The Skies Discrowned (6 page)

With a stately bow, Orcrist left the room. Beardo crossed to the table and refilled his glass. “A real gentleman!” he smiled, luxuriously sniffing his brandy.

“He certainly is,” agreed Frank, to whom, right now, the word “dinner” was like a loved one’s name. “It was nice of him to ask us to stay the night here,” he added, wondering where he would have slept in Beardo’s odd dwelling.

“Ah, well that wasn’t so much good manners as
caution
, you see,” Beardo said. “Any time someone brings him really hot news he insists that they remain here until the news isn’t hot anymore. He doesn’t want us telling your story to anyone else.” The old fellow sipped the brandy and pulled out his pipe. “And his hospitality, Frankie, is such that no one has ever been known to object to the temporary captivity.”

The dinner, which was served an hour later in Orcrist’s high-ceilinged dining room, was lavish. A dozen stuffed game hens were piled on a platter in the center of the table, and salads, baked potatoes, toast, cold meats and steaming sauces flanked them. Carafes of chilled wines, red and white,
stood next to the roasted hens; Frank was amazed to find out that the whole production was intended only for himself, Beardo, Orcrist, and one other house-bound guest.

“Frank Rovzar, Beardo Jackson, this is George Tyler,” said Orcrist as the four of them sat down at the table. “George, Frank and Beardo.”

Frank looked across a dish of mustard sauce at George Tyler. He looks like he drinks more than he ought to, Frank thought, though he’s still too young for it to really show. Oblivious to Frank’s scrutiny, Tyler brushed a lock of blond hair out of his face and speared himself a baked potato.

“I must request, friends, that you do not discuss the respective businesses that have brought you here,” said Orcrist. “Not that any of it would provide suitable dinner conversation anyway.”

He took a long sip of Chianti, holding it in his mouth to warm it and taste it before he swallowed. “Not bad,” he decided. “You and Frank should get along well, George,” he said. “You have the artistic temperament in common. Frank is a painter, and George,” he added, turning to Frank, “is a poet.” The two young men smiled at each other embarrassedly.

“To hell with the talk, I say,” put in Beardo, gnawing a greasy hen from whose open abdomen pearl onions cascaded onto his plate. “Mother of God!” he exclaimed, observing the phenomenon.

The dinner progressed with considerable gusto, and by ten o’clock most of the wine and food had disappeared. Frank was feeling powerfully sleepy, though the others seemed to be just blooming, and Beardo had begun singing vulgar songs.

Tyler tossed a clean-picked bone onto his plate. “Not bad fare, Sam,” he said. “Nearly as good as what they used to serve at the palace.”

“At the palace?” inquired Frank politely.

“Oh, yes,” Tyler nodded, a little clumsily. “Didn’t old Sam tell you? I’m the true son of Topo.”

Orcrist caught Frank’s eye and frowned warningly. Don’t worry, Frank thought, I won’t say anything.

“Oh, hell
yes,”
Tyler went on. “Many’s the morning Dad and I would go hunting deer with the game wardens. I had my own horse, naturally, a speckled roan named … uh … Lighthoof.” He drank the last of his wine and refilled his glass. “Oh, and the long evenings on the seaside terrace, the sunset light reflecting in our drinking cups carved of single emeralds! Sitting in our adjustable recliners, fanned by tall, silent slaves from the lands where the bong trees grow!”

“For God’s sake, George,” said Orcrist.

“Oh, I know, Sam,” Tyler said with a broad wave of his hand. “I shouldn’t … dwell on these things now that I move in lower circles … present company excluded, of course. But I long even now for that old
life, to mount old … Lightboy and ride off on adventures and quests and whatnot.”

At this point Frank slumped forward onto the tablecloth, fast asleep.

Frank opened his eyes, but closed them again when he saw that the room was in pitch blackness. Not dawn yet, he thought instinctively. I wonder if Dad is home. A raucous, choking snore from another room made him sit up, completely awake. That’s not Dad, he thought; and this isn’t my room. Where am I? He felt around on the top of the table beside the bed, and soon had struck a match to a candle.

I’m in one of Orcrist’s guest rooms, he realized. And we’re underground, so God knows what time it is. He got out of bed and found his gaudy clothes draped over a chair. Odd as they were, he felt better when he was dressed. Now then, he thought, what are Orcrist’s breakfast customs?

He sighted the door, and then snuffed the candle and groped to it in the dark. To his relief the silent hallway beyond was lit by wall cressets, and he wandered along it until he came to Orcrist’s sitting room.

“Ah, Frank,” said Orcrist, who sat in his customary easy chair with a book and a cup of coffee. “Up with the sun even down here, eh? As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for you.” He stood up and took two rolls of parchment out from behind a bust of Byron on one of his bookshelves. Then he unrolled them on the carpet, using books to hold the corners down. On one of them had been done a finely shaded drawing of a girl’s head; the other was blank.

“What do you think of that picture, Frank?” Orcrist asked.

“I’d say it’s one of Gascoyne’s best sketches of Dora Wakefield. People used to say he was having an affair with her, but my father never believed it.”

Orcrist blinked. “Well, you know your field, Frank, that’s certain. Yes, it is a Gascoyne, though I didn’t know the name of the model. What I want to know is whether you can, without compromising any principles,
copy
it for me on this blank sheet. Hm?”

“Sure I can,” Frank answered carelessly. “Have you got black ink, a little water, and a … number eight point pen?”

Orcrist pointed to them on the bookcase. “I’ll be back in an hour to get you for breakfast,” he said, and left the room, carrying his coffee.

Frank rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes
and got to work. He lightly sketched the face onto the blank sheet using a dry pen to lay down some guide-scratches; then he dipped the pen in the ink and began carefully mimicking Gascoyne’s delicate stippling and cross-hatching. The discipline of his craft took his mind off of the uncertainty of his current
situation. Except for the occasional clink of pen-nib against ink bottle, the room was silent.

When Orcrist returned, he found Frank sitting in the easy chair, reading.

“Given up?” he asked with a little annoyance.

Frank handed him the two rolls of parchment. “Which one is Gascoyne’s?” he asked. Orcrist unrolled one, looked at it, and replaced it on the table. He unrolled the other one more carelessly, stared at it closely, and then spread both of them out on the floor.

“Given up?” asked Frank.

Abruptly, Orcrist laughed. “Yes, by God,” he said. “Which is yours?”

“The one whose ear lobe is showing. I didn’t want to do an absolute copy.”

Orcrist laughed again and clapped Frank on the shoulder. “Come along to breakfast,” he said. “And we can discuss your career possibilities.”

Beardo was staring with ill-concealed distaste at a glistening fried egg on his plate. With a petulant jab of his fork he ripped open the yolk.

“There’s a sad sight for you, poet,” he said somberly.

“Oh, quit playing with it,” said Tyler.

Both of them were frowning and squinting, and they seemed to have occasional trouble in breathing.

“Beardo,” said Orcrist, leading Frank into the breakfast room, which was cheerily lit by actual sunlight reflected down a shaft from the surface. “Your boy here proves to be a competent art forger. I propose to buy him from you. How does sixty malories sound?”

“You’re too generous, I’m sure,” smiled Beardo, cheered by this unexpected windfall. “Sixty it is.”

Frank was surprised to find that he was a buyable article, but he said nothing.

“How do you feel about that, Frank?” asked Orcrist. “You’d be a licensed art forger, bonded to me. You can have room and board here, plus a good salary, half of which, for the first two years, goes to me. Then when your bond is paid off you keep all of it. Will you take it?”

How can I not take it, Frank thought. It sounds like a good deal, and there’s absolutely nothing else I can do. He bowed. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Orcrist. Where do I sign?”

“After breakfast, can’t do business before breakfast. Why, gentlemen, you’ve eaten nothing! Not hungry?” He winked at Frank. Beardo and Tyler shook their heads.

“Well, I thank you for your company anyway. I assume two such busy citizens as yourselves must have many appointments, so I won’t inconvenience you by insisting that you stay for lunch.”

Orcrist told Frank that they’d get him registered with the Subterranean Companions that night. In honor of the occasion he provided Frank with some clothes of a more sober nature: a suit of brown corduroy, black boots and a black overcoat. “It’s not a good idea to be too conspicuous
down here,” he confided. “If you went out dressed in those other clothes, the first thief that saw you would figure it was Ali Baba himself walking by, and bash you before you could blink.”

Frank examined the conservative lines of his new overcoat with some relief. “Who are the Subterranean Companions?” he asked.

“A brotherhood of laborers engaged in extralegal work. A thieves’ union, actually. And we’ve got to get your name on the roll. Freelance work simply isn’t permitted.”

“Well, I want to do this right,” Frank put in.

“Of course you do.”

That evening, after a much simpler dinner than the previous nights, Orcrist and Frank set off down Sheol Boulevard, a grand street whose brick roof stood a full twenty feet above the cobblestones. Streetlamps were hung from chains at intervals of roughly fifteen paces, and taverns, fuel stores and barber shops cast light through their open doorways onto the pavement.

“This, I guess you could say, is Downtown Understreet,” said Orcrist. “Three blocks farther are the good restaurants. We’ve even got a couple of good bookstores down here.”

“Will we be passing them?” asked Frank.

“Not tonight. We’ve got to turn south on Bolt after this next cross street.”

They walked on without speaking, listening to the sounds of the understreet metropolis—laughter, shouts, clanking dishes and lively accordion music—echoing up and down the dim avenues.

At Bolt Street they turned right, and then took a sharp jog left, into an alleymouth, and stopped. They were in almost total darkness.

“Where are we?” whispered Frank.

“Sh!”

He heard the rattle of keys, and then the scratch and snap of a lock turning. Orcrist’s hand closed on his shoulder and guided him forward a few paces. There was a breath of air, and the sound of the lock again, and then a match flared in the blackness and Orcrist was holding it to the wick of a small pocket lantern. The narrow hallway smelled of old french fries. Orcrist put his finger to his lips and led Frank forward, past several similar doors to a stairway.

“Going down,” Orcrist whispered.

At the bottom of the stairs, six flights down, Orcrist relaxed and began chatting. “Got to be careful, you see, Frank,” he said. “There are people who’d pay a lot for the death of a ranking member of the Companions, so I never come by the same route twice in a row.” They were walking along another corridor now, but it was brighter and wider, and Orcrist extinguished his lantern and put it away.

“Why aren’t you armed?” asked Frank, who had noticed the absence of a sword under Orcrist’s cape.

“Oh, I’m adequately armed, never fear. Ah, and here we are.”

They stepped through a high open arch into a huge hall that Frank thought must once have been a church. The pews, if it ever did have any, had been ripped out and replaced by ranks of folding wooden chairs, but the place was still lit by eight ancient baroque chandeliers. A big, altar-like block of marble up front was currently being used as a speaker’s platform.

Frank followed Orcrist up a ramp to an overhanging structure that might have been a side-wall choir loft or a theater box. “Make yourself at home,” Orcrist told him, gesturing at the dusty chairs and music stands that littered the box. “I’ve got to count the house.” He pulled a pair of opera glasses from his pocket and began scrutinizing the crowd below. Frank sat down. His injured ear was throbbing, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

After about ten minutes Orcrist put the glasses away and turned to Frank. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “I’ve got to give your name to the registrar and pay your first month’s dues. Don’t leave the box.” He waved and ducked out.

Frank leaned on the balcony rail, looked out over the restless throng, and soon saw Orcrist’s dark, curly hair and drab cape appear from a side door. He watched him make his way to the speaker’s stand and huddle for a moment with one of the men there. Frank’s attention was distracted then by a fight that broke out in the middle of the hall, and when he glanced back at the speaker’s stand Orcrist was gone. He was still trying to sight him when Orcrist’s voice spoke softly behind him.

“Don’t look so eager, Frank. Don’t be conspicuous.” The older man pulled a couple of chairs close to the rail. “Sit down and relax,” he said. “This may take a while.”

Frank had been expecting great things of this secret, underground meeting of thieves, but soon found himself bored. The speaker, a pudgy man named Hodges, spent the first few minutes exchanging casual jokes with members of the audience. Frank understood none of the references, though Orcrist frequently chuckled beside him. Hodges addressed everyone by their first names, and Frank felt more excluded than he had at any time in the past three days. He felt a little more at home when Hodges read the list of newly-bonded apprentices and he heard “Rovzar, Frank” read out as loudly as any of them.

What would Dad say, Frank wondered briefly, if he knew I was making a living as an art forger? He’d understand. As he once told me, while squinting against the hideous sunlight of a cold morning, “Frankie, if it was easy, they’d have got somebody else to do it.”