Template: A Novel of the Archonate

by Matthew Hughes

  This might be his only opportunity to confront his host before they arrived at Forlor. He put down the four-tined fork he had been using to eat the stew. He stared straight ahead for a few moments, his eyes unfocused, his breathing regulated, as he concentrated his energies. It was a technique he had known since boyhood, appropriate before any confrontation. Then he rose and faced Lord Vullamir.

  It was a few seconds before he was noticed by the group at the head of the table. The life masks turned toward him, one face angular and female, a couple of others jowly and florid, three ancient and seamed, and Vullamir’s magisterial visage. There was silence.

  “My lord Vullamir,” Conn said, “I must ask you what you mean to do with Forlor once I have made it over to you.”

  The face in the mask assumed an expression of amused surprise, as if Conn were a precocious child who had made an outré request. Then the lord’s long fingers rippled in a gesture of dismissal and mild contempt.

  “Lad,” said the captain, placing a hand on Conn’s arm, “best you should sit down.”

  Conn did not glance in the man’s direction but kept his gaze locked on Vullamir as he gently but firmly broke the captain’s light grip. Erkatchian sighed and returned to his stew.

  “Lord Vullamir,” Conn said, “I apologize if I am contravening any laws of hospitality, but I must have an answer.”

  Now the mask’s expression lost all indulgence. Conn could not read the dead man’s eyes as he could those of the living, but there was no way to misinterpret what was looking back at him: pride and power, both of them challenged and both entirely unused to being opposed.

  “You are impertinent,” said a voice that exactly matched the imperious aspect of the mask. “Sit.”

  “I cannot,” said Conn.

  There was a hiss from one of the other aristocrats. The eyes of Vullamir’s mask narrowed. His hand motioned to the servants who stood against the wall, their faces impassive, their eyes averted. But two of them caught the lord’s gesture and they stepped toward Conn.

  “Whatever it is, lad,” the captain said. “Let it go.”

  But Conn drew his shocker and aimed it at the approaching footmen. They froze. He stepped back from the table and spoke over his shoulder to Umlat who stood behind him. “Umlat, you and the captain’s server will go to the head of the table. You, too, captain.”

  When they were all grouped where he could see them, Conn said, “Lord Vullamir, if you will not answer my question I must revoke my agreement in principle. The sale is off. I intend to accompany the captain to the bridge. We will turn the ship around and return to Old Earth.”

  Vullamir said nothing. Magratte spoke instead. “The punishments for piracy are several and highly inventive.”

  “As I am sure they are for kidnaping,” Conn answered. “Or for murder.”

  “There has been no murder,” the aristocrat said.

  “We will see. All of you will remove your masks.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will be more comfortable for you if you do so, rather than if I remove the masks after I have shocked their wearers unconscious.” Conn gestured with the weapon.

  “It is difficult to remove a mask that has been worn for several hours,” Magratte said.

  “The footmen may assist.”

  No one at the head of the table moved. Conn raised the shocker, ostentatiously adjusted its output setting and aimed at the nearest of the nobles. For a long moment there was absolute stillness in the room. Conn’s arm did not waver. His finger slid into the control aperture.

  Magratte spoke quietly to Vullamir. The latter’s hand lifted, flicked once. The footmen stepped forward and laid their hands on the guests’ masks. A sequence of soft clicks deactivated the devices. The displayed faces disappeared, taking with them looks of fury and outrage. One of the servants made to lift a mask free of its wearer’s head, evoking a muffled grunt of pain and a stream of indistinct profanity.

  “Wait,” said Magratte. “They must detach.”

  Time passed, then one of the lords put his beringed hands to the neck of his mask. A footman reached and gently lifted it free, revealing a narrow, balding pate to which wisps of thin white hair were glued by sweat. A pair of dark eyes peered at Conn from either side of a knifeblade nose, and he could have read their hatred in the dark.

  “Another,” Conn said.

  One by one, the masks were removed. Though Conn had not asked for it, Vullamir had his removed as well. The face he revealed was not much different from his saturnine ancestor’s, and as full of cold rage as the simulacrum had been.

  Magratte was the last to dispense with his disguise. When the gray globe was lifted free, Conn recognized the face it had concealed. The jewels were gone from the skin and the formerly long hair was close cropped.

  “Willifree,” Conn said.

  The aristocrat sneered as he offered a correction. “Lord Magratte, though I will not say, ‘at your service.’“

  “I suspected you were one of the party,” Conn said. “I am arresting you for the killing of Clariq Wallader.”

  Magratte snorted and said, “By what authority?”

  “I am an auxiliary of First Response Protection Corporation of Thrais, also empowered to act for the security department of the Gunter Line. This is a legal apprehension and all are required to offer me any aid I request.”

  “I believe I will nonetheless decline,” said Magratte. He returned his attention to the dish in front of him. “Even cooled, this is very good,” he told Vullamir.

  “Captain,” Conn said. “Is there a secure room on this ship?”

  “There is,” Erkatchian said.

  “Please lead my prisoner and me to it. Magratte, stand and come with me.”

  But the margrave only lifted another forkful of stew and chewed it with satisfaction, looking straight ahead. Then he swallowed and turned his head toward Conn. The message of his eyes bespoke only cruel amusement. “I think not,” he said.

  “It makes no difference to me whether you arrive there conscious or not,” Conn said. He aimed the shocker.

  “Enough,” said Vullamir. “You are no longer entertaining.”

  Conn squeezed the weapon’s grip. His last awareness was of a flash of light and a shock that passed from his hand, up his arm and into his head. Then blackness descended.

  He regained consciousness in his darkened cabin, awakening to find himself lying on his side on his bed. His arms were pinioned behind him and when he strained against whatever gripped his wrists he felt the subtle response of a holdtight, the device increasing its pressure to match his attempts to pull free. He relaxed and the mechanism eased to a looser grip. Another set of fetters bound his ankles.

  He considered his situation. He had been foolish to give in to the impulse to act against Magratte. Clearly, he had let his relationship with Jenore Mordene cloud his judgment, had substituted her frame of reference for his own, had let self-indulgent emotion trump rational self-interest. If he had ever shown touch an inclination during his days as a house player, Ovam Horder would have sent him for re-evaluation forthwith.

  Conn sighed and immediately recognized the response as yet another infiltration of his inner tranquility by alien emotion. Hadn’t Hallis Tharp also inveighed against vain regrets: Do not sigh over the morning’s reverses; breathe life into the afternoon’s advances.

  Somewhere a bell chimed discreetly. They were nearing the first whimsy that would carry them toward Forlor. The sac of chemicals that would shield Conn from its effect was in a dispenser set into the bed’s ornate headboard. He had no means of reaching it. Instead, he performed the exercises that calmed the surface of his mind, yet even as stillness reasserted itself he noted a fading echo of regret that he had not been able to bring Magratte to book. He pushed it into the back reaches of his mind.

  Over the bell’s soft reminder he heard the latch of his cabin door disengage. A figure appeared briefly against the light from the corridor before enterin
g and closing the door. A moment later, the cabin’s lumens came up casting a soft and shadowless light over its furnishings and adornments, and Conn recognized Erkatchian.

  When he saw that the prisoner was capable of discourse the spacer said, “I wanted to make sure you did not enter the whimsy unmedicated. Also, I would like us to come to some kind of arrangement.”

  “What have you in mind?” Conn said.

  “You cannot commandeer the ship,” Erkatchian said. “No captain would allow it.”

  “I take it you have seized my weapons,” Conn said.

  The spacer signaled that that was true. “But even if we hadn’t, they were useless. Each had already been put out of commission.”

  Conn was puzzled. “Not by you?”

  “No. It seems someone else wanted you harmless.”

  The information raised several questions but Conn put them aside to concentrate on more immediate concerns. “You were saying?”

  “When we have passed through the first whimsy we will be well down The Spray in the direction of the Breen Cluster. In a less than a day we will enter another whimsy that will throw us far out into the Beyond. Apparently, if we take the right heading, after another three days we will encounter a third whimsy that will bring us to edge of a gas cloud, beyond which lies Forlor.”

  Conn’s face showed Erkatchian an expression that was noncommittal but invited him to continue.

  “If I have your parole that you will not interfere with the passengers or the operations of the ship, I will release you from your bonds and allow you limited freedom to move about.”

  “How limited?”

  I will move you to a cabin in crew quarters and you will stay away from the owner and his guests.”

  Conn thought about it. The conditions were reasonable. “Agreed,” he said. “Until we arrive at Forlor.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we will see.”

  The spacer’s face showed relief. He produced the holdtights’ key and directed it at Conn’s pinioned limbs. Two clicks sounded and the young man was free.

  The chime sounded again. Conn reached for the medicine sac dispenser at the head of his bed. A moment later he squeezed oblivion into his palm.

  Conn awoke to find a steward seated in a chair beside the bed. “The Captain asks that you refresh yourself then change into nondescript clothing and accompany me to his quarters.”

  Conn did so then followed the crewman through unobtrusive passages to Erkatchian’s accommodations. The captain rated a spacious sitting room, sleeping chamber and private ablutory, equipped and furnished to a degree just short of luxurious. Erkatchian waved Conn toward one of the comfortable chairs then went to a sideboard and filled two glasses from a decanter of rose Phalum. When they had sat and completed the brief formalities that preceded the first sip, the spacer leaned toward the younger man and said, “I wish to discuss a transaction – in fact, more than that, a business partnership.”

  “On Thrais this would be an improper conversation,” Conn said. Prospective partners were expected to begin their courtship by discussing topics of little importance, gradually leading to amiable talks about each other’s goals and interests and only coming around to even the first hint of an interest in forming a serious business relationship after weeks of polite preliminaries. “However, I am reminded that you are from Old Earth, where I have seen that standards are lax.” In truth, however, Thraisian insistence on such a roundabout approach now seemed arbitrary. Besides, When in Haxxi....

  “No offense is intended,” Erkatchian said. “Indeed, I seek your good will.”

  “Very well.” Conn sipped the wine and waited.

  “I will be direct,” the captain said. “My lord Vullamir will pay you a fortune for Forlor. That has been agreed.”

  “The situation has undergone a material change,” Conn said. “He may also have to pay me a bonus.”

  “Oh?”

  “In the form of Magratte.”

  “That is an unusual way for a Thraisian to transact business,” Erkatchian said.

  “Perhaps I am an unusual Thraisian.”

  “Ah,” said the spacer, but he formed his lips in a way that said the idea was not unthinkable. “The margrave is of a significantly lower tier, and well without Vullamir’s first three circles of consanguinity. They can work closely together only because they are of comparable rank in the Immersion. But, ultimately, that association is not as important as breeding. If Vullamir can come to the issue without any appearance of having been coerced, it might be possible.”

  “How could I bring him to that position?” Conn asked.

  “There are specific words to be spoken, gestures to be made. You would require the guidance of one accustomed to dealing with the high aristocracy.”

  “And where might I find such a guide?”

  “By sheerest chance, you are drinking wine with one. Would you care for some more?”

  “It is very good,” Conn said and allowed Erkatchian to refill his glass.

  When the captain was once more settled in his chair he said, “So now we know what I can do for you. Let us cross the road to view matters from the other side.”

  “Very well, what would you have me do for you?”

  “I mentioned the fortune you may – I think, will – receive for tendering Forlor to my lord. Have you given any thought as to how you might use it?”

  In fact, Conn had not but saw no reason to say as much to the spacer. He shrugged. “I have thought about this and that. My plans have not yet solidified.”

  “You are not intending to return to Thrais?”

  “Nothing calls me there.”

  “Is it possible that you might wish to view some of the worlds of The Spray with a view to settling on one of the more congenial?”

  “It is possible,” said Conn.

  “Travel by commercial ships can be tedious,” Erkatchian said. “They are bound by schedules, and all the waiting around while they take on and discharge cargoes. The traveler lacks a true sense of independence.”

  “I have noticed that,” Conn said.

  The captain leaned forward. “But if one owns one’s own ship, one travels in comfort and in complete freedom.”

  “Indeed.” Conn assumed a thoughtful air. “But there are other concerns: safe operation of the ship, maintenance and upkeep, not flying into the wrong whimsy and ending up as a trinket on some transdimensional being’s equivalent of a bracelet.”

  Erkatchian conceded the validity of Conn’s view. “But if the traveler shares ownership with an experienced spacefarer, these concerns fade to negligibility. The co-owner says, ‘Let us go here or perhaps there, see the sunsets, taste the local brews, consort with agreeable companions, some of them winsomely female,’ and zippety-zip, he is where he chooses to be.”

  “It all sounds enticingly simple,” Conn said, “but surely there are some prickles and stickles amidst all this tasting and dallying.”

  “One or two,” said Erkatchian, and so they fell to serious discussions. The gist of the spacer’s proposition was that Conn should combine part of his coming fortune with Erkatchian’s savings so that they could together purchase a well founded yacht, new or of recent manufacture, suitable for the private charter trade. The craft would be at Conn’s disposal a certain portion of the time, so that he might visit places that took his interest; the rest of the time it would be given over to profitable charters. The partners would share in the proceeds each according to his investment in the common venture and after an agreed upon date, Erkatchian would have the option to buy out Conn’s share of the vessel by returning his capital plus a percentage profit, also to be agreed upon.

  “It is an interesting proposition,” Conn said, when the full shape of Erkatchian’s proposal was revealed, “but there is one consideration it leaves unaddressed.”

  The spacer invited him to name it.

  “My origins are a mystery. It is possible that I will discover more on Forlor than
a means to acquire a fortune. I may find the place I was meant to be, the place where I belong. If so, I will not be rambling about The Spray like Betherin in search of his perambulating pizzle. I will be staying put.”

  Erkatchian snorted, then said, “Forgive me. From what I’ve heard of Forlor under the Flagit brothers, it is not a place in which any one ever wanted to sink roots.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Spacers’ tales, with widely varying details but tending toward a common theme: that the Flagits made the place a battlefield for their playtime wars. Any stretch of territory may contain still live ordinance, unsprung traps or self-actuating defenses. A casual stroll might turn suddenly into a scene from Shaifen’s Flesh and Fire.”

  “I am not familiar with that work,” Conn said.

  “You are all the better for it,” Erkatchian said. “It disturbs one’s nights.”

  “If the tales distill to a basis of truth, I wonder that the Immersion wants the place.”

  The captain made a gesture that expressed his refusal to consider his employer’s motives. “There will be a lodge or some such, probably of fortress strength surrounding unstinting comfort. The Flagits preferred to keep their mayhems at a safe distance.”

  “Still,” said Conn, “I cannot make a commitment without first seeing what there is to see.”

  “But you do not reject my proposition out of hand?”

  Conn let his mind conjure up images: walking along glittering promenades, surveying magnificent landscapes, sampling cuisines and cultures of a thousand worlds. The prospect had a faint appeal. He was not surprised to discover that its attractiveness increased markedly when he added to each scene the presence of Jenore Mordene – Jenore laughing, Jenore dancing, Jenore close beside him as she had been the last night at Graysands. “No, I do not reject it,” he told Erkatchian.