Trullion: Alastor 2262 Page 4

  “Yes,” said Glay in a colorless voice. “You’ve got an hour’s edge on me.”

  “Come inside,” said Glinnes. ‘Ive brought you a gift. Also something for Shira. Do you think he’s dead?”

  Glay nodded gloomily. “There’s no other explanation.”

  “That’s my feeling. Mother feels he’s visiting friends.”

  “For two months? Not a chance.”

  The two entered the house, and Glinnes brought out the knife he had bought at the Technical Laboratories in Boreal City on Marian. “Be careful of the edge. You can’t touch it without slicing yourself. But you can hack through a steel rod without damage.”

  Glay picked up the knife gingerly and squinted along the invisible edge. “It frightens me.”

  “Yes, it’s almost weird. Now that Shira’s dead, I’ll keep the other one for myself.”

  Marucha spoke from across the room. “We’re not sure that Shira is dead.”

  Neither Glay nor Glinnes made response. Glay put his knife on the mantelpiece of smoke-darkened old kaban. Glinnes took a seat. “We’d better clear the air about Ambal Isle.”

  Glay leaned back against the wall and inspected Glinnes with somber eyes. “There’s nothing to say. For better or worse, I sold it to Lute Casagave.”

  “The sale was not only unwise, it was illegal. I intend to void the contract.”

  “Indeed. How will you proceed?”

  “We’ll return the money and ask Casagave to leave. The process is very simple.”

  “If you have twelve thousand ozols.”

  “I don’t—but you do.”

  Glay slowly shook his head. “No longer.”

  “Where is the money?”

  “I gave it away.”

  “To whom?”

  “To a man called Junius Farfan. I gave it; he took it; I can’t get it back.”

  “I think that we should go to see Junius Farfan—at this very moment.”

  Glay shook his head. “Please don’t begrudge me this money. You have your share—you are Squire of Rabendary. Let me have Ambal Isle as my share.”

  “There’s no question of shares, or who owns what,” said Glinnes. “You and I both own Rabendary. It’s our home-place.”

  “That certainly is a valid point of view,” said Glay. “But I choose to think differently. As I told you before, changes are coming over the land.”

  Glinnes sat back, unable to find words to convey his indignation.

  “Let it rest there,” said Glay wearily. “I took Ambal;you’ve got Rabendary. It’s only fair, after all. I’ll now move out and leave you in full enjoyment of your holding.”

  Glinnes tried to cry out a dissent, but the words clogged in his throat. He could only say, “The choice is yours. I hope you’ll change your mind.”

  Glay’s response was a cryptic smile, which Glinnes understood to mean no response at all. “Another matter,” said Glinnes. “What of the Trevanyi yonder?”

  “They are folk I traveled about with—the Drossets. Do you object to their presence?”

  “They’re your friends. If you insist upon changing your residence, why not take your friends with you?”

  “I don’t quite know where I’m going,” said Glay. “If you want them gone, simply tell them so. You’re Squire of Rabendary, not I.”

  Marucha spoke from her chair. “He’s not squire until we know about Shira!”

  “Shira is dead,” said Glay.

  “Still, Glinnes has no right to come home and instantly make difficulties. I vow, he’s as obstinate as Shira and as hard as his father.”

  Glinnes said, “I’ve made no difficulties. You’ve made them. I’ve got to find twelve thousand ozols somewhere to save Ambal Isle, then evict a band of Trevanyi before they call in their whole clan. It’s lucky I came home when I did, while we’ve still got a home.”

  Glay stonily poured himself a mug of apple wine. He seemed only bored… From across the field came a groaning, creaking sound, then a tremendous crash. Glinnes went to look from the end of the verandah. He turned back to Glay. “Your friends have just cut down one of our oldest barchnut trees.”

  “One of your trees,” said Glay with a faint smile.

  “You won’t ask them to leave?”

  “They wouldn’t heed me. I owe them favors.”

  “Do they have names?”

  “The het is Vang Drosset. His woman is Tingo. The sons are Ashmor and Harving. The daughter is Duissane. The crone is Immifalda.”

  Going to his luggage, Glinnes brought forth his service handgun, which he dropped into his pocket. Glay watched with a sardonic droop to his lips, then muttered something to Marucha.

  Glinnes marched off across the meadow. The pleasant pale light of afternoon seemed to clarify all the close colors and invest the distances with a luminous shimmer. Glinnes’ heart swelled with many emotions: grief, longing for the old sweet times, anger with Glay which surged past his attempts to subdue it.

  He approached the camp. Six pairs of eyes watched his every step, appraised his every aspect. The camp was none too clean, although, on the other hand, it was not too dirty; Glinnes had seen worse. Two fires were burning. At one of these a boy turned a spit stuck full with plump young wood-hens. A caldron over the other fire emitted an acrid herbal stench: the Drossets were preparing a batch of Travanyi beer, which eventually colored their eyeballs a startling golden yellow. The woman stirring the mess was stern and keen-featured. Her hair had been dyed bright red and hung in two plaits down her back. Glinnes moved to avoid the reek.

  A man approached from the fallen tree, where he had been gathering barchnuts. Two hulking young men ambled behind him. All three wore black breeches tucked into sagging black boots, loose shirts of beige silk, colored neckerchiefs—typical Treyanyi costume. Vang Drosset wore a flat black hat from which his taffy-colored hair burst forth in exuberant curls. His skin was an odd biscuit-brown; his eyes glowed yellow, as if illuminated from behind. Altogether an impressive man, and not a person to be trifled with, thought Glinnes. He said, “You are Vang Drosset? I am Glinnes Hulden, Squire of Rabendary Island. I must ask you to move your camp.”

  Vang Drosset motioned to his sons, who brought forward a pair of wicker chairs. “Sit and take refreshment,” said Vang Drosset. “We will discuss our leaving.”

  Glinnes smiled and shook his head. “I must stand.” If he sat and drank their tea he became beholden, and they then could ask for favors. He glanced past Vang Drosset to the boy turning the spit, and now he saw that it was not a boy but a slender, shapely girl of seventeen or eighteen. Vang Drosset spoke a syllable over his shoulder; the girl rose to her feet and went to the dull red tent. As she entered, she turned a glance back over her shoulder. Glinnes glimpsed a pretty face, with eyes naturally golden, and golden-red curls that clung about her head and dangled past her ears to her neck.

  Vang Drosset grinned, showing a set of gleaming white teeth. “As to moving camp, I beg that you give us leave to remain. We do no harm here.”

  “I’m not so sure. Trevanyi make uncomfortable neighbors. Beasts and fowl disappear, and other items as well.”

  “We have stolen neither beast nor fowl” Vang Drosset’s voice was gentle.

  “You have just destroyed a grand tree, and only to pick the nuts more easily.”

  “The forest is full of trees. We needed firewood. Surely it is no great matter.”

  “Not to you. Do you know I played in that tree when I was a boy? Look! See where I carved my mark! In that crotch I built an eyrie, where sometimes I slept at nights. That tree I loved!”

  Vang Drosset gave a delicate grimace at the idea of a man loving a tree. His two sons laughed contemptuously, and turning away, began to throw knives at a target. Glinnes continued.

  “Firewood? The forest is full of dead wood. You need only carry it here.”

  “A very long distance for folk with sore backs.”

  Glinnes pointed to the spit. “Those fowl only half grown; none have
raised a brood. We hunt only the three-year birds, which no doubt you’ve already killed and eaten, and probably the two-year birds as well, and after you devour the yearlings none will be left. And there, on that platter-the ground fruit. You’ve pulled up entire clumps, roots and all; you’ve destroyed our future crop! You say you do no harm? You brutalize the land; it won’t be the same for ten years. Strike your tents, load your wagons12 and go.”

  Vang spoke in a subdued voice. “This is not gracious language, Squire Hulden.”

  “How does one graciously order a man off his property?” asked Glinnes. “It can’t be done. You require too much.”

  Vang Drosset swung away with a hiss of exasperation and stared off across the meadow. Ashmor and Harving were now engaged in a startling Trevanyi exercise that Glinnes had never before witnessed. They stood about thirty feet apart and each in turn threw a knife at the other’s head. He toward whom the knife was aimed nicked up his own knife to catch the hurled knife in some miraculous manner and send it spinning into the air.

  “Trevanyi make good friends but bad enemies,” said Vang Drosset in a soft voice.

  Glinnes replied, “Perhaps you have heard the proverb: East of Zanzamar13 live the friendly Trevanyi.”

  Vang Drosset spoke in a voice of spurious humility. “But we are not all that baneful! We add to the pleaures of Rabendary Island! We will play music at your feasts; we are adepts at the knife dances…” He twitched his fingers at his two sons, who hopped and jerked and swung their knives in shivering arcs.

  By accident, by jocular or murderous design, a knife darted at Glinnes’ head. Vang Drosset cawed, in either warning or exultation. Glinnes had been expecting some such demonstration. He ducked; the knife struck into a target behind him. Glinnes’ gun jerked out and spat blue plasma.

  The end of the spit flared and the birds dropped into the coals. From the tent darted the girl Duissane, her eyes projecting a dazzle as fierce as that of the gun. She snatched at the spit and burned her hand; she rolled the birds out on the ground with a stick, all the time crying out curses and invective: “Oh you wicked urush,14 you’ve spoiled our meal! May your tongue grow a beard. And you with your vile paunch full of dog-guts, get away from the place before we name you a stiff-leg Fanscher. We know you, never fear! You’re a worse spageen15 than your horn of a brother; there were few like him…”

  Vang Drosset held up his clenched hand. The girl closed her mouth and grimly began to clean the birds. Vang Drosset turned back to Glinnes, a hard smile on his face. “That was not a kind act,” he said. “Did you not enjoy the knife games?”

  “Not particularly,” said Glinnes. He brought out his own new knife, and pulling the Trevanyi knife from the target, sliced off a shaving as if he were paring a withe. The Drossets stared in fascination. Glinnes sheathed the knife.

  “The common land is only a mile down Ilfish Water,” said Glinnes. “You can camp there to no one’s detriment.”

  “We came here from the Common,” cried Duissane. “The spageen Shira invited us; isn’t that good enough for you?”

  Glinnes could not comprehend the basis for Shira’s generosity. “I thought it was Glay you traveled with.”

  Vang Drosset made another gesture. Duissane turned on her heel and took the birds to a serving table.

  “Tomorrow we go our way,” said Vang Drosset in a plangent, fateful voice. “Forlostwenna16 is on us, in any event: we are ready for departure.”

  “You may well fall in with Glay,” said Glinnes. “Forlostwenna is on him as well.”

  Vang Drosset spat into the dirt. “It’s Fanscherade which is on him. He’s now too good for us.”

  “Too good for you as well,” muttered Harving.

  Fanscherade? The word meant nothing, but he would solicit no instruction from the Drossets. He spoke a word of farewell and turned away. As he crossed the field, six pairs of eyes stung his back. He was relieved to pass beyond the range of a thrown knife.

  Chapter 5

  Avness was the name of that pale hour immediately before sunset: a sad quiet time when all color seemed to have drained from the world, and the landscape revealed no dimensions other than those suggested by receding planes of ever paler haze. Avness, like dawn, was a time unsympathetic to the Trill temperament; the Trills had no taste for melancholy reverie.

  Glinnes found the house empty upon his return both Glay and Marucha had departed. Glinnes was plunged into a state of gloom. He went out on the verandah and looked toward the Drosset tents, half of a mind to call them over for a farewell feast—or more particularly Duissane, beyond dispute a fascinating creature, bad temper and all. Glinnes pictured her as she might look in a kindly mood… Duissane would enliven any occasion… An absurd idea. Vang Drosset would cut his heart out at the mere suspicion.

  Glinnes went back into the house and poured himself a draught of wine. He opened the larder and considered the sparse contents. How different from the open-hearted bounty he remembered from the happy old times! He heard the gurgle and hiss of a prow cutting water. Going out onto the verandah, Glinnes watched the approaching boat. It contained not Marucha, whom he expected, but a thin long-armed man with narrow shoulders and sharp elbows, in a suit of dark brown and blue velvet cut after that fashion favored by the aristocrats. Wispy brown hair hung almost to his shoulders; his face was mild and gentle, with a hint of impish mischief in the cast of his eyes and the quirk of his mouth. Glinnes recognized Janno Akadie the mentor, whom he remembered as voluble, facetious, at times mordant or even malicious, and never at a loss for an epigram, an allusion, a profundity, which impressed many but irked Jut Hulden.

  Glinnes walked down to the dock and, catching the mooring line, made the boat fast to the bollard. Jumping nimbly ashore, Akadie gave Glinnes an effusive greeting. “I heard you were home and couldn’t rest till I saw you. A pleasure having you back among us!”

  Glinnes gave polite acknowledgment to the compliments, and Akadie nodded more cordially than ever. “I fear we’ve had changes since your departure—perhaps not all of them to your liking.”

  “I really haven’t had time to make up my mind,” said Glinnes cautiously, but Akadie paid no attention and looked up at the dim house. “Your dear mother is away from home?”

  “I don’t know where she is, but come drink a pot or two of wine.”

  Akadie made an acquiescent gesture. The two walked up the dock toward the house. Akadie glanced toward Rabendary Forest, where the Drosset’s fire showed as a flickering orange spark. “The Trevanyi are still on hand, I notice.”

  “They leave tomorrow.”

  Akadie nodded sagely. “The girl is charming but fey—that is to say, burdened with a weight of destiny. I wonder for whom she carries her message.”

  Glinnes lofted his eyebrows; he had not thought of Duissane in so dire a connection, and Akadie’s remark struck reverberations within him. “As you say, she seems an extraordinary person.”

  Akadie settled into one of the old string chairs on the verandah. Glinnes brought out wine, cheese and nuts, and they sat back to watch the wan colors of the Trullion sunset.

  “I take it you are home on leave?”

  “No. I’ve left the Whelm. I now seem to be Squire of Rabendary—unless Shira returns, which no one considers likely.”

  “Two months is indeed an ominous period,” said Akadie, somewhat sententiously.

  “What do you think became of him?”

  Akadie sipped his wine. “I know no more than you, in spite of my reputation.”

  “Quite bluntly, I find the situation incomprehensible,” said Glinnes. “Why did Glay sell Ambal? I can’t understand it; he’ll neither explain nor give back the money so that I can void the contract. I never expected to find so troublesome a situation. What is your opinion on all this?”

  Akadie placed his mug delicately upon the table. “Are you consulting me professionally? It might well be money wasted, since, offhand, I see no remedy for your difficulties.”

  Glinn
es heaved a patient sigh; here again: the Akadie with whom he never quite knew how to deal. He said, “If you can make yourself useful, I’ll pay you.” And he had the satisfaction of seeing Akadie purse his lips.

  Akadie arranged his thoughts. “Hmmf. Naturally I can’t charge you for casual gossip. I must make myself useful, as you put it. Sometimes the distinction between social grace and professional help is narrow. I suggest that we put this occasion on one basis or another.”

  “You can call it a consultation,” said Glinnes, “since the matter has come to rest on these terms.”

  “Very well. What do you wish to consult about?”

  “The general situation. I want to get a grip on affairs, but I’m working in the dark. First of all: Ambal Isle, which Glay had no right to sell.”

  “No problem here. Return the payment and void the contract.”

  “Glay won’t give me the money, and I don’t have twelve thousand ozols of my own.”

  “A difficult situation,” agreed Akadie. “Shira, of course, refused to sell. The deal was made only after his disappearance.”

  “Hmmm. What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing whatever. I’m supplying facts from which you can draw whatever inferences you like.”

  “Who is Lute Casagave?”

  “I don’t know. Superficially he seems a gentleman of quiet tastes, who takes an amateur’s interest in local genealogy. He’s compiling a conspectus of the local nobility, or so he tells me. His motives might well be other than pure scholarship, it goes without saying. Might he be trying to establish a claim upon one or another of the local titles? If so, interesting events will be forthcoming, Hmm. What else do I know of the mysterious Lute Casagave? He claims to be a Bole from Ellet, which is Alastor 485, as you’re no doubt aware. I have my doubts.”

  “How so?”

  “I am an observant man, as you know. After my little lunch at his manor, I consulted my references. I found that, oddly enough, the great majority of Boles are left-handed. Casagave is right-handed. Most Boles are devoutly religious and their place of perdition is the Black Ocean at the South Pole of Ellent; submarine creatures house the souls of the damned. On Ellent, to eat wet food is to encompass within oneself a clutch of vile influences. No Bole eats fish. Yet Lute Casagave quite placidly enjoyed a stew of sea-spider, and afterward a fine grilled duck-fish, no less than I. Is Lute Casagave a Bole?” Akadie held out his hands. “I don’t know.”