by Jack Vance
“Never mind what then. Get off Ambal Isle or you’ll learn.”
Casagave gave a shrill whistle. Footsteps thudded; behind Glinnes appeared a man seven feet tall, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. His skin was the color of teak; black hair clung to his head like fur. Casagave jerked his thumb toward the dock. “Either in your boat or into the water.”
Glinnes, still sore from a previous beating, did not care to risk another. He turned on his heel and stalked down the path. Lord Ambal? What a travesty! So this had been the motivation for Casagave’s researches.
The boat took Glinnes out upon the water. He slowly circled Ambal Isle; never had it seemed so lovely. What if Casagave ignored the three-day deadlines he was sure to do? Glinnes gave his head a dreary shake. Force would bring him afoul of the constabulary—unless he could prove Shira’s death.
Chapter 9
Akadie lived in a quaint old manse on a point of land known as Rorquin’s Tooth overlooking Clinkhammer Broad, several miles northwest of Rabendary. Rorquin’s Tooth was a jut of weathered black stone, perhaps the stump of an ancient volcano, now overgrown with jard, fire-blossom, and dwarf pomanders; at the back rose a copse of sentinellos. Akadie’s manse, the folly of a longforgotten lord, raised five towers to the sky, each of different height and architectural order. One was roofed with slate, another with tile, a third with green glass, the fourth with lead, the fifth with the artificial material spandex. Each supported at its summit a study, with special appurtenances and outlooks to suit one or another of Akadie’s moods. Akadie recognized and enjoyed each of his own quirks and made a virtue of inconsistency.
In the early morning, while the haze still swirled in wisps, Glinnes drove his boat north up Farwan Water and the Saur, then west along narrow weed-choked Vernice Water into Clinkhammer Broad. Reflected double upon the smooth water stood Akadie’s five-towered manse.
Akadie had only just arisen from his bed. His hair was rumpled into wisps; his eyes were barely half-open. Nevertheless he gave Glinnes an affable good-morning. “Please do not expound your business before breakfast; the world is not yet in focus.”
“I came to see Marucha, said Glinnes. “I am not in need of your services.”
“In that case, talk as you will.”
Marucha, always an early riser, seemed taut and peevish, and greeted Glinnes without effusiveness. She served Akadie a breakfast of fruit, tea and buns, and poured Glinnes tea.
“Ah!” said Akadie, “the day begins, and once again I will concede that a world exists beyond the confines of this room.” He sipped his tea. “And how go your affairs?”
“As well as could be expected. My troubles have not disappeared at a snap of the fingers.”
“Sometimes,” Akadie observed, “a person’s troubles are only those which he creates for himself.”
“This is absolutely true in my case.” said Glinnes. “I strive to recover my property and protect what is left; and in so doing I stimulate my enemies.”
Marucha, working in the kitchen, showed elaborate disdain for the conversation.
Glinnes went on. “The basic culprit is of course Glay. He worked a world of mischief, then walked away from the mess. I consider him a poor excuse for a Hulden, and for a brother.”
Marucha could no longer contain her tongue. “I doubt if he cares whether he’s a Hulden or not. As far as brotherhood is concerned the relationship extends in both directions. You are not helping him in his work, let me remind you.”
“It costs too much,” said Glinnes. “Glay can afford gifts of twelve thousand ozols because the money never belonged to him. I saved only thirtyfour hundred ozols, which Glay’s cronies the Drossets took from me. I now have nothing.”
“You have Rabendary Island. That is a great deal.”
“At last you acknowledge Shira’s death.”
Akadie held up his hand. “Now then! Let us take our tea up to the Sout Vantage. Come along up the stairs, but take care: the treads are narrow.”
They mounted into the lowest and most spacious tower, which afforded a view over all of Clinkhammer Broad. Akadie had hung antique gonfalons about the dark paneling: a collection of eccentric red stoneware pots stood in a corner. Akadie put teapot and cup on the withe table and motioned Glinnes to pull up one of the fan-backed old withe chairs. “When I enticed Marutha into the house I did not expect a complement of family dissensions as well.”
“Perhaps this morning I am a trifle out of sorts,” Glinnes admitted. “The Drossets waylaid me in the dark, thrashed me soundly, and took all my money. For this reason I can’t sleep of nights; my insides seethe and boil and twist with rage.”
“An exasperation, to say the least. Are you planning countermeasures?”
Glinnes gave him an incredulous glare. “I plan nothing else! But nothing seems sensible. I could kill one or two Drossets, end up on the prutanshyr, and still lack my money. I could drug their wine and search their camp while they slept, but I have no such drug, and even if I had, how could i be sure that all had drunk the wine?”
“These feats are easier planned than accomplished,” said Akadie. “But allow me a suggestion. Do you know the Glade of Xian?”
“I have never visited the place,” said Glinnes. “It is the Trevanyi burial ground, so I understand.”
“It is much more than that. The Bird of Death flies from the Vale of Xian, and te dying man ears its song. Trevanyi ghosts walk in the shade of the great ombrils, which grow nowhere else in Merlank. Now—and here is the point!—if you located the Drosset crypt and secured one of the death-urns, Vang Drosset would sacrifice his daughter’s chastity to get it back.”
“I am uninterested—or let us say, barely interested—in his daughter’s chastity. I merely require my money. Your idea has merit.”
Akadie made a deprecatory gesture. “You are very kind. But the proposal is as inept and hallucinatory as any of the others. The difficulties are insuperable. For instance, how could you learn the location of the crypt except from Vang Drosset? If he loved you well enough to share this basic secret of his existence, why would he deny you your ozols and the accommodation of his daughter as well? But assume you so beguiled Vang Drosset that he told his secret and you went to the Vale of Xian. How would you evade the Three Crones, not to mention the ghosts?”
“I don’t know,” said Glinnes.
The two men sat in silence, sipping tea. After a moment Akadie asked, “Have you made the acquaintance of Lute Casagave?”
“Yes. He refuses to leave Ambal Isle.”
“Predictably. He would at least want his twelve thousand ozols back.”
“He claims to be Lord Ambal.”
Akadie sat up in his chair, eyes dancing with speculation. Here, for Akadie, was a truly fascinating concept. Somewhat regretfully, he shook his head and settled back into the chair. “Unlikely. Very unlikely. And irrelevant in any case. I fear that you must resign yourself to the loss of Ambal Isle.”
“I can’t resign myself to losing anything!” cried Glinnes in a passion. “A hussade game, Ambal Isle; it’s all the same. I’d never give up; I must have what is due me!”
Akadie held up his hand. “Calm yourself. I will consider at leisure and who knows what will occur? The fee is fifteen ozols.”
“Fifteen ozols!” demanded Glinnes. “For what? All you did was tell me to be calm.”
Akadie made a suave gesture. “I gave you that negative advice which often is as valuable as a positive program. For instance, suppose you asked me: ‘How can I leap from here to Welgen in a single bound?’ I could utter one word, impossible! to save you a great deal of useless exercise; and thus justify a fee of twenty or thirty ozols.”
Glinnes smiled grimly. “In the matter at hand, you save me no useless exercise; you have told me nothing I don’t know already. You must consider this a social call.”
Akadie shrugged. “It is of no consequence.”
The two men returned to the lower floor, where Marucha sat reading a jou
rnal published in Port Maheul: Interesting Activities of the Elite.
“Good-by, mother,” said Glinnes. “Thank you for the tea.”
Marucha looked up from the journal. “You’re more than welcome, of course.” She began to read once more.
As Glinnes drove back across Clinkhammer Broad, he wondered why Marucha disliked him, though in his heart he knew the answer well enough. Marucha did not dislike Glinnes; she disliked Jut and his “gross behavior” his carousing, bellowed songs, rude amorousness, and general lack of elegance. In short, she considered her husband a boor. Glinnes, though far more gracious and easy than his father, reminded her of Jut. There could never be real warmth between them. Good enough, thought Glinnes; he wasn’t especially fond of Marucha either.
Glinnes turned the boat into Zeur Water, which bounded the Prefecture Commons on the northeast. On impulse he slowed and turned into the shore. Nosing his boat through the reeds, he made it fast to the crook of a casammon tree, and clambered up the bank to where he could look across the island.
Three hundred yards away, beside a copse of black candlenuts, the Drossets had pitched their three tents—the same rectangles of orange, dirty maroon and black that had offended Glinnes’ eyes on Rabendary. On a bench Vang Drosset sat hunched over a fruit of some kind—a melon, or perhaps a cazaldo. Tingo, wearing a lavender headkerchief, squatted beside the fire, chopping up tubers and throwing them into the caldron. The sons Ashmor and Harving were not in evidence, nor was Duissane.
Glinnes watched for five minutes. Vang Drosset finished the cazaldo and flung the husk at the fire. Then, hands on knees, he turned and spoke to Tingo, who continued her work.
Glinnes jumped down the bank to his boat and drove home at full speed. An hour later he returned. During Glay’s sojourning with the Trevanyi he had used their costume; these garments Glinnes now wore, as well as a Trevanyi turban. A young cavout lay on the floor of the boat, head muffled and legs tied. The boat also carried three empty cartons, several good iron pots, and a shovel.
Glinnes took the boat to where he had previously run it ashore. He climbed up the bank and observed the Drosset camp through binoculars.
The caldron simmered over the fire. Tingo was nowhere to be seen. Vang Drosset sat on the bench carving a dako burl. Glinnes stared intently. Would Vang Drosset be using his knife? Chips and shavings effortlessly departed the dako, and Vang Drosset approvingly examined the knife from time to time.
Glinnes brought the cavout up from the boat and, removing the muffle, tethered the creature by one hind leg so that it might wander a few yards out upon the common.
Glinnes concealed himself behind a clump of hushberry, where he muffled the lower part of his face in the loose tail of the turban.
Vang Drosset carved the dako. He paused, stretched his arms, and noted the cavout. He watched it a moment, then, rising to his feet, scrutinized the entire common. No one in sight. He wiped the knife and tucked it into his boot. Tingo Drosset put her head from the tent; Vang Drosset had a word with her. She came forth and looked dubiously at the cavout. Vang Drosset set off across the common, walking with an air of furtive purpose. Ten yards from the cavout hhe seemed to see it for the first time and halted as if in wonder. He noticed the tether and traced it back to the casammon tree. He took four quiet steps forward, craning his neck. He saw the boat and stopped short, while his eyes performed an inventory of its contents. A shovel, several useful pots, and what might those cartons contain? He licked his lips, looked sharply left and right. Peculiar. Probably the work of a child. till, why not take a look in the cartons? Certainly no harm in a look.
Vang Drosset walked cautiously down the bank, and never knew what struck him. Glinnes, fury surging in his veins, leapt fort and almost tore Vang Drosset’s head off with a pair of tremendous blows over each ear. Vang Drosset fell to the ground. Glinnes pushed his face into the mud, tied his hands behind his back, lashed his feet and ankles with a length of rope he had brought for the purpose. Then he gagged and blindfolded Vang Drosset, who was now uttering stertorous moans.
He brought the knife from Vang Drosset’s boot: his own. A delight to have the keen blade once more in his possession! He searched Vang Drosset’s garments, slicing them with the knife to facilitate examination. Vang Drosset’s purse held only twenty ozols, which Glinnes appropriated. He pulled of Vang Drosset’s boots and sliced open the soles. He found nothing and threw the boots away.
Vang Drosset carried no large sum of money on his person. Glinnes gave him a kick in the ribs for disappointment. He looked across the commons to observe Tingo Drosset on her way to the outhouse. Glinnes hoisted the cavout to his shoulder, concealing his face, and marched across the commons. He reached the maroon tent just as Tingo Drosset had completed her errand. He looked into the maroon tent. Empty. He walked to the orange tent. Empty. He stepped inside. Tingo Drosset spoke to his back: “Looks to be a good beast. But don’t take it inside! What’s the matter with you? Slaughter it down by the water.”
Glinnes put down the animal and waited. Tingo Drosset, expostulating over the strange behavior of her husband, entered the tent. Glinnes threw his turban over her head and bore her to the ground. Tingo Drosset squawked and cursed at this unexpected act of her husband’s.
“Another sound from you,” growled Glinnes, “I’ll slit your throat ear to ear! Lie quiet if you know what’s good for you!”
“Vang! Vang!” screeched Tingo Drosset. Glinnes thrust the tail of the turban into her mouth.
Tingo was squat and sturdy and caused Glinnes considerable exertion before she lay helplessly tied, blindfolded and gagged. Glinnes’ hand smarted from a bite. Tingo Drosset’s head ached from the retaliatory blow. Not likely that Tingo Drosset would carry the family money, but stranger things had happened. Glinnes gingerly examined her garments while she groaned and grunted, thrashed and jerked in horrified outrage, expecting the worst.
He searched the black tent, then the orange tent, in a corner of which Duissane had ranged a few trinkets and keepsakes, and last the maroon tent. He found no money, nor had he expected to; the Trevanyi habit was to bury their valuables.
Glinnes seated himself on Vang Drosset’s bench. Where would he bury money, were he Vang Drosset? The location must be convenient to hand and unmistakably identified by some sort of indicator: a post, a rock, a bush, a tree. The spot would be somewhere within the immediate field of vision; Vang Drosset would like to keep the hiding place under his benign surveillance. Glinnes looked here and there. Directly in front of him the caldron hung over the fire, with a rude table and a pair of benches to the side. Only a few feet away the ground had been seared by the heat of another fire. The old fire-site seemed a few steps more convenient than the spot where the caldron now hung. No explanation for the peculiar habits of the Trevanyi, thought Glinnes. At the camp on Rabendary… The thought trailed off as Glinnes recalled the camp on Rabendary Island, with the ground freshly dug on the site of the campfire .
Glinnes nodded sagely. Just so. He rose to his feet and walked to the fire. He moved the tripod and caldron, and using an old broken-hafted spade, thrust the fire aside. The baked soil below yielded easily. Six inches below the surface the spade scraped on a black iron plate. Glinnes tipped up the iron to reveal a cake of dry clay, which he also removed. The cavity below held a pottery jar. Glinnes drew forth the jar. It contained a bundle of red and black hundred-ozol notes. Glinnes nodded complacently and tucked it all in his pocket.
The cavout, now grazing, had defecated. Glinnes scraped the droppings into the pottery jar, replaced it in the cavity, and arranged all as before, with the fire burning under the caldron. To casual inspection, nothing had been disturbed.
Shouldering the cavout, Glinnes strode back across the common to where he had left his boat. Vang Drosset had been struggling to free himself, to no avail, and had only rolled himself down the slope into the mud at the water’s edge. Glinnes smiled with indulgent amusement, and with all Vang Drosset’s wealth in his pock
et forbore kicking the contorted shape. He tethered the cavout in the stern of the boat and cast off. A hundred yards along the shore a giant casammon tree sprawled its twisted branches over the water. Glinnes drove the boat through the reeds to one of the crooked roots, made fast the painter, then climbed from the root into the branches. Through a gap in the foliage he could see the Drosset camp, which appeared quiet.
Glinnes made himself comfortable and counted the money. In the first bundle he reckoned three thousand-ozol certificates, four hundreds, and six tens. Glinnes chuckled in satisfaction. He removed the band from the second bundle, which was wound around a golden fob: fourteen hundred-ozol certificates. Glinnes paid them no heed, staring instead at the golden fob, eery chills tickling his back. The fob he remembered well; it had belonged to his father. There: ideograms for the name Jut Hulden. And below, a second set of ideograms: Shira Hulden.
There were two possibilities: the Drossets had either robbed Shira alive, or they had robbed him dead. And these were the boon comrades of his brother Glay! Glinnes spat toward the ground.
He sat now on the branch, his brain roiling with excitement and horrified disgust. Shira was dead. The Drossets could never have taken his money otherwise. This was now his conviction.
He sat watching and waiting. His euphoria waned and also his horror; he sat passively. An hour passed and part of another. Up from the dock on Ilfish Water came three persons: Ashmor, Harving, and Duissane. Ashmor and Harvng went directly to the orange tent; Duissane stood still, apparently hearing a sound from Tingo. She ran into the maroon tent and instantly pushed her head out to call her brothers. She disappeared once more into the tent. Ashmor and Harving joined her. Five minutes later they slowly emerged in voluble conversation. Tingo, apparently none the worse for her experience, came forth. She pointed across the common. Ashmor and Harving set off, and in due course found and released Vang Drosset. The three returned across the common, the sons talking and gesticulating. Vang Drosset hobbling on bare feet, holding his tattered clothing close about himself. At the camp he looked all about, and especially he studied the fire. Apparently it had not been disturbed.