The maiden showed him a dreary smile. “I no longer have the status to command the luxury of preference.”
Rhialto found the concept complex but comprehensible. “It is true that ‘innate quality’ and ‘merit derived from bold assertion’ must be the source of your self-esteem. You shall be known as Shalukhe the Survivor; is not that a prideful condition?”
“Not particularly, since your help alone saved my life.”
Osherl, overhearing the remark, ventured a comment: “Nevertheless, your tactics are instinctively correct. To deal with Rhialto the Marvellous, and here I allude to your host and the conservator of my indenture, you must fuel the fires of his bloated vanity. Exclaim upon his handsome countenance; feign awe at his wisdom; he will be putty in your hands.”
Rhialto said in a measured voice: “Osherl’s mood is often acerb; despite his sarcasm, I will be happy to earn your good opinion.”
Shalukhe the Swimmer could not restrain her amusement. “You have already gained it, Sir Rhialto! I am also grateful to Osherl for his assistance.”
“Bah!” said Rhialto. “He felt greater concern for the hunger of poor Doulka.”
“Not so!” cried Osherl. “That was just my little joke!”
“In any event, and if you will forgive me the presumption of asking: what is to become of me now?”
“When our business here is done, we shall return to Almery, and talk further of the matter. As for now, you may regard yourself as my subaltern, and you are assigned to the supervision of Osherl. See that he is at all times neat, alert and courteous!”
Again half-smiling, Shalukhe appraised Osherl. “How can I supervise someone so clever?”
“Simplicity itself! If he shirks, speak only two words: ‘indenture points’.”
Osherl uttered a hollow laugh. “Already Rhialto the Marvellous works his supple wiles.”
Rhialto paid no heed. He reached down, took her hands and pulled her erect. “And now: to work! Are you less distraught than before?”
“Very much so! Rhialto, I thank you for your kindness.”
“Shalukhe the Swimmer, or Dawn-thing, or however you will be called: a shadow still hangs over you, but it is a pleasure to see you smile.”
Osherl spoke in the language of the twenty-first aeon: “Physical contact has been made, and the program now enters its second phase … Such a poor torn little wretch, how could she resist Rhialto?”
“Your experience is limited,” said Rhialto. “It is more a case of ‘How could Rhialto resist such a poor torn little wretch?’”
The girl looked from one to the other, hoping to divine the sense of the interchange. Rhialto spoke out: “Now, to our business! Osherl, take the pleurmalion —” he handed the object to Osherl “— then climb above the clouds to locate the sky-spot. From a point directly below, lower a heavy flashing red lantern on a long cord until it hangs close above the Perciplex. The day is windless and accuracy should be fine.”
Osherl, for reasons of caprice, now took upon himself the guise of a middle-aged Walvoon shopkeeper dressed in baggy black breeches, a mustard-ocher vest and a wide-brimmed black hat. He took the pleurmalion in a pudgy hand, mounted the sky on three lunging strides.
“With any luck,” Rhialto told Shalukhe, “my irksome task is close to its end, whereupon we will return to the relative calm of the twenty-first aeon … What’s this? Osherl back so soon?”
Osherl jumped down from the sky to the rug before the pavilion. He made a negative signal and Rhialto uttered a poignant cry. “Why have you not located the Perciplex?”
Osherl gave his fat shop-keeper’s face a doleful shake. “The sky-spot is absorbed in the mists and cannot be seen. The pleurmalion is useless.”
Rhialto snatched the device and sprang high through the air, into the clouds and out, to stand in the acrid vermilion radiance. He put the pleurmalion to his eye, but, as Osherl had asserted, the sky-spot no longer could be seen.
For a period Rhialto stood on the white expanse, casting a long pale blue shadow. With frowning attention he examined the pleurmalion, then again looked around the sky, to no avail.
Something was amiss. Staring thoughtfully off across the white cloud-waste, Rhialto pondered the conceivable cases. Had the Perciplex been moved? Perhaps the pleurmalion had lost its force? … Rhialto returned to the pavilion.
Osherl stood to the side, gazing vacantly toward the mouldering ruins. Rhialto called out: “Osherl! A moment of your time, if you please.”
Osherl approached without haste, to stand with hands thrust into the pockets of his striped pantaloons. Rhialto stood waiting, tossing the pleurmalion from one hand to the other, and watching Osherl with a pensive gaze.
“Well then, Rhialto: what now?” asked Osherl, with an attempt at ease of manner.
“Osherl, who suggested to you that the projection of the Perciplex might be captured by the overcast?”
Osherl waved one of his hands in a debonair flourish. “To an astute intellect, so much is apparent.”
“But you lack an astute intellect. Who provided this insight?”
“I learn from a multitude of sources,” muttered Osherl. “I cannot annotate or codify each iota of information which comes my way.”
“Let me imagine a sequence of events,” said Rhialto. “Osherl, are you paying close attention?”
Osherl, standing disconsolate with hanging jowls and moist gaze, muttered: “Where is my choice?”
“Then consider these imagined events. You climb above the overcast where Sarsem greets you. A conversation ensues, in this fashion:
Sarsem:
‘What now, Osherl? What is your task?’
Osherl:
‘That stone-hearted Rhialto wants me to search about the sky for signs of the Perciplex, using this pleurmalion.’
