Trullion: Alastor 2262 Page 5

  “But why should he pretend to a false identity? Unless—”

  “Exactly. Still, the explanation may be quite ordinary. Perhaps he is an emancipated Bole. Oversubtlety is an error as gross as innocence.”

  “No doubt. Well, this to the side. I still can’t give him his money because Glay won’t return it. Do you know where it is?”

  “I do.” Akadie darted a side-glance toward Glinnes. “I must remark that this is Class Two information and I must calculate your fee accordingly.”

  “Quite all right,” said Glinnes.‘If that seems exorbitant you can always recalculate. Where is the money?”

  “Glay paid it to a man named Junius Farfan, who lives in Welgen.”

  Glinnes frowned off across Ambal Broad. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Quite likely. He is secretary of the local Fanschers.”

  “Oh? Why should Glay give him the money? Is Glay a Fanscher as well?”

  “If not, he is on the brink. So far, he does not affect the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies.”

  Glinnes had a sudden insight. “The odd gray clothes? The shorn hair?”

  “These are overt symbols. The movement has naturally provoked an angry reaction, and not unreasonably. The precepts of Fanscherade directly contradict conventional attitudes and must be considered anti-social.”

  “This means nothing to me,” Glinnes grumbled. “I’ve never heard of Fanscherade till today.”

  Akadie spoke in his most didactic voice: “The name derives from old Glottisch: Fan is a corybantic celebration of glory. The thesis appears to be no more than an insipid truism: life is a commodity so precious that it must be used to best advantage. Who could argue otherwise? The Fanschers engender hostility when they try to implement the idea. They feel that each person must establish exalted goals, and fulfill them if he can. If he fails, he fails honorably and has satisfaction in his striving; he has used his life well. If he wins-” Akadie made a wry gesture. “Who in this life ever wins? Death wins. Still—Fanscherade is at its basis a glorious ideal.”

  Glinnes made a skeptical sound. “Five trillion folk of Alastor, all striving and straining? There’d be peace for no one.”

  Akadie gave a smiling nod. “Understand this: Fanscherade is not a policy for five trillion. Fanscherade is one single outcry of wild despair, the loneliness of a single man lost among an infinity of infinities. Through Fanscherade the one man defies and rejects anonymity; he insists upon his personal magnificence.” Akadie paused, then made a wry grimace. “One might remark, parenthetically, that the only truly fulfilled Fanscher is the Connatic.” He sipped his wine.

  The sun had set. Overhead hung a high layer of frosty green cirrus; to south and north were wisps and tufts of rose, violet and citron. For a period the two men sat in silence.

  Akadie spoke in a soft voice. “So then-that is Fanscherade. Few Fanschers comprehend their new creed; after all, most are children distressed by the sloth, the erotic excesses, the irresponsibility, the slovenly appearance of their parents. They deplore the cauch, the wine, the gluttonous feasts, all of which are consumed in the name of immediacy and vivid experience. Perhaps their principal intent is to establish a new and distinctive image for themselves. They cultivate a neutral appearance, on the theory that a person should be known not by the symbols he elects to display but by his conduct.”

  “A group of strident and callow malcontents!” growled Glinnes. “Where do they find the insolence to challenge so many persons older and wiser than themselves?”

  “Alas!” sighed Akadie. “You’ll find no novelty there.”

  Glinnes poured more wine into the mugs. “It all seems foolish, unnecessary, and futile. What do people want from life? We Trills have all the good things: food, music, merriment. Is this mischievous? What else is there to live for? The Fanschers are gargoyles screaming at the sun.”

  “On the face of it, the business is absurd,” said Akadie. “Still—” He shrugged. “—There is a certain grandeur in their point of view. Malcontents—but why? To wrench sense from archaic nonsense; to strike the sigil of human will upon elemental chaos; to affirm the shining brilliance of one soul alone but alive among five trillion placcid gray corpuscles. Yes, it is wild and brave.”

  “You sound like a Fanscher yourself,” snorted Glinnes.

  Akadie shook his head. “There are worse attitudes, but no, not I. Fanscherade is a young man’s game. I’m far too old.”

  “What do they think of hussade?”

  “They consider it spurious activity, to distract folk from the true color and texture of life.”

  Glinnes shook his head in wonder. “And to think the Trevanyi girl called me a Fanscher!”

  “What a singular notion!” said Akadie.

  Glinnes turned Akadie a sharp glance but saw only an expression of limpid innocence. “How did Fanscherade start? I remember no such trend.”

  “The raw material has been long ready at hand, or so I would imagine. A certain spark of ideology was required, no more.”

  “And who then is the ideologue of Fanscherade?”

  “Junius Farfan. He lives in Welgen.”

  “And Junius Farfan has my money!”

  Akadie rose to his feet. “I hear a boat. It’s Marucha at last.” He went to the dock, followed by Glinnes. Along Ilfish Water came the boat behind its mustache of white water, across the edge of Ambal Broad and up to the dock. Glinnes took the line from Glay and made it fast to a bollard. Marucha stepped jauntily up to the dock. Glinnes looked in amazement at her clothes: a sheath of severe white linen, black ankle boots, and a black cloche cap, which, in suppressing her hair, accentuated her resemblance to Glay.

  Akadie came forward. “I’m sorry I missed you. Still, Glinnes and I have had a pleasant conversation. We’ve been discussing Fanscherade.”

  “How very nice!” said Marucha. “Have you brought him around?”

  “I hardly think so,” said Akadie with a grin. “The seed must lie before it germinates.”

  Glay, standing to the side, looked more sardonic than ever. Akadie continued. “I have certain articles for you. These”—he handed Marucha a small flask—“are sensitizers; they place your mind in its most receptive state, and conduce to learning. Be sure to take no more than a single capsule or you will become hyperesthesic.” He handed Marucha a parcel of books. “Here we have a manual of mathematical logic, a discussion of minichronics, and a treatise on basic cosmology. All are important to your program.”

  “Very good,” said Marucha somewhat stiffly. “I wonder what I would like to give you?”17

  “Something on the order of fifteen ozols would be more than ample,” said Akadie. “But no hurry, of course. And now I too must be on my way. The dusk is far along.”

  Still, Akadie lingered while Marucha counted out fifteen ozols and placed them in his limp-fingered hand. “Goodnight, my friend.” She and Glay went to the house. Glinnes asked, “And what will I have the pleasure of forcing upon you for the consultation?”

  “Ah indeed, let me consider. Twenty ozol would be more than generous, if my remarks have been of help.”

  Glinnes paid over the money, reflecting that Akadie set a rather high price on his expertise. Akadie departed up Farwan Water toward Saur River, thence by Tethryn Broad and Vernice Water to his eccentric old manse on Sarpassante Island.

  Inside the house on Rabendary Island lights glowed. Glinnes slowly walked up to the verandah, where Glay stood watching him.

  “I’ve learned what you did with the money,” said Glinnes. “You’ve given away Ambal Isle for sheer absurdity.”

  “We’ve discussed the situation as much as necessary. I’ll be leaving your house in the morning. Marucha wants me to stay, but I think I’ll be more comfortable elsewhere.”

  “Do your dirty little mess and run, eh?” The brothers glared at each other, then Glinnes swung off and into the house.

  Marucha sat reading the manuals Akadie had brought. Glinnes opened his mouth,
then shut it again and went out to sit brooding on the verandah. Inside the house Glay and Marucha spoke in low tones.

  Chapter 6

  In the morning Glay bundled up his belongings and Glinnes took him to Saurkash. Not a word was spoken during the trip. When he had stepped from the boat to Saurkash dock, Glay said, “I won’t be far away, not for a while at any rate. Maybe I’ll camp on the Commons. Akadie will know where to find me in case I’m needed. Try to be kind to Marucha. She’s had an unhappy life, and now if she wants to play at girlhood, where’s the harm in it?”

  “Bring back that twelve thousand ozols and I might pay you some heed,” said Glinnes. “Right now, all I expect of you is nonsense.”

  “The more fool you,” said Glay, and went off up the dock. Glinnes watched him go. Then, instead of returning to Rabendary, he continued west toward Welgen. Less than an hour’s skim across the placid waterways brought him into Blacklyn Broad, with the great Karbashe River entering from the north, and the sea a mile or so to the south. Glinnes tied the boat to the public dock, almost in the shadow of the hussade stadium, a structure of gray-green mena poles joined with black iron straps and brackets. He noticed a great cream-colored placard printed in red and blue:

  THE FLEHARISH BROAD HUSSADE CLUB

  is now forming a team

  to compete at tournament level.

  Applicants of requisite skills

  will please apply to

  Jeral Estang, Secretary,

  or to the honorable sponsor,

  Thammas, Lord Gensifer.

  Glinnes read the placard a second time, wondering where Lord Gensifer would assemble sufficient talent for a team of tournament quality. Ten years before, a dozen teams had played around the Fens: the Welgen Storm-devils, the Invincibles of the Altramar Hussade Club, the Voulash Gialospans18 of Great Vole Island, the Gaspar Magnetics, the Saurkash Serpents—this last the somewhat disorganized and casual group for whom he and Jut and Shira had played—the Gorgets of the Loressamy Hussade Club, and various others of various quality and ever-shifting personnel. Competition had run keen; skilled players were sought after, cozened, subjected to a hundred inducements. Glinnes had no reason to doubt that a similar situation prevailed now.

  Glinnes turned away from the stadium with a new thought itching at the back of his mind. A poor hussade team lost money, and unless subsidized, fell apart. A mediocre team might either win or lose, depending on whether it scheduled games below or above itself. But a successful aggressive team often earned substantial booty in the course of a year, which when divided might well yield twelve thousand ozols per man.

  Glinnes walked thoughtfully to the central square. The structures seemed a trifle more weathered, the calepsis vines shading the arbor in front of the Aude de Lys Tavern were somewhat fuller and richer, and-now that Glinnes took the pains to notice a surprising number of Fanscher uniforms and Fanscher-influenced garments were in evidence. Glinnes sneered in disgust for the faddishness of it all. At the center of the square, as before, stood the prutanshyr: a platform forty feet on a side, with a gantry above, and to the side a subsidiary platform or stand for the musicians who provided counterpoint to the rites of penitence.

  Ten years had brought one or two new structures, most notable a new inn, The Noble Saint Gambrinus, raised on mena timbers above the ground-level beer-garden, where four Trevanyi musicians were playing for such folk who had elected to take early refreshment.

  Today was market day. Costermongers had set up carts around the periphery of the square; they were uniformly of the Wrye race, a folk as separate and particular as the Trevanyi. Trills of Welgen and the countryside strolled at leisure past the barrows, examining and handling, haggling, occasionally buying. The country folk were distinguishable by their garments: the inevitable paray, with whatever other vestments fancy, convenience, whim, or aesthetic impulse dictated—oddments of this, trifles of that, gay scarves, embroidered vests, shirts emblazoned with odd designs, beads, necklaces, jangling bracelets, head-bands, cockades. Residents of the town wore clothes somewhat less idiosyncratic, and Glinnes noticed a sizable proportion of Fanscher suits, of good gray material, smartly tailored, worn with polished black ankle-boots. Some wore bucket-caps of black felt pulled tight over the hair. Some of those wearing this costume were older folk, self-conscious in their stylish finery. Certainly, reflected Glinnes, not all of these could be Fanschers.

  A thin long-armed man in dark gray approached Glinnes; who stared in shock and scornful amusement. “You too? Is it possible!”

  Akadie showed no embarrassment. “Why not? Where is the harm in a fad? I enjoy pretending I’m young again.”

  “Must you pretend to Fanscherade at the same time?”

  Akadie shrugged. “Again: why not? Perhaps they over-idealize themselves; perhaps they carp too earnestly at the superstition and sensuality of the rest of us. Still he made a deprecatory gesture-I am as you see.”

  Glinnes shook his head in disapproval. “Suddenly these Fanschers control the wisdom of the world, and their parents, who gave them birth, are shiftless and squalid.”

  Akadie laughed. “Fads come, fads go. They relieve the tedium of routine; why not enjoy them?”

  Before Glinnes could answer, Akadie changed the subject. “I expected to find you here. You’re naturally looking for Junius Farfan, and it just so happens that I can point him out to you. Look yonder, past that horrid instrument, to the parlor under the Noble Saint Gambrinus. In the deep shade to the left a Fanscher sits writing in a ledger. That man is Junius Farfan.”

  “I’ll go talk to him now.”

  “Good luck,” said Akadie.

  Glinnes crossed the square and, stepping into the beerparlor, approached the table that Akadie had indicated. “You are Junuis Fartan?”

  The man looked up. Glinnes saw a face classically regular, if somewhat bloodless and cerebral. The gray suit hung with austere elegance on Ms spare frame, which seemed all nerve, bone and sinew. A black cloth casque confined his hair and dramatized a square pale forehead and brooding gray eyes. His age was probably less than that of Glinnes himself. “I am Junius Farfan.”

  “My name is Glinnes Hulden. Glay Hulden is my brother. Recently he turned over to you a large sum, on the order of twelve thousand ozols.”

  Farfan signified assent. “True.”

  “I bring bad news. Glay derived this money illegally. He sold property that belonged not to him but to me. To cut to the bone of the matter, I must have this money back.”

  Farfan seemed neither surprised nor overly concerned. He gestured to a chair. “Sit down. Will you take refreshment?”

  Glinnes, seating himself, accepted a mug of ale. “Thank you. And where is the money?”

  Farfan gave him a dispassionate inspection. “Naturally you did not hope that I would hand over twelve thousand ozols in a bag.”

  “But I did hope so. I need the money to reclaim the property.”

  Farfan smiled in polite apology. “Your hopes cannot be realized, for I cannot return the money.”

  Glinnes put down the mug with a thump. “Why not?”

  “The money has been invested; we have ordered the machinery to equip a factory. We intend to manufacture those goods which are now imported into Trullion.”

  Glinnes spoke in a voice hoarse with fury. “Then you had better get new money into your fund and pay me my twelve thousand ozols.”

  Farfan gave a grave assent. “If the money was indeed yours, I freely acknowledge the debt, and I will recommend that the money be repaid with interest from the first profits of our enterprises.”

  “And when will this be?”

  “I don’t know. We are hoping somehow to acquire a tract of land, by loan or donation or sequestration.” Farfan grinned and his face became suddenly boyish. “Thereafter we must construct a plant, arrange for raw materials, learn appropriate techniques, produce and sell our goods, pay for the original stocks of raw materials, buy new stocks and supplies, and so forth.”
<
br />   Glinnes said, “This all takes an appreciable period of time.”

  Junius Farfan frowned up into the air. “Let us fix upon the interval of five years. If you will then be good enough to renew your claim, we can discuss the matter again, I hope to our mutual satisfaction. As an individual I sympathize with your plight,” said Junius Farfan. “As secretary of an organization which desperately needs capital, I am only too happy to use your money; I conceive our need to be more urgent than yours.” He closed the register and rose to his feet. “Good-day, Squire Hulden.”

  Chapter 7

  Glinnes watched Junius Farfan cross the square, moving around and out of sight behind the prutanshyr. He had achieved about as much as he had expected nothing. Nevertheless, his resentment now included the suave Junius Farfan as well as Glay. However, it now became time to forget the lost money and try to find new. He looked into his wallet, though he already knew its contents: three thousand-ozol certificates, four hundred-ozol certificates, another hundred ozols in smaller paper. He therefore needed nine thousand ozols. His retirement pension amounted to a hundred ozols a month, more than ample for a man in his circumstances. He left The Noble Saint Gambrinus and crossed the square to the Welgen Bank, where he introduced himself to the chief officer.

  “To be brief,” said Glinnes, “my problem is this: I need nine thousand ozols to repossess Ambal Isle, which my brother incorrectly sold to a certain Lute Casagave.”

  “Yes, Lute Casagave; I recall the transaction.”

  “I wish to make a loan of nine thousand ozols, which I can repay at a rate of a hundred ozols per month. This is the fixed and definite sum I receive from the Whelm. Your money is perfectly safe and you are assured of repayment.”