Demon princes 01 05 the.., p.60
Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 60
Finishing his meal, the man began to speak, in phrases selected as if by random and conveying no plausible import Was this a novel bargaining trick? Did he hope to addle my thinking under a coil of perplexities? He did not know his man; as ever, I intended neither to be jockeyed nor hoodwinked, much less swindled. I heeded each word he spoke, taking care to make no assents nor dissents, lest these signs should be considered to form the basis of a bargain. My patience seemed to work an opposite effect upon this strange man. His voice became strident and harsh, and his gestures cut the air like flails.
At last I managed to interpose a quiet suggestion into the harangue. “In connection with our business, may I inquire your name?”
The question caught him up short. In a baleful voice he asked: “Do you question my fidelity?”
“By no means,” I made haste to reply, since the man was obviously truculent. I have dealt with many such in the course of my business, but none like this surly fellow. I continued in an affable tone. “I am a businessman, I merely wish to verify the identity of the person with whom I am dealing. It is a matter of ordinary commercial practice.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “Quite so.”
I pressed home my advantage. “Gentlemen settling to a bargain use conventional manners, and it is only polite that we address each other by name.”
The fellow nodded thoughtfully and produced a most remarkable belch, redolent of the spice he had consumed. Since he took no heed of the matter, I gave no sign that I had noticed.
Again he said, “Yes, yes, quite so.” And then: “Well, it is really no great affair. You may know me as Lens Larque.” Leaning forward, he leered at me through the folds of his cloak. “This name suits me well, do you not agree?”
“On such short acquaintance I could not pretend to hold an opinion. Now, our business. What are your offerings:
“Four tons of duodecimate[19] Black, SG 22, prime quality.”
We had no difficulty in arriving at a bargain. He named a price. I could take it or leave it. I resolved to demonstrate that others than himself could act with dignity and decision, without wheedling, haggling, or feigned outrage. I immediately accepted his tender, subject to proving out the quality. My stipulation stung his vanity, but I managed to allay his annoyance. In the end he saw reason, and became alarmingly jovial. The serving boy brought two great tankards of a vile mouse-flavored beer. Lens Larque quaffed his portion in three gulps and by the exigencies of the situation I was forced to do likewise, all the while giving fervent if silent thanks to the iron belly and matchless capacity developed by my many long years as a purchasing agent.
Gersen replaced the papers in their folio. “Very good work. Lens Larque takes on substance. He is a large fleshy man with a large nose and chin, which might now be surgically altered. His skin on at least one occasion was reddish bronze. Naturally he can use skin-toner as easily as anyone else. Lastly, his place of origin might well be the world Dar Sai, from the evidence of his name and also the mention of duodecimates, which are mined on Dar Sai.”
Rackrose sat up in his chair. “Are you acquainted with Wigaltown?”
“Not at all.”
“It’s a coarse and dismal neighborhood with a dozen or more off-world enclaves. Altogether unfashionable, of course; still, if you like odd smells and peculiar music Wigaltown is the place to wander. There’s a small Darsh colony and they patronize a public house on Pilkamp Road. Tintle’s Shade, the place is called. I’ve often noticed the sign which reads ‘Fine Darsh provender.’”
“That is interesting news,” said Gersen. “If Lens Larque is Darsh, and if he happened to pass through the neighborhood, we might expect him to visit Tintle’s Shade.”
Maxel Rackrose glanced over his shoulder. “Even Dett Mullian begins to look sinister. Why do you suppose that Lens Larque is nearby?”
“I don’t hold any firm opinion. Still, he might arrive at any time.”
“Mathematical probabilities guarantee at least this much.”
“Exactly We should acquaint ourselves with Tintle’s Shade for just this contingency.”
Rackrose winced “The place reeks with strange odors, I wonder if I’m up to it.”
Gersen rose to his feet “We’ll try ‘fine Darsh provender’ for our supper. Perhaps we’ll become devotees.”
Rackrose reluctantly hoisted himself erect. “We had best alter our gear,” he grumbled. “Dressed for the Domus, we’d be remarkable at Tintle’s Shade I’ll disguise myself as a roof mender and meet you there in an hour.”
Gersen glanced down at his own garments an elegant loose blue suit, a loose-collared white shirt, a crimson sash “I feel as if I’m already in disguise, I’ll change clothes and go as myself.”
“In one hour Pilkamp Road, in the dead middle of Wigaltown. We’ll meet in the street If you go by omnibus, get off at Noonan’s Alley.”
Gersen left the Domus and walked north through the dusk along the Orangery Parade. He wore a dark blouse, gray trousers caught in at the ankles, and soft low boots typical garments of the working spaceman.
At the Esplanade he mounted a transport platform and waited. The lake reflected the final glimmers of sunset color rust-red, apple-green, somber orange. As Gersen watched they disappeared and the lake became a gunmetal shimmer, illuminated by a few faint lights along the far shore An open-sided omnibus approached Gersen stepped aboard, seated himself, dropped a coin in the slot, that he might not be ejected at the next halt.
At the bend of the lake the Esplanade became Pilkamp Road. The omnibus slid north through Moynal and Drury under an endless chain of blue-white streetlamps.
The bus entered Wigaltown, At that ramp nearest Noonan’s Alley Gersen alighted.
Dark night had come to Wigaltown. At Gersen’s back buttresses of black rock hunched into the lake Across Pilkamp Road narrow buildings pushed their roofs high, to put unlikely shapes and odd angles against the sky Some of the tall narrow windows showed light, others were dark.
Diagonally across the street hung an illuminated sign:
TINTLE’S SHADE
Fine Darsh provender:
Chatowsies Pourrian Ahagaree.
Gersen crossed the street. From the shadows of Noonan’s Alley came Maxel Rackrose, wearing brown corduroy trousers, a checkered brown-and-black shirt, a black vest decorated with tinsel blazons, a loose black cap with a metal bill.
Gersen read from the sign. “‘Chatowsies Pourrian Ahagaree ‘ Do you have your appetite with you?”
“Not really. I am a fastidious eater. I may taste a bit of this and that.”
Gersen, who often had gulped down food he dared not think about, only laughed. “A keen journalist doesn’t know the word ‘fastidious’.”
“Somewhere we must draw the line,” said Rackrose “It may be here, at Tintle’s Shade.”
They pushed through the door into a hall Ahead stairs led up to the upper floors, to the side an arch opened upon a white-tiled chamber heavy with a musty stench. A dozen men drank beer at a counter tended by an old woman in a black gown, with straight black hair, dark orange skin, and a black mustache Posters announced exhibitions and novelty dances, at Rath Eileann and elsewhere. One of these read:
The Great Rincus Troupe Witness a hundred marvelous feats! See the bungles dance and play while the thongs whistle and keen!
Swister Day, at Fuglass Hall.
Another:
Whippery Ned Ticket and his lively bungles! How they leap! How they caper!
Whippery Ned sings songs of sliding leather and chides his troupe for errors or insufficient zeal, perhaps with a smart tingle of the flick!
The woman behind the bar called out: “Why do you stand like hypnotized fish? Did you come to drink beer or to eat food?”
“Be patient,” said Gersen. “We are making our decision.”
The remark annoyed the woman. Her voice took on a coarse edge. “‘Be patient,’ you say? All night I pour beer for crapulous men; isn’t that patience enough? Come over here, backwards; I’ll put this spigot somewhere amazing, at full gush, and then we’ll discover who calls for patience!”
“We have decided to take a meal,” said Gersen. “How are the chatowsies tonight?”
“The same as always, no worse than any other. Be off with you; don’t waste my time unless you’re taking beer .... What’s this? Smirk at me, will you?” She seized a mug of beer to hurl at Maxel Rackrose, who alertly jumped back into the anteroom, with Gersen close behind.
The woman gave her black mane a scornful toss, twisted her mustache between thumb and forefinger, then turned away.
“She lacks charm,” grumbled Rackrose. “She will never know me as a habitué.”
“The dining room may surprise us,” said Gersen.
“Pleasantly, so I hope.”
They started up the steps, which, like the beer-chamber, exhaled an unpleasant vapor: a compound of strange cooking oils, offworld condiments, and a stale ammoniacal waft.
At the first landing Rackrose halted. “Candidly, I find this all a bit unsettling. Are you sure that we actually intend to dine here?”
“If you have qualms, go no farther. I myself have known places both better and worse.”
Rackrose muttered under his breath, and trudged on up the steps.
A pair of heavy wooden doors opened into the restaurant. At widely separated tables small groups of men huddled like conspirators, drinking beer or eating from platters immediately below their faces.
A massive woman stepped forward. Gersen judged her no less formidable than the woman who tended the beer spigot, though perhaps a few years younger. Like the woman below, she wore a shapeless black gown and her hair hung in a rank tangle; her mustache was not quite so full. With glittering eyes she looked from one to the other. “Well then, do you wish to eat?”
“Yes; that is why we are here,” said Gersen.
“Sit yonder.”
The woman followed them across the room. When they were seated she leaned forward portentously with hands on the table. “What is to your taste?”
“We know Darsh food by reputation only,” said Gersen. “What are your special dishes?”
“A ha! Those we reserve for our own eating. Out here we serve chichala[20] and you must make the best of it.”
“What of the fine Darsh provender you advertise? The chatowsies, the pourrian, the ahagaree?”
“Look about you. Men are eating.”
“True.”
“Then that is what you must eat.”
“Bring us portions of all these dishes; we will give them a try.”
“As you like.” The woman departed.
Rackrose sat in glum silence while Gersen looked around the room. “Our man is not among those present,” said Gersen at last.
Rackrose glanced skeptically from table to table. “Did you seriously expect to find him here?”
“Not with any confidence. Still, coincidences occur. If he were passing through Rath Eileann, this is where we would hope to find him.”
Maxel Rackrose surveyed Gersen dubiously. “You are not telling me all you know.”
“Should that surprise you?”
“Not at all. But I’d like a hint as to what I’m getting into.”
“Tonight you need fear only the chatowsies and perhaps the pourrian. If our research continues, it might entail danger. Lens Larque is a sinister man.”
Rackrose glanced nervously around the room. “I would prefer to give the fellow no offense. He has a rancorous disposition. Remember Erasmus Heupter? Whatever the word ‘Panak’ means, I don’t care to know.”
The woman approached with a tray. “Here is the beer which men customarily take with their food. It is also usual for newcomers to provide a bit of entertainment. The shadow-box is yonder; a coin will produce a troupe of amusing figments.”
Gersen turned to Rackrose. “You are expert in such affairs; you shall make the choice.”
“With pleasure,” said Rackrose rather heavily. He went to the shadow-box, read the list of offerings, pulled a toggle, and dropped a coin into the hopper. A shrill voice called out: “It’s Javil Natkin and the Sly Rogues!” To a clattering music of blocks and chinklepins, the entertainers appeared in projected image: a tall thin man in white and black diaper, carrying a whip, and a band of six small boys wearing only long red stockings.
Natkin sang a set of doggerel verses lamenting the faults of his charges, then performed an eccentric prancing jig, snapping his whip this way and that, while the boys hopped, whirled, and scampered with extraordinary agility. Natkin, expressing dissatisfaction with their antics, nicked his whip at the plump buttocks. The boys so stimulated turned frantic somersaults, until Natkin stood surrounded by tumbling boys, whereupon he threw up his arms in triumph and the images disappeared. Patrons, who had given earnest attention to the display, muttered and grumbled and returned to their food.
From the kitchen came the black-gowned woman, with bowls and platters. She thumped them down upon the table—”Here is the food, Chatowsies. Pourrian. Ahagaree. Eat your fill. What you leave returns to the pot.”
“Thank you,” said Gersen. “By the way, who is ‘Tintle’?”
The woman gave a derisive snort. “Tintle’s name is on the sign. We do the work; we chink the coin. Tintle keeps his distance.”
“If possible, I’d like a few words with Tintle.”
The woman gave a derisive snort. “You’d like nothing whatever from Tintle; he’s stupid and dull. Still, for what it’s worth, you’ll find him in the backyard counting—his fingers or scratching himself with a stick.”
The woman moved away. Gersen and Rackrose gingerly addressed themselves to the food. After a few moments Rackrose said:
“I can’t decide what tastes worst. The chatowsies are fetid, but the ahagaree is ferocious. The pourrian is merely vile. And the lady seems to have washed her dog in the beer .... What? Are you eating more?”
“You must do the same. We want to establish a pretext for returning. Here; try some of these remarkable condiments.”
Rackrose held up his hand. “I have taken quite enough, at least on the basis of my present salary.”
“As you wish.” Gersen gulped down a few more mouthfuls, then thoughtfully put down his spoon. “We have seen enough for this evening.” He signaled to the woman. “Madame, our account, if you please.”
The woman looked over the platters. “You have eaten ravenously. I will need two or, better, three SVU from each of you.”
Rackrose cried out in protest. “Three SVU for a few mouthfuls of food? That would be exorbitant at the Domus!”
“The Domus serves insipid gutch. Pay your account or I will sit on your head.”
“Come now,” said Gersen. “That is no way to attract a steady clientele. I might add that we are waiting to meet a certain member of the Bugold Clan.”
“Bah!” sneered the woman. “What is that to me? A Bugold outcast robbed the Kotzash warehouse, and so now I live here in this place of dank winds and curdled rheum.”
“I’ve heard a somewhat different story,” said Gersen with an air of careless omniscience.
“Then you heard nonsense! The Bugold rachepol and that scorpion Panshaw connived together. They should have been broken and not poor Tintle. Now pay me my coin and so your way. This talk of Kotzash has put me out of sorts.”
Gersen resignedly put down six SVU. The woman, with a triumphant leer toward Maxel Rackrose, swept up the coins. “As for the gratuity, another two SVU will be considered adequate.”
Gersen handed over the coins and Madame Tintle departed.
Rackrose gave a snort of disgust. “You are far too obliging. The woman’s avarice is matched only by the vileness other cuisine.”
Madame Tintle spoke over his shoulder. “By chance I overheard that remark. On your next visit I will boil up my crotch-strap for your chatowsies.” Once again she swept away. Gersen and Rackrose also took their leave.
Out on the street they stood a moment. Mist hung over the lake; streetlamps north and south along Pilkamp Road showed as receding aureoles of pale blue light.
“What now?” asked Rackrose. “Is it to be Tintle?”
“Yes,” said Gersen. “He is conveniently close to hand.”
“That vulgar female mentioned a backyard,” grumbled Rackrose. “We will find it around yonder, there, up Noonan’s Alley.”
The two men walked around the corner of Tintle’s Shade, up the hill beside a wall which presently showed a gate of metal bars, giving on Tintle’s backyard. To the rear stood a line of ramshackle sheds, one of which showed a light.
At an upper window someone created a clangor by striking a pan against the wall, then lowered a pot on a length of string.
“It appears,” said Gersen, “that Tintle is about to dine.”
The door to the shed opened, to reveal the silhouette of a squat heavy-shouldered man. He ambled across the yard, detached the pot from the line, and carried it back to the shed.
Rackrose called through the gate: “Tintle! Hoy, Tintle! Over here by the gate!”
Tintle halted in surprise, then turned and ran spraddle-legged to his shed. The door closed behind him; the lights were immediately extinguished.
“That’s all from Tintle tonight,” said Gersen.
The two returned to Pilkamp Road, boarded the next omnibus, and rode south to Rath Eileann Old Town.
4
From The Demon Princes, by Carol Carphen:
The author of this monograph, as he ponders the Demon Princes and their marvelous deeds, often becomes confused by the multiplicity of events. To cure this condition he resorts to generalizations, only to see each such edifice collapse under the weight of qualification.
In basic fact the five individuals have but a single aspect in common: their total disregard for human pain.
Thus, as we hold Lens Larque up for comparison to his peers, we find no correspondence save in this single quality. Even that anonymity and secrecy which one might suppose to be a basic element of the craft is, in the case of Lens Larque, distorted into something rude and brash, so that it seems almost a craving for public attention. Lens Larque at times appears almost eager to exhibit himself.
