The Skies Discrowned (15 page)

“You said it, Tolley,” nodded Lord Emsley. “This kid is the fly in the ointment.”

Lord Tolley Christensen stared at Lord Emsley with scarcely-veiled contempt. “Yeah, that’s it, all right,” he said, reaching for his beer.

Orcrist stepped onto the deck, a corkscrew in one hand and a bottle of rose in the other. He dropped into a chair next to Kathrin and began
twisting the corkscrew into the top of the bottle.

“What have you got there?” demanded Frank.

“Vin rosé
,” Orcrist said. “A simple, wholesome wine, fermented from unpretentious grapes harvested by great, sturdy peasant women.” He popped out the cork and pulled three long-stemmed glasses out of his coat pocket. When he had filled them he handed one to Kathrin and one to Frank. All three took a long, appreciative sip.

“Ah,” sighed Orcrist. “The workingman’s friend.”

“The salvation of the … abused,” put in Frank.

“The comforter of the humiliated.”

“The mother to the unattractive.”

“The … reassurer of the maladjusted.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Kathrin impatiently. “You’re both idiots.”

For a few minutes they all sat silently, sipping the wine and watching a fishing boat make its steady way toward the jetty and the outer sea.

“The guide of the lurching,” said Frank. Orcrist laughed, and Kathrin threw her glass into the sea and stormed into the cabin.

“The girl’s got a horrible temper,” Orcrist observed.

“Only when she’s upset,” objected Frank.

Orcrist and Kathrin left late in the afternoon. Frank waved until their skiff disappeared behind the headland to the south, then went below and fixed himself dinner. He heated up some tomato soup and took it on deck to eat, and then lit his pipe and watched the seagulls hopping about on the few rock-tops exposed by the low tide. When the sun had slid by stages all the way under the horizon he went below to read. He sat down at his desk and picked up a book of Ashbless’s poems.

An hour later he had lost interest in the book and had begun writing a sonnet to Kathrin. He painstakingly constructed six awkward lines, then gave it up as a bad idea and crumpled the paper.

“Not much of a poet, eh?” came a voice from the doorway at his left. Frank jumped as if he’d been stabbed. He whirled toward the door and then laughed with relief to see Pons standing there.

“Good God, Pons! You just about stopped my heart.” It occurred to Frank to became angry. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

Pons took his left hand out of his coat pocket—he was holding Orcrist’s silver pistol. “I followed Sam here,” he said in a toneless voice. “I’m going to kill you.”

Just what I needed
, thought Frank,
a maniac
. He wondered if the gun was loaded—Orcrist had fired it during that ambush a few weeks ago, and he might not have reloaded it. Of course Pons wouldn’t know it had been fired.

“You’re going to
kill
me? Why?” Frank furtively slid open the top drawer of the desk.

“It’s because of you that I’ve got to kill myself.”

“Well, that’s real sharp reasoning,” said Frank, gently feeling around in the drawer with his right hand. “It wasn’t me that put your wife in a second-rate asylum with cheap ceilings.”

“It was a good asylum!” Pons said loudly. “Your bomb killed her.”

No point in using logic with this guy
, Frank told himself.
He’s gone round the bend
. At that moment the fingers of his right hand closed on the grip of the small pistol Orcrist had told him would be there. He curled his first finger around the trigger and slowly raised the barrel until it touched the underside of the desktop. He moved it minutely back and forth until he figured it was pointed at Pons’s chest.

“And you’ve got to die for it,” Pons said, raising the silver gun.

Frank pulled the trigger of his own gun. There was a muffled bang and smoke spurted out of the drawer, but the bullet failed to penetrate the thick desktop. Pons convulsively squeezed the trigger of
his
gun, and the hammer clicked into an empty chamber. For a moment both men stared at each other tensely.

Frank started laughing. “You idiot,” he gasped. “Sam fired that gun a long time ago.”

Tears welled in Pons’s eyes and spilled down his left cheek. He flung his useless gun onto the floor and ran out of the room. Frank heard him dash up the stairs and out of the cabin; there were footsteps on the deck and then, faintly, he heard the sound of oars clacking in oarlocks.

Perhaps I wasn’t as sympathetic as I ought to have been, Frank thought. Oh well; at least I didn’t kill him. I’m glad it worked out as painlessly as it did. He thoughtfully closed the still-smoking drawer and picked up his book again.

The sun had climbed midway to noon when Frank’s first pupil arrived the next day. Frank sat smoking in a canvas chair by the rail and watched Lord Gilbert’s body-servant maneuver the skiff alongside Frank’s boat.

Lord Gilbert was a good-natured, very fat man, whose most sophisticated fencing style consisted of taking great, ponderous hops toward his opponent and flailing his sword like a maniac with a fly-swatter. Thirty seconds of this always reduced him to a sweating, panting wreck, and Frank was trying to teach him to relax and wait for his opponent to attack.

“What ho, Lord Gilbert!” called Frank cheerfully. “How goes life in the rabbit warrens?”

“Most distressing, Rovzar,” Gilbert puffed, clambering over the gunwale. “Transports keep coming understreet, and getting killed, and are in turn followed by meaner and more vengeful Transports.”

“Well, doubtless they’ll run out of them eventually.”

“Doubtless. And now hundreds of homeless Goriot Valley farmers have settled, or tried to, understreet, and you know how crowded we were even before.”

“True. What you ought to be doing, though, is training all those farmers in the arts of warfare, and then you should weld them and the understreet citizenry into an army to wipe out the Transports with.”

“Yes, you’ve been advising that for some time, haven’t you? But a farmer is only a farmer, Rovzar, and you can’t
really
beat a plowshare into much of a sword.”

“Oh well. Speaking of swords, let’s go below and see how your parries are coming along.”

“Another thing happened, last night,” said Gilbert, stopping short. “Orcrist’s servant, Pons, died.”

Frank stopped also. “He did? How?”

“He walked into one of the methane pits near the southern tunnels and struck a match. I just heard about it this morning.”

“Poor bastard. He never was a very
pleasant
person, but …”

“You knew him, I see!” grinned Gilbert. “Come on, show me those parries.”

Frank worked for two hours with Gilbert, to almost no avail. Finally he advised the lord to carry a shotgun and sent him on his way. Cheerful always, the lord shook Frank’s hand and promised to practice up on everything and come back soon.

At about two in the afternoon another boat, wearing the insignia of the harbor patrol, pulled alongside. A tall blond man in a blue uniform climbed onto Frank’s deck. “Afternoon,” he said to Frank. “Are you the owner of this craft?”

“No sir,” said Frank. “I’m leasing it.”

“And what’s your name?” The man was leafing through papers on a clipboard he carried.

“John Pine,” said Frank, using the name he and Orcrist had agreed on.

“I have a Samuel Brendan Orcrist listed as the owner.”

“That’s right. He’s leased it to me. Wait here and I’ll get the papers for you.” Frank hurried below, found the blue slip and brought it to the man.

The officer looked at it closely and then handed it back.

“Looks okay,” he said. “Just checking. Thanks for your time. Be seeing you!” He climbed back into his own boat, got the small steam engine puffing, and with a casual salute motored away across the basin.

When Orcrist visited Frank again, late one afternoon, he brought an ornate envelope with “Francisco Rovzar, Esq.” written in a florid script across the front.

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“It’s an invitation to a party George Tyler is giving in two weeks. It’s in honor of his book being published, I guess. He’s invited all kinds of artists and writers, he tells me. More importantly, there’ll be a lot of good food and drink.”

“Do you think it’d be safe for me to attend? Where’s it being held?”

“In George’s new place, a big house about fifteen levels below the surface, near the Tartarus district. Yes, it ought to be safe enough; the Transports never venture that deep, and no informers will be specifically looking for you, I don’t think. Just call yourself John Pine and all will be well.” Orcrist poked two holes in a beer can and handed the foaming thing to Frank. “I’d say you could even bring a young lady if you cared to.”

“Good idea. Would you convey my invitation to Kathrin?”

“Consider it conveyed.”

It was windy, so they took their beers into the cabin. “Oh, I’ve got something of yours, Sam,” Frank said. He went into his room and came back with the silver pistol. “Here.”

Orcrist took it and looked up at Frank curiously. “I noticed it was gone. Where did you get it?”

“Pons brought it here, the night he blew himself up. He tried to shoot me, but there was no bullet in it.”

“Poor old Pons. Then he went straight from here to the methane pits, eh?”

“I guess so.” Frank sat down and picked up his beer. “He said it was my bomb that killed his wife.”

Orcrist nodded. “Did I ever tell you about the time I took him along on a robbery?”

“No. You said you … gave him a chance to prove himself under fire, and that he didn’t do well.”

“That’s right. It was about a year before you came bobbing like Moses down the Leethee. Beatrice, his wife, had already cracked up and been committed by that time, of course. Anyway, I decided to take him along on a raid on the palace arsenal; several of the understreet tunnels, you know, connect with palace sewers. Pons was extremely nervous and kept inventing reasons why we should turn back. Finally he worked himself into a rage and turned on me. He accused me of being in love with Beatrice, and of blaming him for her crack-up.”

“What made him think
that?”

“Oh, it was absolutely true, Frank. I was in love with her. I don’t know why it was him she married—sometimes I think women secretly, unspokenly prefer stupid, mean men. But all this is beside the point. I called off the robbery then; it was clear that we couldn’t work together. And that’s the entirety of Pons’s criminal career.”

“How did he become your doorman?”

“He had no money or friends, so I offered him the job and he took it. He and I had been friends before, you see.” Orcrist’s beer was gone, and he got up to fetch two more cans.

Frank and Kathrin walked up the gravel path, their way festively lit by lamps behind panes of colored glass. Kathrin wore a lavender, sequined gown that emphasized her slim figure, and Frank wore a quiet black suit with newly-polished black boots. A dress sword hung at his belt in a decorated leather scabbard, but in the interests of security and anonymity he had left his bronze ear at home, and simply combed his newly-grown hair over the spot where his right ear should have been.

Tyler’s house was a grand gothic pile, the roof of which merged with the high roof of the street. It looked as though it should have been a long abandoned shrine of forgotten and senile gods, but tonight its open windows and door spilled light and music into the street and up and down the nearby tunnels.

Tyler had been told about Frank’s exile-status by Orcrist, so when Frank and Kathrin appeared at the door he introduced them to everyone as “John Pine and Kathrin Figaro.” Frank then led Kathrin through the press of smiling, chatting people, shaking hands with several. They found space for the two of them on an orange couch. He immediately took his pipe, tobacco pouch and bullet-shell pipe-tamper out of his pocket and laid them out on the low table in front of him.

“I sense wine over there to the right,” he told Kathrin. “Shall I fetch you a glass?”

“Sure.”

Frank ducked and smiled his way to a little alcove in which sat a tub of water and ice cubes surrounding at least a dozen wine bottles. He spun them all this way and that to read their labels before selecting a bottle of Sauterne. He uncorked it, found two glasses and made his way back to the orange couch.

“There we are,” he said, filling the two glasses and setting the bottle in front of them.

Kathrin sipped hers and smiled happily. “I think it’s wonderful that you know a famous poet, Frank.”

Frank was about to make some vague reply and remind her that his name tonight was John, when a well-groomed, bearded man leaned toward them from Kathrin’s side of the couch. “How long have you known George?” he asked.

“Oh, about six months,” answered Frank. “I’ve never read any of his poetry, though.”

“He is the major tragic figure of this age,” the bearded man informed Frank.

“Oh,” said Frank. He took a healthy gulp of his wine and tried to imagine amiable, drunken George as a tragic figure. “Are you sure?”

“You must be one of George’s … working-class friends,” said Beard, with a new sympathy in his eyes. “You probably never have time to read, right?” He leaned forward still farther and put a pudgy hand on Frank’s knee.
“Can
you read?” he asked, in a voice that was soft with pity.

“Actually, no,” said Frank, putting on the best sad expression he could come up with. “I’ve had to work in the cotton mills ever since I was four years old, and I never learned to read or eat fried foods. Every Saturday night, though, my mother would read the back of a cereal box to me and my brothers, and sometimes we’d act out the story, each of us taking the part of a different vitamin. My favorite was always Niacin, but—”

The bearded man had stood up and walked stiffly away during this speech, and Frank laughed and began filling his pipe. He gave Kathrin a mock-soulful look and put his hand on her knee.
“Can
you read?” he mimicked.

“You didn’t have to lie to him, Frank,” she said.