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  VI. Spanchetta and Simonetta

  At Clattuc House Spanchetta and Simonetta Clattuc were sisters, more alike than otherwise, though Spanchetta was the more earthy and Simonetta - ‘Smonny,’ as she was known - the more imaginative and restless. As girls both were boisterous, untidy and overbearing; both grew to be large, big-breasted young women with profuse heaps of curling hair; small glinting heavy-lidded eyes; flat pallid faces between conspicuous cheekbones. Both were passionate, haughty, domineering and vain; both were uninhibited and possessed of boundless energies. During their youth, both Spanny and Smonny became obsessively fixated upon the person of Scharde Clattuc and each shamelessly sought to seduce him, or marry him, or by any other means to possess him for their own. Scharde was uncertain as to which of the two he found the more repulsive, and avoided the advances as politely as possible.

  Scharde was sent off-world to an IPCC4 training mission on at Sarsenopolis on Alphecca Nine. Here he met Marya Aragone, a dark-haired young woman of grace, charm, dignity and intelligence with whom he became enamored, and she with him. The two were married at Sarsenopolis and in due course returned to Araminta Station.

  Spanchetta and Smonny were outraged. Scharde’s conduct represented an insulting personal rejection, and also - at a deeper level - a lack of submissiveness, which they found intolerable. They were able to rationalize their fury when Smonny failed to matriculate from the Lyceum and, on becoming a collateral, was forced to move out of Clattuc House, coincidentally at about the same time Marya arrived, so that the blame could easily be transferred to Marya and Scharde.

  Heavy with bitterness, Smonny departed Araminta Station. For a time she ranged far and wide across the Reach, engaging in a variety of activities. Eventually she married Titus Zigonie, who owned Shadow Valley Ranch, comprising twenty-two thousand square miles on the world Rosalia, as well as a Clayhacker space yacht.

  For the labor necessary to work his ranch, Titus Zigonie, at Smonny’s suggestion, began to employ gangs of indentured Yips, brought to Rosalia by none other than Namour, who shared the proceeds of the business with Calyactus, Oomphaw of Yipton.

  At Namour’s urging Calyactus paid a visit to the Shadow Valley Ranch on Rosalia, where he was murdered by either Smonny or Namour, or perhaps both.

  Titus Zigonie, an inoffensive little man, became ‘Titus Pompo, the Oomphaw,’ though Smonny wielded all authority. Never had she relaxed her hatred of Araminta Station in general and Scharde Clattuc in particular, and her dearest wish was to perform some destructive atrocity upon them both. Meanwhile, Namour, with utmost sang-froid once again took up his duties as paramour to both Spanchetta and Smonny.

  Marya meanwhile had borne Scharde a son, Glawen. When Glawen was two years old, Marya drowned in a boating accident under peculiar circumstances. A pair of Yips, Selious and Catterline, were witnesses to the drowning. Scharde questioned Selious and Catterline at length. Each claimed that he could not swim, so how could he save a drowning woman so far from shore: at least a hundred feet. Why had the woman herself not learned to swim before venturing out upon the dangerous water? In any event, the lady’s conduct was no concern of theirs; they were talking and paying no attention to her activities. Scharde, unconvinced, pressed his questions until the Yips became sullen and silent, and he had no choice but to desist and send them back to Yipton.

  Had the drowning been something other than accident? Someday, Scharde told himself, he would learn the truth.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Chapter 1, Part I

  The terrace of the Utward Inn at Stroma extended thirty feet out from the cliff into a great region of sunny air, with the cold blue-green waters of the fjord eight hundred feet below. At a table beside the outer rail sat a party of four men. Torq Tump and Farganger were off-worlders; they drank ale from stoneware mugs. Sir Denzel Attabus had been served a gill of herbal spirits in a pewter minikin, while Roby Mavil, the other resident of Stroma, drank green Araminta wine from a goblet. Sir Denzel and Roby Mavil wore garments currently in fashion at Stroma: sedate jackets of rich black serge, flouncing at the hips over narrow dark red trousers. Roby Mavil, younger of the two, was somewhat fleshy, with a round face, softly waving black hair, limpid grey eyes, a black brush of a mustache. He sat slouched back in his chair, glowering down at the wine goblet; events were not going to suit him.

  Sir Denzel had only recently arrived at the table. He sat stiff and erect: an elderly gentleman with a ruff of gray hair, a notable nose, narrow blue eyes under shaggy eyebrows. He had thrust his drink of herbal spirits to the side.

  The off-worlders were men of totally different stripe. They wore the ordinary garments of the Gaean Reach: loose shirts and trousers of dark blue twill, ankleboots with buckles at the instep. Torq Tump was short, barrel-chested, almost bald, with a heavy hard face. Farganger was gaunt, all bone and dry sinew, with a narrow head, a high-bridged broken nose, a gray mouth like a downward slash across flat cheeks. Both sat impassively but for flickers of contemptuous amusement at the interchanges between Sir Denzel and Roby Mavil.

  After a single glance toward the two off-worlders, Sir Denzel dismissed them from his attention, and turned to Roby Mavil. “I am not only dissatisfied, I am shocked and disheartened!”

  Roby Mavil attempted a smile of hope and good cheer. “Surely, sir, the picture is not all so grim! In fact, I can only believe -”

  Sir Denzel’s gesture cut him short. “Can you not grasp an elemental principle? Our covenant was solemn, and certified by the entire directorate.”

  “Exactly so! Nothing has changed except now we are able to support our cause more decisively.”

  “Then why was I not consulted?”

  Roby Mavil shrugged and looked off across the gulf of air. “I really can’t say.”

  “But I can! This is a deviation from the Source Dogma, which is not just a verbalization, but a pattern for day-to-day, minute-by-minute conduct!”

  Roby Mavil turned back from his contemplation of the void. “May I ask where you obtained your information? Was it Rufo Kathcar?”

  “That is irrelevant.”

  “Not altogether. Kathcar, excellent fellow though he may be, is something of a weathervane and is not above malicious exaggeration.”

  “How can he exaggerate what I see with my own eyes?”

  “That is not all there is to it!”

  “There is more?”

  Roby Mavil spoke with a flushed face. “I mean that, when the need was recognized, the executive council acted with appropriate flexibility.”

  “Ha! And you apply the word ‘weathervane’ to Kathcar, when it is he who remained loyal and who lifted the veil upon this astonishing development.” Sir Denzel took notice of his drink. He lifted the pewter pot and swallowed the contents at a gulp. “The words ‘integrity’ and ‘faith’ are unknown to the fellows of your cabal.”

  For a moment Roby Mavil sat in gloomy silence. Then, after a cautious side glance, he said: “It is imperative that this misunderstanding be mended. I will arrange talks and no doubt we shall have an official apology; then, with good faith renewed, our team will continue its work, each to his scope and ability, as before.”

  Sir Denzel gave another bark of laughter. “Allow me to quote you a passage from Navarth’s ‘Happenings’: ‘A virgin is raped four times in a thicket. The perpetrator is called to account and tries to make amends. He provides a costly salve to soothe the scratches on her buttocks, but his apologies fail to restore her maidenhead.’”

  Roby Mavil heaved a deep sigh, and spoke in a voice of sweet reason. “Perhaps we should back away and use a wider perspective.”

  “What?” Sir Denzel’s voice trembled. “I have reached the Ninth Sign of the Noble Way, and you suggest that I broaden my perspectives? Unbelievable!”

  Roby Mavil went on doggedly. “As I see it, we are engaged in a struggle of the Ultimates: Good against Evil, a fact which generates its own imperatives. Our opponents are d
esperate; when they strike out we are duty-bound to ward off their blows. In short, we must swim in the river of reality, or sink and drown, along with all our dreams of glory.”

  “Come now!” snapped Sir Denzel. “I have lived long in this world; I know that faith and truth are good: they enhance life. Deceit, coercion, blood and pain are bad, also the betrayal of trust.”

  Roby Mavil said bravely: “It is not good to let a petty spasm of hurt feelings deter you from our great undertaking!”

  Sir Denzel chuckled. “Yes, I am vain and peevish; I want everyone to approach me with reverence and kiss my foot. Is that your thinking? Quite so. Your goals are even more stark. You want me to pay over another large sum of money: a hundred thousand sols is what you expect.”

  Roby Mavil managed a painful grin. “Dame Clytie said that you had agreed to one hundred and fifty thousand sols.”

  “The figure was mentioned,” said Sir Denzel. “That phase has come and gone. We have entered the time when we recover funds wrongfully spent, down to the last dinket. I am determined on this; you shall not cheat me of my money and spend it upon horrid goods.”

  Roby Mavil blinked and shifted his gaze. Tump and Farganger looked on imperturbably. Sir Denzel seemed to become aware of them. “I did not catch your names?”

  “I am Torq Tump.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I am Farganger.”

  “‘Farganger’? Is that all?”

  “It is enough.”

  Sir Denzel inspected them thoughtfully, then spoke to Tump. “I wish to ask you some questions. I hope you will not take them amiss.”

  “Ask away,” said Tump indifferently. “However, I expect that Mavil, yonder, would prefer to give you the answers.”

  “So it may be. Still one way or another I intend to learn facts.”

  Roby Mavil straightened in his seat, then scowled in new annoyance at the approach of Rufo Kathcar: a man tall, gaunt and pallid, with concave cheeks, burning black eyes under black eyebrows, with violet shadows surrounding. Black wisps of hair fell to the side of his white forehead; an untidy short beard fringed his bony jaw. His arms and legs were long and lank; with hands and feet so large as to seem ungainly. Kathcar greeted Roby Mavil with a cool nod, glanced sharply at Tump and Farganger, then spoke to Sir Denzel. “You seem a bit disconsolate, sir.” He drew up a chair and seated himself.

  “‘Disconsolate’ is not the word,” said Sir Denzel. “You know the circumstances.”

  Roby Mavil started to speak, but Sir Denzel silenced him with a gesture.

  “It is the old story. I laugh and I cry to think of it, that such things could happen to me!”

  Roby Mavil glanced nervously to right and left. “Please, Sir Denzel! Your dramatics are entertaining the entire terrace!”

  “Then let them listen; perhaps they will profit from my experiences. These are the facts. I was approached with fulsome courtesy; everyone was anxious to hear my opinions - a novelty at which I could not help but wonder. Still, I expressed myself in clear, detailed terms; I left no room for misunderstanding.”

  Sir Denzel gave his head an ironic shake. “The response surprised me. I was asked as to the source of my philosophy; I replied that I had done no more than provide a glimpse down the Noble Way, and everyone was impressed. They told me that at last a source dogma for the LPF party had been defined, and that everyone was charged with crusading fervor. I could not turn aside now; I was urged to implement my views with all means at my disposal, including financial support: after all, what better use could be found for a hoard of passive wealth? I agreed to fund a relatively large account at the Bank of Soumjiana. This account would be accessible only to three members of the Executive Council. These three were nominated on the spot: Roby Mavil, Julian Bohost and, at my insistence, Rufo Kathcar as the third. I stipulated that no money might be spent in conflict with the precepts of the Noble Way; was this clear to all? Absolutely! The endorsement was unanimous, and Roby Mavil’s voice rang out loud and brave.

  “So it was agreed in an atmosphere of emotion and bonhomie.

  “This morning came the denouement. I learned that my trust had been abused, the Source Dogma cast aside like a piece of rotting meat, and my money given to ignoble uses. ‘Betrayal’ is a word which fits the case, and I face a new reality, which first of all must include the return of my money.”

  Roby Mavil cried out in passion: “That is impossible! The money has been withdrawn from the account und used!”

  Kathcar asked harshly: “To what exact amount?”

  Roby Mavil turned him a glance of utter loathing. “I have tried to observe the amenities of polite discourse, but now I must allude to a situation which had better gone ignored, at least for the moment. The facts are these: Rufo Kathcar’s connection with the LPF Executive Council has lapsed. In blunt terms, he is no longer regarded as a good LPFer.”

  “Good Peefer, bad Peefer: that is sheer tosh!” snapped sir Denzel. “Rufo Kathcar is my second cousin and a man of excellent connections! He is also my aide and I rely upon him.”

  “No doubt,” said Mavil. “Nevertheless, Kathcar’s views are often impractical, or even startling. In the interests of procedural harmony, he has been excised from the directorate.”

  Kathcar pushed back his chair. “Mavil, be good enough to hold your tongue while I state the facts. They are crude and ugly. The LPF is controlled by a pair of headstrong women, each more obstinate than the other. I need mention no names. In a gaggle of nincompoops and popinjays, among whom Roby Mavil is conspicuous, I was the last bulwark of good judgment against which the folly of these women beat in vain. They have pushed me aside, and the LPF is now an engine without a flywheel.” Kathcar rose to his feet. He addressed Sir Denzel. “Your decision is correct! You must deny this cabal all further credits and recover the funds you have already advanced!” Kathcar turned and stalked from the terrace. Sir Denzel also started to rise. Roby Mavil cried out: “Wait! You must listen to me! Second cousin or not, Kathcar has given you a false impression!”

  “Indeed? His remarks sounded reasonable to me.”

  “You have not heard the whole truth! Kathcar was expelled from the directorate, but more than clashing personalities was involved. There was a naked struggle for power! Kathcar declared himself better qualified to lead the campaign than either Dame Clytie or Simonetta, and assigned secondary roles to each of them. Both were outraged, and felt that Kathcar had displayed intolerable excesses of masculine vanity. Kathcar was not only thwarted; he was captured and severely punished, to such an extent that he is now motivated by hatred and spite.”

  “Well, what of that?” demanded Sir Denzel. “He has mentioned his experiences on Shattorak to me, and in his place I too might be perturbed.”

  Roby Mavil heaved a sigh of resignation. “Kathcar, however, has learned nothing. He is as reckless and as arrogant as before. He ignores correct LPF doctrine, and may well face new discipline. In the meantime, his advice is worth nothing - in fact, less than nothing, and might even tend to associate you with Kathcar when it comes time to reckon with his misdeeds.”

  Sir Denzel transfixed Roby Mavil with a cold blue stare. “Can it be possible that you are threatening me with violence?”

  Roby Mavil gave a prim cough. “Of course not! Still, realities are what they are, and should not be ignored, even by Sir Denzel Attabus.”

  “You speak of ‘realities.’ It was certainly not Kathcar who deceived me and cheated me of my money. I will most definitely carry this affair to its ultimate conclusion.” He bowed curtly to Tump and Farganger, then marched off across the terrace.

  Roby Mavil sank back into his chair, drained and apathetic. Tump watched him without expression. Farganger contemplated the vast distances south down the great cleft of Stroma Fjord and the blue-green water a thousand feet below.

  At last Roby Mavil roused himself. “Nothing persists forever. It seems that at last the time for changes has come.”

  Tump pondered a m
oment. “No man can fly.”

  Roby Mavil nodded somberly. “This is a lesson many men have learned. I know of none who have profited from the knowledge.”

  Neither Tump’s expression nor that of Farganger changed, and no one watching might have guessed the nature of their thoughts.

  * * *

  Chapter 1, Part II

  Two days before his visit to Stroma, Egon Tamm communicated with Warden Ballinder. He announced his plans and asked that the council hall be made available for the occasion. Warden Ballinder agreed to do as requested.

  On the day specified, during the middle afternoon, Egon Tamm arrived at the Stroma air terminal: a dark-haired man of compact physique, with features of such regularity and manners so easy that his presence was often overlooked. He came with Bodwyn Wook, Scharde Clattuc, Scharde’s son Glawen - all these Bureau B personnel – Hilva Offaw, High Justice of the Araminta Judiciary, and his daughter Wayness.

  Up from Stroma had come a number of folk, including three Wardens, several other notables, a few students, and a miscellany of persons with nothing better to do. They waited beside the road which led along the brink of the cliff, hooded black cloaks flapping in the wind. As Egon Tamm approached, a gaunt young man with a red beard ran out to confront him. Egon Tamm paused courteously and the young man cried out: “Egon Tamm, why have you come here?”

  “To speak to the folk of Stroma.”

  “In that case you must tell us facts!” Truth was a rock to which a man could set his back, but there was none to be found at Stroma, where life had gone weird. If the Conservator had brought a message of hope, could he reveal something of what he was about to say, if only a hint?