Fool Me Twice (Filidor Vesh) Page 5

  The Archon pressed another control on the device around his waist, and now his voice, when he spoke again, had taken on a deep timbre which resonated wisdom and authority. “Connect me with Bassariot.”

  A man-sized screen appeared in the air, to be filled almost immediately by the image of Faubon Bassariot, dressed in formal apparel, his well fed face abeam with satiation and complacency. He held in one hand a crystal beaker of wine, elevated above his sleek head, as if in the act of offering a toast. It took but a moment for the man to realize what had happened, at which his mien transmuted rapidly through shock to wariness before settling into an aspect of careful neutrality. He lowered the glass, made appropriate gestures and said, “How may I be of service?”

  “My nephew has apparently separated himself from his plaque and sigil,” said the Archon.

  “Most unfortunate,” said Bassariot.

  “Indeed,” said Dezendah Vesh. “It was to prevent such misfortunes that I assigned you to govern his staff.”

  A flicker of concern surfaced on the official’s face, then was as quickly drowned. “I am sure we can rectify the situation,” he said, then the image turned to Filidor. “Do you recall where they were when you last saw them?”

  Filidor raised his eyebrows and blew out his cheeks, examining the various zones of the workroom as if the answer might be found in some overlooked angle of the room.

  “I advise you to answer entirely and only the truth,” said his uncle.

  Filidor heard in his tone a warning not to provoke him further. He took a deep breath then said, “When I last saw them, they were disappearing down Vodel Close in the possession of a young woman named Emmlyn Podarke,” he said.

  “And how did she come to have them?” asked the Archon.

  “She knocked me down and took them,” his nephew said, then added, “after I offended her.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “I am told that she has used my credentials to charter an air-yacht to Trumble, from where the Podarke family apparently hail.”

  Filidor looked to his major-domo. The official had grown quite pale, but his pallor worsened as the Archon turned to him and said, in a quiet voice, “Trumble. Does the place have significance to you, Bassariot?”

  The panjandrum opened his mouth several times before anything came out. “Your nephew dealt with a small matter affecting Trumble this morning, I believe.”

  “What kind of small matter?”

  “A permission to excavate on private land.”

  The Archon’s expression said that he expected to hear more.

  “The site is of minor archaeological importance, it seems. The excavators will take all precautions. The permission was merely a technicality.”

  That piece of information puzzled Filidor. The petition had been much more ornately written than any simple request for permission to dig in some old ruins. Either there was more to the substance of the document, or it had been deliberately overcomplicated. He wondered if Bassariot had been playing some obscure joke on him.

  The young man gave a snort of irritation, which he immediately recognized as the wrong sensibility to display to his uncle at that moment. The projected image of the Archon’s noble head turned to him, wearing a distinct frown,

  Filidor made a conciliatory gestures and stepped back. As he did so, his hand accidentally touched the disk of gray metal. He felt the tiniest of tinglings in his palm, and immediately pulled his hand free. He looked at the skin and saw nothing untoward, and since the minuscule sensation faded at once, he placed both hands behind his back and set himself in a posture of polite attention.

  The Archon turned back to the major-domo. “We have a problem. I charged you to instill a sense of responsibility in my nephew, by giving him appropriate duties. Instead, I hear that he has slid back into the pampered slough from which I plucked him. Now he has lost irreplaceable articles which, let loose in the world, might cause all manner of disruption.”

  Bassariot commenced a series of placatory words and gestures, but ceased when the Archon’s aristocratic brow wrinkled in displeasure. “I will send a team of hand-picked...” he began.

  “You will not,” said the Archon. “You will go yourself to Trumble. Do you know the place?”

  Bassariot shrugged. “I was there once, just briefly, a year or so ago.”

  “Well, now you will go there again, taking my nephew with you. You will recover the missing items and return them to me, along with this Podarke person, after which an inquiry will be made.”

  “I will be happy to conduct an inquiry...” the functionary began, but the Archon cut him off.

  “I will conduct the inquiry, and it will be full and searching.”

  Bassariot, now very pale, bowed low. “I shall make arrangements to leave first thing tomorrow.”

  “Sooner would be better,” said the Archon, “and now would be best.”

  At the mention of the “Podarke person,” Filidor experienced an odd tickle of emotion, centered somewhere in his lungs. Though she had buffeted him quite thoroughly before the gaze of passersby and relieved him of his plaque and sigil, he could not resist a softness in his attitude toward her, which created an urge to say something in her favor. “Uncle..,” he began.

  The Archon flicked his gaze briefly in his nephew’s direction and said, “Silence is your wisest strategy,” then returned to Bassariot. “Do this quietly, assuming no official veneer. Conceal your status and travel as two casual gadabouts who have a yen to visit obscure corners of the world.”

  “May one ask the reason for stealth?” the official said.

  The Archon stroked his pointed chin again. “Of late, there have been subtle indications, though nothing tangible, just a suggestion of a whiff of malfeasance within these walls. Call it intuition, but I feel that these purloiners of my nephew’s identification are somehow bound up in whatever ill deeds contaminate the Archonate.”

  “This is very serious,” began Bassariot. He paused to lick plump lips, looking thoughtful, then continued, “I believe there is no direct passage from here to Trumble, which is beyond Mt. Cassadet, hence the criminals’ chartering of an air-yacht. In such a small place, two such vessels arriving one on the fins of the other would surely draw comment. But a regular packet ship crosses Mornedy Sound and connects to the aerial tramway at Chavaneric, which would take us overland to Miggles. And that is close enough to Trumble to let us hire inconspicuous local transport.”

  The Archon thought a moment, then asked, “When does the next packet leave?”

  “At sunset, I believe,” said Bassariot.

  The Archon made up his mind. “You will escort my nephew to Trumble, so that he may recover his lost identification and put to rights whatever is amiss there. Then come back and we shall see what more there is to see.”

  “I shall immediately make arrangements,” Bassariot said, and the screen disappeared.

  The Archon deactivated his image dissembling device and became his dwarfish self again. He regarded Filidor sourly. “Be careful,” he said. “Something is amiss, and these felons who stole your plaque and sigil are somehow bound up in it.”

  Filidor rarely dared to gainsay his uncle’s wisdom -- only once could he recall being right when the Archon was wrong, and that was simply a question of timing -- but the term “felons” clashed with his own intuition. Upon reflection he was surprised to discover that he could not allow Emmlyn Podarke’s reputation to be challenged, despite what she had done to him. He recalled the servant Ommely’s phrase.

  “Uncle,” he said, “I believe the Podarkes to be people of reputable character.”

  “Your judgments in such matters must be your own,” said the dwarf. “Still, I must send Faubon Bassariot with you.”

  Filidor nodded in acquiescence, though his convictions remained as they were. But, fearing that another word might
lead to his having to walk all the way to Trumble, he kept his dissension to himself. Besides, he had begun to feel a peculiar sensation at the prospect of again encountering Emmlyn Podarke, a lingering echo of the radiant expectation that had burst upon him when he had first set eyes upon her that morning. He chose not to think about the circumstances under which he had last seen her.

  Another matter occurred to him. “Uncle,” he said, “will we be expected to perform services for those we meet along the way?”

  Filidor’s previous travels through the world, in which he had assisted the Archon in the Progress of Esteeming the Balance, were governed by the principle that Archonate staff must be of use to the societies they traveled through. But now the dwarf shook his hairless head. “The prudent man never passes by an opportunity to do a kindness,” he said, “but for this journey, consider it more of an option than an obligation.”

  “Yes, uncle,” said the young man.

  “And be careful.”

  Faubon Bassariot’s voice spoke from the air, saying, “Sir, all is in readiness. The boat awaits us.”

  Filidor made his farewells and departed, but he looked back to see the little man standing amid his tools and apparatus, his small yellow face worried and thoughtful.

  ***

  Like a great pale beast of the sea, the Empyreal lay by the dock, its tiered decks ablaze with lights hung from the superstructure, its reflection sparkling on the dark glass of the water. Filidor and his keeper arrived in an unremarkable hired car, bearing only the rudiments of baggage. They had changed into nondescript traveler’s attire: in Filidor’s case, a hooded jacket and loose trousers of soft but durable stuff, green with dark trim, with a broad belt and a brimless hat, while Bassariot was subdued in browns and ochers and a black skullcap. They climbed the gangway moments before the ship’s connection to land was broken and it surged gently toward the open water of Mornedy Sound.

  A purser’s aide directed them to a modest double cabin near the stern and advised them that the final seating in the second class dining saloon would soon be served. Filidor counseled an immediate move in that direction, having missed his lunch and any other possibilities of sustenance since he had left his breakfast pastry half eaten on the unfinished Implicator. Faubon Bassariot seemed preoccupied, and the young man had to speak to him twice before he won a response.

  “Very well,” said the official and followed in Filidor’s wake. His disconsolate manner gave way to a more cheerful air, however, when they entered the saloon and found a well stocked buffet. They filled their salvers and repaired to one of the tables in the half-empty room.

  The food was not to Xanthoulian’s standards, but Filidor’s hunger contributed a delectable sauce and he threw himself at the meal with good spirit. Bassariot ate with the air of a man making the best of not wholly welcome circumstances. But from time to time his expression warmed, as if he contemplated better days to come. Filidor paid little heed to the man, reserving his attention almost exclusively to plate and cutlery, except to reach for the carafe that held an overly confident purple Pwyfus, which was the best wine the ship’s cellar could offer its second class passengers. Eventually, however, when he had dulled the edge of his appetite to a comfortable roundedness, he pushed away the leftovers and sat back at his ease.

  “How long do you expect the journey to take?” he inquired.

  Bassariot chewed as he considered his reply, then said, “Across the Sound to Scullaway Point tonight, down the coast to Chavaneric by late tomorrow evening. By balloon tram, two days more to Miggles. Then a day to reconnoiter and remove ourselves to Trumble.” He rubbed his hands. “I look forward -- or rather, I am sure you look forward -- to delivering a deserved retribution to those scallywags who assaulted you in the street.”

  “On the contrary,” said Filidor, “I bear them no ill-will.”

  Bassariot had speared a morsel from his plate and was toothing it with gusto, but at the young man’s words he paused in mid-chew. “But, surely, the affront to your distinguished person...” he said.

  Filidor waved airily, warming to his subject. He imagined how he might appear to Emmlyn Podarke if she could overhear him now. “What am I that I should not have visited upon me the perhaps entirely justified wrath of an outraged citizen?”

  “Outraged? Justified?” said the major-domo, his plate now forgotten. “You were knocked sprawling, pummeled without mercy and robbed of your plaque and sigil. These are the hallmarks of brigands.”

  “No doubt there was extreme provocation,” Filidor said. “There was mention of some local disagreement. I sensed that these were persons of reputable character, driven beyond the capacity for demurral.”

  Faubon Bassariot’s eyes, that had been wide with consternation, now narrowed to a more calculating focus. “Your uncle has charged us -- charged me, that is -- with bringing these bandits to account. Yet I sense that we are not reading from the same manual.”

  “I interpret his orders in a different light. He said I was to put things right. To me, that conveys a wider ambit of action than you appear to contemplate. But doubtless all shall become clear once we are on the scene and able to gather all the facts.”

  “The facts are already in hand,” argued the functionary, ticking off points on stubby fingers, “Assault, theft, flight, and there’s an end of it. Unless we discover further improprieties have compounded those already grievous offenses once we reach Trumble.”

  “We may also learn of extenuating circumstance that cast the situation in quite another light,” said Filidor. “It may well be that the Podarkes were inflamed by injustice. In which case my duty is clear.”

  Bassariot made no answer, but peered at the young man as an agriculturist might regard one of his draft animals if it unexpectedly developed an inclination to plow the fields in fanciful arabesques instead of the desired straight furrows. He looked off into space for a moment as if weighing alternatives, then his features settled into an arrangement that suggested he had found a pleasant one. He declared, “All may be as you imagine, but tasting is the truest testimony, as the old saying goes. We will be in Trumble soon enough, and then light will be shone in all possible cracks and grottoes. In the meantime,” -- he lifted the decanter of Pwyfus -- “why not take another glass of the wine, which is ingratiatingly robust if not truly genteel?” He paused, as if a new thought had just surfaced. “Or shall we lay hold of something with a little more grip to it?”

  Filidor admitted that he was always eager for new experiences, and Bassariot refilled his glass. “Excellent,” said the major-domo. “Have you ever tasted Red Abandon, the one they call the sailor’s ruin?”

  When Filidor said that he had not, Bassariot volunteered to go seek out a flask -- it was always available at sea, he said.

  “Very kind,” said Filidor, thinking that he might have previously misjudged his major-domo, and that perhaps the official did not have a stick permanently lodged in some part of his anatomy.

  Bassariot departed and Filidor poured another goblet of the Pwyfus, which seemed to be improving with age even as he emptied the carafe. He looked about the saloon and became aware of the other travelers in the room. They were divided into two groups. The larger, seated nearer to him, comprised more than a dozen men of uncompromising mien, each dressed in the distinctive yellow tabard that signified adherence to the Tabernacle of the Morphitic Demiurge.

  Filidor knew of the cult, which professed that the universe and all its inhabitants were but the dreams of a slumbering deity, the awakening of which was every sentient creature’s obligation. It had always struck him as a self-defeating credo, since rousing the demiurge must necessarily dissipate the divine imaginings, causing the cosmos, including those who were doing the waking, to cease to be. But, like most people, his disdain for the sect arose from its members’ frequent practice of clashing cymbals and shouting, “Awake!” or “Yah! Bahoo!” at unpredictable i
ntervals wherever they happened to be, often to the discomfort of any within earshot. He had heard that their weekly services could cause permanent damage to the eardrums of persons who were merely passing by. They had lately been banned from attending theatrical and musical performances throughout the Olkney Peninsula. A pernicious subsect of the cult, the Pinchers, had fixed upon the notion that the god itself must be a character in its own dreamings, and therefore liable to be awakened by the application of direct physical force. Reasoning that anyone might be the dream avatar of the slumbering deity, they had gone about seizing persons haphazardly, inflicting upon them sometimes horrific violence, until the provost had intervened.

  The second group of passengers, sitting companionably around a small table in a lounge on the other side of the saloon, included three men and two women, all attired in a raffish fashion which Filidor associated with the profession of entertainer. Two of the men were no more than a few years older than Filidor, and now that he looked closely at them, it was apparent that they were twins. The third man was older, heavyset and saturnine, and Filidor could see that the brothers deferred to him. Of the women, one was young, lithe and dark haired, with a sharp-edged face turned toward the window that faced the receding shore. The other was of an age with the older man, matronly and at ease with herself, her hands quietly and competently assembling something out of a ball of yarn in her wide lap.

  The older woman looked up from her work and apprehended Filidor’s idle gaze. She said something to the others, and they all -- save for the girl -- turned to look his way. The older man lifted his head and his voice, which carried resonantly across the salon, even above the din from the Tabernaclists, and said, “Sir, why sit in solitude? We invite you to join us.”

  Filidor made gestures indicating a desire not to intrude, but the older man responded with an arms-wide motion that redoubled the strength of the original invitation. At that moment, the nearby Tabernaclists erupted in a sudden clamor of shouts and cymbals, with one enthusiast slamming his ceremonial staff repeatedly on the table. Filidor rose, and bringing the carafe and goblet with him, crossed to the five by the windows.