Trullion: Alastor 2262 Page 17

  Glinnes rummaged through the larder and found a dish of cold boiled mudworm, which he ate without appetite. Then the rain came to a sudden halt; sunlight spread across Ambal Broad. Glinnes went out on the verandah. All the world was fresh and wet, the colors clarified, the water glistening, the sky pure. Glinnes felt a lift of the spirits.

  There was work to be done. He lowered himself into the string chair to consider the matter. A boat entered Ambal Broad from Ilsh Water. Glinnes jumped to his feet, tense and wary. But the boat was only one of Harrad’s rental craft. The occupant, a young man in a semi-official uniform, had lost his way. He steered up to Rabendary dock and rose to stand on the seat. “Halloo there,” he called to Glinnes. “I’m more than half lost. I want Clinkhammer Broad, near Sarpassante Island.”

  “You’re far south. Who are you looking for?”

  The young man consulted a paper. “A certain Janno Akadie.”

  “Up Farwan Water into the Saur, take the second channel to the left, and continue all the way into Clinkhammer Broad, Akadie’s manse stands on a jut.”

  “Very good; the route is clear in my mind. Aren’t you Glinnes Hulden, the Tanchinaro?”

  “I’m Glinnes Hulden, true enough.”

  “I saw you play the Elements. It wasn’t much of a contest, as I recall.”

  “They’re a young team, and reckless, but I’d consider them basically sound.”

  “Yes, that’s my opinion as well. So then good luck to the Tanchinaros, and thank you for your help.”

  The boat moved up Farwan Water past the silver and russet pomanders and out of sight, and Glinnes was left thinking about the Tanchinaros. They had not practiced since the game with the Kanchedos; they had no money; they had no sheirl… Glinnes’ thoughts veered to Duissane, who never again could be sheirl, and then to Vang Drosset, who might or might not be aware of the events of last night. Glinnes, looked across Ambal Broad. No boats could be seen. He went to the telephone and called Akadie.

  The screen glowed: Akadie’s face was unwontedly peevish and his voice was fretful. “Gong, gong, gong is all I hear!” The telephone is a dubious convenience. I’m expecting a distinguished visitor and I don’t care to be annoyed.”

  “Indeed!” said Glinnes. “Is he a young man in a paleblue uniform and a messenger’s cap?”

  “Naturally not!” declared Akadie. His voice caught abruptly. “Why do you ask?”

  “A few minutes ago such a man inquired the way to your house.”

  “I’ll watch for him. Is that all you wanted?”

  “I thought I might come by later today and borrow twenty thousand ozols.”

  “Puh! Where would I find twenty thousand ozols?”

  “I know one place.”

  Akadie gave a sour chuckle. “You must borrow from someone more intent on suicide than myself.” The screen went dead.

  Glinnes ruminated a moment but could contrive no further excuses for idleness. He took crates out into the orchard and picked apples, working with the irritable energy of a Trill caught up in an activity which he considers a barely necessary evil. Twice he heard the gong of his telephone, but he ignored it, and thus knew nothing of a fateful event which had occurred earlier that day. He picked a dozen crates of apples, loaded them on a barrow which he trundled to a shed, then returned to the orchard to pick more and finish the job.

  Afternoon waned; the dismal light of avness altered to the gunmetal, old rose and eggplant of evening. Stubbornly Glinnes worked on. A cold wind blew down from the mountains and struck through his shirt. Was more rain on the way? No. The stars already were showing—no rain tonight. He loaded the last of his apples on the barrow and started for the storage shed.

  Glinnes halted. The door to the shed was half ajar. Odd, when he purposely had left it open. Glinnes set down the barrow and returned into the orchard to think. He was not wholly surprised; in fact, he had gone to the unusual precaution of carrying his gun in his pocket. From the corner of his eye he looked back toward the shed. There would be one within, one behind, and a third lurking at the corner of the house, or so he suspected. In the orchard he had been beyond the range of a thrown knife, and in any event they would hardly want to kill him outright. First there would be words, then cutting and twisting and burning, to ensure that he derived no advantage whatsoever from his offense. Glinnes licked his lips. His stomach felt hollow and odd… What to do? He could not stand much longer in the twilight pretending to admire his apple crop.

  He walked without haste around the side of the house; then, picking up a stave, he ran back and waited at the corner. There were running footsteps, a mutter of rapid words. Around the corner bounded a dark shape. Glinnes swung the stick; the man threw up his arm and took the blow on his wrist; he uttered a yell of distress. Glinnes swung the stick again; the man caught the stick under his arm. Glinnes rugged; the two swung and reeled together. Then someone else was on him, a man heavy, smelling of sweat, roaring in rage—Vang Drosset. Glinnes jumped back and fired his gun. He missed Vang Drosset but struck Harving, the first man, who groaned and tottered away. A third dark shape loomed from nowhere and grappled Glinnes; the two struggled while Vang Drosset danced close, his throaty rageful roar never ceasing. Glinnes fired his gun, but he could not aim and burnt the ground at Vang Drosset’s feet; Vang Drosset leapt clumsily into the air. Glinnes kicked and stamped and broke the grip of Ashmor, but not before Vang Drosset had dealt him a blow to knock his head askew and daze him. In return Glinnes managed to kick Ashmor in the groin, sending him staggering against the wall of the house. Harving, on the ground, made a convulsive motion; a metallic flicker stung Glinnes shoulder. Glinnes fired his gun; Harving slumped and was limp.

  “Merling food,” gasped Glinnes. “Who else? You, Vang Drosset? You? Don’t move; don’t even stir, or I’ll burn a hole through your gut.”

  Vang Drosset froze; Ashmor leaned against the side wall “Walk ahead of me,” said Glinnes. “Out on the dock.” When Vang Drosset hesitated, Glinnes picked up the stave and struck him over the head. “I’ll teach you to come murdering me, my fine Trevanyi bullies. You’ll regret this night, I assure you… Move! Out on the dock. Go ahead, run off if dare. I might miss you in the dark.” Glinnes plied the stave. “Move!”

  The two Drossets lurched out on the dock, numbed by failure of their mission. Glinnes beat them until they down, and beat them further until they seemed dazed; he tied them with odd bits of cordage.

  “So there you are, my fine lummoxes. Now then, which of you killed my brother Shira? Oh, you don’t feel like talking? Well, I won’t beat you further, though I will recall another time when you left me for the merlings. Now I must explain to you—Vang, do you hear me? Speak, Vang Drosset, answer me.”

  “I hear you well enough.”

  “Listen then. Did you kill my brother Shira?”

  “What if I did? It was my right. He gave cauch to my young girl; it was my right to kill him. And my right to kill you.”

  “So Shira gave cauch to your daughter.”

  “That he did, the varmous28 Trill horn.”

  “So now, what happens to you?”

  Vang Drosset was silent a moment, then he blurted, “You can kill me or cut me apart, but that’s the good it’ll do you.”

  “Here is my bargain,” said Glinnes. “Write out a notification that you killed Shira—”

  “I know no characters. I’ll write you nothing.”

  “Then before witnesses you must declare that you killed Shira—”

  “And then the prutanshyr? Aha!”

  “Provide your own reasons; at this time I don’t care. Assert that he struck you with a club or molested your daughter or called your wife a varmous old crow—no matter. Declare the affidavit and I’ll let you go free, and you must swear by your father’s soul to leave me in peace. Otherwise I’ll roll both you and yonder murderous Ashmor into the mud and leave you for the merlings.”

  Vang Drosset moaned and strained at his bonds. His son raved: “Swear
as you will; it won’t include me! I’ll kill him if it takes forever!”

  “Hold your tongue,” said Vang Drosset in a weary croak. We are beaten; we must slink for our lives.” To Glinnes: “Once more—what do you want?”

  Glinnes restated his terms.

  “And you won’t prefer a legal charge? I tell you the great sweating horn thrust cauch at her and would have rolled her in the meadow yonder…”

  “I’ll prefer no legal charge.”

  The son sneered. “What about gelding or nose-cutting? Will you leave us our members?”

  “I have no need for your filthy members,” said Glinnes. “Keep them for yourself.”

  Vang Drosset gave a sudden furious groan. “And what of my daughter whom you ravished, whom you fed cauch, whose value has now decreased? Will you pay the loss? Instead you kill my son and utter threats against me.”

  “Your daughter made her own way here. I asked nothing of her. She brought cauch. She seduced me.”

  Vang Drosset chattered in rage. His son cried out a set of obscene threats. Vang Drosset at last became tired and commanded his son to silence. To Glinnes he said, “I agree to the bargain.”

  Glinnes freed the son. “Take your corpse and be off with you.”

  “Go,” droned Vang Drosset.

  Glinnes pulled his own boat close beside the dock and rolled Vang Drosset into the bilges. Then he went into the house and called Akadie, but could make no connection; Akadie had turned off his telephone. Glinnes returned to his boat and drove up Farwan Water at full speed, pale foam veering to either side.

  “Where are you taking me?” groaned Vang Drosset.

  “To see Akadie the mentor.”

  Vang Drosset groaned again, but made no comment.

  The boat nosed up to the dock under Akadie’s eccentric house. Glinnes cut Vang Drosset’s legs loose and hoisted him up to the dock. Tripping and stumbling, they proceeded up the path. Lights blazed from the towers, glaring into Glinnes’ face. Akadie’s voice came sharp, from a loudspeaker.

  “Who arrives? Announce yourself, if you please.”

  “Glinnes Hulden and Vang Drosset, on the path!” bawled Glinnes.

  “An unlikely pair of chums,” sneered the voice. “I believe I mentioned that I was occupied this evening?”

  “I require your professional services!”

  “Come forward then.”

  When they reached the house the door stood ajar, with light streaming forth. Glinnes shoved Vang Drosset forward and into the house.

  Akadie appeared. “And what business is this?”

  “Vang Drosset has decided to clarify the matter of Shira’s death,” said Glinnes.

  “Very well,” said Akadie. “I have a guest, and I hope that you will be brief.”

  “The affair is important,” Glinnes declared gruffly. “It must be conducted correctly.”

  Akadie merely motioned toward the study. Glinnes cut Vang Drosset’s arms free and thrust him forward.

  The study was dim and peaceful. A pink-orange fire of driftwood blazed in the fireplace. A man arose from one of the fireside chairs and performed a polite inclination of the head. Glinnes, his attention fixed on Vang Drosset, spared him only a glance and received an impression of medium stature, neutral garments, a face without notable or distinctive characteristics.

  Akadie, perhaps recalling the events of the previous day, recovered something of his graciousness. He addressed his guest. “May I present Glinnes Hulden, my good neighbor, and also”—Akadie made an urbane gesture—“Vang Drosset, a member of that peregrine race, the Trevanyi. Glinnes and Vang Drosset, I wish to present a man of wide intellectual scope and considerable erudition, who interests himself in our small corner of the cluster. He is Ryl Shermatz. From the evidence of his jade locket, I believe his home world to be Balmath. Am I correct in this?”

  “As correct as needful,” said Shermatz. “I am indeed familiar with Balmath. But otherwise you flatter me. I am a wandering journalist, no more. Please ignore me, and proceed with your business. If you require privacy I will remove myself.”

  “No reason why that should be necessary,” said Glinnes. “Please resume your seat.” He turned to Akadie. “Vang Drosset wishes to utter a sworn information before you, a legally accredited witness, which in effect will clarify the title of Rabendary and Ambal Isle.” He nodded to Vang Drosset. “Proceed, if you will.”

  Vang Drosset licked his lips “Shira Hulden, a dastardly horn, assaulted my daughter. He offered her cauch and attempted to force her. I came on the scene, and in the protection of my property accidentally killed him. He is dead and there you have it.” The last was a growl toward Glinnes.

  Glinnes inquired of Akadie, “Does this constitute a valid proof of Shira’s death?”

  Akadie spoke to Vang Drosset. “Do you swear by your father’s soul that you have spoken the truth?”

  “Yes,” grumbled Vang Drosset. “Mind you, it was self-defense.”

  “Very good,” said Akadie. “The confession was freely made before a mentor and public counselor and other witnesses. The confession holds legal weight.”

  “Be good enough, in this case, to telephone Lute Casagave and order him off my property.” Akadie pulled at his chin. “Do you propose to refund his money?”

  “Let him collect from the man to whom he paid it—Glay Hulden.” Akadie shrugged. “I naturally must regard this as professional work, and I must charge you a fee.”

  “I expected nothing less.”

  Akadie went off to his telephone. Vang Drosset said in a surly voice, “Are you done? At my camp there’ll be great grief tonight, and all due to the Huldens.”

  “The grief is due to your own murderousness,” said Glinnes. “Need I go into details? Never forget how you left me for dead in the mud.”

  Vang Drosset marched sullenly to the door, where he turned and blurted, “No matter what, it’s fair exchange for the shame you put on us, you and all the other Trills, with your gluttony and lust. Horns all of you! Guts and groins, so much for the Trills. And you, Glinnes Hulden, stay out of my way; you won’t have it so easy next time.” He turned and stamped from the house.

  Akadie, returning to the study, watched him go with nostrils fastidiously pinched. “You had best guard your boat,” he told Glinnes. “Otherwise he’ll drive away and leave you to swim.”

  Glinnes stood in the doorway and watched Vang Drosset’s burly form recede along the road. “He carries grief too heavy for the boat, or any other mischief. He’ll find his way home by Verleth Bridge. What of Lute Casagave?”

  “He refuses to answer his telephone,” said Akadie. “You must postpone your triumph.”

  “Then you must postpone your fee,” said Glinnes. “Did the messenger find his way here?”

  “Yes indeed,” said Akadie. “I can justly say that he carried away a great load of my responsibilities. I am gratified to-be done with the business.”

  “In that case, perhaps you have a cup of tea to offer me? Or is your business with Ryl Shermatz absolutely private?”

  “You may have tea,” said Akadie ungraciously. “The conversation is general. Ryl Shermatz is interested in the Fanscherade. He wonders how a world so generous and easy could breed so austere a sect.”

  “I suppose we must consider Junius Farfan as a catalyst,” remarked Shermatz. “Or perhaps, for better comparison, let us think in terms of a super-saturated solution. It seems placid and stable, but in a single microscopic crystal produces disequilibrium.”

  “A striking image!” declared Akadie. “Allow me to pour out a drop of something more energetic than tea.”

  “Why not indeed?” Shermatz stretched out his legs to the fire. “You have a most comfortable home.”

  “Yes, it is pleasant!” Akadie went to fetch a bottle.

  Glinnes asked Shermatz, “I hope that you find Trullion entertaining?”

  “I do indeed. Each world of the cluster projects a mood of its own, and the sensitive traveler quickl
y learns to identify and savor this individuality. Trullion, for instance, is calm and gentle; its waters reflect the stars. The light is mild; the landscapes and waterscapes are entrancing.”

  “This gentle aspect is what strikes the eye,” agreed Akadie, “but sometimes I wonder as to its reality. For instance, under these placid waters swim merlings, creatures as unpleasant as any, and these calm Trill faces conceal terrible forces.”

  “Come now,” said Glinnes. “You exaggerate.”

  “By no means! Have you ever heard a hussade crowd cry out to spare the conquered sheirl? Never! She must be denuded to the music of—of what? The emotion has no name, but it is as rich as blood.”

  “Bah,” said Glinnes. “Hussade is played everywhere.”

  Akadie ignored him. “Then there is the prutanshyr. Amazing to watch the rapt faces as some wretched criminal demonstrates how dreadful the process of dying can be.”

  “The prutanshyr may serve a useful purpose,” said Shermatz. “The effects of such affairs are difficult to judge.”

  “Not from the standpoint of the miscreant,” said Akadie. “Is this not a bitter way to die, to look out upon the fascinated throng, to know that your spasms are providing a repast of entertainment?”

  “It is not a private or sedate occasion,” said Shermatz with a sad smile. “Still, the folk of Trullion seem to consider the prutanshyr a necessary institution, and so it persists.”

  “It is a disgrace, to Trullion and to Alastor Cluster,” said Akadie coldly. “The Connatic should ban all such barbarity.”

  Shermatz rubbed his chin. “There is something in what you say. Still, the Connatic hesitates to interfere with local customs.”

  “A double-edged virtue! We rely upon him for wise decisions. Whether or not you love the Fanschers, at least they despise the prutanshyr and would obliterate the institution. If they ever come to power they will do so.”