Araminta Station (75 page)

“The evidence proved that Gorton was the son of Drusilla; there is no doubt as to this. Regarding the other half of the parentage, there is no such clarity, although typical Clattuc gene clusters are found.”

“Your test tubes are telling you what I have already made clear! Is it not enough? Now will you leave us in peace?”

“Patience, Spanchetta! Listen intently, and you will hear more! We go back in time several years, to when, with truly reckless audacity, Arles attempted rape upon the person of Wayness Tamm, the Conservator’s daughter. He was unsuccessful, and captured. I will let the High Judge describe the punishment meted out to Arles.”

“Arles wore a mask and hood, which concealed his identity,” said Egon Tamm. “For this reason we presumed that he intended rape only, and not rape with murder, and so we spared him his life.

“However, to ensure that Arles might never again attempt a similar deed, he was subjected to a surgical process which rendered him sterile and almost totally incapable of tumescence. The procedure was permanent and irreversible. Gorton is not the child of Arles.”

Spanchetta emitted a strange wailing cry of outrage. “Not true, not true, not true!”

“It is true,” said Egon Tamm.

Bodwyn Wook pointed to Drusilla. “Stand up.”

Drusilla reluctantly rose to her feet.

Bodwyn Wook asked: “Who is Gorton’s father?”

Drusilla hesitated, looked right and left, licked her lips, then said in a sulky voice: “Namour.”

“Arles knew this?”

“Of course! How could he not know?”

“Did Spanchetta understand any of this?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Ask her yourself.”

“You may sit down.” Bodwyn Wook looked at Arles. “Well, then: what do you have to say for yourself?”

“At the moment, nothing.”

“Did your mother know that Gorton was not your child?”

Arles glanced sidewise toward Spanchetta, who sat slumped, her great pile of brown curls askew. “I guess not,” he growled.

Glawen, sitting to the side beside Bodwyn Wook, rose to his feet. “If the Court pleases, I have a question I want to put to Arles.”‘

“Ask your question.”

Glawen turned to Arles. “What have you done with my mail?”

“We did what was proper and right!” declared Arles in a blustering voice. “You weren’t on hand, and neither was Scharde, and no one knew where you were, so we sent it back to where it came from, marked ‘Address unknown.’”

Glawen turned away. He told Egon Tamm: “That is all, sir.”

Egon Tamm nodded, a faint grim smile on his hard features. He conferred with his colleagues, then spoke: “Our judgment is as follows: Glawen Clattuc is awarded his rightful status. The Court regrets that he was subjected to what Superintendent Wook has accurately called a malicious fraud. Arles and Drusilla are stripped of all status, and may not even consider themselves collaterals. They must instantly depart from Clattuc House, this very day. The chambers must be restored as quickly as possible to their exact previous condition, to the total satisfaction of Captain Clattuc. ‘As quickly as possible’ means just that: work must begin at once and proceed night and day, regardless of cost. If Arles and Drusilla lack the necessary funds, Dame Spanchetta must bear the expense, and make whatever arrangements for repayment she deems suitable with Arles.

“Further, Arles and Drusilla are sentenced to eighty-five days of hard labor at the Cape Journal Labor Camp. The Court hopes that the experience will prove salutary. It is a minimal sentence, and they should consider themselves lucky.”

From Drusilla came a wail of pure dismay. Arles stared silently at the floor.

Egon Tamm continued. “The Court cannot escape the suspicion that Dame Spanchetta knew considerably more of the matter than the evidence indicates. This is only common sense. Still, we cannot act on suspicion alone, and Dame Spanchetta will not, on this occasion, join Arles and Drusilla at Cape Journal. We have no jurisdiction over the internal government of Clattuc House, but we suggest that Dame Spanchetta is an unsuitable chairman for the Election Board, or for any other committee of importance. We recommend that the Clattuc House Elders take executive action along these lines.

“If there is no more business for the Court, we will stand adjourned.”

Chapter IX, Part 5

During the afternoon of the following day Glawen visited the jail once again. Entering the cell, he found Floreste sitting at the table, hunched over a book bound in elegant pink leather. Floreste turned Glawen a look of displeasure. “What do you want now?”

“What I wanted before.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have little time to waste and I must make my arrangements.” Floreste returned to his book and appeared to dismiss Glawen from his mind. Glawen crossed the room and seated himself on the chair across the table from Floreste.

A moment passed. Floreste looked up with a frown. “Are you still here?”

“I just arrived.”

“It has been long enough. As you see, I am busy with this book.”

“You must make a definite decision, one way or the other.”

Floreste gave a sour laugh. “All the most urgent decisions have definitely been made.”

“And your new Orpheum?”

“The Fine Arts Committee will carry on the work. The chairman is Lady Skellane Laverty; I have known her many years and she is devoted to the cause. She has brought me this book, long one of my favorites. Is it known to you?”

“You have not shown me its title.”

“The Lyrics of Mad Navarth. His songs hang in the mind forever.”

“I am familiar with some of them.”

“Hmm! I am surprised! You seem a - well, I will not call you a dull dog - let us say, a rather somber fellow.”

“I don’t think that of myself. The fact is that I am worried about my father.”

 “Let us talk about Navarth instead. Here is a particularly delicious segment. He glimpses a face for a single instant, but before he can look around it is gone. Navarth is haunted for days, and at last he pours his imaginings into a dozen wonderful quatrains, wild and fateful, surging with rhythm, and each tagged with the refrain:

“So shall she live and so shall she die

And so shall the winds of the world blow by.”

“Very nice,” said Glawen. “Do you intend only to recite poetry to me?”

Floreste haughtily raised his eyebrows. “You are privileged!”

“I want to know what has happened to my father. It seems that you know. I can’t understand why you won’t tell me.”

“Do not try to understand me,” said Floreste. “I myself make no effort in those directions. I use the plural form advisedly.”

“Tell me at least if, for a fact, you know what has happened. Which is it: yes or no?”

Floreste rubbed his chin. “Knowledge is a complex commodity,” he said at last. “It must not be flung here and there like a farmer scattering manure. Knowledge is power! That is an aphorism worth committing to memory.”

“You still have given me no answer. Do you intend to tell me anything whatever?”

Floreste spoke weightily: “I will say this, and you should listen closely. Clearly our universe is subtle and, one might say, palpitant. Nothing moves without jostling something else. Change is immanent to the structure of the cosmos; not even Cadwal of the Charter can evade change. Ah, beautiful Cadwal, with its fine lands and noble provinces! The meadows are verdant in the sunlight; they invite the general habitancy wherein all creatures may take their special pleasures. Animals may browse and birds may fly, while men sing their songs and dance their dances, in peace and harmony. So it should be, with each consuming his share and each performing the work he finds needful. This is the vision of many noble folk, both here and elsewhere.”

“So it may be. But what of my father?”

Floreste scowled and made an impatient gesture. “Are you so dense? Must everything be shouted into your ear? Do you subscribe to those ideals I have just cited?”

“No.”

“What of Bodwyn Wook?”‘

“Not Bodwyn Wook, either.”

“What of your father?’

“Nor my father. In fact, almost no one at Araminta Station.”

“Others elsewhere have more advanced views. But I have said enough and now you must go.”

“Certainly,” said Glawen. “Just as you wish.”

Glawen departed the jail and went off about his affairs, which kept him busy the rest of the day and the following morning as well. At noon, Bodwyn Wook found him taking his lunch in the Old Arbor.

“Where have you been hiding?” demanded Bodwyn Wook. “We have searched everywhere for you!”

“You did not search in the Archives, or you would have found me. What is so urgent?”

“Floreste is beside himself with excitement. He insists upon conferring with you at the earliest possible moment.”

Glawen rose to his feet. “I’ll look in on him now.”

Glawen crossed the river and proceeded to the jail. Marcus Diffin said: “Here you are at last.”

“I’m surprised to find myself so popular. The last time I was here he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

“Be warned: he’s had a bad day and it’s put him out of sorts.”

“How so?”

“First it was Namour, and the two had a rousing quarrel. I was about to interfere when Namour left, his face like a thundercloud.

Next, Dame Skellane. She upset Floreste all over again, and he began shouting for you.”

“I think I know what’s troubling him,” said Glawen. “Perhaps I can calm him down a bit.”

Marcus Diffin opened the door and called into the chamber: “Glawen Clattuc is here.”

“None too soon! Send him in!”

Glawen found Floreste standing by the table, glowering in angry accusation. “Your conduct is brazen beyond belief! How dare you interfere with my arrangements?”

“You refer to my conversation with Dame Skellane Laverty?”

“I do indeed! My money is impounded and she learns that you will be made some absolutely grotesque settlement! Our plans will be smashed!”

“I explained this, but you chose not to listen.”

“Naturally I ignored such poppycock.”

“I will explain again. In exchange for information, I will not prosecute. Quite simple, don’t you agree?”

“I do not agree and it is not simple! You put me in an abominable dilemma! Haven’t I made that clear?”

“Not in terms that I understand.”

“No need for you to understand. You must accept my assurances.”

“I’d rather take a million sols of your money.”

Floreste sagged back against the table. “You are vandalizing my last few hours!”

“You need only give me the information I want.”

Floreste struck his fists together. “Could I trust you?”

“I must trust you, to tell me all you know. You must trust me.”

Floreste gave a weary sigh. “I have no other choice, and for a fact I believe you to be honest, though vicious.”

“So what is it: yes or no?”

Floreste asked craftily: “Exactly what must I tell you?”

“If I knew, why should I ask? In the main, I want to know everything there is to know about my father: how he disappeared, why, and who is responsible, where he is now. There may be other questions which I will also want answered.”

“How should I know all these things?” grumbled Floreste. He walked back and forth across the room. “So I must choose. Give me time to think. Come back in a day or so.”

“It will then be too late, and if you think that I will relent after you are dead, think again. Your Orpheum means nothing to me. I will take all your money and buy the space yacht I have long coveted.”

Floreste seated himself in the wooden armchair and glared across the table at Glawen. “You force me to break one faith in order to honor another.”

“That is a side issue, so far as I am concerned.”

“So be it. I will do your bidding. I will write out certain information which I hope will satisfy you. But you may read it only after I am dead.”

“Why not just tell me now what I want to know?”

“I have certain arrangements which might be compromised if I told you now.”

“That is not entirely satisfactory. You might choose to withhold some critical fact.”

“By the same token you might consider it wise to accept a large settlement from my estate. Trust must be a bond between us, disparate creatures as we are.”

“In that case” - Glawen brought out the photograph he had taken from Zaa’s desk – “look at this picture and name off these ladies.”

Floreste studied the faces with care. He peered sidewise at Glawen. “Why do you show this to me?”

“You spoke of trust. If there is no truth, there can be no trust. And if I cannot trust you, then you cannot trust me. Am I clear?”

“Unnecessarily clear.” Again Floreste studied the photograph. “I must forgo all reserve. This is Zaa, as you know. Her name originally, as I recall, was Zadine Babbs. This is Sibil Devella. And this” - here Floreste hesitated - “this is Simonetta Clattuc.”

“By what other name do you know her?”

Floreste reacted to the question with remarkable vehemence. He jerked up his head and stared at Glawen, then blurted: “Who told you this other name?”

“It’s enough that I know. I want to hear what you have to say.”

“It is incredible!” muttered Floreste. “Did Namour tell you? No, of course not; he would never dare. Who, then? Zaa? Yes! It must have been Zaa!, Why should she do such a thing?”

“She intended to kill me - at your suggestion, of course. She talked for hours.”

“Perverse demented woman! Now all cohesion is gone!”

“I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“No matter. I do not intend that you understand. Come back tomorrow at noon. Your papers will be ready.”

Glawen returned to Archives in the recesses of the Old Agency. Halfway through the afternoon he came upon what he had hoped, though not with any assurance, that he might find. He immediately telephoned Bodwyn Wook. “I have something to show you. Can you come to Archives?”

“Now?”

“If possible.”

“You sound morose.”

“I’ve just stirred up a swarm of old emotions. I thought they had lost their force, but I was wrong.”