by Jack Vance
“You have never tried to find the Charter?"
“Not seriously. The job seemed hopeless after so many years the trail is cold."
“What of the Secretaries who came after Nisfit: they did nothing?"
Pirie Tamm gave a grunt of disgust. “Nils Myhack succeeded Nisfit, and held the office for forty years. I suspect that he never realized the documents were gone. Kelvin Kilduc was next in office, and I am almost certain that he was unaware of the loss. Kilduc never mentioned any doubt of the Charter's presence in the vault to me. On the other hand, I don’t believe he was a truly dedicated secretary."
“So— if either secretary Myhack or secretary Kilduc tried to recover the Charter, you know nothing about it?”
"Nothing whatever.”
“Somewhere it must still exist. I wonder where.''
“There is no way of knowing. If I were wealthy, I might hire a trustworthy investigator and put him on the case.”
"It is an interesting idea,“ said Wayness. “Perhaps I shall look into the matter myself.”
Pirie Tamm frowned down the table. “You, a slip of a girl?"
"Why not? If I found the Charter and the Grant, you would be delighted!”
“That goes without saying, but the concept is extraordinary. Almost grotesque.”
"I can't see why."
"You are not trained in investigative procedures!”
"It seems mainly a matter of persistence, as well as a modest degree of intelligence.”
“True enough! But such work is frequently coarse and not altogether genteel. Who knows where such a search might take you? This is a job for a tough, resourceful man, not a vulnerable innocent girl, no matter how persistent or intelligent. Danger still exists on old Earth — sometimes in subtle and unusual forms."
"I hope that you exaggerate, since I am something of a coward."
Pirie Tamm frowned down the table. “I believe that you are truly in earnest.”
“Yes, of course.”
"How do you propose to pursue this investigation?”
Wayness considered. “I suppose that I will make a list of likely places to look — museums, collections, dealers in ancient documents — and work down the list.”
Pirie Tamm gave his head a disparaging shake. “My dear young lady, there must be hundreds of such places, on Earth alone.”
Wayness nodded thoughtfully. “It does seem to be a large job. But who knows? I might find clues the way. Also, is there not a central directory where ancient archives are indexed and cross-referenced?”
"Of course! The university has access to such information banks. There is also the Library of Ancient Archives at Shillaway.“ Pirie Tamm rose to his feet. “Let us adjourn to the study for a cordial.”
Pirie Tamm took Wayness along the hall and into his study: a large room, with a fireplace at one end and a pair of long tables at the other. Books and pamphlets crammed the shelves; both tables were littered with papers; between them was a swivel chair. Pirie Tamm indicated the tables. “So goes my life these days. I dwell in a swivel chair. I sit in one direction to work on my monograph; I am jerked to attention by a sudden recollection, swing about in the chair to plunge into Society business, then back again to my monograph.“ Wayness made sounds of commiseration. “No matter,” said Pirie Tamm. "I am only happy that I have no more than two tables and two occupations; with three, or four, I would be whirling like a dervish. Come; let us sit by the fire." Wayness settled herself into a tall old chair of baroque design upholstered in moss-green plush. Pirie Tamm poured dark red cherry cordial into small goblets, one of which he handed to Wayness. “This is the finest Tincture of Morella, and is guaranteed to bring the bloom of health to your cheeks.”
“I will drink cautiously," said Wayness. "Blooming red cheeks would not become me, and even less a red nose.”
“Drink without fear! Red nose or not, your company is most welcome. I seldom entertain these times; in truth I have few acquaintances and fewer friends. Challis tells me that I am widely regarded as a martinet and an ogre, but I suspect that she is only echoing the complaints of her husband. Moira holds similar views, and tells me that I must learn to keep my opinions to myself.” Pirie Tamm gave his head a gloomy shake. “Perhaps they are right. Still, I cannot pretend to be happy with the way the world is going. Ease is now the watchword and no one troubles to do his job correctly. Things went differently when I was young. We were taught to take pride in our achievements, and only ‘Excellent’ was good enough.“ He glanced sidewise at Wayness. "You are laughing at me."
“Not really. On Cadwal, even during my own life, I have noticed changes. Everyone knows that something terrible is about to happen."
Pirie Tamm raised his eyebrows, “How could that be? I thought Cadwal was a place of bucolic languor, where nothing ever changed.”
"That notion is quite out of date.” said Wayness. “On Stroma half the folks abide by the Charter the other half consider it obsolete and want to change everything.”
Pirie Tamm said gloomily: “They realize of course, that they would destroy the Conservancy.”
“That is their dearest hope! They are restless and believe that the Conservancy has lasted long enough.”
"Absurd! Young folk often want change simply for the sake of change, that they may bring significance and identity to their own lives. It is an ultimate form of narcissism. In any case, on Cadwal the Charter is the law and cannot be violated."
Wayness gave her head a slow sad shake. “All very well, but where is the Charter? That is why I am here on Earth."
Pirie Tamm refilled the goblets. For a long moment he stared into the fire. "You should know this,“ he said at last. “There is at least, one other person who knows that the Charter and Grant are not in our possession.”
Wayness leaned back in her chair. “Who else knows?”
“I will tell you how it happened. It is a curious story and I can't pretend to understand it. As you know there have been only three secretaries since Nisfit: NiIs Myhack, Kelvin Kilduc and myself. Myhack became Secretary immediately after Nisfit’s departure. "
Wayness interrupted. "Let me ask you this. Why did the new secretary Nils Myhack, fail to notice immediately that the Charter was missing?”
"For two reasons. Myhack was an amiable chap, but a bit vague and careless in his thinking and inclined to take things at their face value, so to speak. The Charter and Grant were bound into a folder which was contained in a stout envelope, thoroughly sealed and tied with red and black ribbons. This envelope reposed at the Bank of Margravia among other documents, and those few financial instruments which Nisfit had been unable to convert into cash. Upon taking the first needful inventory, Myhack found the envelope safe, sealed and securely bound with black and red ribbons, and correctly labeled. He can be forgiven for assuming that the Charter was safe.”
“Nils Myhack, after many years as Secretary, finally became something of an invalid, with falling eyesight. His work was done by a succession of more or less capable assistants, the last being a formidable female, originally from off-world, who joined the Society, then made herself so helpful to Myhack that at last he employed her as Assistant Secretary. It seemed to be a labor of love for her, and she let it be known that she would gladly become official Secretary whenever Myhack decided to retire. Her name was Monette. She was a large bustling woman, grim, competent and something of a virago. I personally found her unsympathetic. She had a fishlike stare which tended to make a person uneasy. Myhack hoverer had no complaints, and was always singing her praises: 'Monette is truly invaluable' and ‘The office could not function without Monette' and one day: 'Monette has an eye like an eagle She has found an inconsistency in the ledgers and insists that we take inventory of the vault, to assure ourselves that all is in order. I am not up to such a deadly task, so I will send her tomorrow with the keys and a note, to the bank manager'.“
“Kelvin Kilduc and I both made vehement protests, and declared that such an act was
grossly improper. Myhack pulled a long face but at last agreed that we should all go to the bank together. So went the program, and obviously to Monette's displeasure; she came in with a face like a storm cloud, and everyone was careful to treat her politely. The vault was opened, and Monette made a list of the contents: some financial records, a few paltry bonds and the envelope purportedly containing the Charter. Still well sealed and tied in festoons of black and red ribbon, so that everyone was satisfied. All except Monette. Before we could interfere, she had ripped off the ribbons, broken the seals, pulled out the folder. Kilduc cried out 'Here, here! What are you doing?' Monette answered in a barely patient voice: 'I want to make sure of what is in the folder; that is what I am doing.' She opened the folder, looked inside, then closed the folder and tucked it back in the envelope. Kilduc asked: 'Well Monette? Are you satisfied?' “ 'Yes,' said Monette. 'Completely.' “
"She tied the folder up in its ribbons and tossed it back into the box. Nothing more was said; apparently all was as it should be.”
“The next day Monette was gone, without a word of explanation and was seen no more. Kelvin Kilduc became Secretary, and so matters stood until his death, and I was forced to take up the job. You and I went to the Bank of Margravia and opened the vault. I investigated the folder and to my utter shock found not the Charter, but a commercial copy, and no sign of the Grant.”
"I thought back across the years to Monette. I am now convinced that her purpose was to make sure of the Charter. If she had found the original and the Grant secure in the vault, she would have succeeded Myhack as Secretary and then appropriated the Charter and Grant to her own uses. She must have been shocked to discover nothing but the copy; I marvel at her ability to hold a straight face.”
“That is the story. Monette knew long ago that the Charter was missing. What she did next I cannot guess."
Wayness sat silently, looking into the fire.
After a moment Pirie Tamm went on. "That means that Nisfit sold the Charter, along with the other documents of antiquarian value. The present owner has not thought to register the Grant in his own name, as he would be entitled to do, with all legality. And yet another disturbing factor looms over the near horizon."
"Which is?”
'"The Grant must be validated and re-endorsed at least once each century; otherwise the original claim lapses and the Grant is nullified."
Wayness stared aghast. "I knew nothing of this! How much time remains to us?”
“Ten years or so. There is no immediate emergency, but the Grant must be found."
“I shall do my best," said Wayness.
II.
In the morning Wayness arose early. She dressed in a short blue skirt, dark blue knee length stockings, and a pullover blouse of a soft grey-tawny stuff. At once warm, light and complementary to her pale olive complexion.
Wayness left her room and descended the stairs. At this hour Fair Winds seemed unnaturally quiet. During the night, odors had seeped from the fabric of the house: a recollection of countless floral bouquets, curios carved from camphorwood and sanuchi furniture polish and wax, ancient rugs, along with a hint of lavender sachet.
Wayness went the morning room and seated herself at the breakfast tables. Tall windows overlooked a landscape of green meadows, trees and hedge, with the tile roofs and chimneys of Tierens in the distance. This morning the weather seemed somewhat unsettled. Small clouds raced eastward across the sky on an upper wind causing the sunlight to brighten, go dim, and brighten again all in the space of seconds. The light of Sol, thought Wayness — especially here in the Middle-lands — shone pale and hazy, notably different from the golden glare of Syrene. The light of Sol appeared to enhance and enrich blues and greens and perhaps too the muted colors of cloud shadows, while Syrene evoked the inner fire of reds, yellows and oranges. The maid, Agnes, looked in from the kitchen and presently Served Wayness sliced fruit, a boiled egg, buttered scones with strawberry preserves and rich brown coffee.
A short while later pier Tamm appeared wearing an old tweed jacket, a striped black and gray shirt, loose breeches of brown twill: attire more casual than he might have favored in times gone by. Despite all, he still managed to project an air of brusque decorum. For a moment he stood in the doorway, surveying Wayness with the crisp detachment of a military officer inspecting his troops.
Wayness said mildly, “Good morning, Uncle Pirie. I hope I haven’t disturbed you by jumping out of bed so early.”
“Of course not,” declared Pirie Tamm. “Early rising is a virtue to which I have subscribed every day of my life.” He came forward, seated himself and unfolded his napkin. “Mathematics tells the tale. One hour of oversleeping each day destroys a year of life each twenty-four years. Across the span of a hundred years, an extra hour of sloth will excise four years of existence. Think of it! When already I fear that my life will be far too short to fulfill even my minimal ambitions. Who was it who said: 'Sleep when you are dead'?”
"Baron Bodissey, most likely. He seems to have said most everything."
"Clever girl!” Pirie Tamm gave his napkin a flap and tucked the corner into his shirt. "You seem bright and alert this morning — even cheerful.”
Wayness shrugged. "At least bright and alert."
"But not cheerful?"
“I can’t say that Monette and her activities came as a happy surprise."
"Ah well, the episode occurred many years ago and who knows what happened to the woman? I suspect that she has long since forgotten the affair."
"I hope so.”
"Remember, the grant has never been reregistered." Pirie Tamm looked down the length of the table. "I see that you have not let your concern spoil your appetite. I detect eggshells, what once might have been a plate of scones, and what else?”
"Sliced oranges."
"Excellent. A proper breakfast, which will nicely fortify you until luncheon. Agnes? Where the devils are you?'
"Here, sir ready with your tea."
“Tell Cook I’ll have a parsley omelet, with a bit of mushroom ketchup. Scones, as well. Mind you, not a hint of leather to the eggs!”
“I'll tell Cook, sir." Agnes hurried from the room. Pirie Tamm looked into the teapot and gave a disdainful sniff. "I suppose it's no weaker than usual." He poured tea into a cup, sipped, blinked, then returned his attention to Wayness, who placed fourteen sols upon the table and pushed them toward Pirie Tamm. “Last night I forgot. Am I now a member of the Naturalist Society?"
"As soon as I verify your identity and note your name into the rolls. The verification will go smoothly, since I will cite myself as your guarantor."
Wayness smiled. “I have heard that on Old Earth good connections count for everything."
"Regrettably, in the main, this is true. I, however, am almost without such advantages, and must go hat in hand like anyone else when I want something done. My sons-in-law hold me in contempt on this account. Well, no matter. I suppose you have been considering the project we discussed last night?"
"Yes. It was at the top of my mind.”
“And now — very sensibly, I must say — you have had second thoughts and are giving up the idea?"
Wayness looked at him in astonishment. “Why should you think that?"
'"The circumstances are obvious!" snapped Pirie Tamm. “The task far exceeds the capacities of a young girl, no matter how pretty and persuasive."
"Look at it this way, “said Wayness. “There is one lost Charter and one of me. We start on equal terms."
"Bah! I am in no mood for sophistries. In fact, I find myself greatly frustrated by the physical infirmities which inhibit my own efforts along these lines. Ah well! Here is my omelet. Let us see how Cook has managed the job. All seems to be in order. Amazing how often a confection of such simplicity defies the best efforts of a well-paid specialist. Now then, what were we talking about? Ah yes, your proposal. My dear Wayness, the task is monumental! It is simply beyond your scope!"
“I don’t believe so, �
��said Wayness. “If I intended to walk from here to Timbuctoo, I would start by taking one step, then another and another, and soon I would be crossing the Niger River by the Hamshatt Bridge.”
“Aha! You omit the area between the third step and the last — which is to say, the garden at Fair Winds and the Niger River, which lies across the Sahara Desert. Along the way you might be given wrong directions, or robbed, or fall into a ditch, or be attacked or married or divorced.”
"Uncle Pirie! You are far too imaginative!”
“Hmf. I wish I could imagine some nice safe program by which you might learn what you want to know.”
“I already have a plan," said Wayness. “I will look through Society archives; especially those dated during Nisfit’s tenure, and perhaps find some clue which will lead us further.”
“My dear young lady, that is a formidable task in itself. You'll become bored and sad; you'll long to be out in the sunlight, meeting other young folk and enjoying yourself! One day you'll throw up your hands, scream, and run from the house, and that will be the last of the great project."
Wayness tried to keep her voice even. “Uncle Pirie, you are not only imaginative; you are a pessimist.”
Pirie Tamm peered at her from the side of his face. “You are not discouraged?”
“I have heard only what I expected to hear, and I have already taken it into account. I must find the Charter and the Grant; I can think of nothing else. If I succeed, my life will have been useful. If I fail, At least I have tried my best."
Pirie Tamm sat for a moment, then a brief wintry smile crossed his face. “Succeed or fail, your life is precious; there is no question as to that."
“I want to succeed.”
“Just so. I will do what I can to help you.”
“Thank you, Uncle Pirie.”
III.
Pirie Tamm led Wayness into a small high-ceilinged room to the side of his study. A pair of tall narrow windows admitted light filtered by the foliage of grape vines trailing from a balcony. Shelves and cases were crammed to bursting with a disorderly clutter of books, pamphlets, tracts and folders. Walls elsewhere displayed hundreds of photographs, drawings, charts and miscellaneous oddments. A desk with a four-foot information screen occupied an alcove. "This is my old den,” said Pirie Tamm. “I worked here while the family was at home, using my study for a social center, despite my protests and hints. This room was known as 'the Ogre's junkyard’.” Pirie Tamm gave a grim chuckle. "I once overheard Varbert, Moira's husband, use the term 'Old High-Arse's Hideaway’.''