Tatja Grimm's World

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 Hedrigs. 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 Fantasie 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.