Majestrum

by Matthew Hughes

  "Still?" I said to him.

  "It is important."

  Within our mutual mental space I made a noise that was not quite rude yet could not be construed as unstinting support. But since our eyes were fixed on a page of the unfathomable symbols, I again offered to exert my analytical skills.

  "Integrator," I said, "consider the text by substituting the letters of a known syllabary for these marks."

  "We have already done that for every known language," it said. "We achieved nothing that was recognizable."

  "Do it again, and show me anything that bears even the slightest resemblance to a recorded tongue."

  It did so and I considered the results, applying consistencies, dissonants and every other tool of intellect that I could summon. My inner companion "stood" beside me and watched; as the text continued to resist my every attempt I could sense his mounting frustration. His emotional state worried me: he was, in a very real sense, only recently born as a full persona, his character as untempered by experience as that of an infant; but he was the co-inhabitant of our psyche. If he went mad, what would become of me?

  I offered a conjecture to give him something other than failure to think about. "Could it be that this book defies all our combined abilities because it is, in fact, protected by some magic means?"

  I felt him take hold of the question. "Why not? he said. "What would be more appropriate?"

  "It at least gives us a new avenue of approach," I said. "We should review the rest of the books in Baxandall's library to see if any of them offer a foothold."

  He spoke aloud, "Ship's integrator, set course for Old Earth."

  "Very well," said the ship.

  "No," I said, hurriedly seizing control of our vocal apparatus. "I misspoke. Continue on our present course."

  "We must go back," my other self said to me. "This is important."

  "So is our career," I said. "And that requires us to complete this discrimination to the satisfaction of our client." I did not spell out the consequences of disappointing an aristocrat of Lord Afre's rank and temperament, but I allowed a sense of his range of responses to seep into my other self's awareness.

  "I see," he said. "Well, we couldn't do much about the book if we ended up confined to an oubliette or were distracted by the removal of several non-essential but valued parts of our anatomy."

  "Then let us proceed with the case and I promise you that I will make your concern my highest priority as soon as it is resolved."

  Relieved, I directed his attention to where we were and why. We had come through the whimsy from Claghorne to find ourselves in a thinly populated part of The Spray. The ship's navigational function informed us that only one habitable world within reach. Its name was Honch, and when we examined its specifications we discovered that its climate stretched the definition of "habitable" close to the limit. There were, however, three other whimsies within reasonable distances, and no way to tell whether the Glissand Tour had made for any of them.

  My assistant made a suggestion. "From information I acquired about the tour from Claghorne's connectivity, it seems to be a frequent practice to offer the first performance on some minor world where standards are not too high."

  "A dress rehearsal," I said, "to shake out any burrs or bristles."

  "Indeed."

  "In that case: Ship's Integrator, please set course for Honch."

  The planet, when we researched it, was neither a foundational nor a secondary. Rather it was one of those hole-in-a-crack places that had, throughout the history of human dispersal, attracted groups whose members had difficulty accommodating their beliefs and standards to the more easy-going mores of the great worlds. For some philosophies, tolerance was simply intolerable, and seclusion in an otherwise unvisited corner was the only alternative to suicidal warfare against overwhelming numbers of cheerfully heathen neighbors.

  But the seclusion itself often turned out to be suicidal. In the ages since Honch's discovery, its cliff-side caves had hosted at least a dozen different uncompromising sects and persuasions. Each set of newcomers had swept out the fetishes and fanes of their predecessors -- and sometimes the bones and mummified corpses of the last holdouts -- before settling down to endure constant grit-storms and groundwater so mineralized that even the most austere fasters gained weight as their bones and teeth grew ever denser.

  "It does not seem a place that would gladly welcome a motley of musicians and dancers," I remarked to my assistant after viewing a summary Honch's history.

  "As you may see, the latest settlers were a colony of Piaculars, a cult whose rituals centered on exhaustive mutual flagellation," it said. "But two generations on Honch caused a drastic reduction in their numbers. Now a new movement has arisen, advocating a less rigorous spirituality expressed in gentle slapping. The few score inhabitants now welcome any diversion, though visiting ships have to take precautions to avoid stowaways."

  We set down on a wind-scoured plain near some iron cliffs, the dark rock streaked with rusty veins and pocked with caverns and recesses bored by the elements or by human hands desperate for shelter. The sky was a dark blue, cloudless and broken only by a pinpoint white blaze, high overhead, that was the dwarf star that Honch circled. As soon as the ship's engines were shut off I heard a thin, irritating whine. The Orgillous's integrator identified the sound as the abrasion of the vessel's hull by myriad particles of fine grit constantly being blown past. "If we remain here too long, I will require repainting," it advised.

  Not far off, a disparate collection of spacecraft rested on or hovered above the bedrock. I donned protective clothing and went out, to be immediately beset by the wind. It neither buffeted nor lapsed, but blew steadily from the northwest, conveying its endless cargo of pulverized rock from one bleakness to another. The nearest ship was the Euterpe, only minutes walk away; but when I arrived I discovered that it was empty, as were all the others. The vessel's integrator informed me that the tour's entire company were in a large cavern at the base of the cliffs. I gauged the distance and asked if the ship had any sort of vehicle it could lend me. It did not, nor did Lord Afre's yacht. But I congratulated myself on having the presence of mind, before beginning the trudge, to ask if Tap Trollane was a member of the tour.

  "He is," said the Euterpe's integrator. "He is in the cavern with the others."

  Fortunately, my route tended to the southeast, so that I had the scouring wind blowing mostly on my back. I reminded myself, as I set one foot in front of its fellow, that a discriminator's life is not without sacrifice. I then allowed myself to think that, although the Honorable Chalivire was not the most winsome daughter of Old Earth's aristocracy, she nonetheless did not deserve to be ill-used by a callous adventurer and that it was a noble deed to seek to prevent that abuse. Finally, I comforted myself with the knowledge that the cavern was now not as far away as it had been when I started. I trudged on. My other self, I noted, was missing the experience, having chosen to sleep.

  I came to a tall, wide tunnel that zigged and then zagged into the cliff face, then zigged again. After the second turning, I no longer felt the wind. I took my hands from the garment's side slits and threw back my hood. Ahead was light and music. I walked on and the tunnel opened onto a wide space lit by lumens mounted on the dark rock walls and suspended by wires from a false ceiling of gridwork that spanned the great cavern.

  Against the far wall was a broad dais crowded with folk in costumes of several worlds, some colorful, some severe, some simple, some heavily garnished with frills and furbelows. Most of then sat or stood, their instruments in their hands, on their laps or wound about their bodies, tapping their feet and nodding their heads to a mellow tune being played on strings and woodwinds by a handful of the company. Now a stocky man in buckram and leather off to one side lifted a silvery flute and wove a bright stream of notes into the flow of the background melody. By his hairstyle I recognized the flautist as the man I had come to find.

  Below the dais was an open area where a quarte
t of dancers clad in diaphanous flutters of fabric improvised moves and struck postures in response to the music. And between them and me a small crowd of Honchites sat cross-legged on the cavern floor, presenting me with a vista of thin shoulders and bony backs beneath shirts of poor quality fabric. They leaned toward the performers like flowers that hungered for sun.

  I made my way around the audience and took up a position against the wall on the far right of the front row. My progress was noted by the musicians but the performance went on. I waited until Tap Trollane had finished his solo then raised a finger to attract his attention. I saw curiosity combine with hesitancy in his features as I moved toward the side of the dais. He made his way through the ensemble to meet me.

  The strings and woodwinds had now faded behind the advance of brass and drums, augmented by a basso profundo voice booming out the first stanza of some stirring anthem. I had to raise my voice for Trollane to hear me.

  "I am Henghis Hapthorn, a discriminator from Old Earth," I said. "I am interested in a song you composed."

  I watched his face as he took in the information. The mention of Old Earth meant nothing to him, but my being a discriminator with an interest in his work provoked even more wariness than he had originally shown.

  "What song?"

  "I don't know the name. It goes like this," I said and hummed the opening notes.

  The broad face closed and went still. "I cannot discuss it," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "I signed an undertaking of confidentiality."

  "With whom?" I said.

  "That, too, is confidential."

  "Hmm," I said, "then I suppose there's nothing more to be said." I began to turn away, then abruptly came back to him. "Just to confirm the details for my report, you are Tap Trollane of Branko on Byway?"

  "I am," he said, the initial relief he had shown at my seeming departure now giving way to the first stage of anxiety.

  "And you live at this address?" I quoted the coordinates.

  Anxiety rose in his face. "What report? And to whom will this report be made?"

  "No one you would know," I assured him. "Merely an aristocrat of Old Earth. One of the old, old families."

  Trollane's eyes were flicking back and forth now. "One hears stories about Old Earth," he said. "It remains a somewhat primitive environment, I believe."

  "There are some survivals of early customs," I said. "Particularly among the aristocracy. Lord Afre, for example, exhibits some behaviors that are not usually encountered in the Foundational Domains, nor even among the secondaries."

  I saw beads of sweat on the man's upper lip as I continued, "He may want to pursue this matter further. It directly concerns his only daughter. Of course, the resources at his disposal are considerable. He may even come in person, with an appropriate entourage."

  The flautist's muscular lips had drawn in. "An entourage?" he said.

  "It would be quite an interesting experience for you." I smiled and bid him goodbye, but I had scarcely taken two steps before I felt his hand on my arm.

  "I would prefer to resolve this with you," he said. "Can you act with discretion?"

  "Do you mean, can I leave your name out of my report? If you point me toward persons who have a more direct participation in the matter that troubles my client, then yes."

  "Let us go into the tunnel," he said.

  We skirted the crowd of Honchites and stepped into the entryway. Behind us, the anthem had wound down and the strains of a choral work were wafting past us as we took the first bend. I stopped and produced an image of Hobart Lascalliot. "Is this the man for whom you composed the song?" I said.

  He studied the image, and I saw genuine puzzlement in his face. "No, it was a man named Osk Rievor, from the Thoon region on Great Gallowan."

  I knew the planet by name and had an inkling of its attributes. It was an old secondary, the kind of world that is comfortable with itself and unlikely to startle most visitors.

  "Please describe this man to me," I said.

  "I cannot. I dealt by mail with his intermediary, a man named Toop Zherev."

  "Also a Thoonian?"

  "Yes, he farms flambords."

  I had no idea what flambords were, but the notion that Hobart Lascalliot was connected with farming was no more strange than that he was obsessed with hearing Chalivire Afre sing. Still I filed away the names Osk Rievor and Toop Zherev and continued the interrogation. "Did Zherev say what he wanted the song for?"

  "No, but he was adamant that none should hear it before its premiere performance."

  "And that will be where and when?"

  "That he did not say."

  "Hmm," I said.

  "What is this about?" Trollane said. "I am an honest musician. Have I fallen among ne'er-do-wells?"

  "It would be premature to say," I told him.

  #

  Great Gallowan was the larger of two habitable worlds in its system, offering several broad continents with a wide range of environments. Its original settlement had been by an overflow of population from Chorrey, one of the later foundationals, and the pioneers had come equipped with all that was necessary to make the place habitable without undue struggle. It was a moderate world, neither too rich nor too poor, its inhabitants living by philosophies that required little exertion and that had caused them few troublesome periods in the planet's long history.

  The Thoon was a broad littoral plain that fell away from a well-worn range of mountains on the western edge of the continent of Amblet. It held no major cities, but there were several sizable towns, between two of which was a modest spaceport. The Orgillous put down there at dusk on a summer's day. An officer in the simple tan-and-brown uniform of the Claviger Service met me as I descended to the pavement. He identified himself as Examiner (Second Grade) Baltaz Thoring and put a series of questions to me that soon allowed me to establish my complete lack of intent to import or export any of the few items on the proscribed list. Thoring was as tall and spare, with an elongated chin and a narrow protruding brow, so that when seen in profile he reminded me of a crescent moon. His accent was much like that of Hobart Lascalliot.

  The man was looking askance at my integrator, perched on my shoulder, but accepted my assurances that it was neither disease-ridden nor likely to savage anyone who came too close. When I inquired where a visitor might sample the local food and entertainment, he directed me to a row of hostelries and restaurants just beyond the gates. I thanked him and executed a deferential gesture then, as if remembering something that had slipped my memory, I mentioned that I had met someone from these parts. "Toop Zherev, his name was," I said.

  The Examiner's thin face registered surprise. "I know of only one Toop Zherev," he said. "He operates a flambord station north of here, on Balwinder Sound."

  "Flambord?" I said.

  "A local shellfish, multilegged with a broad, muscular tail. Skillfully prepared they are a great delicacy, and Zherev farms some of the best."

  "I understand he is an associate of Osk Rievor," I said.

  The claviger man's eyes clouded and I found that the interrogation had now reversed direction. "Where did you say you were from?" he asked.

  "Old Earth."

  "And your business on Great Gallowan?"

  "Just seeing the sights."

  He squinted and regarded me from one side of his nose. I again expressed an interest in sampling the local food and drink and, bidding him farewell, I sauntered off in the direction of the spaceport's gates. As soon as I was out of earshot I said to my integrator, "What is he doing?"

  I felt it reposition itself on my shoulder as it looked back. "Watching us depart and speaking into a communicator," it said.

  "Are your eyes sharp enough to read his lips?"

  "Yes, but the device is close to his mouth and obscures my view. Ah, now he lowers it. '. . .asking questions, says he knows Osk.' Now he is listening. I think someone is giving him instructions because he is nodding and saying, 'I will.'"

&
nbsp; "Will what?"

  "I do not know," my assistant said. "He is listening again. Now he speaks, but as he does so he is wiping his upper lip with the back of a two fingers, apparently a nervous gesture. Now he watches silently."

  "You caught nothing more?"

  "One word, though I cannot be completely sure."

  "What is the word?" I said.

  "His hand partially obscured his mouth, but I believe it was 'derogation.'"

  It seemed an odd word for the context. "It is a term used by justiciars, is it not? Something to do with mitigating the force of a statute?"

  "That is its meaning in Olkney, but words tend to mutate as they tumble down The Spray. Here, it might mean something considerably different."

  "What is he doing now?" I said.

  He was watching us proceed toward the gates. I passed through and stood in the broad street beyond, looking at the facades of the establishments that lined one side. Across the road stood a row of shade trees, then a beach that sloped down to the placid waters of the Bath, a small, round bay that had captured a tiny part of the Calamitous Ocean.

  A sign above the door of the nearest building, a seven-storied brick structure with a mansard roof, advised that those who enjoyed an ocean view might rent a room. A smaller legend underneath advertised seafood dinners at agreeable prices. I mounted the broad wooden stairs to a porch whose boards creaked as I crossed them and opened the glass paneled door.

  "As you climbed the stairs," my integrator said, "the claviger turned and went back to his booth. He was holding the communicator to his mouth again, but his back was toward us."

  "Hmm," I said. "At least we know we have touched a nerve. Let us go in here, and see if anyone shows up to take an interest in our doings. We might also find out about these flambords."

  The decor of the lobby was understated, a stone flagged floor, softened by thick, woven rugs, and set about with low tables and large chairs that looked to offer enough comfort for a short wait, but not enough to keep anyone sitting all day. A broad counter ran down one end of the room, and behind it waited a fresh-faced young woman with a pleasant air who was happy to rent me a room on the third floor. She wore a name badge that identified her as "Ylma."