The Magnificent Showboats (15 page)

“Let us avoid frantic haste,” returned Gassoon. “I am not a man to run naked out into the street at the smell of smoke. Here is the place to perfect our equipment and to verify the quality of our company. I do not intend to risk either my life, or my ship, or the artistic nature of my productions merely to soothe your nervousness.”

“Must I point out over and over that our association is based upon winning the competition at Mornune?”

“I wish you well,” said Gassoon in his driest voice, “so long as my own aspirations are not thwarted in the process.”

Gassoon at last agreed to sail immediately after the annual fair at Coble, which opened two days hence. “We can present our opening performances to the throng,” said Gassoon, “and the receipts will defray some of the terrible expense to which I have been put.”

The lure of profits to be earned at the fair attracted others to Coble. On the evening of the same day
Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit
sailed into port, red and purple bunting fluttering from every stay, lamps flashing at the mastheads, musicians playing a rousing tune on the foredeck. The ship tied up at Zulman’s Dock, a hundred yards north of
Miraldra’s Enchantment
, and a few minutes later Garth Ashgale appeared on his ceremonial visit. He stepped on board wearing an expression of wonder. “Throdorus Gassoon — this is you indeed, but is this the staid old
Universal Pancomium
? By my life, you have bedizened yourself!”

Gassoon gestured toward Zamp, coming down the ladder from the quarterdeck. “You must credit my associate for the transformation.”

Garth Ashgale laughed incredulously. “Apollon Zamp! I heard that you had taken employment aboard the
Two Varminies
as an exotic dancer!”

“This is the second
Miraldra’s Enchantment
,” said Zamp evenly. “When I return from Mornune I plan to construct the most marvelous boat of the ages:
The Third Enchantment
.”

Garth Ashgale showed an expression of concern and surprise. “Do you still intend the rigors of the Upper Vissel and Bottomless Lake?”

“Rigors?” demanded Gassoon sharply. “What rigors?”

“Reefs, shoals and rapids can be overcome by exact seamanship. Far worse are the river pirates and the Akgal Slave-takers who infest this area. Garken, as you know, is their depot.”

“We are equipped with the most modern equipment,” said Zamp. “We fear the Akgals no more than water-dogs.”

“You are more confident than I,” said Ashgale. “I admire such daring! As for me I intend a placid cruise up the Suanol.” He looked around the ship. “You have made a hundred changes. What will be your performance? More of the old routines?”

“Definitely not,” declared Gassoon. “We are playing a program of ancient Earthly classics: works which have survived the centuries!”

“Most interesting! When will be your first performance?”

“In two days.”

“I will be sure to attend at least one performance,” said Ashgale. “Who knows? I might learn something.”

Ashgale departed. Gassoon said pettishly: “You insisted that the Upper Vissel was utterly safe! Now Ashgale tells blood-curdling tales of slave-takers!”

“Let him talk as he will!” scoffed Zamp. “His motives are not at all obscure.”

Zamp attended the evening performance aboard
Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit
, and was forced to admit that the production went in a manner as smooth, suave and elegant as Garth Ashgale himself.

After the performance, Zamp strolled along the dock to the Downstream Tavern, where showboat personnel tended to gather. He took a jug of beer to a booth at the side of the room, and seated himself in the shadows.

Performers began to arrive, alone or in groups of two or three. Zamp noticed several of his former employees, among them Wilver the Water-walker, who performed his miraculous feats with the aid of glass stilts. He was joined by Gandolf and Thymas, the two most striking grotesques of Zamp’s former troupe. Wilver, Gandolf and Thymas seated themselves in the booth next to that where Zamp sat, and called to the attendant for beer. For a moment Zamp heard only the clink of jug and mug, which by some trick of acoustics reached his ears with great clarity, and then conversation:

“Long and prosperous life to us all!” This was the voice of Wilver.

Another brief pause, then Gandolf said in a melancholy voice, “I fear that we have selected the wrong profession.”

Thymas said: “The difficulty lies not with the profession, but with the vultures who control our livelihoods.”

“True! It is hard to settle upon the worst, although several names come to mind. Apollon Zamp is as full-fledged a rascal as any.”

“Why slight Garth Ashgale, who straightens his garments and adjusts his hair before he dares look at himself in a mirror?”

“For sheer double-dealing, I prefer Zamp. For tricks he outclasses a two-headed hoop-snake on ice.”

Wilver said: “In my opinion, Ashgale is both more clever and more guileful. Zamp is simply crude and offensive.”

“Ah well,” sighed Gandolf, “the topic is sterile. Do you intend to continue with Ashgale? He plans a tour up the Suanol, so far as Blackwillow.”

“No, I find the air of that particular region too harsh to breathe, and in any event Ashgale has ended my employment.”

“And mine as well.”

“So! That villain Ashgale has discharged us all!”

Zamp again heard the thud of jugs being placed down upon the table. Then Wilver spoke: “So now, we must begin anew, or rot here in Coble.”

Gandolf gave a morose grunt. “That devil’s arse-wipe Zamp is forming a new troupe. No doubt he would rejoice to see us all.”

“He’ll never see me!” declared Thymus. “Rather than serve that long-tongued scoundrel, I’ll cut basket-withe.”

“I also refuse to be despoiled,” said Wilver. “Shall we drink more beer?”

“Gladly, except that I can spare no more iron.”

“Nor I.”

“In that case, we might as well be off.”

Zamp watched the three cross the room and go out the door. He finished the beer remaining in the jug, then put his hands down upon the table in preparation for leaving, when into the tavern came Damsel Blanche-Aster escorted by Throdorus Gassoon. Zamp slumped back into the darkest corner of the booth and pulled the cap over his face. Gassoon, noticing the vacant booth, steered Damsel Blanche-Aster across the room and seated her with gallant punctilio.

“Well then, my dear,” said Gassoon, “I take pleasure in introducing you to the traditional resort of the showboat troupes. Look around you; you will notice members of Ashgale’s company, as well as several folk from our own small enterprise. And with what might you care to refresh yourself?”

“Merely a cup of tea.”

“Ah, but my dear! Surely a potion more warm, more pervasive, more — shall I say — intimate?”

“Just tea, please.”

There was a brief silence; Damsel Blanche-Aster might have been looking about the room. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I wanted to talk to you. Aboard ship that hobgoblin Zamp seems to be everywhere, as if there were four of him. Wherever I look his face pops out.”

“So then?”

“A moment; here is the waiter.” Gassoon ordered tea and a small flask of wine, then turned his attention back to Damsel Blanche-Aster. “You are a principal in our production; how do you think it is going?”

“The effect is striking and unique, if nothing else.”

“This may be — but is it art?”

“I don’t know what ‘art’ is.” Damsel Blanche-Aster’s voice was so pensive that Zamp had difficulty hearing.

Gassoon became ponderously facetious. “What? A woman of your intelligence? I will never believe it!”

Zamp could almost see Damsel Blanche-Aster’s disinterested shrug. She said: “I suspect that the word was invented by second-rate intelligences to describe the incomprehensible activities of their betters.”

Gassoon chuckled. “The word defines a way of life. I am no artist; I wish I were! At the very least we can, in our small way, function as organs of dissemination.” Gassoon made a clicking sound. “If only we could rid ourselves of Zamp!”

“Master Zamp provides us safe-conduct across the Bottomless Lake.”

Gassoon’s voice became fretful. “Why should we undertake that awful voyage? At Coble, along the Lower Vissel, the river runs calm; we can ignore the dangerous and paltry and sordid as if they were the essence of nothing!”

“First, we must go to Mornune.”

“But why?” Gassoon’s voice was a petulant bleat. “I fail to understand!”

Damsel Blanche-Aster seemed to sigh. “You will never rest until you learn my motives.”

“Exactly so!” Gassoon now became arch. “Shall I tell you why?”

Damsel Blanche-Aster made no audible response.

Gassoon said: “I dread the possibility of a far lover.”

Damsel Blanche-Aster’s voice was soft and even. “No such lover exists. My father was a nobleman of East Llorel. At Castle Araflame he owned a chest of precious books, which were stolen by my Uncle Tristan, and taken to his palace in Mornune. Both uncle and father are dead; my brother holds Araflame and the chest of rare books in Mornune is mine; I need merely claim them.”

Zamp, sitting in the next booth, pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. Gassoon exclaimed in wonder. “You have seen these books?”

“Not for several years. When we arrive at Mornune, we shall examine them together.”

“There will be no difficulty in claiming them?”

“None whatever.”

Gassoon made a plaintive nasal sound. “Then perhaps we should attempt the journey after all.”

“That has always been the plan.”

The two sat in silence for a moment or two, then Gassoon heaved a sigh. “I distrust that fellow Zamp. For all his prancing bonhomie he is devious, and I dislike the lascivious manner in which he ogles you.”

“He is perfectly inconsequential, except for the safe-conduct he carries.”

“In that case, let us talk of ourselves. The perfect union derives from a sharing of dreams. From this point of view we are a single soul, and now why should not we profess this unity with all the strength of our persons? Come: give me your hand; let me caress it!”

Damsel Blanche-Aster’s response was light and easy. “Throdorus Gassoon, you are as impetuous as a mythical hero. I am shy. You must restrain your fervor until our acquaintance ripens.”

Gassoon groaned. “How long then?”

“I will tell you when the time arrives; meanwhile you must not mention the matter.”

“Your modesty does you credit. Still, should we suspend ourselves in a soul-less ether while bubbles of bliss float past uncaptured? Our lives do not last forever!”

“In the abstract,” said Damsel Blanche-Aster, “I share your feelings. Shall we leave? There is nothing here to interest me. I have already seen enough dancers and actors to serve me all my life.”

Gassoon and Damsel Blanche-Aster departed the tavern. Anticipating no more entertainment, Zamp followed soon after.

In the morning Zamp conducted a dress rehearsal. In his role as Macbeth, he thought it necessary to demonstrate the emotional ties between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth (played with casual insouciance by Damsel Blanche-Aster). He embraced her ardently on several occasions, until at last Gassoon, as Duncan, called out a reprimand: “The text specifies no such passionate gropings! This is serious drama, not a lewd pantomime!”

“I must be the judge of what constitutes dramatic impact,” said Zamp. “Your own delivery, for instance, is not altogether faultless, and if we are to win at Mornune we all must project an authentic emotion. Perhaps we should introduce a scene with Macbeth and his lady on their couch —”

“There is absolutely no need for such an exposition,” stated Gassoon. “Let us proceed.”

Zamp signaled the orchestra. “From the beginning of the scene.”

Shortly before noon Zamp was notified that certain persons wished to speak with him. On the gangway stage waited Wilver the Water-walker, together with the grotesques Gandolf and Thymas.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” said Zamp. “Our last meeting, so I recall, was under less happy circumstances.”

“Do you refer to the Lanteen sand-bar or to the Green Star Inn?” asked Wilver. “I seem to recall some good-natured banter on both occasions, which helped mitigate the tragedy at Port Whant.”