The Garments of Caean

by Barrington J. Bayley

  Mast hummed to himself. Castor was exaggerating, of course. The Caeanic merchandise had been sold to Olveolo Jadper for an acceptable profit – but only just in time. Things were so much more difficult now. The Directorate had tightened up in all directions and he did not envy the japing fence his possession of a store of enemy goods. ‘The joke’s on you, Jadper,’ he had thought when reading of the government’s intensified propaganda campaign against Caean.

  But much of the money was now gone, and the word was out to lie low to escape the attentions of the newly-vigilant Directorate Investigators. Castor had even suggested another sortie to Kyre but Mast, naturally, had vetoed that. He almost wished the war would start and open up the black markets every war entailed.

  ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to get it,’ he decided. ‘A quick burglary, perhaps. People don’t usually bother to lock up their daily wear.’

  ‘He might do with this one, though,’ Castor said quickly. ‘If what you say is right, it’s a horn of plenty.’

  ‘A cornucopia,’ Mast smiled dreamily, pleased by Castor’s unexpected literacy. ‘Or a Pandora’s box?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Castor demanded.

  Mast did not bother to explain. ‘Find out where Forbarth lives,’ he instructed. ‘What his habits are. Then we’ll decide on the best way of getting the suit.’

  He paused, thinking the matter through afresh. ‘You understand these moves are exploratory only. We’ll experiment with the suit merely, to find out what its capabilities are.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ll wear it myself,’ he murmured. ‘You can wear it, Castor.’

  Castor fingered his grubby jacket.

  At that moment the signal chime sounded. ‘Who can that be?’ Mast wondered, looking up. ‘Find out, Grawn.’

  Grawn moved to the annunciator and held down the switch. ‘Yeah?’

  But instead of a proper answer they heard only bangings and stamping of feet as the outer door was forced open. The whine of the elevator sounded distantly over the annunciator.

  Grawn gaped at Mast. Moments later the door to the apartment crashed open. Four big men, wearing formal business clothes, came through the short vestibule and entered the lounge.

  Their leader flashed a card. ‘Police. Realto Mast?’

  Mast nodded.

  ‘You’re under arrest.’ He gestured at Castor and Grawn. ‘These yours?’

  ‘We was just leaving,’ Grawn offered, sidling towards the door.

  Two of the men moved to block the exit.

  Mast laughed uneasily. ‘Really! How melodramatic! Just what is the charge? What could it possibly be?’

  A square-jawed plain clothes man moved round his boss to look Mask up and down. ‘A dandy,’ he announced. ‘Wouldn’t you know it.’

  ‘It figures,’ said a third. ‘You expect them to be pervy in a set-up like this.’

  The leader turned to Mast. ‘You’re charged with importing subversive enemy contraband. That’s just two degrees below treason on the criminal scale, Mast. Come on, let’s all go.’

  ‘Treason?’ cried Mast in alarm. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Don’t you read the Directorate Codesheets?’ the captain asked sadistically. ‘Since last month, that’s since when. Tzist is an official enemy now.’

  ‘It is absolutely ridiculous,’ Mast said with finality. ‘I have no connections with any importation of contraband or anything else. I am a loyal Ziodean. Obviously you have no evidence. You are arresting me by reason of rumour, or malicious gossip – or something.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me. We’ve got evidence.’ The police captain gestured to him to stand.

  Mast came to his feet. ‘You’ll never prove anything,’ he said peevishly.

  Castor lowered his head and spoke in a rasping whine. ‘We don’t know this man. We came up here in answer to an advertisement –’

  ‘Sure you don’t know him. That’s why you’ve been everywhere he goes for the past seven years, that’s how well you don’t know him. Move, all three of you, and stop wasting time.’

  Castor and Grawn continued to protest weakly as all three were herded out of the apartment and taken down in the elevator. In the ground-floor hallway Mast was most unpleasantly surprised to meet Olveolo Jadper, flanked by yet two more non-uniformed policemen. The japer, looking mildly unhappy, wore a silver-grey quilted boiler suit which made him seem even fatter than he was.

  ‘You!’ Mast accused.

  Jadper grimaced, shrugging his shoulders in a show of embarrassment. ‘Sorry, old fellow. Had to buy some leniency.’ He made a wan attempt to giggle. ‘The joke’s on you, eh?’

  ‘Is that him?’ demanded the captain.

  Jadper nodded.

  Three big cars were waiting in the street. At the front door Castor gave a low strangled growl, ducked, twisted, and ran towards the back of the house. He disappeared down the steps to the cellar, his footsteps clattering in frantic haste.

  One of the policemen drew an energy pistol and gave chase. He emerged from the cellar a minute or so later, looking frustrated.

  ‘The little rat had a bolthole down there. He’s probably two streets away by now.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll pick him up eventually.’

  The police captain nudged Mast in the ribs. ‘Come on.’

  Resignedly Mast allowed himself to be led out to the waiting car.

  8

  Always on awakening lately, Peder was filled with fearful apprehensions, invaded by confused and perturbed thoughts, made to feel abandoned, alone and miserable. But he could never summon the will to make any sense out of his feelings. He could only, as today, stare blankly at the ceiling and move feebly under the covers, terrified of leaving his bed.

  Eventually he forced himself to rise and flex his muscles with zombie-like movements, trying to clear his brain of its undeclared war. He had a headache. He took a pill, and padded to the bathroom.

  On returning he stood and stared at the Frachonard suit, which hung on a rack near the wardrobe. His face was slack, his body like lead.

  ‘I own you,’ he said dully, trying to spark life into himself. The thought alone had once been enough to leave him brimming with joy. Now his words seemed cheerless and disappointing.

  But the urge to wear the suit was still there. Of late he wore it every day – there was an enormous let-down in wearing anything else. Moving as if drawn by magnetism, he put on undergarments and a suitable shirt, then dressed himself in the superb Prossim cloth, adding slim shoes of soft lavender leather and a cravat to match. He adjusted the garments before the full-length mirror, his eyes flicking here and there.

  Suddenly everything zipped into place in his mind. It was like switching on a power supply. The future tumbled through his head, showing him where he was going. He felt invigorated and in command of himself, strong and in his prime.

  He gazed for some moments longer at the suit. There were new aspects to it every time he looked at it. Its ingenious lines were always revealing dazzling new effects. He had still not fathomed how the scyes and shoulders had been cut and fitted, for instance. Frachonard had buried secret upon secret in his masterpiece.

  It was a pity he was so vulnerable during that short period between waking and dressing, he reflected ruefully. That was the old Peder Forbarth returning and blinking in the light of the renewed Peder Forbarth.

  He dialled the service hatch for breakfast.

  He was still eating when the door opened. Two men in dark conservative clothes entered uninvited, looking around them warily. It was obvious they were security police. That they had gained access to his private elevator and neutralized the door lock without arousing the building’s watchdog circuit told him that.

  ‘You Peder Forbarth?’ demanded the taller of the two.

  He nodded.

  ‘Come with us. You’ve got some questions to answer.’ The plain clothes man flashed a card.

  ‘Quite impossible!’ declared Peder loudly with a flourish
of his arm. ‘Whatever your business is, it must be settled right here. Tonight I am to attend the birthday ball of the Third Minister, so there is a great deal to attend to. Will you have some coffee?’ he finished politely.

  They glanced at one another, utterly disconcerted. Peder was inwardly complacent. The suit had stalled them. They did not even know why they felt so paralysed, why they had undergone a loss of confidence immediately on entering his presence. It was a phenomenon he had learned to use. People would even disbelieve the evidence of their senses if he wanted them to – provided he was wearing his Frachonard suit.

  ‘Then may I know your names?’ he asked with an ironic smile.

  ‘I’m Lieutenant Burdo,’ the tall security man said. He took a folder from his pocket and began shuffling documents. Finally he decided to get on with it. ‘Where were you between the eighty-fifth and hundred-twentieth of last year?’

  Peder paused as if searching his memory. ‘I was vacationing on Hixtos part of that time. For the rest of it I was here in Gridira.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Where did you stay on Hixtos?’

  ‘At the Pearl Diver Hotel in Permerand. It’s on the Holiday Reefs. A big vacation area.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ The lieutenant scribbled on a pad. Then he took out a picture of Realto Mast and laid it on the breakfast table. ‘This man disputes your story. He says you were with him, on a star yacht called the Costa.’

  ‘What would I be doing with him?’

  ‘You tell us.’

  ‘All right,’ Peder said, smiling. ‘Probably smuggling Caeanic contraband, the way you read it.’

  ‘So you admit it.’ It was the other plain clothes man who spoke, his voice determinedly tough.

  ‘No, of course not. But I did meet this man once, when I used to keep a shop on Tarn Street. He came in there and tried to sell me Caeanic garments.’

  ‘Did you buy them?’

  ‘No. I don’t deal in them.’

  ‘You didn’t inform the authorities.’

  ‘I should have, I know, but I didn’t want my customers driven away by any publicity. The line of work I was in…’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lieutenant Burdo said brusquely, ‘you’re a specialist in bizarre and outlandish garments. A freak tailor, the kind who’s always been regarded as a security risk. Usually with good reason.’

  The other man waved a hand at the walls. ‘What’s all this, for instance?’

  Peder had adorned his lounge with paintings of Caeanic scenes, some fanciful and imaginary, but others depicting identifiable Caeanic landmarks. One such was the famous tower of Quest, built in the shape of a man with outstretched arms, face raised to the sky, wearing a stiff garment trailing finlike structures down from his shoulders to the ground. In the original the tower was five thousand feet high.

  It was admittedly embarrassing to have these pictures on show when the security police called. ‘An interest in the bizarre doesn’t necessarily mean approval of it,’ he said.

  ‘Why would Realto Mast try to implicate you in the smuggling of Caeanic contraband?’ Lieutenant Burdo asked him.

  ‘Who knows? I dare say the more people he drags down with him the lighter his sentence will be. That’s how justice works these days, isn’t it?’

  The lieutenant gave a wry smile. ‘Well, we’ll have to check this out,’ he finished in a more friendly tone. ‘But don’t leave Gridira without permission.’

  Peder dialled the service unit to clear the table and rose to his feet, turning to the two men. All his movements had absolute elegance and precision. The suit was still working for him, subjecting the intruders to a subliminal bombardment of line and gesture, fractional poses whose effect on the unwitting perceptions could be remarkable.

  ‘I am a loyal Ziodean,’ he drawled, ‘and these aspersions affect me unpleasantly …’ He held out an arm and tweaked the cloth of his sleeve. ‘Feel this: good old crabsheep twill, Ziode’s native fabric. If you want someone to vouch for my loyalty, get in touch with the Eleventh Minister.’

  ‘The Eleventh Minister?’ Burdo repeated.

  ‘A personal friend. I am also acquainted with the Third Minister, as I have intimated.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I see,’ Burdo said respectfully. ‘Forgive us for taking up your time …’

  After they had gone Peder wondered if his fake alibi would stand up. To cover some of the time he was away with Mast he actually had booked a vacation on Hixtos, but he had given the booking to a customer of his to use in his name.

  What did it matter? A man garbed in the art of Frachonard had no cause to fear anything! Even when given incontrovertible evidence of his guilt, even when his increasing obsession with all things Caeanic, his mounting desire to see the Tzist Arm for himself (impossible though that was) was obvious beyond all reasonable doubt, men would still prefer to believe the front he showed them. Even though face to face with a man in a Frachonard Prossim suit, Caean’s highest artform, they would still imagine he was wearing some factory-produced piece of Ziodean wretchedness. That was part of the suit’s genius – its seeming conventionality. It was the perfect disguise. And, at the same time, it became a powerful social weapon.

  Peder laughed, and went striding from the penthouse to go confidently about his day’s business.

  He arrived fairly late at the birthday ball of Baryonid Varl Vascha, Third Minister to the Directorate. The main mass of the Minister’s palace was hidden from view of the ground by an ascending series of hanging gardens, up which Peder, after tendering his coded invitation, was escorted to the main entrance on the roof. The palace was already thronged with guests and the affair promised to be a splendid one.

  But before he could join the revelry he had to wait nearly half an hour in an ante-room to be presented to the Minister. Baryonid Varl Vascha was a thickset man, his grip muscular and firm as he shook hands with Peder, growling a perfunctory greeting. His jet-black hair was greased sideways across his nearly flat pate, and his face wore a habitually ironic, knowing smile. His glance flicked to the present Peder had placed on the gift table: an engraved drinking goblet in gold and tantalum-silver alloy which Peder had commissioned specially.

  Peder felt the Minister’s unsettling eyes on his back as he left the audience room. He passed through a wide, brightly-lit connecting passage whose walls were decorated with meandering veins of gold, and set off to explore as much of the palace as had been made available for the occasion.

  There was a main ballroom and three subsidiary ballrooms, and in each room music of a different type was being played. In interconnecting salons luxurious food and drink were laid out in such profusion, and footmen were so numerous, that no guest felt any whim unsupplied. Third Minister Vascha had spent a fortune on the arrangements. It could hardly have been otherwise; unstinting extravagance was expected of all high-ranking members of the Directorate, and Vascha was certain to have his eye on the Second and even First Ministerships.

  Peder took himself to the radiant main ballroom, where the Master of Ceremonies took his name and bellowed his arrival to the company.

  ‘Citizen Peder Forbarth!’

  Leisurely Peder sauntered beneath the blazing overhead curve of the ceiling, whose golden lights and delicately tinted frescos made a hazy impression of some distant heaven. A number of heads turned at hearing his name, and he began quickly to pick out those he knew and those whom he would take the opportunity to get to know.

  Soon he found himself dancing with Aselle Klister, daughter of the Thirtieth Minister, a comely girl with sparkling brown eyes and flushed, peach-like cheeks. Her hair was daringly bouffant and sparkled with diamante. They made a handsome couple as they capered about the floor together, and he knew they were attracting attention.

  The orchestra struck up an angular, lively tune. Peder stepped out, long-legged and energetic, and the girl allowed herself to be swept breathlessly after his lead. Peder had never been much of a dance
r before he came into possession of the Frachonard suit; now it was as natural to him as flight to a bird.

  ‘Oh! Such thrilling music!’ she gasped.

  ‘Yes!’ He whirled her round even faster, and she clung to him, laughing.

  When the orchestra stopped playing they stood clapping with the other dancers. Peder gazed around him, taking stock once more of the celebrities present. There was no sign, he noted, of either the Second or First Ministers; none of their aides, servants or representatives seemed to be present. The disdain befitting their station would require that they make only a perfunctory and barely polite appearance at a festival in honour of one who was both their underling and a close rival, and no doubt they had performed this ritual very early in the evening.

  Back at the tables Peder gravitated to a group discoursing with Eleventh Minister Severon, a prominent politician already known to him. A few weeks earlier Severon had hinted to Peder that he might find a place for him in the Economic Co-ordination Network, or as he liked to call it, ‘the E-Co-Net’.

  Now he was expatiating on the advantages of supervised – in other words bureaucratic – resource allocation as apposed to the free decisions of market-oriented entrepreneurs. ‘It works like this,’ he said in a dry voice. ‘Whenever the government wants something done it can go about it in one of two ways. It can invite tenders, that is to say, it can buy whatever it is it wants on the open market. Or it can interfere with the course of business, dictating which firms will do what. That is the method I favour and which we are putting into effect with the E-Co-Net, and it is the best method, and I will tell you why. Take the first method. Governments invariably have more money than prudence. When a firm finds it has the government for a customer then that government gets swindled for all it’s worth. Now take the second case. Government officials who have the power to dictate to firms will be bribed. Those firms who do not want the work will bribe the officials not to allocate it their way. Firms who can complete the government’s requirements with ease will, for the sake of profit, again bribe the officials. A bribed official takes care to acquaint himself with the business of both ends. He is much more knowledgeable than the honest civil servant living off his salary. He makes a fortune, but the government gets the job done for less money. In a phrase, graft serves the Directorate better than incompetence. What do you say, Forbarth?’