by Vance, Jack
Wayness folded the map and looked around the café. She discovered no portly waxen-skinned gentleman with a black mustache, and no one else seemed to be paying her any unusual attention. Unobtrusively she departed the café and the shelter of the station, to find the sun hidden behind scudding gray clouds and a raw wind blowing in from the Adriatic.
Wayness stood for a moment, skirts flapping against her legs, then ran to a cab rank and approached the driver of a three-wheeled cab, of a sort which seemed to be in general use. She showed the driver her map, pointed out Via Malthus and explained that she wanted to be taken to a hotel nearby. The driver responded confidently: “The Old Port is charming! I will take you to the Hotel Sirenuse. You will find it both convenient and agreeable, nor are its charges a confiscation.”
Wayness climbed into the cab and was whirled away through Old Trieste: a city of unique character, built half on a narrow apron of land under the stony hills and half on piles driven into the Adriatic. Canals of dark water flowed everywhere, washing the foundations of the tall narrow houses. A dark mysterious city, thought Wayness.
By slants this way and that, by sudden darts over humped bridges, into the Plaza Dalmatio by the Via Condottiere and out by the Via Strada, went the cab, with Wayness unable trace the course on her map so that if the driver were inserting a mile or two into the route she had no sure way of knowing. At last the cab swung into the Via Severin, crossed the Canal Flacco by the Ponte Fidelius and into a district of crabbed streets and crooked canals, below a gaunt skyline of a thousand odd angles and shapes. This was the Porto Vecchio hard by the wharves: a district silent by night but bustling by day with the movement of the locals and the surge of tourists, in and out, predictable as tides.
The Way of the Ten Pantologues ran beside the Bartolo Seppi Canal, and was lined with bistros, cafés, flower stalls, booths selling fried clams and potatoes in paper packets. Along the side streets dim little shops dealt in specialty merchandise: curios, off-world artifacts, incunabula; rare weapons and musical instruments pitched in every key imaginable. Certain shops specialized in puzzles, cryptography, inscriptions in unknown languages; others sold coins, glass insects, autographs, minerals mined from the substance of dead stars. Still other shops purveyed softer stuff: dolls costumed in the styles of many times and places, also dolls cleverly programmed to perform acts polite and acts not at all polite. Spice shops vended condiments and scents, oils and esters, of an interesting sort; confectioneries sold cakes and bonbons available nowhere else on Earth, as well as dried fruits, syrups and glazes. A variety of shops displayed models of ships ancient trains and automobiles; while others specialized in models of spaceships.
The cab driver took Wayness to the Hotel Sirenuse, a sprawling old hulk devoid of architectural grace, which had expanded over the centuries, annex by annex and now occupied the entire area between the Way of the Ten Pantologues and the Adriatic shore. Wayness was assigned a high ceilinged chamber at the back of the second floor. The room was cheerful enough, with pink and blue floral wallpaper, a crystal chandelier and glass doors giving upon a small balcony. Another door opened into a bathroom equipped with fixtures of playfully rococo design. On a buffet Wayness found the telephone screen, several books, including a truncated edition of Baron Bodissey’s monumental ten volumes: LIFE; also TALES OF OLD TRIESTE, by Fia della Rema; THE TAXONOMY OF DEMONS, by Miris Ovic. There was also a menu from the hotel restaurant, a basket of green grapes and a decanter of red wine on a tray, along with two goblets.
Wayness ate a grape, poured herself half a glass of red wine and went out upon the balcony. She saw, almost directly below, the rotting old wharf, creaking to the slow Adriatic swells. Half a dozen fishing boats were moored alongside. Beyond was sky and sea, with veils of gray rain sweeping across the water. To the north, her view was circumscribed by a dark blur of shoreline, which disappeared entirely, behind the rain, at the edge of vision. For several minutes Wayness stood on the balcony, sipping the tart red wine. The damp wind blew into her face, bringing the scent of the wharf. This was Old Earth in one of its truest manifestations, she thought. Nowhere out among the stars would there be found a panorama like this.
The wind blew fresh. Wayness drained the goblet, turned back into the room, closed the glass doors. She bathed, changed into gray-tan trousers tight at the hips, loose below the knees, gathered at the ankles, which she wore with a neat black jacket. After consideration, she put through a call to Fair Winds, and half an hour later was speaking with Pirie Tamm at the bank.
“I see you arrived in safety,” said Pirie Tamm. “Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.”
“So, what now?”
“I’ll be going off to see Xantief. His shop is not too far away. If I learn anything definite, I will call you. If not, I may wait a bit. Even when I don’t say anything, I’m afraid that the call might be traced.”
“Hmf,” grunted Pirie Tamm. “So far as I know, that is not possible.”
“Probably not. I suppose that you have had no word from Julian, or anyone else?”
“Nothing from Julian, but a letter from your parents arrived this morning. Shall I read it?”
“Please do!”
The letter told her of Glawen’s homecoming, Floreste’s disgrace and execution, and Glawen’s absence in a solitary expedition to Shattorak on Ecce, from which, at the time or writing, Glawen had not yet returned.
Wayness was not cheered by the letter. “I worry a great deal about Glawen,” she told Pirie Tamm. “He is utterly reckless when he thinks something needs to be done.”
“You are fond of him?”
“Very much indeed.”
“He is a lucky fellow.”
“It’s nice of you to say so, Uncle Pirie, but I am lucky too – if he survives.”
“At the moment it’s better that you worry about yourself. I imagine Glawen Clattuc would agree with me.”
“I suppose he would. Goodbye then, Uncle Pirie.”
Wayness descended to the lobby. The hotel was busy; folk came and went in a steady stream; others made rendezvous with friends. Wayness looked here and there, but recognized no one.
The time was now three o’clock of a rather dank and misty afternoon. Wayness left the hotel and set out along the Way of the Ten Pantologues. Thin layers of fog floated across the hills and down over the slopes. Wisps, mists and dreary odors rose from the Bartolo Seppi Canal. The landscape was a collage of abstract shapes, black, brown, and gray.
Wayness was gradually diverted from her thoughts by a tickling at the back of her neck. Could it be that once again she was being followed? Either this was so, or she had developed a vexing obsession. She stopped short and pretended interest in the window display of a candlemaker’s shop, meanwhile watching sidelong back over her shoulder. As usual, she saw nothing to nourish her suspicions.
Still dissatisfied, she turned and walked back the way she had come, taking note of those whom she passed. No one seemed at all familiar – but still, that plump little man, bald with the cherubic pink face: could he have worn a black wig, a false mustache and skin-coloring to deceive her? It was possible. And that broad-shouldered young tourist, moon-faced, with the long yellow hair could that conceivably be the sinister young footman who had called himself Baro? Wayness grimaced. Nowadays anything was possible, and disguise was a fine art, what with flexible masks and lenses which altered not only the color but also the shape of eyes. Recognition no longer counted for much, and the only definite way to identify a follower was by his conduct.
Wayness decided to put her theories to the test. She ducked into a dark little alley, then, ten feet along, stepped into an entry where she was hidden from view.
Time passed: five minutes, ten minutes. Nothing of importance occurred. No one entered the alley nor so much as paused to look along its length. Wayness began to suspect that her nerves were issuing false alarms. She left her place of concealment and returned to the Way of the T
en Pantologues. A tall spare woman wearing a black gown, with black hair gathered into a tight bun, stood nearby. She took note of Wayness and instantly raised her eyebrows in scorn, then sniffed swung about and marched away. Odd! thought Wayness. But perhaps not so odd. The woman might have assumed that Wayness had gone into the alley in order to relieve herself.
There was, to Wayness’ knowledge, no correct or approved method for explaining a mistake of this sort. Further, if Wayness had misinterpreted the woman’s conduct, the explanations, no matter how delicately put, could very easily become complicated.
Wayness departed the scene at the best speed she could manage with dignity.
Another two hundred yards along, the Way brought her to the conflux of the Bartolo Seppi Canal with the Canal Daciano. A bridge, the Ponte Orsini, conveyed the Way over the Canal Daciano, where the Way met Via Malthus. Wayness turned to her right and walked slowly. Fifty yards along she came upon a dim little shop with a modest sign above the door. On a black ground faded gold cursive read:
Xantief
ARCANA
The door was locked; the shop was empty. Wayness stood back and compressed her lips in annoyance. “Curse it all!” muttered Wayness to herself. “Does he think I have come all this way just to stand outside his door in the rain?” And indeed, the mist had become a drizzle.
Wayness tried to look through the glass panes of the door, but saw nothing. It was possible that Xantief had stepped out for a moment and might soon return. Hunching her shoulders against the drizzle, she glanced at the shop to the right, which sold pomanders compounded from off-world herbs. The shop to the left specialized in jade medallions, about three inches in diameter, or possibly, they were buckles.
Wayness sauntered to the far end of the Via Malthus, where it debouched upon the wharf. She paused, looked back along the street. No one seemed interested in her movements. She returned up Via Malthus and halted by the shop which sold the jade medallions. A sign in the door read:
ALVINA IS IN!
Enter
Wayness pushed open the door and went into the shop. At a desk to the side sat a thin middle-aged woman with a jaunty short-billed fisherman’s cap pulled down over russet-gray curls. She wore a heavy pullover of dark gray knit, a gray twill skirt with bright gray-green eyes she glanced sidelong at Wayness. “I see that you are new to Trieste, and never expected the rain.”
Wayness gave a rueful laugh. “It took me by surprise. But I came to visit the shop next door which is closed. Do you know Mr. Xantief’s business hours?”
“I do indeed. He opens his door three times a week at midnight for three hours only. He will be open tonight, in case you are interested.”
Wayness’ jaw went slack. “What an absurd schedule!”
Alvina smiled. “Not when you know Xantief.”
“Surely it can’t be convenient for his customers! Or is he merely perverse?”
Alvina, still smiling, shook her head. “Xantief is a man of many fascinating traits. Almost incidentally, he is a crafty shopkeeper. He pretends that he does not want to sell his merchandise, the implication being that it is too good for the common ruck, and that his prices are far too low. This, of course, is nonsense – I think.”
“It is his shop, and naturally he can do as he likes with it. Even though people get sopping wet.” Wayness spoke in what she thought to be a reasonable voice, but Alvina’s sensitive ear caught a nuance of emotion.
“In connection with Xantief, vexation is pointless. He is a patrician.”
“I was not planning to create a disturbance,” said Wayness with dignity. “Still, I appreciate the advice.”
She went to look out the door, but the rain had started in earnest.
Alvina seemed in no hurry to be rid of her, so she asked: “Xantief has been here a long time?”
Alvina nodded. “He was born about fifty miles east in a castle. His father, the thirty-third baron, died while Xantief was still a young scholar. Xantief tells how he was called to the deathbed. The old baron told him: “My dear Alcide, we have enjoyed many years together, but now it is my time to go. I die happy, since I bequeath to you a heritage of incalculable value. First, a discriminating and certain good taste which other men will find enviable. Second, the unthinking and instinctive conviction of worth, honor and excellence, which accompanies your quality as the thirty-fourth baron. Third, you will inherit the physical assets of the barony, with all its lands, holdings and treasures, in fee singular and complete. Now then: I charge you that while my passing should be no occasion for ribaldry and merry making, neither should you grieve, since, if I am able, I will always be on hand to guard you and keep you in your hour of need.” So saying, the old man died and Xantief became the thirty-fourth baron. Since he already knew of his good taste in wine, food and women, and had never felt any doubts regarding his personal worth, his first step was to reckon up the physical assets. He found that they were not large: the moldering old castle, a few acres of limestone crags, two dozen ancient olive trees and a few goats.
“Xantief made the most of his inheritance. He opened his shop, and originally stocked it with some rugs, hangings, books, paintings and bric-a-brac from his castle, and prospered from the first. That is, at least, the story he tells.”
“Hm. You seem to know him well.”
“Tolerably well. Whenever he comes by during the day he drops in to look over the tanglets. He is sensitive to them and sometimes I go so far as to take his advice.” Alvina gave a short laugh. “This is a curious business. Xantief may touch the tanglets and test their strength, but I am not allowed to do so, nor are you.”
Wayness turned to look at the glowing green buckles, or clasps – whatever they were – on display in the window, each on a small pedestal covered with black velvet. Each was similar but notably different from all the rest.
“They are beautiful little things; jade, I suppose?”
“Nephrite, to be exact. Jadeite gives a different feel: somewhat more coarse. These are cold and unctuous, like green butter.”
“What are they used for?”
“I use them to sell to collectors,” said Alvina. “All authentic tanglets are antiques, and very valuable, since the only new tanglets are counterfeit.”
“What were they originally?”
“At first they were hairclasps, worn by the warriors of a far world. When a warrior killed an enemy he took the clasp and wore it on the scalp rope of his hair. In this way tanglets became trophies. The tanglets of a hero are even more; they are talismans. There are hundreds of distinctions and qualities and special terms, which make the subject rather fascinating, when you acquire some of the lore. Only a finite number are authentic tanglets, despite the efforts of counterfeiters, and each one is annotated and named and attributed. All are valuable, but the great ones are literally priceless. A hero’s rope of six tanglets is so full of mana it almost sparks. I must take extraordinary care; a single touch sours the sheen and curdles the mana.”
“Poof!” said Wayness. “Who would know the difference?”
“An expert: that’s who, and on the instant. I could tell you stories for hours on end.” Alvina looked toward the ceiling. “I’ll tell you just one, about the famous tanglet: Twelve Kanaw. A collector named Jadoukh Ibrasil had coveted Twelve Kanaw for many years, and finally, after complicated negotiations, took possession of Twelve Kanaw. On the same night, his beautiful spouse Dilre Lagoum saw the tanglet and innocently wore it in her hair to a fête. Jadoukh Ibrasil joined his wife, complimented her upon her beauty, then noticed the tanglet in her hair. Witnesses say that he turned white as a sheet. He knew at once what he must do. Courteously he took Dilre Lagoum’s arm and led her into the garden and cut her throat among the hydrangeas. Then he stabbed himself. The story is usually heard only among collectors. The general feeling is that Jadoukh Ibrasil did what he had to do, and at this point the talk becomes metaphysical. What do you think?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Wayness cauti
ously. “It may be that all collectors are mad.”
“Ah, well that is a truism.”
“I should think that work among such temperamental objects would be hard on the nerves.”
“Sometimes it is,” Alvina admitted. “I find, however, that my high prices are a great solace.” Alvina rose to her feet. “I will let you handle a counterfeit, if you like. You can do no damage.”
Wayness shook her head. “I think not. I have better things to do than handle counterfeits.”
“In that case, I’ll make us a pot of tea – unless you are in a hurry?”
Wayness looked out the window to find that the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. “No, thank you. I think I’ll take advantage of the let-up and run back to the hotel.”
* * *
Chapter VII, Part 2
Wayness stood for a moment in front of Alvina’s shop. Out over the Adriatic shafts of sunlight had broken through the clouds. Via Malthus smelled of damp stone mingled with odors from the canal and the everywhere pervasive scent of the sea. Beside the canal an old man wearing a red stocking cap with a tail dangling to his shoulders walked with a small white dog. Diagonally across the street an old woman stood in the doorway of her house, conversing with another old woman who stood on the sidewalk. Both wore black gowns and lace shawls; as they talked, they turned to look with disapproval toward the old man walking stiffly and slowly with his dog; it seemed as if they were disparaging him for reasons beyond Wayness’ understanding. None of the three could be considered a threat. Wayness set off at a fast walk up Via Malthus, then to the left along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, keeping an unobtrusive watch over her shoulder. She arrived at the Hotel Sirenuse without incident, and went directly to her room.