Alvina, still smiling, shook her head. “Xantief is a man of many fascinating traits. Almost incidentally, he is a crafty shopkeeper. He pretends that he does not want to sell his merchandise, the implication being that it is too good for the common ruck, and that his prices are far too low. This, of course, is nonsense — I think.”
“It is his shop, and naturally he can do as he likes with it. Even though people get sopping wet. Wayness spoke in what she thought to be a reasonable voice, but Alvina’s sensitive ear caught a nuance of emotion.
'In connection with Xantief, vexation is pointless. He is a patrician.'
'I was not planning to create a disturbance,” said Wayness with dignity. “Still, I appreciate the advice.
“She went to look out the door, but the rain had started in earnest.
Alvina seemed in no hurry to be rid of her, so she asked: 'Xantief has been here a long time?”
Alvina nodded. “He was born about fifty miles east in a castle. His father, the thirty-third baron, died while Xantief was still a young scholar. Xantief tells how he was called to the deathbed. The old baron told him: “My dear Alcide, we have enjoyed many years together, but now it is my time to go. I die happy, since I bequeath to you a heritage of incalculable value. First, a discriminating and certain good taste which other men will find enviable. Second, the unthinking and instinctive conviction of worth, honor and excellence, which accompanies your quality as the thirty-fourth baron. Third, you will inherit the physical assets of the barony, with all its lands, holdings and treasures, in fee singular and complete. Now then: I charge you that while my passing should be no occasion for ribaldry and merry making, neither should you grieve, since, if I am able, I will always be on hand to guard you and keep you in your hour of need.” So saying, the old man died and Xantief became the thirty-fourth baron. Since he already knew of his good taste in wine, food and women, and had never felt any doubts regarding his personal worth, his first step was to reckon up the physical assets. He found that they were not large: the moldering old castle, a few acres of limestone crags, two dozen ancient olive trees and a few goats. “Xantief made the most of his inheritance. He opened his shop, and originally stocked it with some rugs, hangings, books, paintings and bric- a-brac from his castle, and prospered from the first. That is, at least, the story he tells.'
“Hm. You seem to know him well.”
“Tolerably well. Whenever he comes by during the day he drops in to look over the tanglets. He is sensitive to them and sometimes I go so far as to take his advice.' Alvina gave a short laugh. “This is a curious business. Xantief may touch the tanglets and test their strength, but I am not allowed to do so, nor are you.'
Wayness turned to look at the glowing green buckles, or clasps — whatever they were — on display in the window, each on a small pedestal covered with black velvet. Each was similar but notably different from all the rest.
'They are beautiful little things; jade, I suppose?'
“Nephrite, to be exact. Jadeite gives a different feel: somewhat more coarse. These are cold and unctuous, like green butter.'
“What are they used for?'
“I use them to sell to collectors,' said Alvina. “All authentic tanglets are antiques, and very valuable, since the only new tanglets are counterfeit.'
'“What were they originally?”
“At first they were hairclasps, worn by the warriors of a far world. When a warrior killed an enemy he took the clasp and wore it on the scalp rope of his hair. In this way tanglets became trophies. The tanglets of a hero are even more; they are talismans. There are hundreds of distinctions and qualities and special terms, which make the subject rather fascinating, when you acquire some of the lore. Only a finite number are authentic tanglets, despite the efforts of counterfeiters, and each one is annotated and named and attributed. All are valuable, but the great ones are literally priceless. A hero's rope of six tanglets is so full of mana it almost sparks. I must take extraordinary care; a single touch sours the sheen and curdles the mana.'
“Poof!” said Wayness. “Who would know the difference?'
“An expert: that's who, and on the instant. I could tell you stories for hours on end.' Alvina looked toward the ceiling. “I'll tell you just one, about the famous tanglet: Twelve Kanaw. A collector named Jadoukh Ibrasil had coveted Twelve Kanaw for many years, and finally, after complicated negotiations, took possession of Twelve Kanaw. On the same night, his beautiful spouse Dilre Lagoum saw the tanglet and innocently wore it in her hair to a fete. Jadoukh lbrasil joined his wife, complimented her upon her beauty, then noticed the tanglet in her hair. Witnesses say that he turned white as a sheet. He knew at once what he must do. Courteously he took Dilre Lagoum's arm and led her into the garden and cut her throat among the hydrangeas. Then he stabbed himself. The story is usually heard only among collectors. The general feeling is that Jadoukh lbrasil did what he had to do, and at this point the talk becomes metaphysical. What do you think?'
'I don’t quite know,' said Wayness cautiously. 'It may be that all collectors are mad.”
'Ah, well that is a truism.”
“I should think that work among such temperamental objects would be hard on the nerves.”
“Sometimes it is,” Alvina admitted. “I find, however, that my high prices are a great solace. Alvina rose to her feet. 'I will let you handle a counterfeit, if you like. You can do no damage.”
Wayness shook her head. “I think not. I have better things to do than handle counterfeits.'
“In that case, I'll make us a pot of tea — unless you are in a hurry?”
Wayness looked out the window to find that the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. “No, thank you. I think I'll take advantage of the let-up and run back to the hotel.'
Wayness stood for a moment in front of Alvina’s shop. Out over the Adriatic shafts of sunlight had broken through the clouds. Via Malthus smelled of damp stone mingled with odors from the canal and the everywhere pervasive scent of the sea. Beside the canal an old man wearing a red stocking cap with a tail dangling to his shoulders walked with a small white dog. Diagonally across the street an old woman stood in the doorway of her house, conversing with another old woman who stood on the sidewalk. Both wore black gowns and lace shawls; as they talked, they turned to look approval toward the old man walking stiffly and slowly with his dog; it seemed as if they were disparaging him for reasons beyond Wayness’ understanding. None of the three could be considered a threat. Wayness set off at a fast walk up Via Malthus, then to the left along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, keeping an unobtrusive watch over her shoulder. She arrived at the Hotel Sirenuse without incident, and went directly to her room.
The westering sun had banished most of the tattered clouds and had transformed some of the grays and dark grays of the landscape into whites. Wayness stood out upon the balcony for a few minutes, then turning back into the room, settled into an armchair, to reflect upon what she had learned. Most of it, while interesting, seemed irrelevant to her principal concerns. She found herself dozing and stumbled to the bed for a nap.
Time passed. Wayness awoke with a start of urgency, to find that the time was already middle evening. She changed into her dark brown suit and went down to the restaurant. She dined upon a bowl of goulash with a salad of lettuce and red cabbage and half a carafe of the soft local wine. Upon leaving the dining room, Wayness went to sit in a corner of the lobby, where with one eye she pretended to read a periodical and with the other she watched the comings and goings.
The time moved toward midnight. At twenty minutes to the hour, Wayness rose, went to the entrance and looked up and down the street.
Everything was quiet, and the night was dark. A few street-lamps stood at infrequent intervals, in islands of their own wan light. On the hillside a thin fog dimmed a thousand other lights so that they seemed no more than sparks. Along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, no one walked abroad, so far as Wayness could see. But she hesitated and went back into the hotel. At the registration desk, she spoke to the night clerk: a young woman not much older than herself. Wayness tried to speak in a matter-of-fact voice. 'I must go out to meet someone, on a matter of business. Are the streets considered safe?'
'Streets are streets. They are widely used. The face you look into might be that of a maniac, or it might be the face of your own father. I am told that in some cases they are the same person.'
“My father is far away,' said Wayness. “I would be truly surprised to see him on the streets of Old Trieste.'
“In that case, you are rather more likely to discover a maniac. My mother worries greatly when I am out by night. ‘No one is safe even in their own kitchen,’ she tells me. ‘Only last week the repair man who was called to fix the sink insulted your grandmother!’ I said that the next time the repair man is called, Grandmother should go out
