Glystra held up the package Corbus had brought him. “I’ve got this. I don’t know what’s going to happen. From here out I’m playing strictly by ear. And,” he added, “I may be wrong, but I have a hunch there’ll be a few unforeseen developments here at Myrtlesee Fountain and I’m not worrying.”
Nymaster appeared behind Corbus. “Come, there’s a prefect on his way down. Come quick.”
Glystra pressed close to the hole. “So long, Corbus.”
Corbus waved his hand non-committally.
19
Wisdom for Lysidder
The sun dropped behind the fronds of Myrtlesee Fountain. A mesh of cirrus clouds flared golden in the sky. Dusk drifted in from eastern lands where night had already fallen over peoples and cities and tribes and castles still unseen.
A marble pavilion extended to the east of Myrtlesee Dome, enclosed by a colonnade of ornate design. Behind the colonnade was a pond of still water, dimly reflecting the afterglow with the fronds and ferns of the grove silhouetted in reverse. Four blond and slender youths bearing torches came from the dome. Their hair was cut in effeminate bangs. They wore skin-tight costumes sewed of red and green diamonds, black satin slippers with curled toes. They set the torches in tripods of dark wood, returned within.
A moment later six men in black kilts carried forth a square table which they placed in the exact center of the pavilion. The blond boys brought chairs, and the men in black kilts marched away in a single file.
The boys spread the table with a gold and brown-striped cloth, giggling like girls. At the center they arranged a miniature landscape—Myrtlesee Fountain in exact detail, complete with dome and pavilion, even to a table on the pavilion, where five persons sat to the light of tiny candles.
Flagons of liquor and wine were bedded in ice, trays of crystallized fruits, tablets of insect gland-wax, cakes of pressed flower petals were laid exactly in place, then the boys went to pose under the flaming torches, consciously beautiful.
Minutes passed. The boys fidgeted. Dusk gave way to feather-soft Big Planet night. Stars gleamed. A syrup-smooth breeze drifted through the colonnade to flutter the torches.
Voices sounded from the dome. Out on the pavilion came Mercodion, the High Dain of Myrtlesee Fountain and Charley Lysidder, Bajarnum of Beaujolais. Mercodion wore his richest robes, with a stole woven of pearls and metal. The Bajarnum wore a gray jacket of heavy soft cloth, red breeches, soft gray boots.
Behind came the Prefect Superior and two nobles of the Beaujolais empire.
Charley Lysidder remarked with pleasure at the table, glanced appreciatively at the statue-like youths, seated himself.
Wine was poured, food was served. Charley Lysidder was in high spirits and Mercodion extended himself to laugh graciously at his jovialities. Whenever there was silence a girl blew chords on a flute. When one of the diners spoke, she stopped instantly.
Ices and sorbets were brought in glass goblets, and finally pots of fuming incense were placed before each of the diners.
“Now,” said the Bajarnum, “now for our oracle, Claude Glystra. Originally I had planned to question him under torture, but the oraculation will prove easier for all concerned. He is a man of wide experience and knowledge; he will have much to impart.”
“A pity that such brief opportunity exists to plumb his wisdom.”
The Barjarnum shook a finger. “It is a matter you must concern yourself with, Mercodion—the maintenance of longer life in your oracles.”
The High Dain bowed his head. “It is as you say… And now I will order the oracle prepared and we will go to the auditorium.”
The hall was crowded with the rustling black-gowned priests. By custom hoods were not worn at night, but the characteristic motivation of reducing individuality to the lowest common denominator was expressed by a white head cloth banded loosely around the forehead, around the nape of the neck, forward under the chin.
Special ceremonial chants had been ordained. Twelve choirs situated each to a wall, mingled their voices in a twelve-part polyphony.
The Bajarnum, Mercodion and their retinue entered the hall, strolled to benches before the oracle’s dais. A serious-faced girl with shining blonde hair appeared at a side door. She wore black silk pantaloons and a gray-green blouse. For a moment she paused in the doorway, then slowly crossed the room, the only woman among hundreds of men, a peacock among crows. Eyes covertly followed her, tongues moistened celibate lips.
She stopped beside the Bajarnum, looked down at him with an oddly searching expression. Mercodion bowed politely. The Bajarnum smiled a cold tremble-lipped smile. “Sit down.”
The expression of intentness vanished, her face became blank. She sat quietly beside the Bajarnum. A whisper, a buzz, a rustle of garments rose from the spectators. By rumor the woman was the new toy of the High Dain. Eyes curiously probed his face, but the sallow skin was set like the rind of a pudding and no emotion appeared.
A sad chime sounded; a second tremor ran through the hall, a shifting of stance, a motion of eyes. The Bajarnum suddenly seemed to become aware of the assemblage; he muttered to the High Dain, who nodded, rose to his feet.
“Clear the hall. All must go.”
Murmuring, dissatisfied, the priests filed out the great doors. The hall was now near-empty, and reverberated with echoes of every movement.
A second chime sounded; the oracle appeared. Two prefects stood by his side, the Inculcator in his stiff white gown and tall hat followed close to the rear.
The oracle was wrapped in a robe of gray and red, and white swathing veiled his head. He walked slowly, but without hesitation. At the dais he paused and was lifted to the oracle’s seat.
The silence in the hall was like the inside of an ice-cave. Not a breath, not a sigh, not a whisper could be heard.
The prefects held the oracle’s arm, the Inculcator stepped close behind. He took the hypodermic from his hat, he swung his arm.
The High Dain frowned, squinted, jumped to his feet. “Stop!” His voice was harsh.
The watchers sighed.
“Yes, Dain?”
“Remove the head-swathing; the Bajarnum would look on the man’s face.”
The prefect hesitated, then reached forward, slowly unhitched the white burnoose.
The oracle looked straight ahead, down into the eyes of the Bajarnum. He smiled grimly. “If it isn’t my old shipmate, Arthur Hidders, dealer in leather.”
The Bajarnum made a slight inclination of the head. “More people know me as Charley Lysidder.” He examined Glystra with a narrow scrutiny. “You appear nervous, Mr Glystra.”
Glystra laughed, rather shakily. Enormous overdoses of vitamins, amino and nucleic acids were reacting on his motor system like stimulants. “You do me an honor of which I hardly feel myself worthy—”
“We shall see, we shall see,” said the Bajarnum all too easily.
Glystra’s eyes went to Nancy. She met his eyes a moment, then looked away^ He frowned. Seen in the new context beside the man he had known as Arthur Hidders, she took on a new identity—one not unfamiliar. “The nun,” he exclaimed.
Charley Lysidder nodded. “Rather a clever disguise, don’t you think?”
“Clever—but why was it necessary?”
The Bajarnum shrugged. “A fur-and-leather-dealer might conceivably accumulate enough Earth exchange to make the old world pilgrimage—but hardly likely that he would bring his talented young concubine with him.”
“She’s talented all right.”
Charley Lysidder turned his head, examined Nancy with dispassionate appreciation. “A pity, really, that she had to become a base tool of policy, she is apt at finer things… But that fool Abbigens dropped the ship too far from Grosgarth and I had no one at hand to serve me. Yes, a pity, since I will never use a woman fresh from another man’s couch. And now she must find another patron.” He glanced humorously at Mercodion. “I fancy that she will not need to seek far, eh, Dain?”