“It is, my lady.”
She was measuring him with those dark eyes which saw not only him but through him. He did not resent it.
The heavy fatigue which had insulated him since he had returned to Maastricht still held.
“You were successful?”
“We were.” Slowly, almost drably, he told the story of those two wild days which had brought the Bishop's Menie to light.
“Well done. And this Mijnheer Kane and Mijnheer Maartens — they are still with you?”
Quinn shook his head. “They left yesterday. They have gone on the affair of Tubac and after the last piece of the Menie.”
“So? Well, when they return I shall hear that story also. Now what are you going to do, jongeling?”
“I shall finish my research and the book.”
“Your part in the adventure being over? But it was a brave adventure, was it not? You have a picture almost complete — do not take shame that other fingers will fit in the last piece —”
He wasn't, thought Quinn bleakly — now that he knew he was never intended for this game. He had learned his lesson — to stay on his own side of the fence.
During the next days, the next weeks, he made himself think of the past as one of the Freule's pictures — made up of bits and patches torn from other lives. He had fitted in a few, that was true — probably with no skill at all. There was the visit to the Wise Tomcat, the escape from the hotel in Dordrecht, the meeting with the Man Who Sold Memories, the visit to Odocar's Tower. But when he found himself trying to relive any of that he resoutely buried himself in his work. He hoped that it would recede more and more into a dim memory until it would mean no more to him — or not as much — as something he had read as happening to another.
It was five months before the last bit of that picture was put into its proper place — neatly and expertly by fingers as skilled in their business as those of the Freule.
And Quinn almost chose not to see it done.
He was in New York then, on a visit to the publisher. And he stood in a hotel lobby, a telegram in his hands, two answers to it warring in his head.
“See you ten-thirty — sixteenth — important, van Norreys.”
This was the sixteenth, and his watch read ten-ten. Did he want to go? Why should he? He wanted to forget the Bishop's Menie. So much better to —
But even as he put the message in his pocket and walked toward the door he knew that he was going to take the first cab he could find and drive straight to the House of Norreys.
Fifteen minutes later he was facing Lorens van Norreys. On the mirror-polished desk in that office was a large black leather case. Van Norreys released the catch and lifted its lid. There were velvet-lined compartments, and each held a man of the Bishop's Menie. Quinn counted — half aloud.
“Thirteen!”
“Yes. The Menie is now complete.”
“Then Kane and Maartens —”
“The story is their own. I shall not spoil it in retelling. Tonight, if you are free, have dinner with us and hear it. Sternlitz will be present also. We have now a buyer for the Menie, and Sternlitz is in Washington on a mission. He knows a great deal about the interior of Asia which we wish to learn. How have matters fared with you?”
“The book is finished. It will be published in the fall.”
“Excellent. Congratulations. And what do you intend to do with yourself now?”
Quinn shrugged. “I am applying for a teaching position. But my age is still against me.”
“You made no effort to contact me when you returned to the States three months ago. I assumed that you were engrossed in your own work. Or was it because, as you say, you were ‘fed up’ with the whole affair?”
“Let us say that I realized my limitations.” Quinn was rather pleased with the smoothness of that answer.
Van Norreys did not reply at once. Instead he brought out a folder, leafed rapidly through the papers inside, and produced a single sheet which he pushed across the desk to Quinn.
The writing on it began without salutation or introduction, and he guessed that it was only part of a longer report.
“ — could not have done so well without Anders. He appears to take to this sort of thing naturally. And he knows enough not to smash ahead on his own. Suggest that if he is willing we keep contact. A good man in a tight place —”
Quinn read the words twice. Then the black letters blurred and moved. He found that he dared not look up just then.
“That was Kane's report to me five months ago. I called you here today not only because of this —” Van Norreys gestured to the Menie, “but to discover where you stand —”
“I thought — I thought —” Quinn gathered courage to blurt out the sorry truth, “I thought that I was a failure. I thought —”
But van Norreys might not have heard that outburst. “All kinds and types of men play this game. What one is able to do may not be possible for another. You know the risks we run. We have no governmental ties — we are blithely disowned if caught. We work always under cover. There are no medals, no recognition, no public triumphs — even, if by our efforts, a precarious peace is preserved for a short time.
“We are always at swords’ points with the enemy. We fight on the first line of defense. That is all I can promise you. The decision is yours. Only remember this — I would not call for Roajact if I didn't know that he was of value to us. In this game we carry no dead weight!”
Quinn straightened. Something — a burden had been lifted from him. Outside the window the sun was very bright, a vivid gold. It was a wonderful day!
“If I remain Roajact — go to work?” he asked, a little shy of this even yet.
“Well, there is a little matter —” Van Norreys brought out a second folder. “Just how much do you know about Central America?”
“Precious little,” Quinn admitted. “But I could learn.”
“Roajact had better,” Lorens van Norreys returned. He closed the Menie case almost impatiently and shoved it away. That was done with.
Quinn moved his chair closer.
“There is a country —”
Quinn Anders relaxed and listened, content.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1982 by Andre Norton
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5612-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Andre Norton, At Swords' Point
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