Emperor of Gondwanaland (21 page)

Ailoura hung her quiet sword back on her belt. “How have you kept sane since then, marchwarden?”

“Who says I have?”

Coming to terms with the semi-deranged Carrabas marchwarden required delicate negotiations. The protective majordomo simultaneously resented the trespassers—who did not share the honored Carrabas family lineage—yet on some different level welcomed their company and the satisfying chance to perform some of its programmed functions for them. Alternating ogre-ish threats with embarrassingly humble supplications, the marchwarden needed to hear just the right mix of defiance and thanks from the squatters to fully come over as their ally. Luckily, Ailoura, employing diplomatic wiles honed by decades of bestient subservience, perfectly supplemented Geisen’s rather gruff and patronizing attitude. Eventually, the ghost of Carrabas House accepted them.

“I am afraid I can contribute little enough to your comfort, Gep Carrabas.” During the negotiations, the marchwarden had somehow self-deludingly concluded that Geisen was indeed part of the lost lineage. “Some water, certainly, from my active conduits. But no other necessities such as heat or food, or any luxuries either. Alas, the days of my glory are long gone!”

“Are you still in touch with your peers?” asked Ailoura.

“Why, yes. The other Houses have not forgotten me. Many are sympathetic, though a few are haughty and indifferent.”

Geisen shook his head in bemusement. “First I learn that the protective omniscience of the marchwardens may be circumvented. Next, that they keep up a private traffic and society. I begin to wonder who is the master and who is the servant in our global system?”

“Leave these conundrums to the preceptors, Geisen. This unexpected mode of contact might come in handy for us some day.”

The marchwarden’s voice sounded enervated. “Will you require any more of me? I have overtaxed my energies, and need to shut down for a time.”

“Please restore yourself fully.”

Left alone, Geisen and Ailoura simultaneously realized how late the hour was and how tired they were. They bedded down in warm body quilts, and Geisen swiftly drifted off to sleep to the old tune of Ailoura’s drowsy purring.

In the chilly viridian morning, over fish and kava, cat and man held a war council.

Geisen led with a bold assertion that nonetheless concealed a note of despair and resignation.

“Given your evident hunting prowess, Ailoura, and my knowledge of the land, I estimate that we can take half a dozen sandworms from those unclaimed public territories proven empty of stranglets, during the course of as many months. We’ll peddle the skins for enough to get us both off-planet. I understand that lush homesteads are going begging on Nibbriglung. All that the extensive water meadows there require is a thorough desnailing before they’re producing golden rice by the bushel—”

Ailoura’s green eyes, so like Geisen’s own, flashed with cool fire. “Insipidity! Toothlessness!” she hissed. “Turn farmer? Grub among the waterweeds like some platypus? Run away from those who killed your sire and cheated you of your inheritance? I didn’t raise such an unimaginative, unambitious coward, did I?”

Geisen sipped his drink to avoid making a hasty affronted rejoinder, then calmly said, “What do you recommend then? I gave my legally binding promise not to contest any of the unfair terms laid down by my family, in return for freedom from prosecution. What choices does such a renunciation leave me? Shall you and I go live in the shabby slums that slump at the feet of the Houses? Or turn thief and raider and prey upon lonely mining encampments? Or shall we become freelance prospectors? I’d be good at the latter job, true, but bargaining with the houses concerning hard-won information about their own properties is humiliating, and promises only slim returns. They hold all the high cards, and the supplicant offers only a mere savings of time.”

“You’re onto a true scent with this last idea. But not quite the paltry scheme you envision. What I propose is that we swindle those who swindled you. We won’t gain back your whole patrimony, but you’ll surely acquire greater sustaining riches than you would by flensing worms or flailing rice.”

“Speak on.”

“The first step involves a theft. But after that, only chicanery. To begin, we’ll need a small lot of strangelets, enough to salt a claim everyone thought exhausted.”

Geisen considered, buffing his raspy chin with his knuckles. “The morality is dubious. Still—I found a smallish deposit of marbles on Stoessl property during my aborted trip, and never managed to report it. They were in a floodplain hard by the Nakhoda Range, newly exposed and ripe for the plucking without any large-scale mining activity that would attract satellite surveillance.”

“Perfect! We’ll use their own goods to con the ratlings! But once we have this grubstake, we’ll need a proxy to deal with the houses. Your own face and reputation must remain concealed until all deals are sealed airtight. Do you have knowledge of any such suitable foil?”

Geisen began to laugh. “Do I? Only the perfect rogue for the job!”

Ailoura came cleanly to her feet, although she could not repress a small grunt at an arthritic twinge provoked by a night on the hard floor. “Let us collect the strangelets first, and then enlist his help.

With luck, we’ll be sleeping on feathers and dining off golden plates in a few short weeks.”

The sad and spectral voice of the abandoned marchwarden sounded. “Good morning, Gep Carrabas. I regret keenly my own serious incapacities as a host. But I have managed to heat up several liters of water for a bath, if such a service appeals.”

The eccentric caravan of Marco Bozzarias and his mistress, Pigafetta, had emerged from its minting pools as a top-of-the-line Baba Yar model of the year 650 p.s. Capacious and agile, larded with amenities, the moderately intelligent stilt-walking cabin had been designed to protect its inhabitants from climactic extremes in unswaying comfort while carrying them sure-footedly over the roughest terrain. But plainly, for one reason or another (most likely poverty), Bozzarias had neglected the caravan’s maintenance over the twenty-five years of its working life.

Raised now for privacy above the sands where Geisen’s zipflyte rested, the vehicle-cum-residence canted several degrees, imparting a funhouse quality to its interior. Swellings at its many knee joints indicated a lack of proper nutrients. Additionally, the cabin itself had been miscegenously patched with so many different materials—plastic, sandworm hide, canvas, chitin—that it more closely resembled a heap’ of debris than a deliberately designed domicile.

The caravan’s owner, contrastingly, boasted an immaculate and stylish appearance. To judge by his handsome, mustachioed looks, the middle-aged Bozzarias was more stage-door idler than cactus hugger, displaying his trim figure proudly beneath crimson ripstop trews and utility vest over bare hirsute chest. Despite this urban promenader’s facade, Bozzarias held a respectable record as a freelance prospector, having pinpointed for their owners several strangelet lodes of note, including the fabled Gosnold Pocket. For these services he had been recompensed by the tight-fisted landowners only a nearly invisible percentage of the eventual wealth claimed from the finds. Despite his current friendly grin, it would be impossible for Bozzarias not to harbor decades’ worth of spite and jealousy.

Pigafetta, Bozzarias’s bestient paramour, was a voluptuous pink-skinned geisha clad in blue and green silks. Carrying perhaps a tad too much weight—hardly surprising, given her particular gattaca —Pigafetta radiated a slack and greasy carnality utterly at odds with Ailoura’s crisp and dry efficiency. When the visitors had entered the cabin, before either of the humans could intervene, Geisen and Bozzarias had been treated to an instant but decisive bloodless catfight that had settled the pecking order between the moreauvians.

Now, while Pigafetta sulked winsomely in a canted corner amid her cushions, the furry female victor consulted with the two men around a small table across which lay spilled the stolen strangelets, corralled from rolling by a line of empty liquor bottles.

Bozzarias poked at one of the deceptive marbles with seeming disinterest, while his dark eyes glittered with avarice. “Let me recapitulate. We represent to various buyers that these quantum baubles are merely the camel’s nose showing beneath the tent of unconsidered wealth. A newly discovered lode on the Carrabas properties, of which you, Gep Carrabas”—Bozzarias leered at Geisen—”are the rightful heir. We rook the fools for all we can get, then hie ourselves elsewhere, beyond their injured squawks and retributions. Am I correct in all particulars?”

Ailoura spoke first. “Yes, substantially.”

“And what would my share of the take be? To depart forever my cherished Chalk would require a huge stake—”

“Don’t try to make your life here sound glamorous or even tolerable, Marco,” Geisen said. “Everyone knows you’re in debt up to your nose, and haven’t had a strike in over a year. It’s about time for you to change venues anyway. The days of the freelancer on Chalk are nearly over.”

Bozzarias sighed dramatically, picking up a reflective marble and admiring himself in it. “I suppose you speak the truth—as it is commonly perceived. But a man of my talents can carve himself a niche anywhere. And Pigafetta has been begging me of late to launch her on a virtual career—”

“In other words,” Ailoura interrupted, “you intend to pimp her as a porn star. Well, you’ll need to relocate to a mediapoietic world then for sure. May we assume you’ll become part of our scheme?”

Bozzarias set the marble down and said, “My pay?”

“Two strangelets from this very stock.”

With the speed of a glass-tailed lizard Bozzarias scooped up and pocketed two spheres before the generous offer could be rescinded. “Done! Now, if you two will excuse me, I’ll need to rehearse my role before we begin this deception.”

Ailoura smiled, a disconcerting sight to those unfamiliar with her tender side. “Not quite so fast, Gep Bozzarias. If you’ll just submit a moment—”

Before Bozzarias could protest, Ailoura had sprayed him about the head and shoulders with the contents of a pressurized can conjured from her pack.

“What! Pixy dust! This is a gross insult!”

Geisen adjusted the controls of his pocket diary. On the small screen appeared a jumbled, jittering image of the caravan’s interior. As the self-assembling pixy dust cohered around Bozzarias’s eyes and ears, the image stabilized to reflect the prospector’s visual point-of-view. Echoes of their speech emerged from the diary’s speaker.

“As you well know,” Ailoura advised, “the pixy dust is ineradicable and self-repairing. Only the ciphers we hold can deactivate it. Until then, all you see and hear will be shared with us. We intend to monitor you around the clock. And the diary’s input is being shared with the Carrabas marchwarden, who has been told to watch for any traitorous actions on your part. That entity, by the way, is a little deranged, and might leap to conclusions about any actions that even verge on treachery. Oh, you’ll also find that your left ear hosts a channel for our remote, ah, verbal advice. It would behoove you to follow our directions, since the dust is quite capable of liquefying your eyeballs upon command.”

Seemingly inclined to protest further, Bozzarias suddenly thought better of dissenting. With a dispirited wave and nod, he signaled his acquiescence in their plans, becoming quietly businesslike.

“And to what houses shall I offer this putative wealth?”

Geisen smiled. “To every house at first—except Stoessl.”

“I see. Quite clever.”

After Bozzarias had caused his caravan to kneel to the earth, he bade his new partners a desultory goodbye. But at the last minute, as Ailoura was stepping into the zipflyte, Bozzarias snagged Geisen by the sleeve and whispered in his ear.

“I’d trade that rude servant in for a mindless pleasure model, my friend, were I you. She’s much too tricky for comfort.”

“But Marco—that’s exactly why I cherish her.”

Three weeks after first employing the wily Bozzarias in their scam, Geisen and Ailoura sat in their primitive quarters at Carrabas House, huddled nervously around Geisen’s diary, awaiting transmission of the meeting they had long anticipated. The diary’s screen revealed the familiar landscape around Stoessl House as seen from the windows of the speeding zipflyte carrying their agent to his appointment with Woda, Gitten, and Grafton.

During the past weeks, Ailoura’s plot had matured, succeeding beyond their highest expectations.

Representing himself as the agent for a mysteriously returned heir of the long-abandoned Carrabas estate—a fellow who preferred anonymity for the moment—Bozzarias had visited all the biggest and most influential Houses—excluding the Stoessls—with his sample strangelets. A major new find had been described, with its coordinates freely given and inspections invited. The visiting teams of geologists, deceived by Geisen’s expert saltings, reported what appeared to be a rich new lode. No single house dared attempt a midnight raid on the unprotected new strike, given the vigilance of all the others.

The cooperation and willing play-acting of the Carrabas marchwarden had been essential. First, once its existence was revealed, the discarded entity’s very survival became a seven-day wonder, compelling a willing suspension of disbelief in all the lies that followed. Confirming the mystery man as a true Carrabas, the marchwarden also added its jiggered testimony to verify the discovery.