by Tim Powers
Just what I needed, thought Frank, a maniac. He wondered if the gun was loaded—Orcrist had fired it during that ambush a few weeks ago, and he might not have reloaded it. Of course Pons wouldn’t know it had been fired.
“You’re going to kill me? Why?” Frank furtively slid open the top drawer of the desk.
“It’s because of you that I’ve got to kill myself.”
“Well, that’s real sharp reasoning,” said Frank, gently feeling around in the drawer with his right hand. “It wasn’t me that put your wife in a second-rate asylum with cheap ceilings.”
“It was a good asylum!” Pons said loudly. “Your bomb killed her.”
No point in using logic with this guy, Frank told himself. He’s gone round the bend. At that moment the fingers of his right hand closed on the grip of the small pistol Orcrist had told him would be there. He curled his first finger around the trigger and slowly raised the barrel until it touched the underside of the desk-top. He moved it minutely back and forth until he figured it was pointed at Pons’s chest.
“And you’ve got to die for it,” Pons said, raising the silver gun.
Frank pulled the trigger of his own gun. There was a muffled bang and smoke spurted out of the drawer, but the bullet failed to penetrate the thick desk-top. Pons convulsively squeezed the trigger of his gun, and the hammer clicked into an empty chamber. For a moment both men stared at each other tensely.
Frank started laughing. “You idiot,” he gasped. “Sam fired that gun a long time ago.”
Tears welled in Pons’s eyes and spilled down his left cheek. He flung his useless gun onto the floor and ran out of the room. Frank heard him dash up the stairs and out of the cabin; there were footsteps on the deck and then, faintly, he heard the sound of oars clacking in oarlocks.
Perhaps I wasn’t as sympathetic as I ought to have been, Frank thought. Oh well; at least I didn’t kill him. I’m glad it worked out as painlessly as it did. He thoughtfully closed the still-smoking drawer and picked up his book again.
THE sun had climbed midway to noon when Frank’s first pupil arrived the next day. Frank sat smoking in a canvas chair by the rail and watched Lord Gilbert’s body-servant maneuver the skiff alongside Frank’s boat.
Lord Gilbert was a good-natured, very fat man, whose most sophisticated fencing style consisted of taking great, ponderous hops toward his opponent and flailing his sword like a madman with a fly-swatter. Thirty seconds of this always reduced him to a sweating, panting wreck, and Frank was trying to teach him to relax and wait for his opponent to attack.
“What ho, Lord Gilbert!” called Frank cheerfully. “How goes life in the rabbit warrens?”
“Most distressing, Rovzar,” Gilbert puffed, clambering over the gunwale. “Transports keep coming understreet, and getting killed, and are in turn followed by meaner and more vengeful Transports.”
“Well, doubtless they’ll run out of them eventually.”
“Doubtless. And now hundreds of homeless Goriot Valley farmers have settled, or tried to, understreet, and you know how crowded we were even before.”
“True. What you ought to be doing, though, is training all those farmers in the arts of warfare, and then you should weld them and the understreet citizenry into an army to wipe out the Transports with.”
“Yes, you’ve been advising that for some time, haven’t you? But a farmer is only a farmer, Rovzar, and you can’t really beat a plowshare into much of a sword.”
“Oh well. Speaking of swords, let’s go below and see how your parries are coming along.”
“Another thing happened, last night,” said Gilbert, stopping short. “Orcrist’s servant. Pons, died.” Frank stopped also. “He did? How?”
“He walked into one of the methane pits near the southern tunnels and struck a match. I just heard about it this morning.”
“Poor bastard. He never was a very pleasant person, but. ...”
“You knew him, I see!” grinned Gilbert. “Come on, show me those parries.”
Frank worked for two hours with Gilbert, to almost no avail. Finally he advised the lord to carry a shotgun and sent him on his way. Cheerful always, the lord shook Frank’s hand and promised to practice up on everything and come back soon.
At about two in the afternoon another boat, wearing the insignia of the harbor patrol, pulled alongside. A tall blond man in a blue uniform climbed onto Frank’s desk. “Afternoon,” he said to Frank. “Are you the owner of this craft?”
“No sir,” said Frank. “I’m leasing it.”
“And what’s your name?” The man was leafing through papers on a clipboard he carried.
“John Pine,” said Frank, using the name he and Orcrist had agreed on.
“I have a Samuel Brendan Orcrist listed as the owner.”
“That’s right. He’s leased it to me. Wait here and I’ll get the papers for you.” Frank hurried below, found the blue slip and brought it to the man.
The officer looked at it closely and then handed it back. “Looks okay,” he said. “Just checking. Thanks for your time. Be seeing you!” He climbed back into his own boat, got the small steam engine puffing, and with a casual salute motored away across the basin.
WHEN Orcrist visited Frank again, late one afternoon, he brought an ornate envelope with “Francisco Rovzar, Esq.” written in a florid script across the front.
“What is it?” Frank asked.
“It’s an invitation to a party George Tyler is giving in two weeks. It’s in honor of his book being published, I guess. He’s invited all kinds of artists and writers, he tells me. More importantly, there’ll be a lot of good food and drink.”
“Do you think it’d be safe for me to attend? Where’s it being held?”
“In George’s new place, a big house about fifteen levels below the surface, near the Tartarus district. Yes, it ought to be safe enough; the Transports never venture that deep, and no informers will be specifically looking for you, I don’t think. Just call yourself John Pine and all will be well.” Orcrist poked two holes in a beer can and handed the foaming thing to Frank. “I’d say you could even bring a young lady if you cared to.”
“Good idea. Would you convey my invitation to Kathrin?”
“Consider it conveyed.”
It was windy, so they took their beers into the cabin. “Oh, I’ve got something of yours, Sam,” Frank said. He went into his room and came back with the silver pistol. “Here.”
Orcrist took it and looked up at Frank curiously. “I noticed it was gone. Where did you get it?”
“Pons brought it here, the night he blew himself up. He tried to shoot me, but there was no bullet in it.”
“Poor old Pons. Then he went straight from here to the methane pits, eh?”
“I guess so.” Frank sat down and picked up his beer. “He said it was ‘my’ bomb that killed his wife.”
Orcrist nodded. “Did I ever tell you about the time I took him along on a robbery?”
“No. You said you ... gave him a chance to prove himself under fire, and that he didn’t do well.”
“That’s right. It was about a year before you came bobbing like Moses down the Leethee. Beatrice, his wife, had already cracked up and been committed by that time, of course. Anyway, I decided to take him along on a raid on the palace arsenal; several of the understreet tunnels, you know, connect with palace sewers. Pons was extremely nervous and kept inventing reasons why we should turn back. Finally he worked himself into a rage and turned on me. He accused me of being in love with Beatrice and of blaming him for her crack-up.”
“What made him think that?"
“Oh, it was absolutely true, Frank. I was in love with her. I don’t know why it was him she married— sometimes I think women secretly, unspokenly prefer stupid, mean men. But all this is beside the point. I called off the robbery then; it was clear that we couldn’t work together. And that’s the entirety of Pons’s criminal career.”
“How did he become your doorman?”
“He had no money or friends, so I offered him the job and he took it. He and I had been friends before, you see.” Orcrist’s beer was gone, and he got up to fetch two more cans.
Chapter 5
Frank and Kathrin walked up the gravel path, their way festively lit by lamps behind panes of colored glass. Kathrin wore a lavender, sequined gown that emphasized her slim figure, and Frank wore a quiet black suit with newly-polished black boots. A dress sword hung at his belt in a decorated leather scabbard, but in the interests of security and anonymity he had left his bronze ear at home, and simply combed his newly-grown hair over the spot where his right ear should have been.
Tyler’s house was a grand gothic pile, the roof of which merged with the high roof of the street. It looked as though it should have been a long abandoned shrine of forgotten and senile gods, but tonight its open windows and door spilled light and music into the street and up and down the nearby tunnels.
Tyler had been told about Frank’s exile-status by Orcrist, so when Frank and Kathrin appeared at the door he introduced them to everyone as “John Pine and Kathrin Figaro.” Frank then led Kathrin through the press of smiling, chatting people, shaking hands with several. They found space for the two of them on an orange couch. He immediately took his pipe, tobacco pouch and pipe-tamper out of his pocket and laid them out on the low table in front of him.
“I sense wine over there to the right,” he told Kathrin. “Shall I fetch you a glass?”
“Sure.”
Frank ducked and smiled his way to a little alcove in which sat a tub of water and ice cubes surrounding at least a dozen wine bottles. He spun them all this way and that to read their labels before selecting a bottle. He uncorked it, found two glasses and made his way back to the orange couch.
“There we are,” he said, filling the two glasses and setting the bottle in front of them.
Kathrin sipped hers and smiled happily. “I think it’s wonderful that you know a famous poet, Frank.” Frank was about to make some vague reply and remind her that his name tonight was John, when a well-groomed, bearded man leaned toward them from Kathrin’s side of the couch. “How long have you known George?” he asked.
“Oh, about six months,” answered Frank. “I’ve never read any of his poetry, though.”
“He is the major tragic figure of this age,” the bearded man informed Frank.
“Oh,” said Frank. He took a healthy gulp of his wine and tried to imagine amiable, drunken George as a tragic figure. “Are you sure?”
“You must be one of George’s ... working-class friends,” said Beard, with a new sympathy in his eyes. “You probably never have time to read, right?” He leaned forward still farther and put a pudgy hand on Frank’s knee. “Can you read?” he asked, in a voice that was soft with pity.
“Actually, no,” said Frank, putting on the best sad expression he could come up with. “I’ve had to work in the cotton mills ever since I was four years old, and I never learned to read or eat fried foods. Every Saturday night, though, my mother would read the back of a cereal box to me and my brothers, and sometimes we’d act out the story, each of us taking the part of a different vitamin. My favorite was always Niacin, but—”
The bearded man had stood up and walked stiffly away during this speech, and Frank laughed and began filling his pipe. He gave Kathrin a mock-soulful look and put his hand on her knee. “Can you read?” he mimicked.
“You didn’t have to lie to him, Frank,” she said. “Sure I did. And my name is John, remember?” He struck a match and puffed at his pipe, then tamped the tobacco and lit it again. “I hope the Beard of Avon there isn’t representative of George’s friends.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Kathrin. “He looked sort of ... sensitive, to me.”
Tyler himself came weaving up to them at that moment. “Hello, uh, John,” he grinned. “How do you like the party?”
“It’s a great affair, George,” Frank answered. “By the way, I hear you’re the tragic figure of this century, or something.”
“No kidding?” George said delightedly. “I’ve suspected it for a long time. Here, Miss Figaro, let me fill your glass. Well, see you later, Fr—John, I mean. I’ve got to mingle and put everyone at ease.”
“Yeah, give ’em hell, George,” said Frank with a wave. Kathrin got up, spoke softly to Frank and disappeared in the direction of the ladies’ room. Frank sat back, puffing on his pipe and surveying the scene.
The room was large and filled with knots of animatedly talking people. Bits of conversations drifted to Frank: “... my new sonnet-cycle on the plight of the Goriot farmers ...” “... very much influenced by Ashbless, of course ...” ”... and then my emotions, sticky things that they are ...”
Good God, Frank thought. What am I doing here? Who are all these people? He refilled his wine glass and wondered when the food would appear. There was a napkin in front of him on the table, and he took a pencil out of his pocket and began sketching a girl who stood on the other side of the room.
When he finished the drawing and looked up, the food had appeared but Kathrin hadn’t. He looked around and saw her standing against the far wall, a glass of red wine in her hand and a tailored-looking young man whispering in her ear. A surge of quick jealousy narrowed Frank’s eyes, but a moment later he laughed softly to himself and walked to the food table.
He took a plate of sliced beef and cheese back to his place on the couch; he had such a litter of smoking paraphernalia spread out on the table that no one had sat down there. When he was just finishing the last of the roast beef, and swallowing some more of the wine to wash it down, Kathrin appeared and sat down beside him.
‘‘That’s pretty good, Frank,” she said, pointing at the sketch he’d done earlier. ‘‘Who is it?”
“It’s a girl who was standing over—well, she’s gone now. You’d better jump for it if you want to get some food.” He decided to give up on John Pine.
“I’m not hungry,” Kathrin said. “Did you see that guy I was talking to a minute ago?”
“The guy with the curly black hair and the moustache? Yes, I did. Who is he?”
“His name’s Matthews. Just Matthews, no first name. And he’s an artist, just like you.”
“No kidding? Well that’s—” Frank was interrupted then by Matthews himself, who sat down on the arm of the couch on Kathrin’s side.
“I’m Matthews,” he said with a bright but half-melancholy smile. “You are ...?”
“Rick O’Shay,” said Frank, shaking Matthews’s hand. “Kathrin tells me you’re an artist.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, here,” Frank said, pushing toward Matthews the pencil and a napkin. “Sketch me Kathrin.”
“Oh no,” said Matthews. “I don’t simply ... sketch, you know, on a napkin. I’ve got to have a light table and my rapidograph and a set of graduated erasers.”
“Oh.” A good artist, Frank thought, should be able to draw on a wood fence with a berry. But he knew it wouldn’t help to say so. Matthews now leaned over and began muttering in Kathrin’s ear. She giggled.
Frank knocked the lump of old tobacco out of his pipe, ran a pipe cleaner through it, and began refilling it. I’ll be damned if I let them run me off the couch, he thought. A moment later, though, Kathrin and Matthews stood up and, with a couple of perfunctory nods and waves to Frank, disappeared out the back door of the house. Frank lit his pipe.
“Not doing real bloody well, are you lad?” asked Tyler sympathetically from behind the couch.
Frank shifted around to see him. “No,” he admitted. “What’s out back there?”
“A fungus and statuary garden. Lit by blue and green lights.”
“Oh, swell.”
“Well, look, Frank, as soon as I oust my rotten half-brother from the palace, I’ll have Matthews executed. How’s that?”
“I’ll be much obliged to you, George.” Frank got up and wandered around the room, listening in on the various di
scussions going on. He joined one, and then got into an argument with a tall, slightly potbellied girl when he told her that free verse was almost always just playing-at-poetry by people who wished they were, but weren’t, poets. Driven from that conversation by the ensuing unfriendly chill, Frank found himself next to the wine-bin once again, so he took a bottle of good vin rosé to see him through another circuit of the room. The glasses had all been taken and someone, he noticed, had used his old glass for an ashtray, so he was forced to take quick furtive sips from the bottle.
He saw Kathrin reenter the room, so he dropped his now half-empty bottle into a potted plant and waved at her. She saw him, smiled warmly, and weaved through the crowd toward him. Well, that’s better, thought Frank. I guess old Matthews was just a momentary fascination.
“Hi, Frank,” said Kathrin gaily. “What have you been up to?”
“Getting into arguments with surly poetesses. How about you?”
“I’ve been getting to know Matthews. It’s all right with you if he takes me home, isn’t it? Do you know, under his sophisticated exterior I think he’s very ... vulnerable.”
“I’ll bet even his exterior is vulnerable,” said Frank, covering his confusion and disappointment with a wolfish grin. “Does he wear a sword? Matthews, there you are! Come over here a minute.”
“Frank, please!” hissed Kathrin. “I think he’s my animus!”
“Your animus, is he? I had no idea it had gone this far. Matthews! Borrow a sword from someone and you and I will decide in the street which of us is to take Kathrin home.”
Frank was talking loudly, and many of the guests were watching him with wary curiosity. Matthews turned pale. “A sword?” he repeated. “A woman’s heart was never swayed by swords.”
“I’ll puncture your heart with one,” growled Frank, unsheathing his rapier. A woman screamed and Matthews looked imploringly at Kathrin.
“Frank!” Kathrin shrilled. “Put away your stupid sword! Matthews isn’t so cowardly as to accept your challenge.”
