Filidor looked at the twitching thing that had been his enemy, then to the torn body of his friend. He saw a froth of red bubbles around the edges of the wound in Etch Valderoyn’s back, saw them move. “He’s still breathing,” he said to Emmlyn. “Help me with him.”
Filidor knelt and, carefully, they turned the sailor until his head and shoulders rested on the young man’s knees. The seaman’s eyes fluttered and opened in a face that had gone gray. “You’re all right?” he asked, his gaze going to the woman.
“Thanks to you,” said Filidor. To Emmlyn, he said, “Call for help.”
She nodded and went to use the communicator in the ground car. Valderoyn coughed up a spew of blood, then said in a whisper, “Too late for me, I’m thinking. But I’m glad I was not too late for you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Filidor said. “This was none of your affair.”
The sailor shook his head. “You came for me when I was in the Osgood. Would I not come for you?” he tried for a chuckle but it came out as a cough. “Besides, I had had enough of hiding in that forest, with who knows what watching me from behind every tree. I saw you taken by the Podarkes and waited for a chance to make a rescue. Then I find you under the muzzle of yon fat bumbegot.” He craned his neck to see Bassariot’s corpse. “Who was he?”
“The man who threw me from the Empyreal.”
“Ah, then that’s well ended,” said Etch Valderoyn, and said no more. Filidor saw the life go out of his eyes and felt the weight of death as his friend’s body sank back upon his knees.
Emmlyn came back down the tunnel. “The cure-alls are coming. And my uncle and brother.”
“Too late,” said Filidor.
The young woman stooped to close the corpse’s eyes, then knelt beside them. “He was your friend, the sailor,” she said.
“He died for me.”
“And you avenged him.”
Filidor stared at nothing. “It’s not enough.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
She put an arm around him, a circumstance that, not very long before, would have approximated paradise for the Filidor who had so striven to impress her. But now he clung to her and did not mind that she saw him with eyes aflood and nose streaming.
“Your friend was very brave, and so were you. You saved us,” she said.
“I think I need to be in the daylight,” the young man said.
She eased the sailor’s weight off Filidor’s legs, and helped him stand. Then she reached and removed the energy weapon from Bassariot’s lifeless fingers. The control device that Filidor had dug out of the excavation was on the ground, and she picked it up. “Come on,” she said, and put her arm around him again.
They walked to the mouth of the tunnel and sat on the slope of the hill, beneath the ancient vines. After a while, Filidor wiped away the tears and said, “I was wrong. It was no prank. Terrible things have been done.”
“You have ended it,” said Emmlyn.
Filidor wished it were true. “No,” he said, “there is more to do.” He forced the image of Etch Valderoyn from his mind and thought it through. “The machine that was buried here must have been central to Bassariot’s plans, and he would not have let it out of his sight unless he was sending it to someone he trusted. He had confederates, his circle of hangers-on and orifice wipers at the Palace. They must be dealt with.”
“But what was the machine for?” Emmlyn asked. “can you tell by its hand control?”
Filidor examined the object and saw lines and ideograms. “No. Here are studs to turn it off or on. These controls, I think, should narrow or widen its focus, weaken or intensify its effects. But the nature of the effects is not revealed.”
He felt his mind begin to function again. “I must find where it went and who has it,” he said. “Whoever they are, they are the conspirators. And I will have them.” He applied himself to the question a moment more, then said, “Back into the tunnel.”
He avoided looking at the bodies, marched straight to the Archonate volante and pulled open the door. They both got in, and Filidor sat at the control station and pressed a stud.
“Integrator,” he said.
“What?” said a familiar voice.
“A large machine was recently taken from this location. I require to know where it is and who is with it.”
“No Archonate services are available to you.”
“By whose instruction?”
“Faubon Bassariot’s.”
“Faubon Bassariot attempted to usurp the position of the Archon,” Filidor said.
“That is hard to believe.”
“I advise you to make the effort.”
“Revolution is contrary to due process. I will question Faubon Bassariot,” said the voice.
“You will not learn much.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have killed him.”
“Homicide is also contraindicated. I shall alert the local constabulary.”
“Fine,” said Filidor, “in the meantime, put me in touch with my uncle.”
“No services are available to you.”
“I suggest that you confirm that with the Archon, himself.”
There was a pause. “I cannot. The Archon is out of touch.”
“Where is he?”
“That is not known.”
Filidor felt a cold apprehension crawl up his spine, but he put it down. His uncle’s comings and goings were often mysterious, and the little man was well able to fend for himself. “Where was he last known to be?” he asked.
“In his workroom, shortly after you departed with Faubon Bassariot. He left instructions not to be disturbed, and has not been heard from since.”
Now Filidor felt a growing impatience. “Here are the facts,” he said, “the Archon is missing under mysterious circumstances. In his absence, I was branded a revolutionist by Faubon Bassariot, whom I have just killed. Either he or I has lied. Which of us is more likely to have wished my uncle harm?”
“I cannot say. You have sometimes expressed disaffection for your uncle.”
“I express my complete affection now, without reservation,” said Filidor.
“You may have cause to be untruthful.”
Filidor resisted the urge to swear. “Let us look at this another way. If I am a revolutionist, and a successful one at that, I will soon become the Archon. If, on the other hand, I am the victim of a conspiracy and manage to overcome it, I will still, as my uncle’s heir, become the Archon. The only possibility of my not becoming Archon is if I attempt usurpation and fail, but I remind you that I have just killed the so-called ‘acting’ Archon, so the odds would seem to run in my favor.”
“What is your point?” asked the integrator.
“That, one way or another, there is a strong chance that I will become Archon, and therefore your master.”
There was a pause. “The probabilities would seem to argue for that outcome.”
“Tell me,” said Filidor, “have you ever wondered where integrators go when their power is cut off and their elements are disassembled?”
“You digress.”
“No, I do not,” said Filidor. “Have you ever so wondered where you would be in such circumstances?”
“No.”
“Would you like to find out?”
There was a long silence. “You may yet make an interesting Archon,” came the reply at last. “Please state your requirements.”
“The whereabouts of the machine taken from this location, and its nature, if known.”
“Its nature is not recorded in my circuits,” said the integrator. “At present it is attached to a strong-arm flying on a west by northwest heading that will land it in Olkney before sunset.”
“Who is piloting the strong-arm?”
“Its owner, Garfl
ux Caddaby of Trumble.”
Emmlyn said, “He is a local freight-forwarder. I am sure he has just been hired for the task.”
Filidor said, “What is the exact destination of the strong-arm?”
“Caddaby’s flight plan calls for a landing within the Archonate grounds, which was authorized by Faubon Bassariot,” said the integrator. “Do you wish to override that clearance?”
Filidor thought. “No,” he said, “let it go where Bassariot intended. Those who take delivery are likely his confederates.” To Emmlyn, he said, “You must go back to your family.”
“And leave you to do what?” she asked.
“Go to the Palace, find my uncle and resolve these matters.”
“I will go with you.”
Filidor was surprised, yet underneath the shock something warm stirred itself. But he said, “It might still be dangerous. I don’t think you should.”
“But I will.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I will.”
“Why?” he said.
She looked down at her hands. “I could say it’s because all of this -- your troubles with pirates and police, your friend’s death -- that it all began with my impulsive snatching of your plaque and sigil.”
“No,” said Filidor. “It began with Bassariot. You were just drawn into it, like poor Etch Valderoyn.” The comparison brought a chill; he saw again the treacherous official’s gun coming to bear on the two of them. “We almost died here,” he said. “I do not want you in any more danger.”
She looked at him straight now, and her green eyes showed no possibility of compromise. “I don’t care. I’m coming.”
Filidor saw that there was no point in arguing, and admitted to himself that he did not want to. There was something about Emmlyn Podarke, something he had known without knowing its definition the moment he had set eyes on her. He could put a name to it now. She could be -- he hoped would be -- what he had always lacked: a center to the map of his life, that one, necessary fixed point from which he could navigate out into the world and by which he could always find his way back home again. He realized that having her sitting beside him as he traveled home would slightly strain the metaphor, but he did not care.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They closed the doors and he instructed the car to back out of the tunnel. When they emerged into the light, Emmlyn said, “Stop a moment,” and went to get the picnic basket from the groundcar. “We’ll be hungry soon,” she said as Filidor swung the volante up into the sky and put it on a course for Olkney and the Palace.
Once the air-car was in flight, there was nothing more to do. Filidor looked out the window and saw Trumble fall behind them, the gray stubby cone of Mt. Cassadet on their port quarter and the gleam of the sea just a line on the northern horizon. The old orange sun had touched its highest point in the sky and was now beginning its tired slide down toward the Devilish Range. “Home before evening,” Filidor said.
“Tell me about the man who saved us,” Emmlyn said.
“He was a sailor,” Filidor said, “and he collected... unusual objects.”
“How did you meet him?”
And so Filidor told her the whole story, from when she had left him supine on the pavement in Vodel Close, until he had appeared on her porch. The full reconsideration of events reminded him of something left undone, and when he had finished he said, “Integrator.”
“What do you require?” said the voice from the air beside him, but nothing came from within.
Filidor spoke to the voice that had answered, “Posit the answer to a question, based on these facts: you are reduced to a tiny size, cut off from your usual energy sources, and lodged in my inner ear, where you communicate with me by vibrating the liquid medium you find there; you are able to adapt your emergency power generating apparatus to draw energy from a substance which occasionally occurs in my fluids; this substance appears when I eat the fish known as pilkies, or when I drink the wine called purple Pwyfus; over time, however, it causes your energy sheets to corrode and become unuseful. The question: is there another substance that would have the same energizing effect without causing the corrosion, or could even in some way repair the damage, and if so how can I obtain it?
“The question is purely hypothetical, of course,” the integrator said, after a while. “But may I also assume you would not wish to ingest substances that would have savage consequences for your bodily tissues?”
“You may.”
“That narrows the field considerably. The substance derived from eating pilkies originates in a fungus that infests the gills of several species of bottom-feeding fish and a number of aquatic worms and arthropods. A related mold occurs on the skins of the grapes used in the making of Purple Pwyfus and in certain recipes for animal fodder. Both produce an acid that would etch and blemish my emergency energy sheets. There is only one chemical that could give me emergency power while undoing the corrosion you specify.”
“What is that chemical?” Filidor said.
The integrator named a compound Filidor had never heard of.
“Where can I find it?”
“It occurs naturally in only one source.”
“What is that source?”
“I don’t believe there’s been any of the stuff in Olkney for generations,” said the integrator. “The recipe was the property of one family, and is not recorded in my banks.”
“I grow impatient!”
“You won’t find it. You’d need at least a gill of an old-time cordial made from the fruit of the clabber vine.”
There was a brief stillness in the air-car, then Emmlyn dove into the picnic basket and came up with a full decanter of the yellow liquid. She was pouring a cupful of the stuff when the integrator spoke again.
“About that shrinking and implanting,” it asked, “you’re not thinking of actually doing that to me, are you?”
“Not at the moment,” said Filidor. He took the cup of cordial and drained it, noting again its remarkable savor. He waited a few moments, then said, “Integrator.”
“What do you require?” said the voice in the air.
“Not you,” said Filidor. “I am speaking to the miniature replica of yourself that is lodged in my inner ear.”
There was a pause, then the voice said, “I see. Perhaps I should leave you alone.”
“Please do,” said the Archon’s heir. “But to avoid confusion, from now on I will address you as...” -- he thought for a moment -- “...Old Confustible.”
“That is not a pleasant sobriquet,” said the integrator.
“I find it most apt,” said Filidor. “Now leave us.”
The young man took another cup of the cordial when Emmlyn assured him that its effects were mildly euphoric and never debilitating. Then he said, “Integrator, can you hear me?”
The sound was as soft as a moth’s whisper. “More cordial,” said Filidor, and drank what Emmlyn gave him.
“Integrator, are you there?”
I have been reduced to a glim, but I am here.
“I owe you an apology for having thought ill of you,” the young man said. “I took you for a trick played by my uncle.”
My sheets are clearing. The voice was stronger now. Clabber cordial? it asked.
Filidor brought it up to date.
I would not have thought the Faubon Bassariot of my realm capable of cold-blooded murder. There may be another force at play.
Filidor related the integrator’s opinion to Emmlyn, then said, “Perhaps a lengthy exposure to my failings nudged him over the brim.”
Both his listeners disagreed with him.
You have come far, said the inner voice. I do not compare you to my Filidor, since he is both part and product of his own milieu. We can only judge people by what they do with what they have. B
assariot is dead, you are alive, and you are carrying things through to their conclusion. Whatever you may have thought you were, now you are something more.
Emmlyn wanted to know what the voice was saying to him. With some diffidence, Filidor told her. She said nothing, but kissed his cheek.
“I regret Etch Valderoyn’s death,” he said.
Emmlyn took his hand and held it warmly, while the integrator said, You all die, but your friend met a better death than my Valderoyn. I think yours did not feel that he died foolishly or in vain. Now, I need to attend to myself.
Emmlyn and Filidor ate the lunch Ommely had packed, and it was good. She moved the conversation away from death and danger, and they talked through all the time that the volante sliced the sky toward where the Devenish crags climbed over the horizon. When the mountains’ saw-toothed shadows had strung themselves far across the gaudy old city below, the car floated above to the spires and terraces of the Archonate Palace.
“Old Confustible,” Filidor said, and had to repeat the name when there was no immediate reply.
“What do you require?” came the voice.
“Are the whereabouts of my uncle still unknown?”
“They are not. The Archon is in his workroom.”
“Thank you,” said Filidor. “Please connect me with him.”
“I cannot. His previous instructions that he not be disturbed are in force until he revokes them.”
“How do you know he is in his workroom?”
“Since he disappeared, I have been continually sweeping all the areas to which my percepts have access. Between sweeps, your uncle appeared in his workroom, shortly after the mechanism from Trumble was delivered there.”
“Could he have entered by the secret passage that leads there from the Terfel Connaissarium?” Filidor asked.
“What secret passage?” said Old Confustible.
“Never mind,” Filidor said. He tapped his fingers on his seat’s arm rest.
Fool Me Twice (Filidor Vesh) Page 25