Times Without Number (6 page)
Read Times Without Number Online
Authors: John Brunner
Sometimes Don Miguel found himself wondering how it was that almost a
century had safely passed since Borromeo turned time-travel loose in
this imperfect world. Right now he was tempted to draw his sword on this
idiot and inscribe his hide with a message to be memorised concerning
the responsibilities of the Society. However, he controlled himself.
"It was not enough," he said shortly. "If that's all you can offer me,
though, I'll make a start with it. Where are these clerks you referred
to?"
"At once!" Don Pedro exclaimed. "I'll take you to see them myself!"
But the clerks were even less helpful than Higgins had been. Their
story, to the truth of which the local inquisitors testified, was
that their master had conducted both the purchase and the later sale
of the mask himself, as he often did when the other party involved was
of noble status. That, Don Miguel had to concede, was logical enough --
he could imagine any nobleman compelled to dispose of family heirlooms
and replenish a shrinking coffer wanting to treat in confidence with
a discreet merchant, and he already knew that Higgins's reputation for
discretion had brought him many such transactions.
The clerks maintained stoutly that they had been unaware of the mask's
existence until their master was arrested, and their story -- like
Higgins's own -- had so far defied the best efforts of the inquisitors
to undermine it.
Sighing, Don Miguel left the cell in which they were incarcerated and
headed back through the fine grounds of the Society's office. Having gone
some distance with Don Pedro silent at his side, he suddenly spoke up.
"This market, now, where the mask was sold to Don Arcimboldo -- it's
outside the city wall, is it not?"
"Indeed it is, sir," Don Pedro answered. "Save for freemen of Jorque,
who seldom engage in trade, no one may buy or sell goods within the
wall; there was a bylaw passed in the last years of last century. Thus
the custom arose of going beyond the walls to trade, and now indeed the
market district has grown almost into a new city of itself."
"Good. I want to inspect this market. Call me a coach and let's be gone."
"With pleasure, sir," declared Don Pedro fervently.
While they were waiting before the Society's office for the vehicle
to arrive, Don Miguel turned to the other subject he was currently
interested in.
"Tell me, Don Pedro, what do you know about Don Arcimboldo Ruiz? Is he
a prominent figure here in Jorque?"
"He's . . ." Don Pedro hesitated oddly. "He's of a prominent family in
the north."
Don Miguel nodded. "As to him personally, though?" he prompted.
"I can tell you rather little, I'm afraid. I do know he inherited large
estates over the Scottish border, but prefers to live in Jorque for the
sake of our social life. I also know he's highly regarded as a collector
of Saxon and Irish antiques -- men speak of him as having expert knowledge
on that subject. Beyond that . . ." He concluded with a shrug.
Of course, this was no news to Don Miguel; Don Arcimboldo had come
straight out and said he collected antiques, but New World artefacts were
not his speciality. His verdict on the personality of the Marquesa had
indicated a healthy cynicism, and implied that if he had had any cause
to suspect Higgins of selling him contraband he would have taken steps
to protect himself. He would hardly have given such a splendid gift to
the Marquesa, knowing its existence would be public knowledge within the
day, had he feared it was an unlicensed import. Either he would not have
bought it, or he would have kept it secretly for his own collection. Yes,
the argument was colourable.
And yet . . .
Don Miguel's train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the coach
Don Pedro had called for. But the tiny crease of puzzlement which had
developed between his eyebrows remained there throughout the coach-ride.
They called the place a "market"; in fact, as Don Pedro had forewarned
him, it had grown until it was almost a city in its own right. Wide roads,
well paved, traversed it and separated the plots of ground leased to
various traders, on which had been erected booths backed by solid stone
warehouses. During the day goods were brought forth from the latter and
displayed under awnings, or by the most prosperous merchants in little
huts sided with glass, while brawny slaves guarded them with clubs. At
night they would be taken back into the warehouses and firmly secured
against robbers.
Instructing Don Pedro to dismiss the coach for an hour, Don Miguel set
forth on foot for a tour of the market. He paused apparently at random
-- to test the quality of nutmegs at a spicer's, to feel some splendid
Eastern brocades in a draper's, to examine a set of candlesticks in a
silversmith's -- and as he did so he asked casual-seeming questions of
the staff. Somehow, to Don Pedro's increasingly obvious admiration, he
contrived to introduce into each such conversation the names of Higgins
and Don Arcimboldo.
The expiry of the hour saw them emerging from a bookbinder's, where
gold-leaf glittered on fine calf bindings and the air was rich with the
scent of leather and size, and with that Don Pedro's patience ran dry.
"Sir!" he exclaimed. "The subtlety of your inquiries has amazed me --
truly it has!"
"Subtlety?" Don Miguel echoed with a scowl, striding in the direction
of the spot where they were to rejoin their coach. Their course was
taking them through the heart of the market, and at this noontide
juncture the place was crowded. Retainers from noble families, bearing
conspicuous crests, kept shoving their way through with arrogance, a
fact which greatly annoyed Don Pedro but which Don Miguel put up with
stoically. They could have cleared a path for themselves by merely
mentioning the name of the Society, let alone displaying its arms --
the scythe and hourglass which Borromeo had personally chosen for its
insignia -- but it was a bad time to draw attention to themselves.
"Subtlety?" he said again, and added a savage chuckle. "Well, if it's subtle
to fail completely in trying to answer an all-important question, I'll
agree . . . Don't bother me for a moment, if you please! I'm desperately
struggling to think!"
Embarrassed, Don Pedro shut his mouth like a rat-trap, and did not utter
another word apart from inviting Don Miguel to precede him into the coach,
until the latter spoke again nearly halfway back to the Society's office.
"Don Pedro! A word of advice from you!"
"You do me much honour,' Don Pedro said nervously. "I trust I can provide
what you want."
"Well, I can't figure it out for myself. You have a go. Imagine you were
in Don Arcimboldo's place, heir to lands in Scotland and and a highly
respected collector of antiques: why would you give a very rare and
costly mask of solid gold to a lady who is -- to be blunt -- far past
the age of courtship?"
Don Pedro's eyes widened. For a long moment he said nothing; then finally
he ventured, "Well, perhaps from motives of simple friendship . . . ?"
What Don Arcimboldo had said about the Marquesa during her party ruled
out that possibility, in Don Miguel's view. He dismissed the suggestion
with a wave of his hand, not bothering to explain why.
"Another reason?" he invited.
"Well . . ." Don Pedro swallowed enormously. "Far be it from me to impute
anything to someone as respected as Don Arcimboldo, but . . . Perhaps one
might assume he stood to gain by his action?"
"I'm very much afraid one might. Don Pedro, instruct your coachman to
detour by way of Higgins's residence in the town. I trust you're not in
a great hurry for your lunch -- this may take a little time."
In fact, the stop at Higgins's home lasted a mere twenty minutes,
but when he came away Don Miguel was frowning like thunderclouds and
responded to Don Pedro's attempts at conversation only with frigid grunts.
Then, on their return to the Society's office, he found a message awaiting
him, received by semaphore telegraph from Londres a few minutes before.
It was a report from Red Bear's field-teams, informing him that the gold
mask was almost certainly the work of a celebrated Aztec goldsmith called
Nezahualcoyotl -- Hungry Dog. And that established its origin in the
middle fifteenth century, most likely in the great town of Texcoco.
Another puzzle for him! If the mask was the work of such a famous
craftsman that Red Bear's staff could identify it so positively, why
should a collector of art-objects
give
it away, even if he didn't want
it for his own collection? Surely the logical thing would be to sell it,
and use the proceeds to enlarge . . .
A great light suddenly broke in on Don Miguel. Facts clicked together
in his mind and formed a pattern, a pattern which made sound sense. He
slammed fist into palm and rounded on Don Pedro.
"I see itl And yet I do not see it! If -- Don Pedro, send speedily to the
Holy Office here in Jorque and ask for a skilled inquisitor to attend
me and answer certain questions. Then have a coach reserved for me,
and be sure the driver knows the way to the home of Don Arcimboldo,
for I purpose to call on him tonight."
"It shall be done," promised Don Pedro, and hurried away.
Don Miguel conversed lengthily with the inquisitor who came in answer to
his request, in private and alone. When they parted it was near dark, yet
he refused Don Pedro's invitation to stay and take a bite to eat. Instead,
he buckled on his sword, threw a cloak about him, and headed into the
dusk as though fiends were hot on his heels.
VII
Don Arcimboldo's town house in Jorque, though far from new, was handsome
and spacious and stood in extensive grounds. The interior bespoke luxury
and good taste. The same raw materials that Don Miguel had encountered
at the Marquesa's -- creeping plants trained on sculptured artificial
boughs, hothouse flowers that turned the rooms into miniature gardens,
exquisite tiling and panelling and many priceless antique ornaments --
had been employed here, but by someone with far superior judgment.
It seemed a shame, Don Miguel felt, to come here for the first time
on such an errand. But, weighted down with his burden of suspicion,
he hardened his heart.
The major-domo who had admitted him presented his master's apologies,
saying that he was at dinner but would shortly be finished and would
wait on his distinguished guest; in the meantime, would Don Miguel be
so kind as to occupy himself in the library?
Don Miguel would. Wine was brought for him by a Guinea-girl --
exceptionally beautiful, hence either very expensive or born into the
service of the family, for slaves were prohibitively costly nowadays
-- who poured him his first glass and offered it with a curtsey, then
retired to sit in the darkest corner among the bookcases, her white eyes
and white teeth glimmering in the shadow.
Glass in hand, Don Miguel wandered absently around the room. It was not
merely a library, despite its name. It was almost a museum, and shelf
after shelf contained ornaments and curios. The majority of them were,
as he had been led to expect, of Saxon, Norse and Irish origin; there
were, however, many Moorish and Oriental items, in gold and silver and
turquoise and even jade.
He nodded in bitter satisfaction and shifted his attention to the books,
which proved that Don Arcimboldo enjoyed truly catholic -- but definitely
not Catholic -- taste. There was one case which would probably have sent
Father Peabody into hysterics . . . or perhaps not. Reconsidering the
idea, Don Miguel concluded that his long acquaintance with the Marquesa
had probably cured the priest of his tendency to hysteria. Nonetheless,
the maiority of these volumes were on the Index, and not by any means
all for simple heresy.
He selected a finely illustrated edition of the
Satyricon
of Petronius
Arbiter to pass the time until Don Arcimboldo should enter, and settled
himself in a superb leather chair, very comfortable and tooled all over
with gilt.
When at length the host did appear, he was full of apologies for making
Don Miguel wait. But Don Miguel waved his protestations aside.
"I should have sent ahead to say you must expect me," he declared.
"But I've not regretted the time I've spent browsing here. It's given
me excellent insight into your tastes as a collector, both of curios
and of books."
Don Arcimboldo dropped into a chair that was the twin of Don Miguel's
and snapped his fingers for the Guinea-girl to fetch him wine. "What
taste I have, to be candid, is dictated by little more than the desire
to surround myself with beautiful objects. However, if my self-indulgence
affords pleasure for others, I see no reason to deny it." He gave a soft
chuckle and sipped his drink.
"Incontestably you have a remarkable collection," said Don Miguel.
"Tell me, did you acquire all of these things here in Jorque?"
"Very many of them, including most of the best. Our great market --
you've seen it, yes? -- is a splendid hunting-ground for rarities.
As a matter of fact, I bought most of the gold and silver from Higgins,
who's a specialist in that area. I wonder: have you any news of him?"
"He sticks to his uneonvincing story of having acquired the Aztec mask
from a stranger."
"Poor fellow!" Don Arcimboldo murmured. "I wonder what can have possessed
him!"
There was a pause, during which the Guinea-girl came to see whether their
glasses needed replenishing. Having spilled a symbolic drop into each,
she would have returned to her corner, but her employer dismissed her
from the room.
"An interesting choice of phrase," Don Miguel said, as soon as the door
had closed behind the slave.
Don Arcimboldo blinked at him. "I don't think I quite . . . ?"
"Your saying you don't know what possessed Higgins," Don Miguel amplified,
turning his wineglass between his fingers. "The term is almost too literal,
you know. The inquisitors beileve him to have been enchanted."
"Villainous!" Don Arcimboldo exclaimed. "What a foul trick to play on an
honourable tradesman!"
"Yes," Don Miguel agreed, and once more there was a short silence.
"By the way," Don Arclmboldo resumed at length, "there's something I
suppose I should have said to you in Londres."
century had safely passed since Borromeo turned time-travel loose in
this imperfect world. Right now he was tempted to draw his sword on this
idiot and inscribe his hide with a message to be memorised concerning
the responsibilities of the Society. However, he controlled himself.
"It was not enough," he said shortly. "If that's all you can offer me,
though, I'll make a start with it. Where are these clerks you referred
to?"
"At once!" Don Pedro exclaimed. "I'll take you to see them myself!"
But the clerks were even less helpful than Higgins had been. Their
story, to the truth of which the local inquisitors testified, was
that their master had conducted both the purchase and the later sale
of the mask himself, as he often did when the other party involved was
of noble status. That, Don Miguel had to concede, was logical enough --
he could imagine any nobleman compelled to dispose of family heirlooms
and replenish a shrinking coffer wanting to treat in confidence with
a discreet merchant, and he already knew that Higgins's reputation for
discretion had brought him many such transactions.
The clerks maintained stoutly that they had been unaware of the mask's
existence until their master was arrested, and their story -- like
Higgins's own -- had so far defied the best efforts of the inquisitors
to undermine it.
Sighing, Don Miguel left the cell in which they were incarcerated and
headed back through the fine grounds of the Society's office. Having gone
some distance with Don Pedro silent at his side, he suddenly spoke up.
"This market, now, where the mask was sold to Don Arcimboldo -- it's
outside the city wall, is it not?"
"Indeed it is, sir," Don Pedro answered. "Save for freemen of Jorque,
who seldom engage in trade, no one may buy or sell goods within the
wall; there was a bylaw passed in the last years of last century. Thus
the custom arose of going beyond the walls to trade, and now indeed the
market district has grown almost into a new city of itself."
"Good. I want to inspect this market. Call me a coach and let's be gone."
"With pleasure, sir," declared Don Pedro fervently.
While they were waiting before the Society's office for the vehicle
to arrive, Don Miguel turned to the other subject he was currently
interested in.
"Tell me, Don Pedro, what do you know about Don Arcimboldo Ruiz? Is he
a prominent figure here in Jorque?"
"He's . . ." Don Pedro hesitated oddly. "He's of a prominent family in
the north."
Don Miguel nodded. "As to him personally, though?" he prompted.
"I can tell you rather little, I'm afraid. I do know he inherited large
estates over the Scottish border, but prefers to live in Jorque for the
sake of our social life. I also know he's highly regarded as a collector
of Saxon and Irish antiques -- men speak of him as having expert knowledge
on that subject. Beyond that . . ." He concluded with a shrug.
Of course, this was no news to Don Miguel; Don Arcimboldo had come
straight out and said he collected antiques, but New World artefacts were
not his speciality. His verdict on the personality of the Marquesa had
indicated a healthy cynicism, and implied that if he had had any cause
to suspect Higgins of selling him contraband he would have taken steps
to protect himself. He would hardly have given such a splendid gift to
the Marquesa, knowing its existence would be public knowledge within the
day, had he feared it was an unlicensed import. Either he would not have
bought it, or he would have kept it secretly for his own collection. Yes,
the argument was colourable.
And yet . . .
Don Miguel's train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the coach
Don Pedro had called for. But the tiny crease of puzzlement which had
developed between his eyebrows remained there throughout the coach-ride.
They called the place a "market"; in fact, as Don Pedro had forewarned
him, it had grown until it was almost a city in its own right. Wide roads,
well paved, traversed it and separated the plots of ground leased to
various traders, on which had been erected booths backed by solid stone
warehouses. During the day goods were brought forth from the latter and
displayed under awnings, or by the most prosperous merchants in little
huts sided with glass, while brawny slaves guarded them with clubs. At
night they would be taken back into the warehouses and firmly secured
against robbers.
Instructing Don Pedro to dismiss the coach for an hour, Don Miguel set
forth on foot for a tour of the market. He paused apparently at random
-- to test the quality of nutmegs at a spicer's, to feel some splendid
Eastern brocades in a draper's, to examine a set of candlesticks in a
silversmith's -- and as he did so he asked casual-seeming questions of
the staff. Somehow, to Don Pedro's increasingly obvious admiration, he
contrived to introduce into each such conversation the names of Higgins
and Don Arcimboldo.
The expiry of the hour saw them emerging from a bookbinder's, where
gold-leaf glittered on fine calf bindings and the air was rich with the
scent of leather and size, and with that Don Pedro's patience ran dry.
"Sir!" he exclaimed. "The subtlety of your inquiries has amazed me --
truly it has!"
"Subtlety?" Don Miguel echoed with a scowl, striding in the direction
of the spot where they were to rejoin their coach. Their course was
taking them through the heart of the market, and at this noontide
juncture the place was crowded. Retainers from noble families, bearing
conspicuous crests, kept shoving their way through with arrogance, a
fact which greatly annoyed Don Pedro but which Don Miguel put up with
stoically. They could have cleared a path for themselves by merely
mentioning the name of the Society, let alone displaying its arms --
the scythe and hourglass which Borromeo had personally chosen for its
insignia -- but it was a bad time to draw attention to themselves.
"Subtlety?" he said again, and added a savage chuckle. "Well, if it's subtle
to fail completely in trying to answer an all-important question, I'll
agree . . . Don't bother me for a moment, if you please! I'm desperately
struggling to think!"
Embarrassed, Don Pedro shut his mouth like a rat-trap, and did not utter
another word apart from inviting Don Miguel to precede him into the coach,
until the latter spoke again nearly halfway back to the Society's office.
"Don Pedro! A word of advice from you!"
"You do me much honour,' Don Pedro said nervously. "I trust I can provide
what you want."
"Well, I can't figure it out for myself. You have a go. Imagine you were
in Don Arcimboldo's place, heir to lands in Scotland and and a highly
respected collector of antiques: why would you give a very rare and
costly mask of solid gold to a lady who is -- to be blunt -- far past
the age of courtship?"
Don Pedro's eyes widened. For a long moment he said nothing; then finally
he ventured, "Well, perhaps from motives of simple friendship . . . ?"
What Don Arcimboldo had said about the Marquesa during her party ruled
out that possibility, in Don Miguel's view. He dismissed the suggestion
with a wave of his hand, not bothering to explain why.
"Another reason?" he invited.
"Well . . ." Don Pedro swallowed enormously. "Far be it from me to impute
anything to someone as respected as Don Arcimboldo, but . . . Perhaps one
might assume he stood to gain by his action?"
"I'm very much afraid one might. Don Pedro, instruct your coachman to
detour by way of Higgins's residence in the town. I trust you're not in
a great hurry for your lunch -- this may take a little time."
In fact, the stop at Higgins's home lasted a mere twenty minutes,
but when he came away Don Miguel was frowning like thunderclouds and
responded to Don Pedro's attempts at conversation only with frigid grunts.
Then, on their return to the Society's office, he found a message awaiting
him, received by semaphore telegraph from Londres a few minutes before.
It was a report from Red Bear's field-teams, informing him that the gold
mask was almost certainly the work of a celebrated Aztec goldsmith called
Nezahualcoyotl -- Hungry Dog. And that established its origin in the
middle fifteenth century, most likely in the great town of Texcoco.
Another puzzle for him! If the mask was the work of such a famous
craftsman that Red Bear's staff could identify it so positively, why
should a collector of art-objects
give
it away, even if he didn't want
it for his own collection? Surely the logical thing would be to sell it,
and use the proceeds to enlarge . . .
A great light suddenly broke in on Don Miguel. Facts clicked together
in his mind and formed a pattern, a pattern which made sound sense. He
slammed fist into palm and rounded on Don Pedro.
"I see itl And yet I do not see it! If -- Don Pedro, send speedily to the
Holy Office here in Jorque and ask for a skilled inquisitor to attend
me and answer certain questions. Then have a coach reserved for me,
and be sure the driver knows the way to the home of Don Arcimboldo,
for I purpose to call on him tonight."
"It shall be done," promised Don Pedro, and hurried away.
Don Miguel conversed lengthily with the inquisitor who came in answer to
his request, in private and alone. When they parted it was near dark, yet
he refused Don Pedro's invitation to stay and take a bite to eat. Instead,
he buckled on his sword, threw a cloak about him, and headed into the
dusk as though fiends were hot on his heels.
VII
Don Arcimboldo's town house in Jorque, though far from new, was handsome
and spacious and stood in extensive grounds. The interior bespoke luxury
and good taste. The same raw materials that Don Miguel had encountered
at the Marquesa's -- creeping plants trained on sculptured artificial
boughs, hothouse flowers that turned the rooms into miniature gardens,
exquisite tiling and panelling and many priceless antique ornaments --
had been employed here, but by someone with far superior judgment.
It seemed a shame, Don Miguel felt, to come here for the first time
on such an errand. But, weighted down with his burden of suspicion,
he hardened his heart.
The major-domo who had admitted him presented his master's apologies,
saying that he was at dinner but would shortly be finished and would
wait on his distinguished guest; in the meantime, would Don Miguel be
so kind as to occupy himself in the library?
Don Miguel would. Wine was brought for him by a Guinea-girl --
exceptionally beautiful, hence either very expensive or born into the
service of the family, for slaves were prohibitively costly nowadays
-- who poured him his first glass and offered it with a curtsey, then
retired to sit in the darkest corner among the bookcases, her white eyes
and white teeth glimmering in the shadow.
Glass in hand, Don Miguel wandered absently around the room. It was not
merely a library, despite its name. It was almost a museum, and shelf
after shelf contained ornaments and curios. The majority of them were,
as he had been led to expect, of Saxon, Norse and Irish origin; there
were, however, many Moorish and Oriental items, in gold and silver and
turquoise and even jade.
He nodded in bitter satisfaction and shifted his attention to the books,
which proved that Don Arcimboldo enjoyed truly catholic -- but definitely
not Catholic -- taste. There was one case which would probably have sent
Father Peabody into hysterics . . . or perhaps not. Reconsidering the
idea, Don Miguel concluded that his long acquaintance with the Marquesa
had probably cured the priest of his tendency to hysteria. Nonetheless,
the maiority of these volumes were on the Index, and not by any means
all for simple heresy.
He selected a finely illustrated edition of the
Satyricon
of Petronius
Arbiter to pass the time until Don Arcimboldo should enter, and settled
himself in a superb leather chair, very comfortable and tooled all over
with gilt.
When at length the host did appear, he was full of apologies for making
Don Miguel wait. But Don Miguel waved his protestations aside.
"I should have sent ahead to say you must expect me," he declared.
"But I've not regretted the time I've spent browsing here. It's given
me excellent insight into your tastes as a collector, both of curios
and of books."
Don Arcimboldo dropped into a chair that was the twin of Don Miguel's
and snapped his fingers for the Guinea-girl to fetch him wine. "What
taste I have, to be candid, is dictated by little more than the desire
to surround myself with beautiful objects. However, if my self-indulgence
affords pleasure for others, I see no reason to deny it." He gave a soft
chuckle and sipped his drink.
"Incontestably you have a remarkable collection," said Don Miguel.
"Tell me, did you acquire all of these things here in Jorque?"
"Very many of them, including most of the best. Our great market --
you've seen it, yes? -- is a splendid hunting-ground for rarities.
As a matter of fact, I bought most of the gold and silver from Higgins,
who's a specialist in that area. I wonder: have you any news of him?"
"He sticks to his uneonvincing story of having acquired the Aztec mask
from a stranger."
"Poor fellow!" Don Arcimboldo murmured. "I wonder what can have possessed
him!"
There was a pause, during which the Guinea-girl came to see whether their
glasses needed replenishing. Having spilled a symbolic drop into each,
she would have returned to her corner, but her employer dismissed her
from the room.
"An interesting choice of phrase," Don Miguel said, as soon as the door
had closed behind the slave.
Don Arcimboldo blinked at him. "I don't think I quite . . . ?"
"Your saying you don't know what possessed Higgins," Don Miguel amplified,
turning his wineglass between his fingers. "The term is almost too literal,
you know. The inquisitors beileve him to have been enchanted."
"Villainous!" Don Arcimboldo exclaimed. "What a foul trick to play on an
honourable tradesman!"
"Yes," Don Miguel agreed, and once more there was a short silence.
"By the way," Don Arclmboldo resumed at length, "there's something I
suppose I should have said to you in Londres."
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