Rey didn’t answer immediately. He was watching something on the print deck. He drew his jacket close, and looked at her. “It doesn’t matter. We can write the truth. They won’t understand. Anyone who wasn’t there won’t understand.” Cor had been there. She did understand … but wished she didn’t.
Rey turned back to watch the print deck, and Cor saw the object of his interest: The man wore ordinary fatigues. He wandered slowly along the outer balcony of the deck. He was either lonely, or bored—or fascinated by every detail of the railing and deck. Cor suspected the fellow wasn’t bored: Part of the Hrala fraud had been the demand that the Termiters replace her damaged “property” (the dead from Brailly’s party and the Science). It seemed unwise to retract the demand completely, so five unfortunate villagers were taken aboard.
This was one of them; he had been a Termiter priest, their spokesman/interpreter. Cor had talked to him several times since the rescue; he made very good copy. He turned out to be a real innocent, not one of the maniacs or hard-core cynics. In fact, he had fallen from favor when the cynics pushed for trial by combat. He had never left the village before; all his Spräk came from reading magazines and talking to travelers. What had first seemed a terrible punishment was now turning out to be the experience of his lifetime. “The guy’s a natural scholar, Boss. We drop the others off at the first hospitable landing, but I hope he wants to stay. If he could learn about civilization, return home in a year or so … . He could do his people a lot of good. They’ll need to understand the outside world when the petroleum hunters come.”
Rey wasn’t paying attention. He pointed further down the deck.
It was Tatja Grimm. She was looking across the sea, her tall form slumped so her elbows rested on the railing and her hands cupped her chin. The ex-priest must have seen her at that instant. He came to an abrupt halt, and his whole body seemed to shiver.
“Does he know?”
Rey shook his head. “I think he does now.”
In many ways the girl was different from that night at the village. Her hair was short and red. Without the fake bust, she was a skinny pre-teener—and by her bearing, a discouraged one. But she was nearly six feet tall, and her face was something you would never forget after that night. The priest walked slowly toward her, every step a struggle. His hands grasped the railing like a lifeline.
Then the girl glanced at him, and for an instant it seemed the Termiter would run off. Instead, he bowed … and they talked. From up on the editorial deck, Cor couldn’t hear a word. Besides, they were probably speaking Hurdic. It didn’t matter. She could imagine the conversation.
They were an odd combination: the priest sometimes shaking, sometimes bowing, his life’s beliefs being shot from under him; the girl, still slouched against the railing, paying more attention to the sea than to the conversation. Even during the Welcoming Back she had been like this. The praise had left her untouched; her listless replies had come from far away, punctuated by an occasional calculating look that Cor found more unsettling than the apathy.
After several minutes, the priest gave a final bow, and walked away. Only now, he didn’t need the railing. Cor wondered what it must be like to suddenly learn that supernatural fears were unnecessary. For herself, the turn of belief was in the opposite direction.
Rey said, “There’s a rational explanation for Tatja Grimm. For years we’ve been buying Contrivance Fiction about alien invaders. We were just too blind to see that it’s finally happened.”
“A visitor from the stars, eh?” Cor smiled weakly.
“Well, do you have a better explanation?”
“ … No.” But Cor knew Tatja well enough to believe her story. She really was from the Interior. Her tribe’s only weapons were spears and hand axes. Their greatest “technical” skill was sniffing out seasonal springs. She’d run away when she was eight. She moved from tribe to tribe—always toward the more advanced ones. She never found what she was looking for. “ … She’s a very quick learner.”
“Yeah. A quick learner. Tredi Bekjer said that, too. It’s the key to everything. I should have caught on the minute I heard how jimi found her ‘praying’ to the noontime shadow of her quarterstaff. There she had reproduced one of the great experiments of all time—and I put it down to religion! You’re right; there’s no way she could be from an advanced civilization. She didn’t recognize my telescope. The whole idea of magnification was novel to her. Yet she understood the principle as soon as she saw the mirror.”
Cor looked down at the print deck, at the girl who seemed so sad and ordinary. There had been a time when Cor felt the start of friendship with the girl. It could never be. Tatja Grimm was like a hydrofoil first seen far astern. For a while she had been insignificant, struggling past obstacles Cor scarcely remembered. Then she pulled even. Cor remembered the last day of rehearsals; sympathy had chilled and turned to awe—as Cor realized just how fast Tatja was moving. In the future, she would sweep into a faraway Coronadas Ascuasenya could never imagine. “And now she understands us, and knows we are just as dumb as all the others.”
Rey nodded uncertainly. “I think so. At first she was triumphant; our toys are so much nicer than any tribe’s. Then she realized they were the product of centuries of slow invention. She can search the whole world now, but she won’t find anything better.”
So here she must stop, and make the best of things. “I—I really do have a theory, Boss. Those old stories of fate and gods, the ones you’re so down on? If they were true, she would fit right in, a godling who is just awakened. When she understands this, and sees her place in the world … . She talked to me after the Welcoming Back. Her Spräk is good now; there was no mistaking her meaning. She thanked me for the Hrala coaching. She thanked me for showing her the power of fraud, for showing her that people can be used as easy as any other tool.”
For a long while, Rey had no response.
PART 2
THE IMPOSTOR QUEEN
SIX
The tavern was old, luxurious—even respectable. Its slopping floor and high ceiling created the illusion that the hall was an open bowl. Crystal spheres cast an even, unwavering twilight over tables and patrons. Svir Hedrigs squinted gloomily at the newly polished table surface. Barely visible beneath the varnish were three centuries of minor vandalism. Krirsarque had been a university city for almost ten generations; unnumbered students had carved their names in the durable furniture of the Bayside Arbor.
It was still early and not a third of the tables were occupied. The jongleurs were up on their platform, playing songs and doing acrobatics. So far their amusements had not drawn a single couple onto the dance floor. Svir grunted his disgust, and extended long legs under the table. He absently caressed the furry body of the creature sitting on the table. The animal turned its outsized head toward him and regarded him with limpid black eyes. A deep purring sound came from its wide, pointed ears. Then it turned away and scanned the hall. The ears that were not ears flicked this way and that. Far across the hall, a waiter looked severely in their direction, and began walking toward them. When he got to within three tables of Svir, he stopped, puzzled, with the air of someone who has forgotten his purpose. The waiter shook his head confusedly and headed back to the bar.
“Good boy, Ancho,” murmured Svir. Tonight he didn’t want to argue with anyone about his pet’s presence in the tavern. He had come out for one last fling before sailing tomorrow. Fling—hah! He knew he would just sit lumpishly till closing time. For the thousandth time he cursed his bad luck. Who’d have thought that his thesis topic would require him to sail all the way to Crownesse? Because of the season, that was more than ten days sailing time, unless one could afford hydrofoil passage—which he certainly could not.
The hall was filling now, but there weren’t many unattached girls. Svir concluded with sick self-pity that this night he didn’t have the courage to play either side of catch-and-be-caught. He slouched back and made a determined effort to finish his drink in one
draft.
“May I join you?” The soft voice came from behind and above. Svir choked violently on his skaal. He looked up to see that the speaker was as pretty as her voice.
“Please do!” he gasped painfully, trying to regain some shred of poise. “Miss, uh … ?”
“Tatja Grimm.” The miracle lowered herself gracefully into the chair next to his, and set her drink on the table next to Ancho’s forepaws. Svir felt himself staring. He constantly daydreamed of encounters like this, but now that he was confronted by reality he didn’t know what to do. In fact, Tatja Grimm was not pretty: she was beautiful, beautiful in an especially wonderful way. From a distance she would have appeared to be a slender girl with a superb figure and reddish-brown hair. But Tatja Grimm was more than six feet tall—nearly as tall as Svir himself. Her hands were slim and delicate—and larger than the hands of most men. But the most wonderful thing of all was the look of genuine interest and intelligence in her gray-green eyes.
“And your name?” Tatja smiled dazzlingly.
The wheels went round and Svir remembered his name: “Svir Hedrigs.”
Tatja rubbed Svir’s pet about the neck. “And that,” spoke Svir, happy at finding something to say, “is Ancho.”
“A dorfox? They’re awfully rare, aren’t they?”
“Uh-huh. Only a few can survive ocean voyages.”
Tatja played with Ancho for a few seconds. The dorfox - responded with satisfied humming. The human female was accepted.
But Svir’s hopes were shattered almost as quickly as they had crystallized. Three men came over and sat down, without a word to him.
“Miss Grimm, did you … ?” one began. Then he noticed the dorfox. The newcomers sat silently and watched her and the animal. Svir didn’t know what was going on, but there was obviously more competition here than he could handle.
Tatja Grimm looked up from the dorfox. “Men, this is Svir I ledrigs. Svir, meet Brailly Tounse, Svektr Ramsey, and Kederichi Maccioso. They are respectively the printmaster, overeditor, and barge captain for Tarulle Publishing Company. I serve as the science editor for Fantasie.”
Like hell. Svir knew he was naturally gullible. Once, in this very tavern, a couple of netscrapers managed to convince him they were hot-air balloonists. Since then, he had always been on guard. No way could his new “friends” be what they claimed. The Tarulle fastboats weren’t due in the Krirsarque area for another three days. Svir had been very upset to learn that his ship would stay a day ahead of the Tarulle fleet as the publishing company sailed east through the Chainpearl Archipelagate. He wouldn’t receive the latest copies of Fantasie—all two years’ worth—until he reached Bayfast in Crownesse. In any case, people like Svektr Ramsey and Ked Maccioso were for too important to sail ahead of the barge, just for the sake of slumming in a Krirsarque dance hall. The frauds at his table had aimed far too high in their impersonation. Of all the literary corporations in the world, Tarulle was the most prestigious. In a very real way, Fantasie had molded Svir’s life: as a teenager, it had been stories like “Pride of Iron” that turned him to astronomy. Svir had long admired Rey Guille and the Overeditor, Svektr Ramsey. But never had he seen a Science Department in Fantasie, nor heard of Tatja Grimm.
Well, he determined, I can trade you lie for lie. Aloud, “So happy to meet you. I find a lot of your stuff especially provocative since my specialty is astronomy.”
“An astronomer?” The over-muscled bruiser identified as Ked Maccioso seemed impressed.
“That’s right,” Svir affirmed. And, actually, he was an astronomer. But the others might assume from his unmodified assertion that he worked with the Doomsdaymen who manned the sixty-inch High Eye on the Continent. Life in the Doomsday mountains was a constant struggle against asphyxiation, cold, mountain apes, and Hurdic tribesmen. “I’m out here to deliver some speeches at Krirsarque University.” This last was an inversion of the truth. Svir was a graduate student in astronomy at Krirsarque. For the last two years he had worked with the thirty-inch telescope at the university. The most recent journals from the Continent had brought news that the priests of Doomsday had duplicated some (or—gods forbid—all) of Svir’s work. Now he had to journey to the coast to meet with the Doo’d’en and thrash the problem out.
“What’s your preference in astronomy?” asked Tatja. “Seraphy?”
“No,” replied Svir. Seraph was not visible from Doomsday. “I’m in positional astronomy. Using very delicate trig techniques, we measure the distances to some of the nearer stars.” And someday I’ll do much more.
“Really! I bought an article on that very subject for the latest issue.” She snapped her fingers. “Brailly Tounse” reached into a side pouch and handed Tatja a magazine. She gave it to Svir. “See.”
Svir gasped. There was the familiar masthead of Fantasie. In small letters beneath it were the words: “Issue of the 162nd Meridian. Whole Number 5,239.” Here was physical proof that the Tarulle fleet had already arrived.
The cover was a Togoto pastel, at least the equal of that artist’s Lindolef study. Svir opened it to the table of contents. Beneath the magazine’s famous motto, “Things are not as they seem,” were listed ten stories by authors from all over the world, including new works by Ivam Alecque and Enar Gereu. Svir flipped through the pages and came across one that caught on his fingers. It wasn’t made of the usual seaweed pulp, but of some heavier, lacquer-coated material. At the top of the page was written: “Meet the Fantasia staff.” There were six portraits, done in tones of green. They weren’t acid-etch prints, or even paintings. Though green tinted, these pictures seemed realistic beyond all art. And one was a perfect likeness of … Tatja Grimm.
Svir wondered if he looked as embarrassed as he felt. These people were everything they claimed to be. And now Tatja Grimm was even more desirable—if that were possible—than she’d been before the others appeared.
Tatja placed her hand on his arm as she saw what he was looking at. “How do you like those pictures? It’s something we picked up in the Osterlais. Those pictures are made by a machine that looks at its subject and instantly ‘paints’ the picture, just like in the Diogens stories.” Her hand slipped down onto his. For a moment Svir’s vision blurred. A warm glow spread through his body. “My picture is at the bottom there because the Science Department was only introduced last year, when Svektr here gave in to the increased popularity of Contrivance Fiction … . How long have you been acquainted with Fantasie?”
“Ever since I was in triform school. Ten years. The Tarulle Barge has come through the Archipelagate five times in that period. I’ve looked forward to each arrival more and more eagerly. I’ve worked part time for the University Library’s Restoration Department, seen all the issues they have.”
Tatja laughed, a friendly, intimate chuckle. The men at the table receded into the far back of Svir’s consciousness. “Such restoration is a worthwhile job. Did you know that in all Tu, there is only one complete collection of Fantasie?”
“You mean the proof copies on the barge?”
“No. Not even the Tarulle Company has a complete version. Remember, there was a fire on the Old Barge three hundred years ago; all the copies to that date were lost. Up to twenty years ago there were several complete collections, but a series of accidents has destroyed all but one.” She put a faint accent on the word “accidents.”
Svir had never thought about it, but it was possible that only one complete collection existed. As the Tarulle Company toured the world, they sold their magazines and printed extra copies to drop off at later island chains. Delivery was quite unreliable compared to a subscription service—such as some island magazines used. Thus it was very difficult to get a continuous sequence of issues. And Fantasie was seven hundred years old. Even though most issues had been recopied and their stories anthologized—any major library contained thousands of stories from the magazine—there were still “lost” issues unavailable on the Chainpearls.
The person or government that
possessed the complete set must be very wealthy and dedicated to culture. “Who has the collection?” asked Svir.
“The regent of Crownesse, Tar Benesh,” Tatja answered.
Svir frowned. Tar Benesh had never impressed him as a man with deep cultural roots. He almost missed what Tatja Grimm said next. She wasn’t looking directly at him, and her lips barely moved. She seemed to be preoccupied with something far away.
“It’s too bad Benesh is going to destroy them.”
“What! Why? Can’t he be stopped?” His shocked questions tumbled over each other. Why would anyone want to destroy seven hundred years of Fantasie? The epic cycles, the ingenious short stories—all those glimpses into worlds-that-are-not—would be lost. Half the faculty of Arts and Letters at Krirsarque University would suicide.
Tatja’s hand tightened around his. Her face came near to his. “Perhaps there is a way to stop him. With you and your dorfox perhaps—”
“Please, Miss Grimm, not here!” Ked Maccioso leaned forward tensely, at the same time glancing around the tavern. Svir’s circle of attention expanded. He realized that now the Arbor was half full, the dance floor overflowing, and the jongleurs in fine form on their resonation platform. Tatja’s presence had made him completely unaware of the changes.
She nodded to the barge captain. “I suppose you’re right, Ked.” She turned back to Svir. “When were you planning to return to the Continent?”
Return? Then Svir remembered the lie he had implied. But he couldn’t reveal his fraud to her now.
“I sail tomorrow for Bayfast.”
“Would you like to come on the Tarulle Barge? It’s slower than hydrofoil, but we’ll get you there just the same.”
“I certainly would.” The words came spontaneously, but he felt no desire to retract them. Imagine sailing off with a beautiful, famous girl—into adventure. His previous reality seemed pale indeed beside these prospects.