From this vantage point he saw the procession bulling its way through the mob of drunken, torch-waving revellers; he saw the elegant litter being carried at shoulder height and the languid youth who waved from within at the merrymakers. Even from a distance of fifty feet he recognized the pale, contemptuous face of Costa, the parricide, the Duke who had had Frank’s father killed.
He can’t see me in the shadow of the awning here, Frank thought. Even if he could, I’m masked. He drew his coat tighter about his chest to cover his damning tattoo, and his fingers brushed the lump under the fabric that covered the gun. Suddenly and completely, he knew what he had to do. The shot wouldn’t be difficult at this range, and a forty-five calibre bullet ought to do the job.
Trembling, he took the gun out of his pocket and pushed off the safety catch. The procession had drawn even with him in the street. Costa was as close now as he would ever be. Stepping back, Frank raised the gun. I can’t, he thought. There must be twenty guards down there. Some of them have guns, and I’ve only got one bullet. I’d never get away through this crowd. I can't.
He stood there, shaking, with the gun pointed at Costa’s face. The procession was slowly moving past. In another few seconds he’ll be out of my line of sight. Frank thought.
There was a commotion in the crowd below, and a man ran at the litter and jumped up onto its running board. Frank saw a brief gleam of moonlight on a knife blade. Four quick gunshots broke the continuity of the crazy music, and the man with the knife stumbled to the ground. His weapon fell on the paving stones. He walked lurchingly back toward the crowd, and Frank could see the blood on his shirt. Two more shots cracked, and the man fell sideways onto the street.
Costa leaned out of the litter and waved to show that he was unhurt. The guards cheered, but the crowd almost booed him. An ugly tension was building; Costa and his attendants left quickly.
Frank replaced the gun in his pocket, feeling sick. He returned to Orcrist’s underground apartment, stopping twice along the route to throw up.
THE next morning he gave Orcrist back his gun and told him about the abortive assassination attempt by the man with the knife.
“I heard about it,” Orcrist said. “I knew the man slightly.”
“It was a crazy thing to do,” Frank declared.
“Yes, it was. Did you hear that Costa has abolished the Doublon Festival? He said it’s a ‘free-for-all crime fest,’ to use his words. It won’t even finish out the week, as it normally would.”
“It was pretty wild last night. I’ve been to it a dozen times and it was never nearly as bad as it was last night.”
“That’s because times were prosperous under old Duke Topo. Times are very bad now and getting worse; that’s why the festival was such a madhouse. People figured it was their last chance to enjoy themselves, and they’d do it or know the reason why.”
“Times aren’t that bad, are they?”
“I don’t know, Frank. They seem to be. The Transport is a bankrupt organization, but determined not to admit it. The interplanetary shipping lines are collapsing. The Transport seems to have decided to make Octavio its home planet, and so Costa, having sold out to them, is taxing the guts out of the people to support it. The end isn’t in sight—and we haven’t even hit bottom yet.”
Chapter 7
Two months later Orcrist once again had occasion to quote Aurelius to Frank.
“You see, Frank,” he explained, “when a man proves himself capable, he is likely to be given more tasks. You began as simply an art forger, and then also took on the duties of a quality art procurer.”
“Am I about to take on someone else’s duties? Did you lose another cousin?” Frank’s bronze ear gleamed in the lamplight.
“What a horrible thing to say, Frank. But yes, as a matter of fact, I was thinking of broadening your functions, giving you some experience in another field—now that my art collectors are so tax-strangled and the museums so heavily guarded and our night runs are becoming so few and far between.”
“My new field being ...?”
“Well, I entertain quite a bit, you know. Pons handles the details quite well, but the kitchen is a chaos. Kitchen boys come and go like sailors in a brothel, and now my chief cook has walked out. So I thought that, in the free time between our night runs and your painting, you might help Pons out with the dinners, cooking and washing up, and all.”
Frank swallowed the indignant anger that Orcrist’s suggestion raised in him. Take it easy, he thought. Orcrist’s employment is all that stands between you and the lean life of a fugitive. He’s fed you and taken care of you, and it isn’t his fault that the new government has made affluence an archaic word. Orcrist works as hard as you do (harder, probably), and risks his neck as well as your own on the night raids.
“What do you say?” asked Orcrist, and Frank suddenly realized that the older man was embarrassed to be making the request.
“It sounds okay to me,” Frank said. “I guess a little kitchen experience is a valuable thing to have.”
“Of course it is,” Orcrist agreed heartily. “I propose we celebrate it with a couple of glasses of this excellent Tamarisk brandy.”
After downing his brandy Frank went to the kitchen to get acquainted with the layout. He found Pons sitting on a stool, nibbling a chunk of Jack cheese. The tall, skinny servant regarded Frank skeptically. “Don’t tell me you took it,” he said.
“Matter of fact, I did,” answered Frank. “What is it I do?”
Pons stood up and ran his fingers through his graying hair. “Well now, you’ll find that kitchen work isn’t as easy as painting.” He peered at Frank, who said nothing. “But at least it’s honest work.” Frank smiled coldly.
Encouraged by Frank’s silence, Pons grinned and took another bite of cheese. “Yessir,” he said. “Liquor and books is all very well, but you don’t get time for that sort of trash in here. You know what I say?”
“What do you say?”
“I say, if you’ve got time enough to lean, you’ve got time enough to clean. Now we don’t have to get started on dinner for another two hours yet, so why don’t you get a rag and a bucket of hot water and clean off the oven hood? And then after that you can clean out these drains. What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Frank.
“Well, see that you don’t. I don’t like noisy help.” Pons took his cheese and left the room, on his lips the smile of the man who has had the last word.
Now what, thought Frank, have I done to provoke all that? He looked helplessly around himself at the kitchen. A big, gleaming oven stood in the center of the room. Around the walls were sinks and refrigerators and freezers. Years of airborne grease had darkened the yellow walls near the ceiling.
With a fatalistic sigh he began looking for a mop, a rag and a bucket.
WHEN Pons returned at four, he criticized Frank’s cleaning and asked him if his father and he had been accustomed to living in a pigpen.
“No,” said Frank evenly. I will deal with this Pons fellow, he told himself, when the opportunity arises.
“Well, that’s what anyone would think, to see the lazy-man job you did on these sinks.” He looked around the room with a dissatisfied air. “It’s high time we got started on dinner. And let me tell you, sonny, the best way to get on Sam’s bad side is to serve him bad food.”