“I should have let you know,” Brance agreed. “It happened rather suddenly, you see, and I haven’t decided yet whether I should believe it myself.”
“Then it
is
true. Where’d you manage to steal enough money to buy a house?”
Brance told him.
Harnasharn’s generous advance on the paintings had been invested in Franff’s flight to freedom, every don of it, and in addition Brance and Milfro had been forced to solicit contributions and to borrow. The money Jorno had paid them for the meszs’ art lessons had gone to repay some of the loans. Brance returned to his hovel more impoverished than ever but immensely satisfied.
Then one of the slug’s paintings caught the fancy of a multimillionaire’s wife. She had remodeled her rev room, and she was searching for paintings to match the new decor. She registered a bid, raised it twice, and finally demanded to see the artist so she could negotiate a price. Harnasharn did not have to inquire to know Brance’s probable reaction, and he refused. Grimly the woman kept entering higher bids, and these eventually reached a figure more appropriate to a mature work of a long-deceased master than a new painting by an unknown living artist. Finally the woman stormed into Harnasharn’s office, told him curtly that she wanted this nonsense halted, and doubled her most recent offer.
Harnasharn made the damp pilgrimage to Bottom Farm. “I think she’ll raise her bid one more time,” he told Brance. “If she doesn’t, I think I could negotiate a somewhat higher price. Frankly, I wouldn’t have expected an offer like this during my lifetime—or yours. I recommend that you accept.”
“Decorating rev rooms,” Brance said scornfully, “is an appropriate activity for
my
talent, but the slug is an artist.”
“True, but the disgrace—if you want to call it that—is temporary. It’ll last only until the next time she remodels her rev room. Eventually her art collection will pass to an important institution, which will be delighted to receive it. Even in disgrace the slug’s painting will have excellent company. She’s also decorating her rev room with two Etesffs and a Chord, not to mention a number of artists who were highly talented but less famous. There’s no possible way for an artist to keep his paintings out of millionaires’ rev rooms. The only question to decide is whether you’ll sell now, when you can enjoy all that money, or whether you’ll die broke and let your heirs get rich placing the paintings in millionaires’ rev rooms.”
Brance decided to sell. He repaid the money Harnasharn had advanced to him, and he loaned his kruckul farm to his nearest swamp neighbor, who didn’t want it. On a small court off the Street or Artisans in Zrilund Town, he found a house that suited him. Its half dozen rooms gave him a feeling of triumphant luxury after the harsh years at Bottom Farm.
The house had a garden surrounded by a high wall, and there Brance built a stone enclosure. He brought in genuine Zrilund swamp mud in small quantities until the pen was filled, and then he put his slug in residence. Around the edges of the enclosure he planted a putrid blooming swamp plant, so that any neighbor who looked down from a distant upper-story window would direct his suspicious thoughts, if he had any, at Brance’s preferences in flowers. The nearby houses had no upper stories. As for the fetid swamp odor that inevitably accompanied a slug, its potency was blanketed, in that particular location, by emanations from adjoining gardens. All of Brance’s neighbors kept wrranels.
Brance’s tastes were simple and he wanted for nothing. He had no ambition. He was immensely happy where he was, he had ample money to last him a long lifetime, and—Rearm Hylat had a widowed daughter—he even toyed with the idea of marrying. Of all the satisfactions that money brought to him, none equaled those he experienced when he was able to extend hospitality to an old friend or carry home a keg of adde without first negotiating credit or a loan.
The few close friends Brance had in Zrilund took to referring to him as Poofz Paafz, after a celebrated character of Donovian folklore. Paafz was a cowardly little thief, filthy in person and morals, and so stupid that he was invariably caught within minutes, severely beaten, and booted into the world to steal again because no jailer would accept such a scruffy client. Then, according to the legend, a miracle occurred: Paafz was instantaneously transformed into a pillar of civic respectability and a man of substance because he managed to steal something successfully.
“Delighted to hear that, old man,” Milfro said. “Now I know where I’ll borrow my fare back to the Plai. You still haven’t told me why the mob at the theater, or what’s going on around here.”
“No one bothers to consult me about it. My neighbors know I wouldn’t care.”
“Either that, or they’re innately suspicious of men who wear beards and keep pet swamp slugs.”
Brance scowled. “My neighbors don’t know about the slug, and they won’t if my alleged friends will stop running off at the mouth in public places. As for what’s going on, here’s Hylat. Why don’t you ask him—he knows everything.” He waved a hand. “Join us, Hylat, and have an adde on the house.”
The lanky landlord drew himself a mug of adde and came to their table, his long face veneered in its usual layers of gloom.
“What was going on at the theater?” Brance asked him.
“Town meeting,” Hylat said.
Brance regarded him incredulously. “Really? An official gathering of the good citizens of this decaying community? That’s hard to believe. Years ago, when you tried to get up a town meeting about some petty crisis or other, no one came. What were they meeting about?”
“Some petty crisis or other,” Hylat said bitterly. “I didn’t go. If I have time to waste, I can find more pleasant ways of doing it.” He raised his mug, lowered it without drinking. “Do you remember the old Zrilund Merchants’ Association?”
Brance shook his head.
“Well, there was one. Had a high-sounding motto about the preservation of the island and courtesy and fair value to visitors and what not, but too many Zrilund merchants wanted to use it to keep price’s high and value negligible, They figured the tourist boom wouldn’t last anyway, and they might as well milk it while they could, Which they did, and a lot of them got rich and got out. Some of those who stayed are still trying to milk it, only now they think they have an inalienable right to every tourist who comes to Donov.”
“So why the meeting?”
“They’re considering what to do about Jorno’s new resort.”
Brance set his mug down with a thump. “What to do about it? Just how do you mean that?”
“A lot of people think Jorno aims to put Zrilund out of the tourist business. One of his assistants said publicly that Zrilund wouldn’t last a year after Jorno’s resort opened. Well, Virrab has been open for months and my business is about the same as usual—meaning that it’s bad, but at least it isn’t getting any worse.”
“If Zrilund had one thing that Virrab has, it could put Virrab out of business,” Brance said.
“What’s that?”
“A far-sighted millionaire like Jaward Jorno.”
Hylat said scornfully, “There’s enough tourist trade on Donov to keep a hundred Zrilunds and Virrabs operating at capacity, but more and more of it goes to the fun resorts, with one-day side trips to art colonies for people who want to brag about how culturally uplifting their vacations were. What we need to do is improve this place so people will want to come here for more than a wrranel cart ride and a few souvenir stops. If we do that we’ll have good business regardless of what Jorno does.”
“Is that what the meeting was about? Improving Zrilund?”
Hylat snorted. “The fools are muttering about putting Jorno out of business—getting his license revoked, getting him blacklisted by the resort associations, and what not.” He drained his mug and got to his feet. “The fools! If Jorno wanted to, he could buy this island and push it overboard. Years ago I suggested that each hostel put up a few artists without charge and give them special rates on food. We rarely have overnight guests anyway, so we could attract first-rate artists to Zrilund at no cost to anyone. No one would go along with me. Now Jorno has some of the best artists on Donov staying at his resort just because he gives them free quarters and food at cost. And these fools are holding meetings to protest about Jorno taking away the artists—who weren’t at Zrilund anyway.” He shook his head mournfully and strode away.
“Hylat is out of place on Zrilund,” Brance observed.
“An honest man among thieves,” Milfro agreed.
Brance chuckled. “I appreciate the insult, but you’re wrong. I’m Poofz Paafz.”
“Thieves or no, Hylat is a few light-years behind the times. The days are gone forever when free lodging and low-priced meals would bring serious artists to Zrilund.”
“I’m not so sure. Layout a few new ways and line them with interesting imported trees and shrubs. Put up a few buildings in strikingly different architectural styles. Make a new road along the cliffs—there are fantastic views that only the birds can appreciate now. If there were fresh subjects to paint under Zrilund’s light, you couldn’t keep artists away. As for the tourists, Zrilund has the climate and beaches and natural beauty to be the finest resort on Donov, and what are the Zrilunders doing with that? One boat a day plus the underwater ferries, and when a tourist arrives the first thing he has to do is climb a dozen flights of steps, after which he enjoys that wonderful sea only if he can think like a bird. As for accommodations, Hylat offers the best, and what Hylat offers would be third rate anywhere else. It’s a shame.”
“I agree. All Zrilund needs is a far-sighted millionaire. Stupid townspeople and lousy artists aren’t likely to solve its problems, even if one of the artists does own a slug that—” Milfro broke off as Brance’s scowl deepened.
“I don’t like this development,” Brance said. “Zrilunders always have complained, but in the past they didn’t have anyone to blame for their troubles but themselves.”
An artist looked into the room, saw them, and called out, “You’re artists, aren’t you? Coming to the meeting tonight?”
Brance and Milfro exchanged glances. “What meeting?” Brance asked.
“Artists’ meeting. Zrilund theater. Right after the last ferry leaves. We’d like to have everyone there.”
“What’s the meeting about?”
“The new artists’ colony. Virrab Island.”
“What about it?”
“Haven’t you heard about Jorno’s restrictions? He’s spending lots of money to develop and publicize the place, and paintings of it will he popular—and profitable—and no one can work there unless he’s on Jorno’s special list.” His voice hardened. “Meszs can work there—animaloids—but we can’t. We’re going to do something about that.”
“What have you got against animaloids?” Brance asked.
“When I was three years old I watched one eat my mother and two sisters. Donov doesn’t know animaloids, because none of them are native here, but I could tell you a few things about them. Come to the meeting, and I will.”
“Sure,” Brance said. “We’ll be there.”
The artist hurried away. Milfro asked, “Who’s he?”
“Wes Alof. Native of Xeniol.”
“Any good?”
“I haven’t seen his work. He has a wealthy patron, or so they say he’s never short of money.”
“What kind of animaloids do they have on Xeniol?”
“No idea. Animaloids come in all shapes, sizes, and dispositions, just like humans, and no doubt Xeniol drew a rather vicious sort.”
“Will anyone pay attention to him?”
“Half the artists on Zrilund owe him money and have every expectation of owing more. Of course they’ll pay attention. Whether they’ll do anything is another question.”
“Are you actually going to the meeting?”
“I’m curious,” Brance said. “And I’m liking this situation less and less.”
They presented themselves at the theater door that evening, and the two artists in attendance there eyed them suspiciously. “You’re no artist,” one of them told Brance. “You’re a lousy towny.” He turned to Milfro. “This is for Zrilund artists. You don’t qualify.”
“Nonsense,” Brance said. “We were invited.”
“By whom?”
“Wes Alof.”
“He hasn’t been on Donov long enough to know all the spies and deadbeats. Both of you are on the list of artists that gave lessons to the meszs. Fine favor you did for Donov’s artists. Bust off.”
Brance and Milfro exchanged glances, shrugged, and turned away. As they walked back to the oval Milfro said, “First the townspeople and now the artists. I’m beginning not to like this myself. Do you Suppose we ought to warn Jorno about what’s happening up here?”
“I was wondering about that. In a sense we’re just as responsible for bringing the meszs here as he is, and I’ve never met anyone who was such a joy to work with. The question is what we’d warn him about. Right now all we could tell him is that some people on Zrilund don’t like him, and he’d probably answer that the whole world of Mestil doesn’t care for him either, and so what? All of this may be nothing but a loud noise in a small adde keg. If necessary, we’ll make a couple of artists drunk tomorrow and find out what went on at the meeting. Let’s go see Hylat.”
They stayed late with Rearm Hylat, talking and sampling different kinds of adde, and when Brance boasted that a new keg he had from Nor Harbor was the best of the lot, Hylat decided to come along with them and have a mug. Along the way they encountered a group of artists.
Brance halted them. “What happened at the meeting?”
“They took up a collection,” one of the artists said. “Alof and some others are going to raid Jorno’s resort.”
“Are you sober?” Brance demanded.
“No, but I’m telling the truth. I don’t think the collection brought them much, but Alof wouldn’t need money anyway.”
Brance exchanged worried looks with Milfro and Hylat. “What does Alof think a few artists could accomplish trying a foolish stunt like that?”
“He knows someone who has access to explosives. They’re going to blow up Jorno’s resort and maybe the meszs along with it. At least, that’s the way they talked. There was a vote, but I don’t think anyone bothered to make a tally. They just thanked us for our overwhelming support.”