9 Tales of Henghis Hapthorn

by Matthew Hughes

  Gevallion’s name now came into focus and I stifled a groan by sipping from the glass of aperitif. There was a subtle undertone to its flavor that I could not quite identify. As I listened further to the academic a memory blossomed. In my student years at the Institute, I had written an offhand reply to a paper posted on the Grand Forum, demolishing its preposterous premises and ending with a recommendation that its author seek another career since providence had clearly left him underequipped for intellectual pursuits. I now saw that Mitric Gevallion had not taken my well meant advice but had remained at the Institute, dedicating his life to the pursuit of the uncatchable; he was a seeker after gist, the elusive quality identified by the great Balmerion uncounted eons ago as the underlying substance of the universe. Gist bound together all of time, energy, matter and the other, less obvious components into an elegant whole.

  Apparently he had forgotten my criticism of his work since he did not mention it upon our being introduced. It seemed good manners not to bring it up myself, but I could not, in all conscience, encourage his fruitless line of inquiry. “You are not the first to embark on the gist quest,” I said, “though you would certainly be the first to succeed.”

  “Someone must be first at everything,” he said. He had one of those voices that mix a tone of arrogance with far too much resonance through the nasal apparatus. Listening to him was like being lectured to by a out-of-tune bone flute.

  “But gist is, by Balmerion’s third dictum, beyond all grasp,” I said. “The moment it is approached, even conceptually, it disappears. Or departs–the question remains open.”

  “Exactly,” the academician said. “It cannot be apprehended in any way. The moment one seeks to delineate or define it, it is no longer there.”

  “And perhaps that is for the best,” I said. I reminded him of Balmerion’s own speculation that gist had been deliberately put out of reach by a hypothetical demiurge responsible for drafting the metaphysical charter of our universe. “Otherwise we would pick and pick and pick at the fabric of existence until we finally pulled the thread that unraveled the whole agglomeration.”

  Turgut Therobar entered the conversation. “Master Gevallion leans, as I am coming to do, toward Klapczyk’s corollary to Balmerion’s dictum.”

  I had earlier restrained a groan, now I had to fight down an incipient snort. The misguided Erlon Klapczyk had argued that the very hiddenness of gist bespoke the deity’s wish that we seek and find it, and that this quest was in fact the reason we were all here.

  I said, “I recall hearing that Klapczyk’s adolescent son once advanced his father’s corollary as an excuse for having overturned the family’s ground car after being forbidden to operate it. Klapczyk countered his own argument by throwing things at the boy until he departed and went to live with a maternal aunt.”

  “I agree it is a paradox,” Gevallion said, then quoted, “Is it not the purpose of paradox to drive us to overcome our mental limitations?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Or perhaps what you take for a teasing puzzle is instead more like a dutiful parent’s removal of a devastating explosive from the reach of a precocious toddler. If I were to begin to list the people to whom I would not give the power to destroy the universe, even limiting the list to those who would do so only accidentally, I would soon run out of stationery.”

  Therobar offered another dismissive wave. I decided it was a characteristic gesture. “I care not for a cosmos ruled by a prating nanny,” he said. “I prefer to see existence as veined throughout by a mordant sense of irony. Gevallion’s speculations are more to my taste than Balmerion’s tiptoeing caution.”

  “Even if he budges the pebble that brings down the avalanche?”

  The magnate’s heavy shoulders rose and fell in an expression of disregard. “We are entering the last age of Old Earth, which will culminate in the sun’s flickering senility. All will be dark and done with.”

  “There are other worlds than this.”

  “Not when I am not standing on them,” Therobar said. “Besides, what is life without a risk? And thus, the grander the risk, the grander the life.”

  I was coming to see my client from a new perspective. “I really think we should discuss the case,” I said.

  “I’ve set aside some time after breakfast,” he said, then turned and asked Gevallion to explain some point in his theories. After hearing the first few words, I let my attention wander and inspected the room. It was lofty ceilinged, the curving walls cut by high, narrow windows through which the orange light of late afternoon poured in to make long oblongs on the deep pile of the rich, blood-red carpeting that stretched in all directions. One end of the room was dominated by a larger than life mural that displayed Turgut Therobar in the act of casually dispensing something to a grateful throng. Not finding the image to my taste, I turned to see what might be in the other direction and noticed a grouping of divans and substantial chairs around a cheerful hearth. Seated in a love chair, placidly regarding the flames, was a young woman of striking beauty.

  Therobar noted the direction of my gaze. “That is the Honorable Gevallion’s ward, Yzmirl. She is also assisting him in his researches.”

  “Would you care to meet her?” Gevallion said.

  I made a gesture of faint demurral. “If the encounter would not bore her.”

  Therobar chuckled. “No fear of that. Come.”

  We crossed the wide space, the drinks dispenser whispering over the carpet in our wake. The young woman did not look our way as we approached, giving me time to study her. She was beyond girlhood but had not yet entered her middle years. Her face had precisely the arrangement of features that I have often found compelling: large and liquid eyes, green but with flecks of gold, an understated nose and a generous mouth. Her hair was that shade of red that commands attention. It fell straight to her shoulders where it was cut with geometric precision. She wore a thin shift made of layers of a gauzy material, amber over plum, leaving her neck, arms and shoulders bare.

  “My dear,” said Gevallion, “allow me to present the Honorable Henghis Hapthorn, a discriminator who is assisting our host with matters that need not concern us.”

  She remained seated but looked up at me. I made a formal salute and added a gallant flourish. Her placid expression did not alter but it seemed that I had captured her interest, since she stared fixedly at me with widened eyes. It was a moment before I realized that the true focus of her gaze was not my face but the transmogrified integrator that crouched upon my shoulder. At the same time I became aware that the creature was issuing into my ear a hiss like that of air escaping from pressurized containment. I gave my head a sharp shake and the annoying sound ceased though I thought to detect a grumble.

  “What is that on your shoulder?” Yzmirl asked. Her voice was soft, the tone polite, yet I experienced a reaction within me. It was just the kind of voice I preferred to hear.

  “I have not yet reached a conclusion on that score,” I said.

  The green eyes blinked sleepily. She said, “There was a character in Plobbit’s most recent novel, Spelling Under a Fall, who trained a large toad to squat on his shoulder. At a signal from its master, the beast would send a jet of unmentionable liquid in the direction of anyone who offended him.”

  “I recall it,” I said. “Do you enjoy Plobbit?”

  “Very much,” she said. “Do you?”

  “He is my favorite author.”

  “Well, then,” she said.

  Therobar cleared his throat. “I have some matters to attend to before dinner,” he said.

  “As do we,” said Gevallion, draining his glass and dropping it into the dispenser’s hopper. “Yzmirl, would you mind entertaining our friend for a while?”

  “I would not mind,” she said. She patted the seat next to her to indicate that I should sit. I did so and became aware of her perfume.

  “Is that Cynosure you’re wearing?” I said.

  “Yes. Do you like it?”

  “Above all ot
her scents.” I was not exaggerating. The perfume had had an almost pheromonical effect on me when I had encountered it on other women. On Yzmirl, its allure was compounded by her exquisite appearance.

  “I please you?” she asked, her eyes offering me pools into which I could plunge and not care that I drowned.

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “How nice,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me about your work? What are your most notable exploits?”

  The integrator hissed again. I could feel its fur against my ear and realized it must be swelling up as it had in the presence of the footman. I reached up with one hand and found that the skin at the nape of its wiry neck was loose enough to afford me a grip. I lifted the creature from my shoulder and deposited it behind the love chair while my other hand covered that of Yzmirl where she had let it rest on the brocaded fabric between us.

  “Well,” I said, “would you care to hear about the case of the purloined passpartout?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  The integrator was making sounds just at the threshold of hearing. I disregarded its grumpy murmurs and said, “It all began when I was summoned to the office of a grand chamberlain in the Palace of the Archonate...”

  * * *

  Time passed though its passage made scant impression. After I told the tale of the Archon Dezendah’s stolen document she asked for more and I moved on to the case of the Vivilosc fraud ring. Between episodes we refreshed our palates with offerings from the dispenser: I twice refilled my glass with the increasingly agreeable aperitif; she took a minim of Aubreen’s restorative tincture, drawing in its pale blue substance by pursing her lips in a manner that was entirely demure yet at the same time deliciously enticing. My hand moved from hers, first to caress her arm then later I let my fingertips brush the softness where neck met shoulder. She made no complaint but continued to regard me with an unshielded gaze. My innards quaked from time to time, but I pushed the sensation to the borders of my mind.

  A footman entered the room and crossed to where we sat. I repressed an urge toward irritation and looked up as he approached. It was the same fellow who had obliquely responded to my questions. Or at least I thought it was as he approached. When he afforded me a closer inspection, it seemed that this might be instead a close relation of the other. I reached for my memory of the earlier encounter but found it veiled by too much aperitif and the heady scent of the young woman beside me.

  “My master bids me tell you,” said the servant, after a lackluster salute, “that an urgent matter has called him from the estate. He regrets that he cannot join you for dinner.”

  “How long will he be gone?” I asked.

  “He said he might not return before morning.”

  In the brief silence that ensued I could hear my integrator hissing behind the love seat. I reached over to swat it to silence but missed. “What of Gevallion and Gharst?” I said.

  “They accompany the master on his journey.”

  “So it is just us two?”

  The fellow tilted his head in a way that confirmed my supposition, though his expression remained unmoved. “The master suggested that you and the Lady Yzmirl might prefer to dine in the comfort of your quarters.”

  My eyes widened. I looked at Yzmirl but her expression showed neither alarm nor disinclination. “Would you be comfortable with such an arrangement?” I asked her.

  “Of course.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  We rose and followed the footman to my suite, the integrator trundling along behind on its short legs, spitting and grumping just at the threshold of audibility. I looked back at one point and saw that its tail was twitching and its little fists were clenched. But when we arrived at my rooms, to find the first course of our dinner ready to be served, I chivvied the ill tempered beast into the ablutory and closed the door so that Yzmirl need not feel distracted or constrained.

  I found the food excellent, the company enchanting and the aftermath an unparalleled delight. Yzmirl displayed only a genteel interest in what was placed before her at the table but, after the servant returned and took away the remains of the meal, she revealed a robust appetite and surprising inventiveness in another room.

  * * *

  I awoke alone. Or so I thought until I arose and entered the washroom, where a small, furry and angry presence made itself known.

  “Apparently, I need to eat,” it said in a tone that was far from deferential.

  “Eat what?”

  There was fruit on a side table in the main salon. It went and sampled this and that. I was prepared to offer advice on the arts of chewing and swallowing but the creature mastered these skills without trouble. I thought a compliment might lighten the atmosphere but my encouraging words were turned back on me. “I’ve seen you do it thousands of times,” it said. “How hard could it be?”

  “Then you’ll be able to work out the other end of the alimentary process for yourself?” I said.

  “I shall manage.”

  I performed my morning toilet and emerged to find the integrator perched on the back of chair, its tail flicking like a petulant pendulum and a frown on its face. “What?” I said.

  “I cannot connect to the grid.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know why not.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Ordinarily, I would perform a diagnostic procedure on your systems and components. Now I would first have to take advice from...” I had been going to specify a person who was skilled in the care of animals, but I had a suspicion that this particular creature might baffle such a specialist.

  “How does it... feel, I suppose that’s the word, to be unable to connect?”

  It put on its introspective look for a moment, then said, “It feels as if I ought to be able to connect but cannot.”

  “As if you were out of range?”

  “As if I was blocked.”

  There was a knock on the door and the footman entered. Again my integrator’s fur raised itself involuntarily and again I was not quite sure that this was the same fellow I had encountered before.

  “The master would like you to join him for breakfast,” he said. The voice sounded identical, yet there was something around the eyes and the mouth that seemed slightly different.

  There was no obvious reason to be circumspect. I said, “Are you the same footman who yesterday led me to meet your master and returned me here?”

  His expression registered no surprise at the question. He looked at me neutrally and said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I wish to know.”

  His answer was unexpected. “It is difficult to say.”

  “Why? It is a simple question.”

  “There are no simple questions,” he said. “Only simple questioners. But I will address the issue. Are you the same person who arrived here yesterday? Since then you have had new experiences, met new people, consumed and excreted the air of this place and other substances. Has none of this had any effect on you?”

  “The argument is abstruse,” I said. “Assume the broadest of definitions and answer: are you the same footman whom I encountered yesterday?”

  “Under the broadest definition, it would be difficult to distinguish me from any other entity, including you.”

  The fellow was obviously a simpleton. “Lead me to your master,” I said. As he turned to depart I beckoned my integrator to mount to my shoulder again. It was hissing and its fur was once more ruffed about its neck.

  * * *

  I found Turgut Therobar in a morning room in the great dome. He wore loose attire: ample pantaloons, a billowing shirt, chamois slippers, all in muted tones with plain fasteners. His head was again swathed in a silken cloth. He did not rise from his chair as I entered but beckoned me to sit across from him. A low table between us bore plates of bread, bowls of fruit and cups to be filled from a steaming carafe of punge.

  He exhibited an air of sleepy self-satisfaction, blinking lazily as he inquired as to how I had passed the
night. I assured him that I had rested well but offered an observation that he did not appear to have slept much. He extended his lower lip and made a show with his eyebrows that signaled that his rest or lack of it was of small concern. “A necessary task occupied most of the night,” he said, “but it was well worth the doing.”

  I raised my brows in inquiry, but when he added no more I politely changed the subject. “We should discuss the case,” I said.

  “As you wish. How would you like to proceed?”

  I poured myself a cup of punge and chose a savory broche then ordered my mind as I chewed, sipped and swallowed. “First,” I said, “I will rehearse the known elements of the matter. Then I wish to know everything, from the beginning.”

  The charges concerned the disappearance of a number of persons in the vicinity of Wan Water over recent months. Initially, it had been thought that they had wandered into range of neropt hunting parties, the usual precursor to sudden disappearances on Dimpfen Moor.

  The break in the case came when a tenant’s young daughter, Bebe Allers, had gone missing from Wan Water only to reappear after a few days wandering within the walls of the estate. She was in a state of confusion and distress, with vague memories of being seized, transported, confined and perhaps interfered with in intimate ways. She could not directly identify the person or persons responsible for the outrage, but she had blanched and screamed at the sight of an image of Turgut Therobar.

  “Now,” I said, “how do you answer?”

  He spoke and his face and tone betrayed a blase unconcern that I found surprising. But the substance of his response was nothing less than astonishing. “The affair is now moot,” he said. “Events have moved on.”

  I set my cup and plate on the table. “Wealth and social rank will not keep you from the Archon’s Contemplarium if you are adjudged to be at fault.”

  His eyes looked up and away. “The case is nuncupative.”