by Jack Vance
"I spoke with Alvina; she told me of your hours.”
“Twenty years ago she was approached by a gentleman named Adrian Moncurio, who wished to sell a holding of fourteen tanglets. Alvina called in experts who determined that the tanglets were not only authentic but highly important. Alvina was happy to sell them on a consignment basis. Moncurio, who seems to have been something of an adventurer, went off in search of new merchandise. After a time he returned, with twenty more tanglets. These, however, were declared counterfeit by the experts.
Moncurio tried to bluster but Alvina refused to sponsor them for sale. Moncurio snatched up his false tanglets, and departed Trieste, before the Tanglet Association was able to act.
“For a period nothing was heard of Moncurio, but during this time, posing as a half-demented aged junk dealer he was selling the counterfeits to inexperienced collectors, who thought they were taking advantage of the blundering old fool. Before the Tanglet Association could act, all twenty counterfeits had been sold and Moncurio was seen no more.”
“But what of the Naturalist Society documents?"
Xantief made a placid gesture. “When Moncurio first approached Alvina, he also wanted her to sell the Naturalist Society material. She referred him to me. I was interested only in the material concerning Count Raul, but Moncurio insisted on selling all or nothing. So I took the lot for a rather nominal figure, and passed them on to Count Raul for the same sum.”
“You found nothing to do with the planet Cadwal? No Charter, for instance? No grant, or deed, or title certificate?"
“There was nothing of that sort whatever.”
Wayness slumped back into the chair. After a moment she asked: “Did Moncurio mention the source of the papers? Were he had found them, who had sold them?"
Xantief shook his head. “Nothing definite, as I recall.”
“I wonder where he is now.”
“Moncurio? I have no idea. If he is on Earth, he is lying low.”
“If Alvina sent him money for the first fourteen tanglets, she must have an address where he could be reached."
“Hm. If so, she did not notify the Association, but perhaps she felt that the information had come to her in confidence." Xantief reflected a moment. “If you like, I will have a word with her. She might tell me but hesitate to tell you.”
“Oh please do!” Wayness jumped to her feet and spoke in a rush: “I'd like to tell you everything but mainly this: unless I succeed, Cadwal may be swarmed over and the Conservancy will be gone.”
“Aha,” said Xantief. “I am beginning to understand. I will call Alvina at once; like myself she keeps late hours.” He picked up the black and green scarf and tied it around Wayness' head. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Hotel Sirenuse.”
“Goodnight then. If I learn anything useful, I will instantly let you know.”
"Thank you very much.”
Xantief opened the door. Wayness stepped out into the Street. Xantief looked right and left. "All seems quiet. As a rule the streets are safe this time of night, with all proper footpads snug in their beds.”
Wayness walked quickly up Via Malthus. At the corner she looked back to where Xantief still stood watching. She raised her hand and waved farewell, then turned into the Way of the Ten Pantologues.
The night seemed even darker than before. On the Ponte Orsini the woman in black no longer sang her soft song. The air carried a chill as well as the dank odors of Old Trieste.
Wayness set off along the street, her footsteps echoing crisply along the pavement. From behind a pair of clamped iron shutters came a mutter of low voices and an undertone of woeful sobbing. Wayness' footsteps faltered an instant, then hurried on past. She came to a place where shadows marked the entrance into a narrow alley descending toward the wharf. As Wayness went by, a man moved forward from the shadows: a tall person wearing dark clothes and a soft black hat. He seized Wayness around the shoulders and forced her into the alley. She opened her mouth to scream; he clasped a hand over her face. Wayness' knees went limp; he half-carried her, half-led her stumbling down the alley. She began to struggle and to bite; he said without emotion: “Stop, or I will hurt you.”
Wayness again let herself go limp; then she gave a frantic lurch and broke free; she had nowhere to go but down the alley, and she ran at full speed. To the side a door opened into a yard. She pushed through the door, slammed it shut behind her and shot the latch just as her pursuer thrust against it. The door rattled and creaked. He struck with his shoulder again; the door was a flimsy affair and would not hold him back. Wayness picked up an empty wine bottle from what appeared to be a potting table. The man crashed into the door it burst open and he came through. Wayness hit him over the head with the bottle; he staggered and fell. She pushed the potting table over on top of him and was away and up the alley as fast as she could run. She arrived at the Way and looked back; her assailant had not appeared.
Wayness moved onward at a trot toward the hotel, slowing to a fast walk the last thirty yards.
In the entrance Wayness paused to look back along the Way and to catch her breath. The full impact of the episode began to work on her. She realized that she had never been so frightened before, though at the time she had felt no particular emotion, save a furious exaltation when she had felt the glass bottle strike home. She shuddered to a complex mix of emotions. Wayness shivered again, this time from the chill. She went into the hotel, and approached the desk. The clerk smiled at her. “You are back in good time." She glanced curiously at Wayness. 'Have you been running?”
“Yes, just a bit,” said Wayness, trying to bring her breathing under control. She looked over her shoulder. “Actually, I became frightened.”
“That is nonsense,” said the clerk. “There is nothing out there to be frightened about, especially when you are wearing the scarf properly.”
The scarf had slipped back from Wayness' head so that she was wearing it as a neckerchief. “Next time I'll be more careful,” said Wayness. She untied the scarf and returned it to the clerk. “Thank you very much.”
“It was nothing in particular. I was glad to help."
Wayness went up to her room. She bolted the door and pulled the curtains across the windows. She settled into the armchair, and sat thinking about the episode in the alley. Had the attack been a random sexual assault, or had it been intended upon the life and limb of Wayness Tamm? There was no definite evidence in either direction, but her intuition seemed content to operate without the benefit of evidence. Or perhaps there had been evidence, at the subliminal level. The timbre of his voice had seemed familiar. And, unless she had imagined this, his person had extruded an almost imperceptible scent, mixed of fern, violet and perhaps a few off-world essences. He had felt young and strong.
Wayness did not care to think any more definitely, not at this time.
Five minutes passed. Wayness rose to her feet and started to undress for bed. The telephone tinkled. Wayness stared. Who could be calling her at this hour. Slowly she went to the telephone, and without activating the screen asked: “Who is it?”
“Alcide Xantief."
Wayness sat down and turned on the screen. Xantief said: “I hope I am not disturbing you?”
"Of course not.”
“I spoke to Alvina. You made a good impression on her. I explained that any help she could give you would be work in a good cause, if for no other reason than the happiness of a rather nice person known as Wayness Tamm. She agreed to do what she could for you, if you arrived tomorrow about noon at her shop."
“That is good news, Mr. Xantief!”
"Before you get your hopes up, she mentioned that she did not know Moncurio’s present whereabouts, but only the address he had supplied to her some years ago."
"Anything is better than nothing."
"Exactly. I will bid you goodnight once again. These are my working hours, as you know; in fact, I hear a customer waiting for me now."
III.
In the morning Wayness awoke to find the sun shining brightly down upon the Adriatic. She was served breakfast in her room by one of the blue unformed call-boys: an undersized youth named Felix. After a covert appraisal, Wayness decided that Felix might suit her purposes very well. He was deft and agile, with lank black hat and sharp black eyes in a thin knowledgeable face. He readily agreed to perform whatever services Wayness might require, and she gave him a sol to cement the arrangement.
"First and foremost,” she told him, “all our dealings must be kept confidential. No one must know. This is very important!”
“Have no fear!" declared Felix. “This is the way I normally do business! I am known to be discretion personified"
“Good! This is what I want you to do first.” She sent Felix out to the shops along the wharf. He returned presently with an old pea jacket, a gray work shirt, dungarees, rubber-soled sandals and a fisherman's cap. Wayness donned her new garments and surveyed herself in the mirror. She made a not-too-convincing old salt, but at least she was unrecognizable, especially after she darkened her face with skin tone.
Felix echoed her opinions. “I don’t know exactly what I’d make of you, but for sure you don’t look like what you were before.”
At half an hour before noon, Felix led her down the service stairs into the basement of the hotel, then along a dank passage to a flight of stone steps closed off by a heavy timber door. Felix opened the door and they descended still further, finally to jump down upon the shingle of the beach at the far side of the sea wall, under the wharf, with the waters of the Adriatic only fifteen feet to the side.
The two proceeded a hundred yards along the shingle at the base of the sea wall and at last came to a ladder by which they climbed to the face of the wharf. Felix was now ready to turn back, but Wayness protested. “Not yet! I feel safer with you beside me."
“That is an illusion,” said Felix. He looked over his shoulder. "No one has followed; if someone did so, and started a row I should probably run away, for I am a coward."
"Come along anyway," said Wayness. “I do not expect you to lay down your life for what I intend to pay you. My thinking is this: if we are attacked, and if we both run, my chances for survival are doubled over what they would be if I were alone.”
“Hmf!” said Felix. "You are even more cold-blooded than I. If I come, I will expect an extra sol, for the danger involved."
"Very well."
Where Via Malthus opened upon the wharf, a small restaurant served dock workers, fishermen, and whoever else felt the need for fish stew or mussels, or fried fish. Again Felix was ready to turn back but again Wayness would not hear of it. She gave him careful instructions. "You must go up Via Malthus to a shop with some green buckles in the window."
“I know the shop. It is run by a crazy woman named Alvina."
“Go into the shop and tell Alvina that Wayness Tamm is waiting here, at this restaurant. Make sure no one overhears. If she cannot leave her shop, bring a message."
“First, my pay."
Wayness shook her head. “I was not born yesterday. You will be paid when you return with Alvina."
Felix set off. Ten minutes passed. Alvina entered the restaurant, followed by Felix. Wayness had seated herself in a corner, and Alvina looked here and there in puzzlement. Felix led her to the corner table. Wayness now paid Felix three sols. “Do not mention this excursion to anyone," she told him. “Also, leave the door open at the bottom of the steps, so that I can return the way we came.”
Felix departed, not displeased with himself. Alvina gave Wayness a cool inspection. “You are taking careful precautions, although you neglected a black beard.”
"I never thought of that.”
"No matter. I would never have recognized you as you are now."
"I hope not last night, I was attacked on my way home from Xantief’s shop. I barely escaped.”
Alvina raised her eyebrows. “That is disturbing!"
Wayness wondered if Alvina were taking her seriously. Perhaps she thought the disguise over-dramatic. A waiter in a stained white apron appeared. Alvina ordered a bowl of red fish soup and Wayness did the same. Alvina asked: “I wonder if you would tell me the background of your search?”
“Certainly. A thousand years ago the Naturalist Society discovered the world Cadwal, and considered it so beautiful, with so many entrancing aspects that they decided to make it into a perpetual Conservancy, safe from human exploitation. At the moment the Conservancy is in serious danger: all because a former Secretary sold off Society documents to antique dealers, including the Grant-in-Perpetuity to Cadwal and the original Cadwal Charter. These documents disappeared — where, no one knows. But if they are not found, the Society may lose title to Cadwal.”
“And how do you enter the picture?”
“My father is Conservator of Cadwal, and lives at Araminta Station. My uncle, Pirie, is Secretary of the Society here on Earth, but he is an invalid, and there is no one to do what needs to be done but me. Other folk are also looking for the Grant of Ownership; some of them are wicked, some are simply foolish, but they want to break the Conservancy, and so they are my enemies. I think that some of them tracked me to Trieste despite my best efforts. I fear for my life, I fear for Cadwal, which is vulnerable. If I don’t find the documents, the Conservancy cannot survive. I am getting closer and closer. My enemies know this and they will kill me with no compunction whatever, and I am not ready to die just yet."
“I should think not. Alvina drummed her fingers on the table. “You have not heard the news, then?"
Wayness looked up in apprehension. “What news?"
"Last night Xantief was murdered. This morning he was found in the canal.”
Time stood still. Everything became blurred except for Alvina's gray-green eyes. Wayness finally managed to Stammer. “This is terrible. I had no idea — it must be my fault! I led them to Xantief."
Alvina nodded. "It might have happened that way. Or maybe not; who knows? It makes no great difference, one way or the other.”
After a pause Wayness said: "You are right. It makes no difference." She wiped the tears from her face. The waiter brought bowls of red soup. Wayness looked numbly at the bowl.
“Eat," said Alvina. "We have to pay for it, regardless.”
Wayness pushed the bowl away. "What happened?"
“I don’t like to tell you. It was not nice. Someone wanted information from Xantief. He could give them none because he had none, except what he told you. No doubt he explained this immediately, but they persisted and killed him, and dropped him into the canal. Alvina busied herself with the soup, then said: “It is clear, however, that he did not mention me.”
“How so?”
“I came to my shop early today, and no one was waiting for me. Eat your soup. It is pointless to suffer on an empty stomach."
Wayness heaved a deep sigh. She pulled the bowl of soup toward herself and began to eat. Alvina looked on with a grim smile. "Whenever tragedy has dealt me its worst blows, then I go forth and rejoice. I drink fine wine, and dine on delicacies I can’t afford, and perhaps indulge myself in some sort of worthless new gewgaw."
Wayness laughed weakly. “Does the program work?”
“No. Still, eat the soup.”
After a few moments Wayness said: “I must learn to be absolutely callous. I cannot let myself be weak.”
"I don’t think you are weak. Still, are there no others to help you?"
“Yes, but they are far away. Glawen Clattuc will be here sometime soon — but I can’t wait.”
"You carry no weapons?"
“I don’t own any.”
"'Wait here.” Alvina left the restaurant, returning a few minutes later with a pair of small parcels. “These articles will give you comfort, at the very least." She explained their use.
"I thank you,” said Wayness. "May I pay for them?"
"No. But if you use either upon whoever murdered Xantief, please let me know."
"I pr
omise that I will.” Wayness tucked the articles into pockets of the pea jacket.
“Now, to business." Alvina brought out a slip of paper. “I cannot direct you to Moncurio himself, since he is gone from Earth. Where, I have no idea, but he left me an address in case money came in from some old accounts which had never been settled.”
Wayness asked doubtfully: "Is this address still useful?"
“It was as of last year. I sent money to the address, and finality got back a receipt."
“From Moncurio?”
Alvina grimaced and shook her head. "I sent the money in care of Irena Portils, who is apparently Moncurio’s spouse — formally or informally, I have no idea. She is a difficult and suspicious woman. Do not expect her to oblige you, gladly or otherwise, with Moncurio's current address. She would not even give me a proper receipt for the money; she said that there must be no linkage between her name and his. I told her that this was preposterous, since Moncurio had already made the linkage, and that if she did not sign the receipt using Moncurio's name and her own as an endorsement, I would void the draught and send her no more money. Ha! Her avarice is even stronger than her nervousness, and she sent the proper receipt, with just enough icy sarcasm to irritate me.”
“Perhaps she is nicer when she is not worried, said Wayness without conviction.
“Anything is possible. Still I can't imagine how you will deal with her, much less extract information.”
“I must give the matter some thought. Perhaps I will try a subtle indirect approach.”
“I wish you luck. Here is the address." She gave over the paper. Wayness read:
Sra. Irena Portils
Casa Lucasta
CaIIe Maduro 31
Pombareales, Patagonia
IV.
Wayness returned to the Hotel Sirenuse the way she had come: down the wharf to the ladder, down to the shingle and beside the sea wall to the stone steps, then up and through the timber door into the nether regions of the hotel. Here she lost her way and for a time groped back and forth along damp dark passages smelling of must, old wine, onions and fish. Finally, behind a door she had forgotten, she found the service stairs, and so climbed thankfully to the second floor, where she hurried back to her room. She threw off her disguise, bathed and dressed in her ordinary clothes. Then she sat looking out across the sea, pondering the new realities of her life.
