He set forth once more along the way to the landing field, and found Rolver at a lunch of spiced fish, shredded bark of the salad tree and a bowl of native currants. Rolver clapped an order on the hymerkin, and a slave set a place for Thissell. “And how are the investigations proceeding?”
“I’d hardly like to claim any progress,” said Thissell. “I assume that I can count on your help?”
Rolver laughed briefly. “You have my good wishes.”
“More concretely,” said Thissell, “I’d like to borrow a slave from you. Temporarily.”
Rolver paused in his eating. “Whatever for?”
“I’d rather not explain,” said Thissell. “But you can be sure that I make no idle request.”
Without graciousness Rolver summoned a slave and consigned him to Thissell’s service.
On the way back to his houseboat, Thissell stopped at Welibus’ office.
Welibus looked up from his work. “Good afternoon, Ser Thissell.”
Thissell came directly to the point. “Ser Welibus, will you lend me a slave for a few days?”
Welibus hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not?” He clacked his hymerkin; a slave appeared. “Is he satisfactory? Or would you prefer a young female?” He chuckled rather offensively, to Thissell’s way of thinking.
“He’ll do very well. I’ll return him in a few days.”
“No hurry.” Welibus made an easy gesture and returned to his work.
Thissell continued to his houseboat, where he separately interviewed each of his two new slaves and made notes upon his chart.
Dusk came soft over the Titanic Ocean. Toby and Rex sculled the houseboat away from the dock, out across the silken waters. Thissell sat on the deck listening to the sound of soft voices, the flutter and tinkle of musical instruments. Lights from the floating houseboats glowed yellow and wan watermelon-red. The shore was dark; the Night-men would presently come slinking to paw through refuse and stare jealously across the water.
In nine days the Buenaventura came past Sirene on its regular schedule; Thissell had his orders to return to Poly-polis. In nine days, could he locate Haxo Angmark?
Nine days weren’t too many, Thissell decided, but they might possibly be enough.
Two days passed, and three and four and five. Every day Thissell went ashore and at least once a day visited Rolver, Welibus and Kershaul.
Each reacted differently to his presence. Rolver was sardonic and irritable; Welibus formal and at least superficially affable; Kershaul mild and suave, but ostentatiously impersonal and detached in his conversation.
Thissell remained equally bland to Rolver’s dour jibes, Welibus’ jocundity, Kershaul’s withdrawal. And every day, returning to his houseboat he made marks on his chart.
The sixth, the seventh, the eighth day came and passed. Rolver, with rather brutal directness, inquired if Thissell wished to arrange for passage on the Buenaventura. Thissell considered, and said, “Yes, you had better reserve passage for one.”
“Back to the world of faces.” Rolver shuddered. “Faces! Everywhere pallid, fish-eyed faces. Mouths like pulp, noses knotted and punctured; flat, flabby faces. I don’t think I could stand it after living here. Luckily you haven’t become a real Sirenese.”
“But I won’t be going back,” said Thissell.
“I thought you wanted me to reserve passage.”
“I do. For Haxo Angmark. Hell be returning to Polypolis in the brig.”
“Well, well,” said Rolver. “So you’ve picked him out.”
“Of course,” said Thissell. “Haven’t you?”
Rolver shrugged. “He’s either Welibus or Kershaul, that’s as close as I can make it. So long as he wears his mask and calls himself either Welibus or Kershaul, it means nothing to me.”
“It means a great deal to me,” said Thissell. “What time tomorrow does the lighter go up?”
“Eleven twenty-two sharp. If Haxo Angmark’s leaving, tell him to be on time.”
“He’ll be here,” said Thissell.
He made his usual call upon Welibus and Kershaul, then returning to his houseboat, put three final marks on his chart.
The evidence was here, plain and convincing. Not absolutely incontrovertible evidence, but enough to warrant a definite move. He checked over his gun. Tomorrow, the day of decision. He could afford no errors.
The day dawned bright white, the sky like the inside of an oyster shell; Mireille rose through iridescent mists. Toby and Rex sculled the houseboat to the dock. The remaining three out-world houseboats floated somnolently on the slow swells.
One boat Thissell watched in particular, that whose owner Haxo Angmark had killed and dropped into the harbor. This boat presently moved toward the shore, and Haxo Angmark himself stood on the front deck, wearing a mask Thissell had never seen before: a construction of scarlet feathers, black glass and spiked green hair.
Thissell was forced to admire his poise. A clever scheme, cleverly planned and executed — but marred by an insurmountable difficulty.
Angmark returned within. The houseboat reached the dock. Slaves flung out mooring lines, lowered the gang-plank. Thissell, his gun ready in the pocket flap of his robes, walked down the dock, went aboard. He pushed open the door to the saloon. The man at the table raised his red, black and green mask in surprise.
Thissell said, “Angmark, please don’t argue or make any — ”
Something hard and heavy tackled him from behind; he was flung to the floor, his gun wrested expertly away.
Behind him the hymerkin clattered; a voice sang, “Bind the fool’s arms.”
The man sitting at the table rose to his feet, removed the red, black and green mask to reveal the black cloth of a slave. Thissell twisted his head. Over him stood Haxo Angmark, wearing a mask Thissell recognized as a Dragon Tamer, fabricated from black metal, with a knife-blade nose, socketed eyelids and three crests running back over the scalp.
The mask’s expression was unreadable, but Angmark’s voice was triumphant. “I trapped you very easily.”
“So you did,” said Thissell. The slave finished knotting his wrists together. A clatter of Angmark’s hymerkin sent him away. “Get to your feet,” said Angmark. “Sit in that chair.”
“What are we waiting for?” inquired Thissell.
“Two of our fellows still remain out on the water. We won’t need them for what I have in mind.”
“Which is?”
“You’ll learn in due course,” said Angmark. “We have an hour or so on our hands.”
Thissell tested his bonds. They were undoubtedly secure.
Angmark seated himself. “How did you fix on me? I admit to being curious. . Come, come,” he chided as Thissell sat silently. “Can’t you recognize that I have defeated you? Don’t make affairs unpleasant for yourself.”
Thissell shrugged. “I operated on a basic principle. A man can mask his face, but he can’t mask his personality.”
“Aha,” said Angmark. “Interesting. Proceed.”
“I borrowed a slave from you and the other two out-worlders, and I questioned them carefully. What masks had their masters worn during the month before your arrival? I prepared a chart and plotted their responses. Rolver wore the Tarn Bird about eighty percent of the time, the remaining twenty percent divided between the Sophist Abstraction and the Black Intricate. Welibus had a taste for the heroes of Kan Dachan Cycle. He wore the Chalekun, the Prince Intrepid, the Seavain most of the time: six days out of eight. The other two days he wore his South Wind or his Gay Companion. Kershaul, more conservative, preferred the Cave Owl, the Star Wanderer, and two or three other masks he wore at odd intervals.