“Wait!” It was a man’s voice, strained with emotion. Imbry craned his head to peer sideways through the peephole. He saw that two members of the audience had not left. Breeth, the provost’s man, had been sitting in the front row of the men’s side of the house with his fellow officer beside him. Now they advanced up the central aisle, Breeth leading, the other man following, though he seemed reluctant. The investigator positioned himself before Brosch and the other two black-hats. Imbry could see only his back, but the set of the man’s shoulders and the way he lowered his head somehow suggested both deference and defiance. The two assistants were clearly scandalized, the seven chosen showed even greater anxiety, but the old man regarded the investigator without any show of emotion. “What?” he said.
“One of them did not appear,” Breeth said.
The younger male black-hat stepped between them. “Is this a law-enforcement matter?”
Breeth’s stance reminded Imbry of a truculent schoolboy. “No, Decider,” he said.
“Then you keep us from the delvings.”
Now a voice spoke quietly in Imbry’s ear. “Stay here for now,”—he turned to find Taggar beside him, the big man’s face lined with worry—“but if any of them come this way before I come back, slip out under there.” He pointed to the pavilion wall and the end of the backstage corridor. The cloth was unpegged and loose at its base.
“What is to come?” Imbry said.
“I don’t know. It is Ideal business, best we keep out of it.”
“I would like to, but it is me they are talking about.”
The argument in the main tent had been continuing. Breeth’s subordinate had put a hand on the investigator’s arm as if to restrain him from some untoward act. Breeth was nose to nose with the younger male black-hat, their voices low but full of strain.
Then Superior Arbiter Brosch spoke and the argument ceased. “The irregular you speak of will not appear tonight,” he said. “He is unable to perform, having been injured.” These last words were accompanied by a pointed look at Breeth, then he added, “Is there anything you want to tell us about that, Investigator?”
Imbry thought Breeth might explode, so tense was the man’s posture. The other brown-hat man pulled on his arm, physically turning his superior away from the confrontation. “He has nothing to tell you, Decider,” the provost’s man said.
“Very good,” said Brosch. “We will discuss this tomorrow. Come to the Arbitration first thing.”
Breeth was hunched forward, knees slightly bent, as if he were about to fling himself into action. His eyes were on the curtain behind which Imbry stood. For a moment, the fat man wondered if the investigator was conscious of his gaze.
“Did you hear me, Investigator?” said Brosch.
The other provost’s man was speaking energetically in his superior’s ear. Breeth shook himself, took a long ragged breath, and said, “Yes, Decider. I will be there.”
The elder man nodded. “Then depart. You have no place here tonight.”
Breeth did not so much leave as he was pulled out of the tent by his companion. Brosch turned to the seven Fuldans who had been chosen from the audience, made a gesture that assured them that there would be no further disturbance, then nodded to the other two black-hats. “The delvings will commence,” he said.
Behind the curtain, Taggar said, “They’re coming now,” and gestured toward the compartment at the far end of the passageway. “Don’t come out until I come for you.”
“What will happen? What are delvings?” Imbry said.
Taggar looked like a man saddled with an importunately questioning child. “No time now.” He took Imbry by the arm and hurried him to the booth.
The fat man went where the big man wanted him to go. When he was in the narrow compartment, Taggar pulled a curtain closed, touching a finger to his lips as the barrier separated him from Imbry. Imbry turned and regarded the small space. Like the others he had earlier helped outfit, it contained a stool and a low table on which were arranged a number of items. Imbry went and examined them, mindful of the rule that nothing be touched without gloves. The objects were small, variously shaped tablets of some unusual ceramic—Imbry had not seen its like before—beautifully glazed over lustrous colors: blues, purples, deep reds, golden yellows. On each, in bas-relief, was a symbol or character from a syllabary Imbry had never encountered: one was a pair of linked circles, another something like a distorted fence or ladder, next a cross made of wavy lines, then a series of squares nested within squares.
One part of Imbry’s mind rejoiced in the simple beauty of the objects; another wondered at their purpose; a third considered what they might fetch from certain collectors in Olkney. That would depend, to some extent, on their provenance, their age, and the use for which they had been created—ritual artifacts commanded more attention from the collectors he was thinking of. Of course, they might be just game pieces, or merely decorative. Though that would pose no insurmountable problems; Imbry was expert at creating legends and histories that were at once wondrous yet plausible.
But he put the issue aside as he heard the black-hats and their seven chosen Ideals rustling and moving in the corridor outside. He stepped to the curtain Taggar had closed and gently pushed at it with the side of his head until his left eye was clear of the side wall and he could peer down the passageway. At the far end, Taggar stood with bowed head. The two black-hats selected one of the Ideals and led her to one of the booths. Then they chose one of the men for another compartment. When all seven had been placed, the black-hats returned to where the elder had stood watching the proceedings. The three conferred in soft voices, the black-hats consulting their notes.
The elder made a motion of assent, and the woman black-hat went down the corridor to where Taggar waited. She spoke to him. The big man bowed and turned toward the compartment beside him and beckoned. A moment later, Shan-Pei stepped into sight. Head down, feet shuffling, she followed the black-hat to one of the booths along the passageway. She stood facing the compartment for a moment until the woman in the black-hat said something Imbry could not make out. Then the fur-covered girl bowed deeply, half straightened, and entered the compartment. The black-hat drew a curtain across the opening and returned to where the elder and the other black-hat waited.
They consulted their notes and, again at the elder’s signal, the male black-hat stepped to Taggar and spoke to him. A moment later, Malweer was being conducted to a compartment and, after instruction and a bow, he entered and disappeared from view. As Imbry continued to watch, each member of the troupe was brought to a booth and ushered inside, the last being Taggar himself.
An expectant stillness hung over the corridor. Then the gray-haired man made a complicated motion with one hand, at which both black-hats bowed their heads, spoke softly, and performed their own gestures involving fingertips touching forehead, lips, and breastbone. “Begin,” said the elder.
From the several compartments along the corridor Imbry heard a rustle of soft noises, as of sandaled feet scuffing dry earth, followed by rhythmic breathing that continued for a while. Someone moaned softly, at which the three black-hats turned toward the sound. The elder motioned with a finger and the female black-hat went to the curtain that closed one of the booths. She listened for the space of a half a dozen heartbeats then quietly stepped inside. From another of the compartments came a series of breathless yips that drew the younger black-hat.
Imbry very slowly withdrew his head from the curtain and stepped away from the barrier. The black-hats had not brought anyone to the compartment beside his, else he might have risked making a tear in the intervening felt wall and peeking through. He was thinking that there was much he needed to know about how matters were arranged on Fulda. The beating at the hands of the provost’s man had convinced him of that. Whatever was going on in the booths must also eventually affect him; his participation had been the subject of dispute between Investigator Breeth and Superior Arbiter Brosch, and the provost’s man had
not looked to be satisfied with the outcome. In any case, it seemed likely that Imbry’s involvement had been merely deferred, not ruled out altogether. At some point, he had no doubt, it would be his turn to perform before a crowd of silent same-faced Ideals and then be led into a private booth for purposes he could only speculate on.
And there was another point about which he was almost as certain: when Imbry entered the compartment, the person waiting for him was likely to be Investigator Breeth. What would happen next, the Old Earther did not know, but he doubted it would be one of the highlights of his existence.
He intended to be long gone from Fulda before that moment. He had achieved stage one of the plan he had laid out after being deposited on Fulda—he had survived. He had been working on the second phase—the quest for information—and had gained some knowledge from questioning the locals. But now it was time to go beyond dependence on what Taggar or Malweer or Wintle might tell him. And he could not afford to let the ache in his ribs prevent him from seeking it.
He knelt and tugged at the bottom of the compartment’s outer wall. It had been pegged into the earth, but not deeply. Imbry pulled at the cloth until he had loosened two pegs and created a gap large enough for him to wriggle out of the pavilion. He came out into the shadows at the rear of the big tent, not far from where the barbarels were tethered. He saw no one in sight and made his way quickly past the picket line and to a straggle of trees that fringed one side of the waste ground. When he was in the deeper darkness under their branches, he stood and surveyed his surroundings.
The Ideals of Pilger’s Corners seemed not to be night-haunters. The ways leading into the town were deserted, the pavement bathed in a dim, yellow illumination shed by far-spaced lumens held in brackets that were attached to the upper walls of the two-story buildings lining the streets. He heard no music or voices, as would have come from a tavern or other evening gathering place. He wondered if today was a holy day of some kind, with all the Ideals staying indoors to conduct whatever rites and rituals satisfied their desire for the numinous. Certainly the doings in the Hedevan Players’ tent had had some of the feel of the spiritual.
Again, he did not know the simplest things. Was it forbidden for such as he to be out at night? Would he be killed on sight if found wandering the streets? Or would they make him their fool-king for the night, only to greet the morning by cutting his throat over a consecrated trench? Even among the sophisticated societies of the foundational domains and major secondary worlds, it was advisable to learn the shibboleths before venturing out into the boulevards; on little forgotten worlds like Fulda, the ignorant stranger could be gambling his life or liberty every time he crossed a threshold.
He worked his way along the line of trees until he came to a dry ditch that divided the waste ground from the edge of the town. Coming back from the provost’s station, he and Taggar had crossed the declivity by way of a railless wooden bridge. But that span was illuminated by a glowing lumen set in the wall of the nearest building. Imbry eased down into the ditch where the light was dimmest, looked to see if anyone was about or if any uncurtained windows framed Fuldans gazing out into the night. Seeing no one, he arose and crossed the street, stepping into a spot of darkness where a wall shaded the sidewalk from the nearest illumination. Again, he paused to watch and listen, and when he saw and heard nothing to give him further pause, he moved up the street that led into town, aiming for the next island of shadow.
On his passage into and out of Pilger’s Corners, Imbry had seen that the town was laid out in a rectangular grid that connected two oases. From the outer edges of each pool spread fields of grains and legumes that were irrigated from the standing water supplies. At the center of the grid was the open square, and it was to that space that the fat man stealthily worked his way, stopping in darkened doorways and under awnings to make sure his progress was unobserved.
The square, when he reached it, was also deserted, the shops and vendors’ booths closed up for the night. He heard a burst of shouting from the provost’s station, but the noise was brief and apparently nothing to do with him. From a darkened doorway he surveyed the open space. When he had come this way with Taggar, Imbry had noticed a building that he seemed to be a tavern or public house; if so, it was closed and dark tonight. Only the provost’s station was lit. Taking one last look for possible observers, and seeing none, he removed his sandals and stepped across the open space to where the centrally planted deo trees cast deep shadows. For all his size, Imbry could move swiftly and silently when necessary. He paused under the trees to watch and listen again, then made another careful inspection of the plaza.
There were three buildings that might have been the library. He moved beneath the trees to take a closer look at the nearest and saw that one of the pair of solid doors that were its main entrance showed a metal handle in an odd place—exactly the odd place where a library might have a trapdoor through which patrons could return books outside of operating hours. The building also offered a narrow alley leading to its rear. The arrangement was too fortuitous to pass up. Moments later, Imbry was at the end of the alley. Turning the corner, he found a square, fenced-in space with room for vehicles to stand and a back wall coated in stucco and pierced by a recessed back door and two windows—all of them locked.
If this had been one of his operations, the fat man would have minutely planned his procedures after comprehensive research and surveillance. And he would have brought appropriate tools. But, even without such preparation, Imbry was confident in his ability to find a solution: he took pride in his talent for improvisation. He knew that persons who put locks on doors and windows often perversely defeated their own efforts by leaving nearby the materials needed to get past them. He looked about and his eyes were immediately drawn to the lumen that was held in a metal bracket above the door. It was higher than he could reach, but someone had conveniently left a small bench against the wall, where Imbry thought the library staff—if this was the right building—possibly sat to take their lunches in the mild open air.
Imbry carried the bench to the doorstep, climbed upon it, and swiftly removed the tubular lumen. He wrapped it in his little skull cap then put the bundle into his pouch, so that the building’s rear was now in a comforting darkness. He then reached up again and took a two-handed grip on the metal bracket. It was attached to the wall by metal bolts, but the wall itself, beneath the stucco, was made of wood. And the bracket extended far out from the wall, so that it effectively formed a lever that, if the right amount of force was applied to its outer end, would pry the bolts from the wood. Luff Imbry’s substantial weight, even in the lighter gravity of Fulda, more than constituted the right amount of force. He hung from the bracket and immediately felt it bend downward.
The bolts made a noise coming out of the wood. He stood in the dark recess of the doorway and waited, but it appeared that the buildings to either side were empty at night. No lights shone nor did any voice inquire as to the source of the unusual sound. Imbry took the bracket to the nearer of the two windows and, as he had expected, was able to work its flat end between the sill and the bottom of the wooden window frame. He heaved up and again there was a sharp noise as the lock that was screwed into the top of the window frame parted company with the wood.
Imbry set down the bracket where it would not be noticed, brought over the bench, climbed on it, lifted up the window, and slid across the sill. He closed the window and looked about him. He was in an office of some kind, with a working surface, cupboards with closed doors, and two chairs. He crossed to the door opposite the window, and found that it was unlocked. Beyond was a large room full of shelves. The shelves were full of books.
“Ah-ha,” he said softly. He reached into his pouch for the lumen wrapped in his hat and allowed one of its coolly glowing ends to come free of the cloth. He moved to the nearest shelf and began his search. The first titles he saw concerned crop rotation, in a section devoted to agriculture. He moved down the shelves and found arts and
crafts, then cookery. Patiently, he passed on to the next set of shelves. There were books on property law and the inheritance of land, next to manuals for the maintenance and repair of machinery.
Imbry sighed. An integrator could have delivered him exactly what he needed in less time than it took to blink. But, he consoled himself, any self-respecting integrator would already have reported his illicit presence to the provost’s officers. He went to another tier of shelves, one that rose only to the height of his chins, and found books intended for children. The title, Fulda, from Early Times to Now, caught his attention. It was an old and well-worn volume, its cover torn off sometime in the past and repaired with adhesive bands, but Imbry doubted that little of any moment had happened on the planet since the text’s publication. He tucked it under his arm—it was too big for his pouch—and kept searching.
He wanted an explanation of what had been going on in the Hedevan Players’ pavilion. He did not get one. The library appeared to contain no books or recordings on the subjects of religion or the mystic. Not a catechism or primer did he find, not even on the children’s shelves. Indeed, the entire corpus of information contained within the Pilger’s Corners library consisted of nothing but practical knowledge. He found nothing of philosophy nor of politics, not a single biography, and not so much as a word of fiction. Even when he broke into a locked bookcase, he found only a heterogeneous handful of texts whose only similarity to each other was that they were old and had been published off-world; it seemed to Imbry that they had been segregated not because of their contents but because of their origin. Knowledge of anything non-Fuldan was probably considered not only inessential, but suspect.
Finally, he went back out through the window, left the bracket and lumen on the doorstep, and made his way back to the troupe’s camp. The place was in darkness. He skirted the main pavilion and found the smaller tent that had been assigned to him and Wintle as their quarters. Its entrance was only half-laced closed, and he ducked in through the opening at the bottom. He listened for the shuffle of the youth’s breathing, but heard another sound: the scritch of a hand lumen being activated. Imbry found himself in the presence of Taggar. The big man had been sitting in the darkness, in the strongly built chair he had given Imbry. Now he stood and said, “Were you seen?”
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