Franff—now almost completely blind and obviously much enfeebled—stumbled along beside the cart.
The shopkeeper, who had watched dumfounded while Eritha made her purchases, momentarily recovered his speech. “I heard he’s on his way to visit the Brotherhood Park the meszs built.”
“Poor old beast,” Lilya said softly. “I’m glad, now, that the count persuaded me to hire him. It was my money that bought his wrranels and cart and supported him all these months, and at least he’s been able to live as he chose and do what he wanted to do. If he hasn’t helped the cause of brotherhood, at least he hasn’t harmed it any—and how many of us can say as much?”
Lilya and the countess quickly satisfied any curiosity they may have had about Rinoly or the paintings, and Eritha sent them back to the resort along with the paintings she had purchased and a crock of fresh wrranel milk that she bought from a farmer. Neither the countess nor Lilya had tasted it before, and its cool sweetness enraptured them. “Not only that,” Eritha told them gravely, “but it’s a type-two dietetic food and excellent for the complexion.” When the limousine returned, she loaded in more paintings and rode to the next village.
She was back at the resort by early afternoon with all of her money spent, and she obtained Jorno’s permission to use the unoccupied suite on the floor above to display the paintings. Jorno, the countess, and Lilya came to see them. “You should put together a collection or your own,” she told Jorno, “and bu
ild a museum to house it. These paintings are going to make Rinoly famous. Not only will they be a fabulous advertisement for your resort, but a museum for them and for the Virrab paintings would attract a lot of visitors.”
Jorno favored her with his most engaging smile. “Miss Korak, you take after your grandfather, and no one will ever pay either of you a finer compliment. It sounds like an excellent idea, but instead of riding all over Rinoly and sifting through piles of junk art in the hope of finding a few gems, why don’t I just buy the paintings you’ve already selected? I’ll pay what you paid plus twenty-five per cent.”
“Nope. I bought these for myself. You’ll have to do your own sifting.”
The countess said incredulously, “Do you mean to say that you’re turning down a profit of five hundred dons on a single day’s work?”
“I didn’t buy the paintings to make a profit. I bought them to keep. If Mr. Jorno is interested, I’ll be glad to go back tomorrow and help him make his own collection, and he won’t have to pay me. There are still hundreds of paintings to choose from, and there are some very fine examples that I would have taken if I’d had more money.”
Jorno said thoughtfully, “Of all the unlikely places for a new school of art, surely Rinoly would top the list. And of all the unlikely artists, those from Zrilund—it isn’t that I question your judgment, understand, but I think I’ll ask Harnasharn’s opinion before I start acquiring paintings.”
“I’ll show them to him when I get back to the Metro.”
“He’s here now, selecting some Virrab paintings,” Jorno said. “I’ll ask him to stop off before he leaves.” He went to send a message, and then the four of them sat down to wait for Harnasharn.
“Did you know you have unregistered guests in the park?” Eritha asked. “Franff and Anna. At least, that’s where they were headed.”
“Franff wanted to see the sculpture,” Jorno said. “It was rather pathetic—his eyesight is just about gone, and of course a nonor doesn’t have hands to feel with. I thought he’d just come as a matter of form, being pledged as he is to the cause of brotherhood, but he really wanted to study the statue. Felt the thing with his nose, went over and over it until I was willing to swear that he’d meditated every chisel mark. But they’re no longer in the park. I sent them over to stay with the meszs. Poor Franff—his health has failed terribly since the last time I saw him.”
Harnasharn arrived in a peevish mood. “This’ll make me miss my connection to the Metro,” he grumbled. “What new school of art?”
At the entrance to the suite he halted abruptly and stared. “The Zrilund artists?” he asked incredulously.
“Most of them are very sound craftsmen,” Eritha said. “All they needed was subjects they really cared about.”
Harnasharn nodded. He made a rapid circuit of the suite and then found a chair and sat down heavily. “You wanted an appraisal?” he asked Jorno.
Jorno shook his head. “The paintings belong to Miss Korak, and she isn’t interested in selling. I’d like your opinion of her suggestion that I establish a museum for the art of this Rinoly group and the Virrab artists, and just out of curiosity I’d like an informal evaluation of these paintings.”
“How many paintings are there?” Harnasharn asked.
“Fifty-three,” Eritha said.
“You couldn’t form a collection like this without an enormous number of paintings to choose from.”
“There are hundreds,” Eritha told him.
“Strange that these sophisticated artists can come down here and instantly achieve such a feeling of empathy for provincial farmers.” He began another circuit of the suite and then stopped and exclaimed, “Brance? Arnen Brance is painting?”
“Magnificently,” Eritha said.
“Yes indeed. Years ago he was capable only of photographing his subjects in paint. Now he photographs the emotions of his subjects, and all of his vices have become virtues. Well, then—”
The countess and Lilya moved forward expectantly. Eritha, suddenly apprehensive of being thought a fool, wished the pronouncement did not have to be quite so public.
“The museum is an excellent idea. An evaluation isn’t so easily managed. If these paintings catch the fancy of art buyers, they could be worth ten times their present value in less than a year.” He smiled. “Or a hundred times. If they catch on. They are very good paintings, all of them, but it’s the market place that determines value, and these are the work of unknown artists exploiting a subject matter that has no tradition. Until they have a tested market value, my best offer would probably average out at about a hundred dons per painting. Keeping it in round figures, I’d be willing to pay five thousand dons for this collection.”
“Five thousand!” the countess exclaimed. “You’re joking! Why, that’s more than twice what she paid!”
“I don’t make jokes about art, ma’am,” Harnasharn said irritably. “My valuations aren’t based upon what someone else paid, but upon what I’m willing to pay. I think Miss Korak has made an excellent investment. She’d be wise to keep the paintings.”
“I may have to sell some of them to repay Lilya,” Eritha said.
“Never mind, Pet. I don’t need the money and I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your becoming independently wealthy. But how about going back there tomorrow and picking out a few for me?”
“I wish I could give the artists more money,” Eritha said. “It doesn’t seem right that I paid them so little.”
“That’s noble of you, Pet,” Lilya told her. “But wait until I’ve bought a few before you go around inflating prices.”
“I’d like to see these hundreds of paintings myself,” Harnasharn said. “Would you mind if I accompanied you?”
“Please do,” Lilya said graciously. “Granted Eritha must know something, but when the advice is going to be free I like to get a lot of it.”
“I’ll come with you,” the countess said. “Perhaps a few of those paintings would look attractive in my rev room. Why don’t you join us, Mr. Jorno, and make your own selections for your Rinoly museum?”
Jorno beamed at her. “What a splendid idea!”
“And you, Mr. Harnasharn,” the countess went on. “Please be my guest for as long as you choose to stay. Tomorrow we’ll tour Rinoly together.”
“And tonight I’ll offer all of you a different kind of treat,” Jorno said. “The meszs are holding a fest in honor of Franff, and you can join me on Mestil Island.”
“Franff!” Harnasharn exclaimed. “Is Franff here? I haven’t had an opportunity to see him since he returned to Donov. I’d be pleased and honored to be present. What does a mesz fest consist of?”
“A very polite, excessively formal, overwhelmingly elaborate dinner. I’ve been promised every possible variety of mesz food, and mesz food is delicious. Unfortunately all of it is liquefied, but if you find that tiresome the meszs always prepare special non-liquid dishes when guests are present. Shall we make it a rev? Splendid!”
At Jorno’s private pier they found a red-bearded artist named Arnen Brance waiting for them. Jorno had sent for him at the request of Franff and the meszs, and Eritha learned to her amazement that Brance had personally planned and managed Franff’s escape from Sornor, and also that he’d been one of the artists who instructed the meszs. His familiarity with Harnasharn amazed her more. She had never heard any artist, not even those of stature, call Harnasharn by his first name, but Brance did.
She managed a few words with him in the boat, and when she told him that Neal Wargen had been disturbed because he hadn’t reported, he said indignantly, “There was nothing to report.”
The mesz village was still unfinished, but its focal point, a vast community rotunda, had been completed. The hundreds of meszs attending the fest were already at their places when Jorno’s party was ceremoniously escorted down a ramp to the place of honor, a circular table at the center of the room.
Looking about her, Eritha saw tier upon rising tier of mes
zs seated at long, curving tables. She was seeing them in person for the first time, and when she recovered somewhat from the shock of their almost-human grotesqueness, she found herself wondering whether the twilight produced by the room’s oddly subdued, indirect lighting was a gracious gesture on their part to spare their human guests the stark reality of their appearance.
Huge ceramic tureens in vivid and glowing patterns stood in formation along the tables. In front of each diner was a wide, shallow bowl. In addition the guest table was provided with an array of goblets and platters of small cakes.
“Each tureen will have a different combination of liquefied vegetables,” Jorno explained. “Try as many as you like and have as much as you like. The cakes are the same kind of food, they deliquefy it and compress the residue.” He smiled at Franff. “Everything is vegetable. The meszs eat no meat.”
Anna ladled liquid from the nearest tureen into Franff’s bowl, and he cautiously dropped a long tongue into it. “My teeth aren’t that bad,” he whispered. “They didn’t have to chew it for me.” Anna slapped him playfully and fed him one of the cakes.
The others began to fill their goblets. Eritha, pausing before she drank, looked up at the meszs. They ladled liquid into their bowls, leaned over them, and with their strangely shaped mouths seemed to soundlessly inhale the contents. In the dim light and with the rims of the bowls partially concealing their faces, she could not discover how they did it. Obviously no napkins were necessary when one entertained meszs—none of them got so much as a drop of liquid on his face.
The countess and Lilya were having a delightful time. They sampled the meszs’ liquid concoctions with all of the deliberation of a professional adde taster, comparing impressions with Jorno and mildly arguing the virtues of one blend over another. Their mesz attendants changed the tureens often and kept the platters of cakes filled, and Eritha agreed with Harnasharn, who was seated beside her, that everything was delicious. Privately she had written the evening off as one unending appetizer for the meal she intended to have the moment she got back to the resort.
The Light That Never Was Page 21
