Scharde raised his eyebrows. “Plain? I had a different impression. Agreed, she’s not buxom, but her face glows with intelligence; she’s a pleasure to look at . . . What did you finally find to talk about?”
“l told them about Sisco and the stolen gear. They were very much interested - much more than I had expected. It seems that at Stroma the Yips are a major political issue.”
“So I am told,” said Scharde. “One faction is ready for changes; at least, it renounces force and violence as instruments of policy. The second faction is made up of old-fashioned Naturalists, who aren’t all that squeamish. They want the Yips either to stop breeding or to leave Cadwal, or both. The Conservator must be neutral, but privately he seems to lean toward the Chartists.”
“Milo put it even more strongly, especially after he heard Chilke’s theory.”
“You’re ahead of me there,” said Scharde. “What is Chilke’s theory?”
“He thinks that the Yips have been stealing flyers from us a piece at a time. He says that the inventory records, even though they are a mess, indicate something of the sort.”
“That’s an interesting notion.”
“Milo put it this way: ‘If the Yips steal flyers, it means that they want to fly somewhere. If they steal guns, it means that they want to shoot someone.’”
Scharde rubbed his chin. “And all because you pulled the trigger on an empty gun.”
Chapter II, Part 4
In the morning, Glawen took Milo and Wayness down Wansey Way, past the lyceum to the Mummers’ warehouse, where stage properties and costumes were stored. The building was empty; the three walked along the wardrobe racks, inspecting costumes and holding them up to themselves. Milo finally selected a harlequin costume of black and yellow diaper with a black tricorn hat. Wayness wavered between half a dozen costumes but finally chose an overall pink garment, fitting snugly to arms, legs and torso, with black pompons down the front. A tight hood with slanting eyeholes left only nose, mouth and chin exposed, with a crown of delicate silver spirals clasping her hair.
Without perceptible self-consciousness, Milo and Wayness slipped from their outer garments and tried on the costumes.
Milo said sorrowfully: “Glawen’s finally got us disguised and bedizened, and now we’ll probably commit all sorts of disgraceful acts. Glawen will have a great load on his conscience.”
“Not unless you get caught,” said Glawen. “Be careful, and if you can’t be careful, at least be furtive.”
“This is a nice costume, and I intend to be very nice,” said Wayness. She studied her reflection in a tall mirror. “I look like a scrawny pink animal.”
“You look more like a pink cloud-fairy, which is how you are supposed to look.”
“Shall we stay as we are or get back into our own clothes?”
“Stay as you are. I’ll change into my costume, then we’ll go out in search of adventure.”
At Clattuc House Glawen became a black demon, then telephoned Sessily. “We’re all in costume and about ready to go out. Shall we stop by for you?”
“Hopeless. My relatives are here from Cassiopeia and I’ve been dragooned into walking them around town until noon.”
“We’ll meet you for lunch in the Old Arbor.”
“I’ll try to be there. If not, we’ll share a table tonight under the lanterns. What are your friends wearing?”
“Milo is a harlequin, in yellow and black. Wayness is a pink cloud-fairy. What about you?”
“I’m not sure. Miranda has decided to astound everyone as a Pierrot, and I’ll probably be the same, at least for today.”
The morning went by pleasantly, or so it seemed to Glawen. At noon the three found a table in the old Arbor: a place half restaurant, half open-air tavern under an arbor overgrown with lilac and native jelosaria. An open arcade overlooked the Quadrangle and a number of folk already costumed for Parilia.
Sessily presently appeared, costumed not as a Pierrot but as a whimsical entity she had patched together from bits of this and that. She identified herself as a Kalaki temple dancer from ancient Earth.
“So that’s what they looked like,” said Milo.
“Don’t count on it,” said Sessily. “I make no guarantee . . . What shall we have for lunch?”
Milo asked: “What do you suggest?”
“Everything is good here. I especially like the skewers of meat, with hot sauce and bread.”
Glawen said: “Cold ale goes along very nicely.”
“Not for me,” said Sessily. “Floreste changed his mind again and I’ve got to learn two new programs before Milden afternoon. It’s not difficult, but it takes all my time . . . Look! There he goes now!” Sessily pointed to a tall sharp-featured man with a great soft bush of gray hair, striding on long lean legs across the Quadrangle.
“Everyone admits he’s a genius, including Floreste himself,” said Sessily. “He wants to build a grand new Orpheum, and bring artists and audiences to Araminta from all over the Reach. He’ll sell his grandmother to get funding.”
Wayness asked Sessily: “What kind of music will you be playing?”
“Different kinds. On Verd evening I’ll play flute and tzingal with the trio. On Milden evening I’ll just have a few runs on the mellochord. On Smollen night, for the Phantasmagoria, I’ll play flute in the orchestra until my butterfly part, and then it’s over!”
“I wish I had your competence,” said Wayness. “I’m inept. My fingers won’t work together.”
Sessily gave a grim laugh. “Your fingers would work well enough if your mother’s name was Felice.”
“Really? Is that all there is to it?”
“Well - not quite all. Musical instruments are like languages; the more you know, the easier it is to learn a new one - if you have the knack in the first place. Having a mother named Felice teaches you scales and exercises. I’m grateful she never admired lion tamers or people who walk on red-hot coals; these would be new skills for my repertory.”
“We’ll leave those for Squeaker to learn,” said Glawen. “And speaking of lion taming: look what just prowled in.”
“What is it?” asked Wayness.
“It’s called a Bold Lion. Eight of them have formed an exclusive society.”
“Evidently not a temperance group,” suggested Milo.
“Definitely not. You can tell this one is drunk by the way it drags its tail along the floor. I think I recognize my distant cousin Arles Clattuc.”
“Ho, ho!” exclaimed Sessily. “See that Ruby Empress out on the Quadrangle? That is his mother, Spanchetta. Poor Arles! She has seen him.”
“Worse than that,” said Glawen. “She intends to have a word with him.”
Spanchetta entered the arbor and went to confront Arles. The tawny shoulders hunched; the massive Bold Lion head sagged forward.
Spanchetta made a crisp remark, to which Arles gave back a surly grumble, whose tenor Glawen deduced and reported. “Arles asks: ‘Is this not Parilia? Let the flowers bloom freely!’”
Spanchetta spoke again, then turned on her heel and departed the Old Arbor. Arles went to a table and was served a bowl of fish chowder.
Spanchetta, returning to the Quadrangle, went to sit on a bench, where she was joined by a masked satyr with horns and hairy goat legs.
“There’s Latuun,” said Sessily. “It’s actually Namour, who is said to maintain a discreet relationship with Spanchetta.”
“It’s incomprehensible,” said Glawen. “Still - there they sit!”
A small girl wearing loose white pantaloons, a white blouse and a tall conical white hat approached the table. Her face was disguised by white paint and a large lumpy nose.
Glawen said: “I notice the arrival of a certain Miranda, long ago known as Squeaker but no longer. She carries important news, as usual.”
“How do you know?” asked Miranda.
“l can tell by the way your nose twitches.”
“You can’t see my nose! It’s hidden behind this false nose.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
“Glawen! My nose isn’t a big lumpy thing! You know better than that!”
“I remember now. Well, what’s the news?”
“Mother wants Sessily to come.”
Sessily sighed. “It would be so easy to get drunk like Arles and wallow around in front of Mother and make inarticulate noises when she spoke.”
Miranda cried out: “Go ahead, Sessily! I’ll get drunk with you! We’ll do it together. Mother wouldn’t dare to kill us both.”
“Don’t be too sure,” said Sessily. “I suppose I must go. Come, Miranda.”
“Maybe Glawen will get drunk with me.”
“You keep your greedy little hands off Glawen! He’s mine!”
Sessily rose to her feet. “Come along, you naughty creature! Let’s go find Mother.”
The afternoon passed, and the evening. Before retiring Glawen telephoned Sessily. “Has Floreste made any more changes?”
“Just one small change, but I’m delighted. I don’t have to play flute Smollen night in the Bugtown orchestra. But I still can’t make the wings behave properly. It’s a matter of exact coordination. I must practice and practice.”
“Butterflies manage without any practice.”
“Butterflies aren’t standing on a pedestal with colored lights shining on them and everyone watching.”
“True.”
“I’ve told Floreste to turn off the lights if I start making mistakes. Incidentally, why did you assure me that Wayness was plain and built like a boy?”
“Isn’t she?”
“I noticed the difference instantly.”
“I guess it’s just something I missed.”
“Anyway, I’m tired and I’m going to bed. I won’t see you tomorrow, but on Glimmet perhaps we can have lunch at the Arbor.”
“I hope so. We’ll still be together at the Masque?”
“Yes! After I change from the wings, I’ll meet you to the side of the orchestra, near the bass viol.”
Ing passed and Glimmet; and on Verd morning Latuun led the parade along Wansey Way to open the official three days of Parilia.
Everywhere was color and gaiety; along Wansey Way the wine-tasting booths sold the great vintages of Araminta Station in quantities ranging from bottles to casks and dozens of casks, to buyers from worlds near and far. Each night the revelers dined at tables arranged along the side of the Quadrangle, just under the outdoor proscenium of the old Orpheum. On Verd and Milden evenings, Sessily performed in truncated Mummer presentations: the first night playing in a trio, on the second playing mellochord accompaniment to a set of pastiches by the Mummer mimes.
On Smollen night Parilia reached its climax, with the banquet and Floreste’s Phantasmagoria, to be followed by the Grand Masque, which would end at midnight to the stately music of the Farewell Pavane. Then, as the gong struck the hour, Latuun would jump down from the proscenium and run through the crowd, to be pelted with grapes and sent fleeing into the dark; and with the departure of Latuun, Parilia would come to its end. General unmasking would follow, and sad-sweet singing of traditional songs while folk wandered away to their beds, leaving only a few maudlin celebrants in the Quadrangle to await the dawn.
Glawen’s plans for himself and Sessily had been thoroughly disrupted, partly by Felice Veder, who wanted Sessily to make a good impression upon her off-world relatives, and partly by reason of Glawen’s duties in connection with Milo and Wayness Tamm.
Glawen had made a fatalistic adjustment to the situation. At the banquet he sat beside Wayness, with Milo at her other side. Arles, looking somewhat untidy in spite of his Bureau B cadet uniform, sat at a nearby table beside Spanchetta. He would miss most of the banquet, Phantasmagoria and the Grand Masque by reason of the patrol, and his posture suggested disgust and resentment. From time to time he reached to replenish his goblet with wine, only to be halted by Spanchetta’s peremptory signal and a reminder that sobriety was an essential component of a proper and vigilant patrol.
Glawen had been watching. He told Wayness: “Arles keeps trying to pour wine for himself, but Spanchetta won’t allow it.
Arles is becoming more rebellious every minute. He and Kirdy may just hide in the bushes with a bottle, and let the patrol go hang. We’ll know, if the Yips come screaming across the Quadrangle and cut our throats.”
Wayness gave her head a dubious shake. “The Yips wouldn’t dare such an outrage during Parilia! They’d incur enormous disapproval, even from the LPF.”
“Who are the LPF?”
“The Life, Peace and Freedom people. That’s what they call themselves. They call us Alligators. But I don’t want to talk about such things now.”
Glawen studied her profile. “Are you having a good time?”
“Of course!” She turned him a quick side glance. “Were you afraid I might not?”
“To some extent. I wasn’t sure that you’d like Araminta Station. Or me, for that matter.”
Wayness laughed. “Oh, you’re inoffensive enough. As for the Station, when I first arrived I was afraid that everyone would be so sophisticated that I’d feel naive and foolish.”
“And do you?”
“No. Thank you for asking.”
“Not at all.”
“I have been wondering what attending school at the lyceum is like. Is it very difficult?”
“Not if you keep up with the work. Arles is a good case in point. He wants to be an oenologist and for two years he tried to get good grades by drinking gallons and gallons of wine. Naturally he failed miserably.”
“Interesting, but how does this apply to me?”
“I think it’s fair to say that drunkenness and wine drinking won’t make learning any easier.”
“Hm. Did Arles mend his ways?”
“To some extent . . . there he goes now, the fine young cadet marching off to patrol the back fence.”
“Poor Arles! He’ll miss the Phantasmagoria.”
“He’s seen it all before. He’s an ardent Mummer, if you can believe it. So is Kirdy, for that matter.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve never had the urge. And you?”
“There aren’t any pageants or performances at Stroma.”
“Why is that?”
Wayness shrugged. “I suppose that the folk at Stroma don’t care to sit like clams and watch other people perform.”
“Hm. I must think this over a bit.”
The banquet proceeded, while on the Orpheum stage Floreste presented his Phantasmagoria: a potpourri of pantomime, frivolity, ballet and sheer spectacle, controlled by a loose weft of ideas.