The young man allowed the evil-smelling sheath to cover him and set off in pursuit. He did not have to go far before whispering voices told him that he had found what he expected to find. In the dim light under the trees he saw the daughter of the Flastovics waiting unclothed upon her blanket, while Ovile Germolian hopped about on one foot, removing his own trousers as quickly as he might. Filidor doubted that the older man was removing his clothing with the intent of using it to cover the shivering young woman, and his doubt was confirmed when Germolian, his garment now off and flung to one side, quickly covered Chloe’s nakedness with his own.
The Archon’s nephew waited until there was no further question as to what was proceeding in the small clearing, and no possibility of his learning anything from Germolian’s perfunctory style, before hurrying back to the groundeater. He removed and stowed the bobblobblobl, then went to the door of the vehicle and pounded on it as hard as he could. In moments, a window opened and the face of Erslan Flastovic appeared, saying, “What’s all the brouhaha? Our policy is firm: no refunds!”
Filidor kept his face in shadow as he said, “It is your daughter! I fear that she is being ravished in the woods by some night haunter!”
Flastovic was through the door and beside him in less time that Filidor would have wagered on, bringing with him a stout length of wood. Filidor surmised that the actor probably kept the club near the door to enforce his “no refunds!” policy.
“Where?” Flastovic said.
Filidor had already turned so as not to present his face. “Follow me,” he said, and led the way into the woods.
They came upon the disclamator and the daughter at a stage in the proceedings that put the couple far beyond the capacity to give their attention to their surroundings. Flastovic stood for a long moment, as if hypnotized by the metronomic rise and fall of Germolian’s pale, narrow buttocks, the rapid motion accompanied by a syncopated rhythm of snorts and gasps from the other end of the process. Then the father broke through his stasis, and delivered a devastating blow of the wooden rod that bought the motion of offending body parts to a halt.
The scene now lost all cohesion. Flastovic followed his first assault with a second and a third, and then as many as he could rapidly land, while Ovile Germolian struggled to get to his hands and knees under the onslaught. Once he had managed to get all four limbs beneath him, the disclamator launched himself in a leap of generous proportions across the small clearing, then executed a four-legged scramble into the darkness beneath the trees.
Flastovic, club raised to express himself at greater length, would have pursued the naked man, had not his daughter sprung up and seized his arm, shrieking something unintelligible. Now the Florreys arrived on the scene, also bearing cudgels. Finding Filidor to be the only stranger in the little clearing, they took him to be the focus of the disturbance, and advanced upon the Archon’s nephew with the confidence that superiority in numbers and weaponry can bestow. But one look at the consecrate’s markings on the young man’s face instantly deflated the twins’ aggressiveness. They backed toward their leader, not stopping until both Flastovic and Chloe were between them and the supposed eremitical maniac.
The girl had progressed from shrieks to sobs, though she still hung on her father’s arm. Now Gavne appeared to complement the scene of high emotion with some needed practicality. She scooped up the blanket and covered her daughter, gently separating the crying girl from her father and leading her back toward their traveling home. Flastovic stood in the clearing, his club dangling from his hands, as if he could not remember his next line. The Florreys remained behind him, two minor players awaiting their cue.
Filidor realized that it was up to him to move things forward. “Let us go back to your groundeater and discuss what to do next,” he said, at which Flastovic absently nodded and turned to retrace his steps, the twins moving aside to open the way for him. Then the troupe leader paused, took thought and told the Florreys to bring Germolian’s clothes.
Filidor went with Flastovic. By the time they reached the great vehicle he had rubbed the consecrate’s emblems from his face. When the Florreys caught them up, their patron ordered them to throw the disclamator’s apparel on the ground then to go fetch all of his belongings and place them in a heap. When this had been done, the chief mummer looked down at the pile of garments, books and oddments from Germolian’s cabin, including a flattering portrait in pastels of the man himself, and said, “We will now re-enact the final movement from The Bard Obscure’s Wisdom of the Hound.”
Filidor recalled having seen that brief allegory performed somewhere, in which a mature dog and its pup, having come upon a brilliant work of art that has fallen by the wayside, investigate it according to their natures. The Archon’s apprentice remembered the play’s last line, in which the sire declares to the pup the philosophy of the uncultivated soul: If you can’t eat it or futter it, then.... At that point, the mummer playing the old dog lifts a hind leg and mimes sprinkling the artwork with canine contempt. Without a disclamator present, the three actors who gathered around Germolian’s possessions could not speak the line. Instead, they undid the fronts of their breeches and engaged in a concerted act of drame verite.
When Germolian’s goods were well soaked and redolent of Flastovic’s opinion, the chief mummer rearranged his garments, and regarded Filidor as if seeing him for the first time. “Why you’re the fugitive from the Empyreal,” he said.
“The one who walloped the Archon’s man,” said Ches.
“A traitor to the common weal,” added Isbister.
“I am none of these,” said Filidor.
“It’s our duty to turn him in,” said Isbister, moving to lay a hand on Filidor’s arm.
“There’s an ample reward,” said Ches, taking a grip from the young man’s other side.
Recent events appeared to have robbed Flastovic of his customary decisiveness. Filidor again thought it best to take the initiative. To Isbister, he said, “I can suggest an alternative plan by which you could do immense service to the community,” then turned to Ches, and continued, “and receive a much greater recompense.”
Each twin raised an eyebrow at the other, then both nodded. “As members of the public, it is our obligation to consider the public interest,” said Isbister.
“Your premises are fatuous, but your conclusion is to the point,” Ches told his brother, then said to Filidor, “How much greater would this recompense be?”
“More than you can imagine,” said the Archon’s nephew.
“We Florreys are renowned for a stupendous strength of imagination,” said Ches, but he led the way inside, as Isbister nudged the still inert Flastovic to follow.
Filidor found the living quarters of the groundeater to be surprisingly homey: a lounge abutted by a small but efficient galley, out of which led a corridor between private chambers. From behind the closed door of one of these came the muffled lamentations of Chloe, accompanied by the consoling murmur of her mother.
They took seats around an oblong table in a corner nook of the lounge, underneath a display of theatrical posters that recapitulated the career of Erslan Flastovic. One of the Florreys found a bottle of something strong, poured a good measure into a tumbler and set it before his patron. The chief mummer drank the stuff down in one swallow that left his eyes watery, but which also seemed to enable him to recollect himself.
“I cannot believe that my daughter... and Germolian...” He shuddered and poured another glass.
Filidor thought it wise to say nothing. The Florreys offered inconclusive mumbles, their minds on other things. “You mentioned recompense,” Ches said to Filidor.
Flastovic drained his glass again, then forced himself to take note of the stranger in his home. “What is all this?” he said, in a voice that was recovering the intonations of authority.
“It is a revolution,” said Filidor.
Flasto
vic’s face darkened. “We are no revolutionists,” he said. “The Archonate leaves us alone, and we return the courtesy.”
“Indeed,” said Isbister, “we see no need to overthrow the social order.”
“Nor hope of profit,” put in his brother.
“I had hoped you would say that,” said Filidor, “for it is not I who is out to play the Thurm, whatever scurrilities Tet Folbrey may publish. I am the victim of a conspiracy.”
Quickly, he told them of Faubon Bassariot’s treachery aboard the Empyreal and his rescue by the Obblob. He glossed over the details of his servitude to Gwallyn Henwaye, and did not mention the transdimensional miniature integrator lodged in his ear, reasoning that it was not a declaration to inspire confidence. But he did lay out his suspicions as to the nature of the plot.
“It has something to do with Trumble, and the project that Bassariot’s friends are undertaking there,” he concluded. “I must go to Trumble without being discovered, learn what they are up to, and put an end to it. Your traveling troupe could offer me transportation and disguise.”
“I do not see how we can help you,” said Flastovic. “Trumble is an obscure, remote place. Companies like ours do not visit there. We had planned a progress down to Thurloyn Vale, but now that we are without a disclamator, we are stymied.” He explained that he had invested all of his and Gavne’s small store of funds in the costumes and settings for a season of The Bard Obscure, and doubted that they could now get far. “The groundeater relieves us of the cost of renting shelter and a stage, but it has a garm’s appetite for fuel. And without Germolian, we cannot perform.”
“I can help in both directions,” Filidor said. He drew from inside his shirt the bag of valuables he had acquired from the pirates and poured them into his hand. “These will pay for fuel and provisions,” he said.
The Florreys took a close interest in the sparkling handful of wealth, watching it all the way as Filidor put the goods back into the bag and watching still as the bag went back into the young man’s shirt. Filidor noted their interest.
“I should point out,” he told the twins, “that Faubon Bassariot has not quibbled to murder the heir to the Archon. Should he find a few wandering players cluttering up his strategy, I don’t doubt that he will take the shortest route to their removal. Rather than hand you a reward, he is like to hand you your own giblets, warm and steaming.”
This gave the twins pause to reflect. Meanwhile, Erslan Flastovic had another concern. “But still, we cannot perform The Bard Obscure’s works, unless you happen to have memorized them all.”
“By a happy coincidence, I have done just that,” said Filidor.
His assertion brought cries of disbelief from the twins, and a request from Flastovic that he demonstrate its truth.
Filidor expressed a willingness, but said that his throat was a little dry. He took out the flask of purple wine that he had brought from the island, and took a long pull at it, followed by another. He then begged leave to retire to a corner of the lounge while he undertook some vocal exercises of his own devising.
The mummers’ faces expressed skepticism, but Filidor went to the farthest corner and spoke quietly to the integrator. When he heard the small voice in his head, he quickly brought its owner up to date.
You have been very resourceful, said his inner companion.
“Perhaps you are right, and the differences between the Filidor you know and me are not substantive after all, but merely the products of circumstance,” the young man offered.
Perhaps, although it is difficult to know how my Filidor would respond to your circumstances, since they are beyond his experience. He does not surround himself with pirates and light fingered mummers.
The integrator’s comment raised a new and interesting question, Filidor thought. He had assumed that the other version of himself, though relatively tiny, was in all other ways grander. But here was the possibility that, in this particular situation, he had responded with a degree of flexible resourcefulness that might have eluded the age-ornamenting paragon who wore his face in another cosmos.
It was a warming thought, and he would have liked to discuss the issue further, but he knew that any lengthy colloquy with the voice in his head must be accompanied by a progressive descent into drunkenness. He could not risk losing his faculties until he was sure that his tenure with the mummers was secure. He explained his need to the integrator, and asked it to recite one of the shorter The Bard Obscure pieces.
Very well, said the integrator. Announce that you will recite The Beast and the Blind Men. Filidor turned and stepped from the corner, doing as the integrator had bid. He swallowed another good measure of the purple wine, then took what seemed to the mummers to be a dramatic pause, while his inner voice gave him the opening line.
“The ruler of an antique land,” he said, “heard that a great and unknown beast had appeared in his realm, and was haunting a forest near the main highway. The potentate immediately sent for the seven wise men who were his college of state.
“A condition of membership in this college was blindness, the ruler having decided that those who were not distracted by the look of things could paradoxically see into a deeper nature. Six of the seven sages had willingly sacrificed their vision for the prestige of office; the seventh had only pretended to do so.
“The seven obediently set out to encounter the wondrous beast. Because their rank entitled them to serene passage on royal highways, the six blind men marched as they always did down the middle of the road, unaware of the flood of people pouring past them in the opposite direction on either side and in respectful silence. The sage who could still see, however observed the people’s flight, as well as their expressions of horror and trepidation.”
Filidor paused and drank more of the purple stuff. “In time, the college of wisdom encountered the monster, which had just finished devouring several unlucky persons too slow to escape its clutches. The creature was now standing by the side of the road, placidly contemplating its digestion.
“The six blind sages approached the beast, arms outstretched. They began to examine it, each encountering one of its characteristics. The seventh, however, seeing the remains of the carnivore’s feeding, kept a distance.
“After making their examination, the remaining six wise men went back to the monarch and reported their findings. The one who had felt the animal’s great legs said, ‘It is like a grove of trees.’
“The one who had touched its pebble-skinned hindquarters said, ‘It is most like a solid wall.’
“He who had touched its hairy forequarters likened it to a large tent, while the sage who had encountered its tail declared it to be some kind of furred serpent.
“The man who had felt of the creature’s fan-like ear said, ‘It put me in mind of a sail,’ and the last of the blind men, having felt its long proboscis, vouchsafed that it was ‘some sort of land eel.’
“The seventh sage gave his opinion that the most important attribute of the beast was its behavior, but the king was by now too excited to hear his views. He rushed out to see this wonderment for himself. The beast, meanwhile, had rediscovered its ravenous appetite and was traveling down the royal road, through a now thoroughly depopulated countryside, looking for something more to eat. The seventh sage followed the king at a judicious distance, a new idea having occurred to him.
“When the ruler of the land saw the giant creature, he rushed forward in joyous anticipation of a new and pleasant experience. The beast did likewise, but only one of the two expectations was well rewarded.
“The seventh sage crept away while the monster was eating the monarch. He returned to the palace, reported the king’s unpleasant fate, then took advantage of the confusion to seize control. He sent soldiers to shoot arrows into the great brute, and when it was dead he ordered that the remaining scraps of the king be gathered together and buried in state.”
Filidor took more of the purple drink, then resumed, “The relieved populace gratefully awarded the sage the monarchy, dispossessing the former king’s heir on the grounds that stupidity was known to be heritable. At his coronation, the new ruler announced that his sight had been miraculously restored, which the crowds took as divine validation of their choice.
“The king appointed a new member to the college of state, and ensured that he was properly blinded. And from time to time, he would flick his fingers across his counselors’ gaze, or flash bright lights in their eyes, just to be sure.”
When he was finished, the Archon’s apprentice bowed deeply, if somewhat unsteadily after drinking the purple wine, and sat down across from the mummers. Erslan Flastovic regarded him with an appraising eye, while the Florreys offered faint applause.
“Well enough for the content,” said the leader of the troupe, “but the enunciation is spiritless and the voice lacks timber. Still, there are devices that can compensate. Though I normally abhor such cheats, we must accept that ‘leaves lie where the wind lays them,’ as the old saying goes.”
“I can offer one other inducement,” said Filidor, suppressing a slight slur that wished to creep into his diction.
“Say on,” said Flastovic.
“When I am restored to my place, I will confer the patronage of the Archonate on your troupe. I could even build you a theater.”
A gleam came into Flastovic’s eye. Filidor first took it for avarice, but as he considered the subtle change in the mummer’s aspect, he decided that he was not seeing the sharp glint of greed, but the warm reviving of a dream that had long ago been laid in its tomb, and there left to molder.
“In Olkney, that would be,” the older man said, as if he were speaking as much to himself as to anyone, “not out in the regions?”
“On South Processional,” Filidor said, “in the very throb of the theater district.”
“With loges and lobbies and a revolving stage?”
Fool Me Twice (Filidor Vesh) Page 18