“Nephrite, to be exact. Jadeite gives a different feel: somewhat more coarse. These are cold and unctuous, like green butter."
“What are they used for?"
“I use them to sell to collectors," said Alvina. “All authentic tanglets are antiques, and very valuable, since the only new tanglets are counterfeit."
"“What were they originally?”
“At first they were hairclasps, worn by the warriors of a far world. When a warrior killed an enemy he took the clasp and wore it on the scalp rope of his hair. In this way tanglets became trophies. The tanglets of a hero are even more; they are talismans. There are hundreds of distinctions and qualities and special terms, which make the subject rather fascinating, when you acquire some of the lore. Only a finite number are authentic tanglets, despite the efforts of counterfeiters, and each one is annotated and named and attributed. All are valuable, but the great ones are literally priceless. A hero's rope of six tanglets is so full of mana it almost sparks. I must take extraordinary care; a single touch sours the sheen and curdles the mana."
“Poof!” said Wayness. “Who would know the difference?"
“An expert: that's who, and on the instant. I could tell you stories for hours on end." Alvina looked toward the ceiling. “I'll tell you just one, about the famous tanglet: Twelve Kanaw. A collector named Jadoukh Ibrasil had coveted Twelve Kanaw for many years, and finally, after complicated negotiations, took possession of Twelve Kanaw. On the same night, his beautiful spouse Dilre Lagoum saw the tanglet and innocently wore it in her hair to a fete. Jadoukh lbrasil joined his wife, complimented her upon her beauty, then noticed the tanglet in her hair. Witnesses say that he turned white as a sheet. He knew at once what he must do. Courteously he took Dilre Lagoum's arm and led her into the garden and cut her throat among the hydrangeas. Then he stabbed himself. The story is usually heard only among collectors. The general feeling is that Jadoukh lbrasil did what he had to do, and at this point the talk becomes metaphysical. What do you think?"
"I don’t quite know," said Wayness cautiously. "It may be that all collectors are mad.”
"Ah, well that is a truism.”
“I should think that work among such temperamental objects would be hard on the nerves.”
“Sometimes it is,” Alvina admitted. “I find, however, that my high prices are a great solace. Alvina rose to her feet. "I will let you handle a counterfeit, if you like. You can do no damage.”
Wayness shook her head. “I think not. I have better things to do than handle counterfeits."
“In that case, I'll make us a pot of tea – unless you are in a hurry?”
Wayness looked out the window to find that the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. “No, thank you. I think I'll take advantage of the let-up and run back to the hotel."
II.
Wayness stood for a moment in front of Alvina’s shop. Out over the Adriatic shafts of sunlight had broken through the clouds. Via Malthus smelled of damp stone mingled with odors from the canal and the everywhere pervasive scent of the sea. Beside the canal an old man wearing a red stocking cap with a tail dangling to his shoulders walked with a small white dog. Diagonally across the street an old woman stood in the doorway of her house, conversing with another old woman who stood on the sidewalk. Both wore black gowns and lace shawls; as they talked, they turned to look approval toward the old man walking stiffly and slowly with his dog; it seemed as if they were disparaging him for reasons beyond Wayness’ understanding. None of the three could be considered a threat. Wayness set off at a fast walk up Via Malthus, then to the left along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, keeping an unobtrusive watch over her shoulder. She arrived at the Hotel Sirenuse without incident, and went directly to her room.
The westering sun had banished most of the tattered clouds and had transformed some of the grays and dark grays of the landscape into whites. Wayness stood out upon the balcony for a few minutes, then turning back into the room, settled into an armchair, to reflect upon what she had learned. Most of it, while interesting, seemed irrelevant to her principal concerns. She found herself dozing and stumbled to the bed for a nap.
Time passed. Wayness awoke with a start of urgency, to find that the time was already middle evening. She changed into her dark brown suit and went down to the restaurant. She dined upon a bowl of goulash with a salad of lettuce and red cabbage and half a carafe of the soft local wine. Upon leaving the dining room, Wayness went to sit in a corner of the lobby, where with one eye she pretended to read a periodical and with the other she watched the comings and goings.
The time moved toward midnight. At twenty minutes to the hour, Wayness rose, went to the entrance and looked up and down the street.
Everything was quiet, and the night was dark. A few street-lamps stood at infrequent intervals, in islands of their own wan light. On the hillside a thin fog dimmed a thousand other lights so that they seemed no more than sparks. Along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, no one walked abroad, so far as Wayness could see. But she hesitated and went back into the hotel. At the registration desk, she spoke to the night clerk: a young woman not much older than herself. Wayness tried to speak in a matter-of-fact voice. "I must go out to meet someone, on a matter of business. Are the streets considered safe?"
"Streets are streets. They are widely used. The face you look into might be that of a maniac, or it might be the face of your own father. I am told that in some cases they are the same person."
“My father is far away," said Wayness. “I would be truly surprised to see him on the streets of Old Trieste."
“In that case, you are rather more likely to discover a maniac. My mother worries greatly when I am out by night. ‘No one is safe even in their own kitchen,’ she tells me. ‘Only last week the repair man who was called to fix the sink insulted your grandmother!’ I said that the next time the repair man is called, Grandmother should go out on the street instead of hanging around the kitchen."
Wayness started to turn away from the desk. "It seems that I must take my chances."
“One moment," said the clerk. “You are wearing the wrong uniform. Tie a scarf over your head. When a girl is out looking for excitement her head is uncovered."
“The last thing I want is excitement,” said Wayness. “Do you have a scarf I might borrow for an hour or so?”
“Yes, of course. “The clerk found a square of black and green checked wool which she gave to Wayness. “That should be quite adequate. Will you be late?”
“I should think not. The person I must see is only available at midnight.”
“Very well. I will wait up for you until two. After that you must ring the outside bell."
“I'll try to be back early.”
Wayness tied the scarf over her hair, and set off on her errand. By night the streets of Porto Vecchio in old Trieste were not to Wayness’ liking. There were sounds behind the curtained windows which seemed to carry a sinister significance, even though they were almost inaudible. Where the Way crossed the Daciano Canal, a tall woman in a black gown stood on the Ponte Orsini. A cool chill played along Wayness' skin. Could this be the same woman who had glared at her earlier in the day? Might she have decided that Wayness needed further chastisement? But it was not the same woman and Wayness laughed sadly at her own foolishness. This lady who stood on the bridge was quietly singing, so softly that Wayness, pausing to listen, could barely hear. It was a wistful pretty tune, and Wayness hoped that it might not linger on and on, to haunt her memory.
Wayness turned down Via Malthus, watching behind her more warily than ever. Before she reached Xantief’s shop, a man wearing a cloak and hood came springing light-footed around the corner from the Way of the Ten Pantologues. He paused, to peer down Via Malthus, and then followed after Wayness.
With heart in mouth, “Wayness turned and ran to Xantief’s shop. Behind the windows she saw a faint illumination; she pushed at the door. It was locked. She cried out in distress and tried the door again, then knocked on the glass and pulled at the bell cord. She looked over her shoulder. Down Via Malthus came the tall man moving on his light springing strides. Wayness turned and huddled back into the shadows. Her knees were loose; she felt apathetic, trapped. Behind her the door opened; she saw a white-haired man, slight of physique and of no great stature, but erect and calm. He moved aside and Wayness half-stumbled, half-fell through the doorway.
The man in the hooded cloak strode lightly past, never so much as troubling to look aside. He was gone: down Via Malthus and into the darkness.
Xantief closed the door and moved a chair forward. "You are disturbed; why not rest for a moment or two?"
Wayness sagged into the chair. Presently she regained her composure. She decided that something needed to be said. Why not the truth, then? It would serve well enough, and had the advantage of needing no fabrication. She spoke, and was surprised to find her voice still tremulous: “I was frightened."
Xantief nodded courteously. “I had reached the same conclusion, though no doubt for different reasons."
Wayness, after considering the remark, was obliged to laugh, which seemed to please Xantief. She straightened herself in the chair and looked around the room: more like the parlor of a private residence than a place of business, she thought. Whatever might be the 'arcana' which were Xantief’s stock-in-trade, none were on display. Xantief himself matched the image Wayness had derived from Alvina’s remarks. His tendencies were obviously aristocratic; he was urbane and fastidious, with a clear pale skin, features of aquiline delicacy, soft white hair cut only long enough to frame his face. He dressed without ostentation in an easy suit of soft black stuff, a white shirt and the smallest possible tuft of a moss-green cravat.
“For the moment, at least, your fright seems to be under control," suggested Xantief. “What was its cause, may I ask?"
“The truth is simple," said Wayness. "I am afraid of death."
Xantief nodded. “Many people share this dread, but only a few come running into my shop at midnight to tell me about it.”
Wayness spoke carefully, as if to an obtuse child: “That is not the reason I came."
“Ah! You are not here by chance?”
“No.”
“Let us proceed a step farther. You are not, so to speak, a human derelict, or a nameless waif.”
Wayness spoke with dignity. “I cannot imagine what you have in mind. I am Wayness Tamm.”
“Ah! That explains everything! You must forgive me my caution. Here in Old Trieste there is never a dearth of surprising episodes, sometimes whimsical, sometimes tragic. For instance, after a visit like yours, at an unconventional hour, the householder discovers that a baby has been left on the premises in a basket.”
Wayness spoke coldly: “You need not worry on that account. I am here now only because you have made these your business hours."
Xantief bowed. “I am reassured. Your name is Wayness Tamm? It fits you nicely. Please remove that ridiculous dust rag, or fly chaser, or cat blanket: whatever it is you are wearing for a scarf. There! That is better. May I serve you a cordial? No? Tea? Tea it shall be," Xantief glanced at her from the side of his face. “You are an off-worlder, I think?”
Wayness nodded. “More to the point, I am a member of the Naturalist Society. My uncle, Pirie Tamm, is Secretary."
“I know of the Naturalist Society," said Xantief. "I thought it to be a thing of the past."
“Not quite.” Wayness stopped to reflect. “If I told you everything, we would be here for hours. I will try to be brief."
"Thank you," said Xantief. “I am not a good listener. Proceed.”
“A long time ago – I am not sure of the exact date – a Secretary of the Society named Frons Nisfit sold off Society assets and embezzled the proceeds.”
“The Society is now trying to revive itself, and we need some of the lost documents. I discovered that about twenty years ago you sold some Naturalist material to Count Raul de Flamanges. That, in effect, is why I am here."
"I remember the transaction,” said Xantief. ''What next?”
“I wonder if you own other Society material, such as documents relating to the Cadwal Conservancy.”
Xantief shook his head. “Not a one. It was only a freak that I was involved at all.”
Wayness sagged back in the chair.
"Then perhaps you will tell me how the Society materials came to you, so that I can carry my inquires another step."
"Certainly. As I mentioned, this sort of thing is not in my ordinary line. I took the documents only so that I might transmit them to Count Raul, whom I considered an altruist and a great gentleman and, indeed, a friend. Here is the tea."
'"Thank you. Why are you laughing?”
"You are so extremely earnest."'
Wayness started to blink, but tears came too fast for her. She wished that she were safe home at Riverview House, snug in her own bed. The idea was far too melting and almost broke through her self-possession.
Xantief had come to stand beside her and was wiping her cheeks with a fine handkerchief smelling of lavender.
“Forgive me; I am not usually so insensitive. Clearly you are under a great strain.”
"I'm afraid that I've been followed by dangerous people, I tried to avoid leading them here, but I can't be sure."
“What makes you think you were followed?”
Just as you opened your door a man came past. He was wearing a cape with a hood. You must have seen him.”
“So I did. He passes by every night about this time.”
"You know him?"
"I know well enough that he was not following you."
"Still, I feel eyes watching me, brushing the back of my neck."
"It may be so,” said Xantief. “I have heard many strange tales in my time. Still –" He shrugged. “If your followers were amateurs, you could shake them off easily. If they were professionals, you might or might not evade them. If they were dedicated experts, your skin would radiate a set coded wave-lengths. You would be surrounded by flying spy cells, each no larger than a droplet of water, and when you tried to cut them off by ducking into subway cars, they would already have settled into your clothing.”