Maske: Thaery (6 page)

Jubal went slowly along the verandah. Wan light shone briefly on his back as the tavern door opened and closed; behind him came firm measured steps. Against the street glow appeared a pair of silhouettes: one tall and gaunt, the other squat and burly… Jubal lengthened his step and reached his chamber; when he tried to open the door a plug in the keyhole blocked his key. He jerked it loose, inserted his key, but the two men stood at his shoulder.

The tall man spoke in a precise voice. “I address Jubal Droad the Glint?”

“I do not care to acknowledge my identity, whatever it may be, to strangers. I suggest that you transact your business at a more conventional time.”

The tall man’s voice did not seem to change; nevertheless Jubal detected a rasp of amusement. “Sir, we proceed along conventional lines. I am known as ‘Scales’. My colleague may be addressed as ‘Balance’.

We are officers of the Faithful Retribution Company. We carry a proper warrant, signed and officially stamped, for a ‘Well-Merited Extreme’, to be applied to your person,
22
at this moment.”

Jubal spoke in a voice he tried to hold firm. “Let me see the warrant.”

Balance produced a sheet of parchment; Jubal took it into his room. Scales attempted to follow; Jubal roughly shoved him back. Balance, however, inserted his foot in the door.

Jubal read the document. His offense was defined as ‘wanton, unreasonable, cruel, and unverifiable slander, rendered against the reputation of the Excellent Ramus Ymph.’ The complainant signed herself ‘Mieltrude Hever, affianced bride of the said Ramus Ymph.’

“And what is this ‘Extreme Penalty’?” asked Jubal through the door-opening.

“We must infuse you with hyperas,” explained Scales. “This is a hyperaesthesic agent and a glottal inhibitor. Then we bathe you for twenty minutes in lukewarm herndyche, a dermal irritant; then we make thirteen applications of the bone-breaker upon your limbs. Your penalty thereupon is fulfilled.”

“I contest and appeal the penalty,” declared Jubal. “The arbitrator will strike down this warrant; so take your foot from the door.”

“All formalities have already been accomplished in your name. Notice, at the bottom of the page, where the arbitrator has rendered his findings.”

Jubal saw a stamp and a red seal. The subscription read:

Appeal indignantly denied. Let justice be done.

A signature was appended:

Delglas Ymph,
High Arbitrator to Wysrod.

“The Arbitrator is an Ymph! He is related to Ramus Ymph!” croaked Jubal.

“That matter lies beyond our instructions. Now, Sir Droad, allow us to enter your room.”

“Never. Stand back or I’ll kill you.”

Scales spoke in a hoarse rasping monotone: “Most unwise, even to talk so, Sir Droad. We are simple men, bent only on our duty.”

As he spoke Jubal noticed a soft hiss; near the floor he observed a large nozzle from which exuded a wisp of condensation.

Jubal turned and sprinted for the window across the room, only to find that a wooden panel had been fitted from the outside, blocking his escape.

Scales laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we are experienced; please come with us now.”

Jubal drove his fist into Scales’ stomach; it was like striking a tree. Balance caught his arms and pinned them. Jubal was frog-walked out the door, across the verandah, and down upon the dark beach. He lurched and kicked; Scales adjusted a preventer over his head with prongs entering his mouth; Jubal could no longer struggle without breaking his teeth.

The three moved fifty yards, to halt where a copse of water-holly screened the beach from the Marine Parade. Balance caused a blue-lamp to glow; Jubal saw a tank seven feet long, half full of an iridescent liquid. Thrust in the sand was the bone-breaker—an iron club four feet long.

Scales told Jubal: “You may disrobe or not, as you wish; our warrant does not specify. We have learned that entering the bath fully dressed is distinctly more uncomfortable; one notes the chafe of fabric. But first we must administer the hyperas. Just relax, sir…” Jubal felt the pang of a bladder-sting and a wave of sensitivity expanding across his skin.

Balance approached. “These shackles, sir, prevent you from flailing your arms and legs; we find them indispensable. But first, do you wish to disrobe?”

Jubal wrenched himself from Scales’ grip; he thrust against Balance, and driving his feet into the sand, pushed. Balance, lurching backwards, tripped against the tank and fell back full length, with a sluggish sucking splash. His outcry, first hoarse in horror and anger, became swiftly shrill.

Scales had seized Jubal. “That was a very unfair act. You have injured my colleague in pursuit of his lawful duties. I will not be surprised if he solicits a warrant against you.”

For a moment the two stood immobile, Scales clamping Jubal’s arms, both watching Balance as he tried to scramble from the tank, only to trip and fall back, but finally to heave himself over the lip and writhe upon the sand.

“The herndyche is a particularly pungent formulation,” observed Scales. “Poor Balance mixed it himself.

He works no good for himself rolling about on the sand. Balance! Oh, I say, Balance! Remove your clothes, then make for the water! This is my best advice.”

Balance, whether he heard or heeded, crawled for the water, howling high-pitched curses.

“Poor Balance,” said Scales. “He has been seriously injured. It is the risks of the trade; nevertheless I deplore your action. Be so good as either to disrobe or enter the tank as you stand.”

Jubal squirmed, heaved, kicked. His skin ached and crawled in response to the hyperas; the hair felt heavy on his head. He could not break Scales’ clutch; the hands gripped with numbing force. Jubal’s head began to spin; his mouth felt dry; he, a Glint and a gentleman, to be dipped into a tank like a baby? He heard a thud, a voice; the hand-grips loosened. Jubal fell to the sand and lay flat on his face. Thuds, gasps, a bleat of rage. Jubal leadenly raised himself to his hands and knees. With stately composure and smiling dignity Scales fought the man who had attacked him.

Jubal tottered erect. He seized the bone-crusher, raised it high, swept it down at Scales’ head, but struck only the shoulder. Scales moaned. Jubal swung again, and Scales fell. Jubal struck again and again, with all his force.

Hands drew him back. Shrack spoke. “Enough. You may have killed him already. The bar has broken his bones.”

Jubal let the implement fall to the ground. He stood gasping. “For speaking simple truth must a person be tortured and killed?” Even to his own ears his voice sounded high-pitched and hysterical.

“Truth offends worse than falsehood.” Shrack gazed in awe along the prone shape of Scales. “He is a prodigy. No man has dealt with me so easily.”

Jubal looked to sea, where Balance thrashed fitfully somewhere out in the dark. He gave a crazy laugh.

“Scales’ bones are broken; Balance took the bath; I am dosed with hyperas… My thanks to you. I am in your debt, to whatever extent you name.”

Shrack grunted. “If I stood quiet to watch two men harm another I would doubt my manhood. Sometime do as much for another man, and the debt shall be justified.”

Jubal reached to the ground, seized the warrant. “Notice this warrant. They laid it for arbitration even before I knew it existed! Imagine the insolence!”

By the glow of the blue-lamp Shrack read the warrant. “You have strong enemies.”

“Tomorrow I will learn whether I have friends as well. If not, please hold open a berth for me aboard the
Clanche
.”

A horrid blood-stained face rose into the illumination; Scales tried to grasp Jubal’s ankle but his right arm seemed to articulate on four joints instead of two and he could not control the motion.

“Vermin!” spat Jubal, stepping back. “Shall I break more of your bones?”

Scales’ voice was guttural and profound. “I must execute the warrant.”

“An illegal warrant, you ditch-skulker?”

“The warrant was in legal form.”

“As to that, we shall see tomorrow. I too have connections.” The hyperas had inflamed Jubal’s brain; words poured forth in a spate. “If you fail to die here on the beach as I hope, you will be disbarred from your trade, and that wallowing Balance as well. Lie here and suffer.”

Jubal tottered away, the soles of his feet tingling and tender from the drug. Shrack gave Scales a civil nod and followed. They walked along the beach to where Shrack had drawn up his dinghy; ahead the lights of the inn glimmered through the daldank trees.

Shrack hesitated a moment, then said in a pensive voice: “A thought has entered my mind which you may wish to consider.”

“Speak; I can only profit.”

“Tonight we discussed opportunities and how they must be grasped. Need I say more?”

“Your idea throws a new light upon the incident,” said Jubal. “I will certainly consider it.”

“A restful night to you.”

“And you as well.” Jubal limped to his chamber, which now reeked with decomposing narcogen. Wearily he considered the barred window, but lacked the strength to go around to the back and pry it loose.

Gingerly he removed his clothes: a sensation like ripping away adhesive bandages. The linen prickled like stubble when he lay upon the pallet. Presently he fell into an uneasy doze and the night passed without further incident.

Midmorning: two and a half hours after that time stipulated by Eyvant Dasduke. Mora, a crackling violet-white ball inside a magenta coruscation, hung halfway up the sky. Skay was nowhere to be seen; the sky, to use the Thariot terminology, was ‘free’.

Jubal Droad, departing the Hall of Chancery, crossed the plaza to the ancient black hulk of the Parloury.

The parcel of off-world clothes had earned him a mere seventeen toldecks a week; he had failed to extract maximum advantage from Nai the Hever. On this occasion he would take a firm line.

Jubal entered the Parloury foyer, an enormous hall painted a dingy and depressing yellow-brown. At a number of counters the citizens of Wysrod conferred with functionaries, both in tranquil accord and rancorous debate. Along the walls hung a row of placards, designating the location of the various departments; Jubal learned that Department Three of the Bureau of Trade occupied the north wing of the third floor.

An escalator carried him aloft and discharged him into an octagonal chamber. Behind a semi-circular desk sat a stern old man wearing an official black quat. He thrust his head forward, scrutinized Jubal from head to foot, and seemed to arrive at no favorable opinion. “Your business, sir?”

“I am Jubal Droad, an employee of this department. I wish to—”

The functionary incisively interrupted him. “Your name is not on our lists; your person is not familiar to me. You have made a mistake. Return below and consult the proper index.”

Jubal said coldly: “Notify the Eminent Eyvant Dasduke that I am being kept waiting by an underling.”

The functionary reappraised Jubal. “You work for D3?”

“I do indeed.”

“What is your rating?”

“I am a Junior Assistant Inspector.”

The old man gave a hoarse chuckle. “Your time is of the least possible value. You will be kept waiting for hours on end; you might as well learn patience now!”

Jubal raised his eyes to the ceiling; he must learn to ignore petty provocations. In an even voice he said: “Your opinions are not as absorbing as you may believe. Announce me, if you will, to Eyvant Dasduke.”

The functionary spoke into a communicator. “Yes, sir… A fellow here to see you… What is your name?”

“Have I not told you? Jubal Droad!”

“He is called Jubal Droad, and looks to be a Glint… Admit him?”—a quaver of surprise. Then, in resignation: “Just as you say.” He turned to Jubal. “Enter by the blue door, follow the hall to the junction, turn left, proceed to the end and announce yourself.”

Jubal marched to the blue door, which slid back at his approach. He passed through, into a high-ceilinged hall, painted a fusty green and broken at regular intervals by doors peculiarly tall and narrow through the caprice of some long-dead architect. The floor creaked underfoot; the air carried the bitter-acrid reek of decaying varnish.

The hall angled, then joined another hall. Jubal turned left and presently was brought to a halt by a door even taller and more dilapidated than the others. The placard read:
Bureau of Sanitary Inspection. Use the Admittance Signal
.

Jubal found a toggle, which he twitched without apparent effect. He rapped on the panels and rattled the latch, and presently the door opened. An old woman wearing a brown turban peered forth. “Yes sir: what are your needs?”

“I am Jubal Droad, attached to this department. I wish to see Eyvant Dasduke.”

“Enter, then.”

Jubal stepped through the door. “This is a place most difficult of access.”

“True. Too many folk with grievances bring them here to lay at our feet, like faithful hunting dogs. They are most difficult, and refuse to be consoled by a word or two, so we keep them away, and our lives are the easier for it. Come along; this is our waiting room.” She led Jubal into a chamber furnished with only a pair of benches and her own desk. She spoke into a mesh: “Jubal Droad awaits your convenience.”

The response, which Jubal could not distinguish, satisfied her; she beckoned, and wheezing from the exertion trotted ahead to a door marked:
Assistant Supervisor
. Thrusting her head through, she remarked: “Here is the Glint.”

Eyvant’s office was rather more pleasant than the waiting room. A Chrystosoram rug, in blocks of faded greens and blues, covered the floor. The furnishings were an eclectic set of antiques: a desk of carved blacking , a pale green velveteen settee, a table with a tea urn, a pair of Mork chieftain-chairs. Eyvant Dasduke, standing by the far wall, inspected Jubal with a supercilious expression. “You are confused, as well as very late,” he said in an even voice. “I ordered you to report to Chamber 95 at the first hour of the morning.”

“I remember your instructions,” said Jubal. “I disregarded them for very good reason.”

“Personal concerns?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“I emphasize that your official duties take absolute precedence over personal considerations.”

“The ‘personal concerns’ in this case supersede my official duties. Please give me credit for at least a primitive level of judgment.”

Eyvant raised his eyebrows. “You do not respond amiably to censure.”

“Censure should be based upon understanding of the facts, not an automatic outcry.”

“My tingling ears!” murmured Eyvant, “and what have we here?” He went to lean against his desk.

“What then are the facts?”

“The matter most directly concerns Nai the Hever. By his orders I must approach him through you, which is why I am here.”

Eyvant allowed himself to display a flicker of interest. “You may safely explain to me.” He held up his hand. “Yes, yes, I know. I am a paltry subordinate; you are a genuine Glint from the highest crag of Junchion, and intend to deal only at the most important levels. Nevertheless, in Wysrod, Nai the Hever is inaccessible until I request his attention. By this same token I do not casually put through every hole-in-trouser vagabond. So please explain yourself.”

Jubal seated himself on the velvet settee. “You are Nai the Hever’s personal confidant?”

“In certain matters.”

“My business concerns Nai the Hever in an intimate sense; when I finally confer with him, he will have to learn that you insisted upon inquiring into his private affairs.”

For an instant Eyvant looked blank. Then he smiled grimly, and seating himself thrust his long elegant legs across the carpet. “Your conduct is bizarre—even for a Glint. Instead of the propitiation typical of a new appointee, you prefer to hector that superior who will control every stage of your career. The tactics are novel; I ask myself, will they prove successful? I admit that I am starting to take an interest in your future.”

“I am here today in a private capacity,” said Jubal, “not as an employee of the Bureau.”

Eyvant tilted his head back and laughed, and for an instant seemed someone far different from his usual self. “I will explain an elemental fact. When you become an employee of D3, you are altogether in D3: morning, day, night, asleep, awake. So now, with this understood, explain your business.”

Jubal made no further protest. “The substance of the matter is this: last night the daughter of Nai the Hever, and I refer to the Lady Mieltrude, committed a serious crime. She procured a warrant against me on factitious grounds, then immediately, without my knowledge, obtained a totally illegal validation from an arbiter. She then sent forth two thugs to torture and kill me. Since I am Jubal Droad and a Glint, the thugs may or may not survive. Still, I am far from pleased. The offense cries out for justice.”

Eyvant heaved a weary sigh. “First, remember this: a sanitary inspector never becomes agitated.

Secondly, this: girls will be girls. You demolished her favorite; in her pique she proposed the same for you.”

“Did I thrust Ramus Ymph into a tank of algesic fluid? Did I break his arms and legs in thirteen places? Is this a lover’s solicitude, or vicious irresponsibility?”

“Calm yourself. The matter can be adjusted. I will quit the warrant; give it here.”

Jubal produced a document. Eyvant read with austere indifference. “This isn’t—” He read on, and his complacence disappeared. He stared at Jubal. “You are mad.”

Jubal seemed bewildered. “I cannot understand your subtleties.”

“I mean that your conduct borders upon the inconceivable.”

Jubal slowly shook his head. “You disapprove of this document?”

“Yes.”

“By Thariot law, a crime must be properly requited; this is common knowledge. I therefore secured this warrant against Mieltrude Hever. I now notify her father, to learn if he wishes arbitration.”

“You are either insane or a fool.”

“I am a sanitary inspector. You have forced me to reveal Nai the Hever’s private affairs; now what do you propose to do?”

“Consult Nai the Hever. What else?” With exaggerated politeness Eyvant inquired, “Would you care to take a cup of tea while you wait?”

“It is kind of you.”

“Not at all.” Eyvant touched a toggle; a door across the room slid open and a young woman considerably more comely than the crone in the outer office looked through. “Sir?”

“A cup of tea for this gentleman. He has had a taxing experience and needs refreshment.”

“Immediately.”

Eyvant left the chamber. A moment later the young woman brought tea and a dish of small cakes. “Will these suffice?”

“Very well,” said Jubal, and the young woman withdrew.

Five minutes passed. Eyvant returned, his usually placid brow creased with a frown. “Nai the Hever wishes to consult with you.”

“So I would suppose.”

“What are your exact intentions in this matter?”

“Does not the warrant state them in explicit language? I intend to see the vixen punished.”

“It has occurred to you that Nai the Hever is one of the most influential men of Thaery?”

“What has that to do with the case? If he is honest, he will be anxious to assist me.”

“Well, we shall see. Come along.”

They walked along creaking halls and dismal corridors, up an escalator to a passage illuminated by groined skylights. At a door enameled glossy vermilion, Eyvant halted and knocked. Nai the Hever himself slid the door aside. Passing through, Jubal found himself standing on a blue, white and black stardazzle carpet under a skylight of a hundred facets. At a signal Eyvant went back the way he had come.

Nai the Hever took Jubal to a couch, motioned him to sit, and deliberately settled himself in a nearby chair. “Tell me precisely what occurred.”

Now was not the time for expansiveness or passionate imprecations. Jubal recounted the events as tersely as possible.

Nai the Hever’s quicksilver eyes never left his face. “And why did you procure your own warrant? What were your motives?”

“Resentment and a desire for justice, respectively.”

“I notice that you carefully displayed the warrant to Eyvant Dasduke.”

“I had no choice. He insisted upon learning why I wanted to see you.”

“Well then—exactly why do you wish to consult with me?”

“So that you may, if you choose, put this warrant to the arbitrator.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might easily channel this warrant to Delglas Ymph?”

“You would be ill-advised to do so.”

“And why?”

“When your daughter used his connivance to validate her warrant against me?”

“I would show very poorly. Of course, I could have you quietly killed.”

“Not quietly. My uncle Vaidro has been apprised of the entire affair.”

Nai the Hever looked over the warrant. “You specify ‘penal servitude for two years, with a stroke of the rat-whisk each midafternoon, at the discretion of the jailer.’” He frowned. “Under the circumstances, a relatively mild demand.”

“It is sufficient. She is witless, irresponsible and over-civilized. Also, why should I unreasonably offend you?”

“Why, in fact, should you offend me at all?” Nai the Hever paused, then said reflectively: “So far, we have not listened to Mieltrude. In all candor, I am astounded by her act… Yes, most curious. Now as to this warrant: do you intend to implement it?”

“If your daughter has procured a warrant, as it seems, why should I not?”

“I might well resent your conduct, and your career would suffer.”

“What career? Junior Assistant Inspector, at seventeen toldecks a week? My ‘career’ hardly weighs in the balance. Still, I am not unreasonable. I can see circumstances—”

Nai the Hever interposed a thoughtful remark: “You used the word ‘justice’. I would not demean you by suggesting a promotion with an increase in salary; we must seek elsewhere for resolution.”

Jubal frowned. After a moment he asked: “Do you intend to arbitrate this warrant?”

“Naturally not.” Nai the Hever, looking across the room, tapped his pale fingers on the arm of the chair.

“I will inquire into the matter; in the meantime, please delay the service of your warrant.”

“You do not understand my problems! The warrant against me, no matter how illegal, still operates.”

Nai the Hever touched a toggle on the wall. “Connect me to the Faithful Retribution Company.”

Several musical chords in crescendo announced that the connection had been made. A grave bass voice spoke: “Who calls on Faithful Retribution?”

“This is the Nobilissimus Nai the Hever. Yesterday you accepted a spurious warrant, purportedly signed by my daughter, the Lady Mieltrude. Do you admit as much?”

The grave voice raised a half-tone in pitch. “We did indeed accept such a warrant, Nobilissimus. With such a complainant, would we suspect duplicity?”

“The warrant was obviously fraudulent. An innocent man has been victimized.”

“Innocent man? Who crippled my operatives? He is a menace to law and order and must be reprimanded.

I have assigned four keen operatives to the task.”

“On whose warrant?”

There was silence. “The warrant is invalid, Nobilissimus?”

“Naturally, as you well know. If your operatives process Jubal Droad, I will personally swear an executive warrant against you, at triple damages.”

The grave bass voice became baritone. “I am convinced of my error, Nobilissimus. I will cancel the emergency.”