by F
The spider reared up again and shot a jet of its sticky fluid straight at Imbry's mouth. He shut his lips to prevent the stuff from choking him and immediately found that he could not reopen them.
"That's better," said the ghost. "No need for interrogation. I have the story now. We will proceed to the giving of satisfaction."
Imbry expected the spider to reach for one of the tools of torture. Instead it clattered over to where the three-paneled bone screen stood against the wall, seized the object in its pincers and brought it fully into the hanging man's field of vision. It unfolded the triptych then reached up to where a light pipe was suspended from the ceiling and positioned the source of illumination so that its output fell onto the outer edge of the first panel. The spider moved to a corner, where it settled onto its folded limbs. As it did so, the other lumens in the room dimmed to extinction, leaving only the natural glow from the light pipe.
Imbry was seeing the triptych much as its creator had wished it to be seen, though Odlemar had probably not envisioned a spectator hanging trussed from a hook in a torture chamber. But the light pipe drew its energy from sunlight naturally captured from the world above and stored for later use. Thus its glow touched the edge of the first panel as if the screen stood in a well-windowed room, positioned so that the dull orange light of early morning crept across it. Gradually, the glow brightened and lightened in tone. Now, despite his predicament, Imbry found himself being captured by the grand genius imbued into the work.
It was said that to sit for a day in contemplation of Odlemar's masterpiece was to be transformed. In the time it took the sun to swing across the sky, spotlighting in turn each of the three scenes, the sensitive observer would vicariously live an ideal life.
And it is true, Imbry thought, as the light built in strength on the first of the three scenes. The androgynous figure, created in bas relief from the once-living bone of the carver, posed against an etched background of an archetypal arcadian landscape, seemed to stand forth with all the energy and promise of pure youth. Somehow, as the sublime arrangement of form and line filled his vision, Imbry was transported back to the time of his own tender years, when hope sprang as clear as springwater, and his expectations were unquestioned. For a moment, a long moment, the present fell away and he was that youthful Luff Imbry, once more on the threshold of the great adventure of existence, saying to the world: I shall be and I shall do.
The light moved on, brightening now to full day. Imbry realized, at some level, that the light pipe was delivering its effect far faster than would have been possible if the triptych were standing in true sunlight. Yet the process remained no less profound, as the focus departed from the youth in the first panel and as the semblance of warm sunlight came to play across the central panel. Here strode a figure embodying mature accomplishment, traversing another landscape—this one evoking the themes of middle life: worldly engagement, achievement, renown, family—and again Imbry could not help but be swept by emotion. He saw his own successes, the stature he had won, the meaning that his struggles and attainments had conferred upon his existence. He felt a flood of justifiable pride, of having lived up to his potential, of being able to say: I am and I do.
And then the light moved on, and now it gently faded, touching the third panel, another figure in another landscape: this one a personage of dignity and repose, set against a background of settled calm. Imbry had not yet left the prime of life, had not entered the time of reflection and denouement; yet, somehow, Odlemar's vision was carried into the center of his being, and he knew what it would be to look back upon a life well lived, to understand its rhythms and currents, and to perceive how they shaped toward an end and a conclusion. He knew what it would be to stand at the end of the road, in evening's dimming radiance and say: I was and I did.
And now, as the light shrank toward darkness, even as Imbry again became fully conscious of his situation, hung helpless in the dungeon of a vicious aristocrat who had been far from sane when living, and whose mad and deteriorating essence was housed in a device built for the cruelest pursuits, still some of Odlemar's sublime summing-up of life filled him. The emotion evoked a sigh that could not pass Imbry's sealed lips.
Then, just as the light pipe mimicked the last beams of the old orange sun fading into sunset, a sudden and brief change appeared in the triptych: for only an instant, though it was an unforgettable instant, each of the three carved figures—energy, accomplishment, and completion—seemed to stand forth anew. Though, this time, they were revealed as three species of self-deluded fool. No sooner had the sudden impression registered, delivering a psychic shock to Imbry's core, eliciting a smothered gasp that came from far deeper in his being than merely the region where his respiratory equipment operated, than the whole triptych became indistinct in the light pipe's simulation of deepening dusk.
The integrator's voice spoke from the darkness. "Whence came that glimpse of stark folly? From Odlemar's brilliant hand and eye? Or is it a reflection of your own inadequacy?"
Imbry realized that the line was from some favorite script of Syce Voillute's. No answer was required. And none was waited for, as the integrator spoke on: "And now let us move on."
The lumens came to life again, the triptych was put aside, and the spider returned to the table. Selecting the short-bladed knife it had sharpened before, it fixed the glitter of its visual array on Imbry's feet, suspended just above the floor. "First," it said, "we'll have those boots off." And then it advanced toward him.
Imbry closed his eyes, though he did not anticipate being able to keep them that way for long. But the stimulus that caused him to return to vision was not the pain that he expected in his lowest extremities. Instead it was a whump! and a whoosh! from the far side of the chamber. He opened his eyes to see the wall of tools crumbling inward, scattering fractured masonry and horrid implements in a dust-haloed fan across the floor. The thick and billowing cloud of powdered stone obscured the large figure that stood in the newly created gap, but Imbry was able to see that, tucked in the crook of one arm, was the globe that contained the essence of Waltraut Voillute.
The person now stepped into the chamber and the spider swung itself about with dreadful speed, its joints bending as it compressed its legs for a leap. But the man holding the mask had another arm, one that ended in a hand that gripped a fully powered disorganizer. Before the spider could spring, the man discharged the weapon; a coherent beam of black energy swept across the stalker's locomotive limbs, converting them to random particles that joined the dust still filling the air. The spider crashed down onto its metal belly with a clang! and the man completed its disarmament by aiming the disorganizer and carefully destroying the device's forelimbs.
He then stepped around the table, depositing as he did so Waltraut Voillute's mask atop the tool kit there displayed. "You'll be surprised to see me," he said.
Imbry could only nod in agreement. If he had been tasked to compile a list of those who might even remotely be expected to rescue him at this moment, the list would not have included Colonel-Investigator Brustram Warhanny of the Archonate Bureau of Scrutiny.
The scroot had been casting his disappointed gaze about the chamber. Now he had found what he had been looking for: a metal flask with an atomizer set in its neck. This he took up and directed first at the stuff that coated Imbry's lips—the thief tasted bitterness as the sealant dissolved—then at the bonds that confined his limbs. A moment later, the fat man fell the short distance to the floor, where he managed to stand though he tottered on numbed feet.
"You are correct," he said, after wiping the last gummy shreds from his mouth. "But I would have been surprised to see anyone."
"You should have more respect for the Bureau," Warhanny said.
Imbry replied that he supposed that from now on he would have no choice but to do so. But the scroot had turned his attention to the bone screen leaning against the wall. "And this would be what it has all been about," he said, standing the triptych up and par
tially unfolding it.
"So it would seem," Imbry said. He looked toward the gap in the wall and wriggled his toes. Circulation was returning.
"You won't get far," said Warhanny, his eyes still on the artwork. "The moment I showed the integrator the Archon's sigil it came under my direction. Run if you like, but there are devices that will catch you and bring you back." He turned his joyless gaze on the fat man. "And they are not accustomed to bestow gentle treatment."
He crossed the floor to where the spider lay helpless, pressed a stud on its dorsal surface and reached into the hatch that popped up. He drew out a flat black cylinder much like that which had contained the essence of Charan Broosh. "Might as well return this to the Voillute essentiary," he said, "though I doubt anyone will want to consult it."
He placed the essence in a pocket of his green-on-black uniform and returned his gaze to Imbry. The thief had brushed away the last remnants of the stuff that had bound him and now he stood erect to say, "Well, I am snapped up, fair enough. But I will not play the Poonka for leniency."
The reference was to an Emor Poonka, a mid-level denizen of Olkney's halfworld who was infamous for having spent years informing on scores of his colleagues to the Bureau of Scrutiny. In the presence of a scroot, Imbry did not follow the name of Poonka with the customary expectoration, but his distaste for the idea of "turning spout" was not lost on Warhanny, who replied, "But you are not snapped up."
For a moment Imbry was lost for a reply. Then he said, "Not? Not snapped up?"
"My orders were specific," the scroot said without emotion, though the expression on his face spoke eloquently of disgust and puzzlement. "You were to be rescued, the triptych to be recovered, and the old man's essence taken to his descendants."
Imbry was accustomed to a life of nuanced judgments, of compromises and looking the other way. But he had not expected such from the Bureau. "Whose orders?" he said.
Warhanny's face regained its impassivity. "I do not know," he said. "Someone high in the counsels of the highest, or so I gather."
Or some thing high above the ordinary comings and goings of Olkney, Imbry thought. "I don't know what to say," he said.
"The situation is unusual," the scroot agreed. "You seem to figure, in some way, in the progress of esteeming the balance. I would not take great comfort in it."
Imbry thought about it for a moment, then said, "No, I suppose not." To be singled out for the attention of the Archon, or even one of his ancient integrators, was no blessing. He was sure there would be a price to pay for his continued freedom, and the prices exacted by the Archonate could strike the ordinary decent criminal as exorbitant.
Warhanny gestured for him to pick up the globe that contained the ghost of Waltraut Voillute. Imbry did as he was bid. Then the scroot hefted the bone screen and climbed through the gap, the thief following. They passed through lighted corridors and chambers, all of them displaying works of power and beauty, some of them capable of delivering a significant impact even to a connoisseur of Imbry's sophistication. And then, as they traversed one circular room, on a pedestal cunningly lit, Imbry saw the little quartet of Iphigenza dancers. Warhanny ignored it, oblivious of all but his duty, but the fat man put out a hand in passing, scooped up the group of metal figurines and slipped it into the breast of his singlesuit. He raised the life mask in both hands to disguise the lumps beneath the cloth.
Warhanny paused and looked back at him for a moment. Imbry understood that the theft had not gone unnoticed. But then the other man gave only the tiniest, briefest lift of his hedgelike eyebrows and walked on.
They came out of the labyrinth by ascending the steps that had led Imbry into it. The night was trending toward dawn. A Bureau volante hovered a hand's height above the patio. Warhanny went to it and opened a cargo bay, storing the screen within.
"What does the Archon want with the Bone Triptych?" Imbry asked.
The scroot gave him a dry look. "The moment he deigns to tell me, I will let you know." A canopy lifted to admit him to the operator's compartment and he climbed in and seated himself. But before he lowered the dome he pointed to the globe in Imbry's hands and said, "You ought to return that."
"I mean to." The statement might well be true. Imbry hadn't yet decided on his future moves.
"And the Broosh essence to the Grand Connaissarium."
"They will be unhappy apart," Imbry said.
Warhanny regarded him quizzically. "I had not taken you for a romantic," he said.
"Nor I," said Imbry. He was not sure where the impulse to make the remark had come from. He moved to a more pertinent subject: "Is there any point asking how you managed to track me?"
"The Bureau guards its secrets," Warhanny said. It sounded to Imbry like a reflexive remark. He responded with a small motion of his head; he had not really expected an answer. So he was surprised when the scroot added, "I'll give you this much respect. It was not we who had you in view. I received these coordinates when I was ordered to come and rescue you."
"Not the Bureau?"
The Colonel-Investigator moved his head in a slow negative. Then he pointed his index finger upward and rotated it in a small circle. Imbry recognized the universal signal for the Archon.
The scroot had nothing more to say. He closed the volante's canopy and increased the flux to its obviators. Imbry turned his face away from the whoosh of air and when he looked back, the aircar was above the trees and moving silently away.
The entrance to the labyrinth had sealed itself. Imbry thought briefly about attempting to induce Waltraut Voillute to reopen it. Considerable wealth lay beneath his feet. Then he recalled how unreliable a support the ghost had turned out to be, and he pictured all the other stalkers and grabbers sure to be hidden in the shifting chambers and passageways. He tucked the globe beneath his arm, patted the bulge that the Iphigenza figures made in his garment, and turned toward the garden of alien exotics and the carryall that waited beyond the wall.
SEVERAL MEMBERS of the hard-core cadre of the Green Circle syndicate were celebrating in the room adjacent to the small chamber in the rear of Bolly's Snug that Luff Imbry had booked for his next meeting with Holker Ghyll and the Voillute subfootman. The Computant was late, and finally entered wearing an expression that mingled apprehension with confusion.
"What is wrong?" Imbry said, and when he looked beyond Ghyll and saw no one else, he said, "Where is he?"
"He did not come."
"Did he not contact you to say why?"
"No."
Imbry could tell there was more that Ghyll was reluctant to reveal. He waited, the room silent except for the muffled sounds of revelry from next door. While Ghyll shuffled his feet, the fat man said, "Tell me all of it."
The other man did not meet his eyes but stared instead at the leather case on the table. "He has not attended a computation since we all met here some days ago."
"You made inquiries?"
"To no avail. I have another contact among the Voillute staff. When I named the subfootman and described him, I was told...."
Imbry saw the shape of it. "You were told that no such man was known."
Ghyll's fear made his gesture of confirmation a sharp jerk. "Was he...?" he said, completing the query with the rude positioning of fingers that was halfworld code for the Bureau of Scrutiny.
Imbry signaled a negative. "Worse," he said, and made the same circling of a plump finger that Warhanny had used.
Holker Ghyll turned pale. "What have we stepped into?"
Imbry's only response was a deep inward breath blown out through puffed cheeks. "Time alone will tell," he said.
"You do not—" Ghyll began, then seemed to choke on something dry in the back of his throat. He cleared the airway, then tried again. "You do not fault me?"
"I do not," Imbry said.
"Then you will forgive my not lingering." And at the thief's dismissive nod, Holker Ghyll made an unceremonious departure.
Imbry sat back and drummed his fingers abs
ently on the table. Any citizen of the Archonate finding that he had become an item of interest to the Archon or his inner circle had cause for concern. The Archon's view was large and did not always take into account the fate of individuals. As the old expression had it, Grain may grieve; the stones will grind. But Imbry was no ordinary citizen. For a member of the halfworld to feel the Archon's basilisk gaze prickling his shoulder blades was doubly worrisome.
But he could think of nothing to be done. "We will just have to see," he said. He took up the vermilion leather case that contained the ghost of Waltraut Voillute and made his way to his new operations center. This was in a different suburb of Olkney, one of a pair of houses that Imbry had acquired through intermediaries long ago, and between which he had personally dug a connecting tunnel. It was equipped with duplicates of all his professional paraphernalia; the only thing he had brought from the old place, before setting it afire, was the integrator's core and the essence of Charan Broosh.
He had long since removed the subtle tracker that had been woven into the circuitry of the Voillute life mask. He had attempted to study it, but was surprised to have found himself unable to grasp its operating principles; they were certainly radically different from those of the Bureau's clingfasts. The closest parallel systems Imbry's researches could find could only be described as "magic," and the fat man was not one to swallow nonsense. He wondered if the device's operating principles had been imported from one of the other eight dimensions that were supposed to exist. In the end, he gave up worrying about it. The Archon moved in his own ways, and to his own rhythms. If Luff Imbry had become one of the pieces on Filidor's game board, there was nothing the thief could do to alter his situation.
But he still, as ever, had the scroots to take into account, even more so now that Brustram Warhanny's attention had been drawn to his file. Thus he took extra precautions in traveling to and from his hidden place. On this visit he meant to spend only the briefest time there, just enough to deposit the fringed case in a concealed storage closet and depart. He had a crucial appointment at Quirks, to begin the delicate process that would lead to the disposal of the Iphigenza quartet. But when he had put the case in its hiding place and was moving toward the exit, he stopped and turned back.