FSF, October 2007 Read online

  And yet, and yet. She can be beautiful, possessed of immense wit and even wisdom; brave sometimes, taking risks that other, more domestically inclined lovers avoid; not afraid of political engagement, surprisingly open-minded, welcoming of outsiders. Her narrow-mindedness and conservatism in sexual matters over time gave way to a far more exploratory nature; there were threesomes, foursomes, some darker impulses that might best have been left alone. Some of these forays inclined her sympathies toward ivory tower extremists but, fickle as ever, she remains easily seduced by whatever's new and shining. It's part of her charm; it's what we love about her. Even Malzberg. Methinks the writer doth protest too much.

  Breakfast in the Ruins is a delight, though I suspect the author would shake his head dolefully at that assessment. The onetime Schubert Foundation Playwriting Fellow is brilliant, hilarious, and cold-eyed by turns, as unsparing in his judgments upon the failures of the literature he so loves as he is of himself.

  "As a writer who could write a little in a field where almost no one could write at all, as enough of a cynical hack to purposefully manipulate my work and as one who had an excellent understanding of the field by virtue of childhood reading ... I was able, I say in all due modesty, to produce a body of work which is without parallel, quantitatively, in the history of the field."

  If you doubt him, check out the essay titled “Some Notes on the Lone Wolf,” which should be required reading for anyone tempted by the glamour of writing novelizations or media tie-ins. In 1973 Malzberg signed on to write ten novels in the Executioner series, for a $27,500 advance (25% upon signing). His John Hancock was on the contracts on January 16. By Valentine's Day he'd delivered the first three books.

  None dare call it hackwork: Malzberg is the Iron Man of genre writing. Someone should name an award after him. Elsewhere, there is a wonderful account of working with the legendary Maurice Girodias, as well as a continuing inquiry into the nature of science fiction, and whether the expectations of the reader, or the mere provenance of a science fiction story, have doomed the genre to both literary respectability and denied sf any lasting literary merit. Throughout, Malzberg is both acerbic and laugh-out-loud funny: he bites the hand that feeds him, and I suspect he's typing while doing so.

  Near the end of Breakfast in the Ruins, one of Malzberg's alter-egos observes, “I'm 67 years old. It's too late for further insights, I think.” Perish the thought.

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  The Diamond Shadow by Fred Chappell

  Fred Chappell says he is currently pondering the essays of Montaigne, reading through Herodotus, and enjoying Warren Rochelle's new novel, Harvest of Changelings. He is curious about why he reads so many books that make his own stuff look so inferior, but those of us who are developing a taste for these tales of the shadow trade (such as the one we ran in our March 2007 issue) can only hope that whatever feelings of inferiority he might experience won't deter him from spinning out more such fantasies.

  "We were fools to come to this place,” I said.

  "This place,” said the right-hand shadows.

  "Disgrace,” said the left-hand shadows.

  "We were fools, Falco,” Astolfo said, “before we were invited. You must not lose courage."

  "Courage,” said the dexter shadows.

  "Rage,” said the sinister.

  "I am none a-feared,” I said. “But I mislike these shadows that mock my phrases."

  "Phrases."

  "Mazes."

  "The shadows do not speak,” Astolfo said. “They stand silent in their long corridors. Only a peculiarity of this dim hall's construction makes them seem to speak. When we stop, they will stop. They own no breath."

  "Breath."

  "Death."

  And so I said nothing more until we had pushed open the heavy door that blocked the corridor and swung it shut behind us. It might seem these doors had been hung to keep back the shadows, for the space we entered was bright with ensconced torches and batteries of flaming candles that swathed in soft glow each object here. There were a good two dozen people ranged about—grave courtiers, expensively appointed ladies with their maids and young daughters, quick-smiling lads in silken trunks and with curiously sheathed short swords—and though they made the noises a pleasant company makes, they now fell silent and looked upon Astolfo and me with undisguised curiosity. I felt as if I had come into a court of petty royalty, though our hostess was no more than a thrice-widowed countess. So Astolfo had informed me.

  A countess then, yet she sat like a princess in her high-backed chair of stout oak with its carvings of gryphons and lion's heads and fleurs-de-lis and with seat and back so sumptuously brocaded. There was no dais, but a respectful clear space surrounded this chair as the men and women kept their distance. They watched closely as we approached, as if they had gathered there for no purpose other than to observe Astolfo and me.

  We made proper obeisance and Astolfo addressed her in a confident, easy voice. “Milady Triana, we have come at your bidding."

  "At my invitation, Master Astolfo. I have no power to order you about."

  Was it the bulk of the chair that made her look so petite? Though her face showed her to be a woman of handsome middle years, the way she was perched upon her seat caused her to appear no larger than a child. Her voice, however, possessed the sound of old age, not quavery, but with an uncertain timbre and a thinly veined crackle. Her hair was blonde streaked with white and when she moved her head it seemed to shimmer with a quick opalescence. Her eyes were not unfocused but fixed at a point somewhere between herself and the person whom she addressed, as if she looked inward more than outward. This gaze gave her a distracted air, though her words were clear enough.

  "We are honored by your kind invitation,” he replied and bowed again, pulling back his stiff linen cape with his left hand and sweeping the right before him like a violoncellist drawing his bow.

  "May I inquire into the health of your wife and children?” the countess asked.

  "I have none,” Astolfo said. “As an unfortunate, I live alone with my mute manservant Mutano and with this man, Falco,"—he nudged and I bowed—"and with such house servants as I require. It is sometimes a cheerless existence, almost eremitic."

  "But perhaps this way of life has enabled you to gain the skills and arts you need in your cult of shadows. I have been informed that your craft requires constant and stringent application."

  "I have labored in my discipline, but maybe to a quick-witted chap it would come more easily."

  Now she said nothing for a moment and paused to take in the figure of my plumpish, balding master with his swift hands and his unaccustomed finery and the mild gray eyes that never threatened.

  It was evident to me that she already knew about Astolfo, and perhaps about me also, and that her questions had been put merely to give her time to form impressions. Yet I was a little surprised when she said, “I think that we have met aforetimes."

  He paused before answering. “I believe we have not met before, milady. I am certain I would remember one so gracious and charming."

  Her tone sharpened as suddenly as a gust of icy wind off a frozen lake. “If I say that we have met, then so it is. It is true that my mind is not so agile as formerly, nor so integral in its workings, yet I must recall Astolfo the thief who filched the shadow of the assassin Torrodo and delivered it to his mortal enemy to ravage at will."

  "The stories of those days long past are more rumor than history, milady."

  "'Twill do no good to set at me crosswise,” she said. “If I say we have met, we have met. If I say you have done such-and-such, you have done so.” And she drummed her heels under her broad skirt of figured white silk against the stretcher of her chair, as an impatient child might do.

  "Milady.” Astolfo bowed once more.

  "I do not much like shadows,” she declared. “Creeping, sneaking things they are. People say that you are a thief who steals shadows to sell for profit. I do not understand how anyon
e can steal a shadow. But if a shadow is a thing, I suppose it can be stolen. There are thieves everywhere. I am continually missing rings and gold and silver bangles, tiaras, and suchlike. Some thieves are in this room now."

  "Milady."

  "Not you, Astolfo, but these others. Oh, I might tell you tales about this crowd that you would scarcely credit. Fine lot they are, very fine indeed."

  Most of the assemblage must have heard her words, but none showed sign of response. They continued to amble about and chat together in muted voices. I received the impression that they were accustomed to the countess's cross outbursts and took little account of them.

  "Perhaps there have been misunderstandings,” Astolfo said. “I am sure we are in gentle company here among these nobles."

  "Never believe it,” she said. “Why do you insist on contradicting my observations? Do you think me a fool?"

  "Oh no, milady. Never."

  "Sometimes I am a fool, the worst sort. There is a cloud that comes into my head so that there are hours when I do not know who I am. I am not myself and I lose all placement in the world. That is when these betrayers take advantage, when they perceive I am not all that I need to be."

  I looked the crowd over again, but they were as placid and unconcerned as before.

  "Why would anyone wish to purchase shadows from you? Nasty, whispering, slithering things, always dogging one's heels or leaning against the walls, wearing sullen faces, never a cheerful countenance among ‘em. Tell me why."

  "Oh,” said Astolfo lightly, “I am often surprised by the various usages people put shadows to. Generally they are employed only to lend coolness or a certain kind of atmosphere to an area. They promote intimacy of discourse and soften the edges of social interchange. Harpists and lutenists may be hired to play softly at a gathering, furnishing a pleasant background; shadows may serve the same purpose. But there are a myriad other uses. Perhaps you know that winemakers often steep wines in certain tints of shadow to gain subtlety and depth for vintages that lack sufficient character.... A thousand, thousand usages. Do you yourself not employ a coterie of shadows in the hallway leading to this grand salon? I assume you had them placed there to unsettle visitors of unknown purpose, to serve to test those who come to visit you."

  "I do not desire them. They have flocked to my walls unbidden. Unless—” She looked around at the company with bitter eyes and continued in a low, angry mutter, “—unless some of my betrayers have brought them in to do me evil. Since my mother died, I no longer can say who is my loyal friend and who my secret enemy."

  "I am sorry to hear of your loss,” Astolfo said. “When did this happen?"

  "It might have been yesterday. Or it might have been some years ago.” Her eyes blinked wide; a startled look passed over her face. “It might have been tomorrow."

  "It is a sorrowful loss at any time."

  She waved a graceful, brightly bejeweled hand at me. “Why does your young friend keep silent? I am suspicious of those who stare and stare and say naught."

  "Falco is newly from the farm,” Astolfo explained. “He is unfamiliar with polished society and fears to make a fool of himself. But as an aide to me, he does well enough."

  "In your business with those shadows."

  He smiled gently, nodded.

  "Well, it is about filthy shadows that I bade you come."

  "I am honored by your kind invitation."

  "Why must you continually abrade against me? I say I bade you come at my deliberate insistence. I do not know you well enough to invite you. Few there are these days whom I invite. I cannot easily trust anyone."

  "You have no one you might confide in?"

  She clapped her hands, making a surprisingly sharp report. At once the murmuring of the company desisted. They all fell silent as an elderly man rose from where he sat on a curve-armed bench against the wall, walked slowly to a large table with a white runner-cloth, and lifted from it a small casket of embossed leather bound with iron straps. As he was bringing it to the Countess Trinia, she waved him aside toward Astolfo.

  "Please examine the jewel there,” she said. “I would know your thought of it."

  He took the casket from the old gentleman and opened it to disclose, lying on plush purple velvet, a diamond that seemed as large as a crab apple. Though I stood some seven paces away, I could see what a brilliant light it gave off, how it gleamed with the candlelight. It was as if it captured the mellow flames and made them one within itself and then dispersed that glow in a thousand warm points throughout this broad salon.

  Astolfo looked at it for long moments where it lay and then said to the countess, “Have I permission to take it in hand, milady?"

  She assented.

  Between thumb and forefinger he held it before his eyes, peering closely. Then he wheeled slowly on his heel, bringing the stone round in a complete circle and turning it over and over to expose every surface. Polished but uncut, it throbbed as the torchlight and candlelight pierced its cool center. Then he laid it carefully back in place and bowed to the old courtier, who returned it to the long table.

  "Well,” said the countess, “what do you see there?"

  "I am not certain,” Astolfo answered. “At first I thought I saw a flaw, but then it seemed more a smudge. Yet nothing mars the outer surface. If only I had brought hither my enlarging glass to examine it more closely."

  "No,” she said, “no magical glasses. I do not trust them. What is to be seen must be observed by the unaided eye. You shall say if you see what I see."

  "I saw a shadow."

  "There!” She clapped her hands again, startling me and all the company around. “I too saw the shadow, a horrid, dark, oozy, smoky thing wriggling in the very core of my stone. It was not there before. My diamond was formerly all clear, as bright and sharp in its glitter as starlight. Now it has gone golden, yellowish. I do not like that. Every day it loses value, does it not?"

  "It is an immensely valuable stone, milady."

  "No. I tell you it is forfeiting its worth to the hours that pass. Why will you always quarrel with me?"

  "If it is not as bright as formerly, it may be damaged. But I do not know the cause. May I ask where it was found and how it came into your hands?"

  "You may not. I am weary of debating every point with you. Chrobius there—” she indicated the old man who had borne the jewel casket “—will give such history as you may need to know. My head hurts insufferably and my mind slips like a donkey on greasy cobblestones. I am done with this audience. When you find out the problem with my best diamond, when you have found a remedy for it, you must return and inform me and I shall reward you most generously. I do hope you will not quarrel with me about this commission I have laid upon you. I am sick of your controversies."

  "Milady."

  The old man came to us, bowed, and padded away to a door at the farther end of the salon, and we followed at a courteous distance.

  * * * *

  This small room off the main salon was quiet. A single bowl-shaded lamp on the table between four chairs in the center gave off a genial glow and Chrobius put the jewel casket beneath it. He wore a thin, silvery beard that came to a point below the V of his soft collar; his voice was gentle, weary-sounding, and he displayed the slender, ivory fingers of a patrician philosopher. He seated us and offered refreshment, which Astolfo, and I, following his example, declined. Then Chrobius sat in the chair between us and told us that almost nothing was known of the provenance of this diamond that so exercised the countess.

  "How now?” Astolfo asked. “So handsome a jewel must have a voluminous history."

  "Perhaps so, but it will be a history of which we are ignorant.” Chrobius's voice was extraordinarily calm, almost hypnotic in its measured cadences. “It was discovered among the effects of the countess's second husband, Tyrin Blanzo. The Blanzi were a family of merchants quite powerful at one time but latterly fallen upon scanty luck. Like many another trading company, they had ventured ships into the peri
lous seas northward, hoping for trade among the woodland tribes of Justerland and with the fisher folk of the Aurora Isles. But tempest and piracy had dealt severe and at last mortal blows to the Blanzi trading enterprises, and nowadays their finances rested upon the rents of their estates. It had been supposed by some that this diamond was derived from the profits of trade, but no record of its provenance was extant."

  "How long after the death of Blanzo before its discovery?” Astolfo asked.

  "A good two years,” Chrobius replied. “The countess had already remarried and thought that for economy purposes she ought to try to make an inventory of her late husband's possessions. In going through one of his sea chests, she found the casket with the jewel."

  "Was it, upon discovery, in the same condition as now?"

  "I am unconversant in the lore of stones, but meseemeth it has changed since that time. Perhaps it has dulled somewhat. The countess says it has ‘goldered’ and that seems as apt a term as may be."

  "And the countess herself? Has she changed since the advent of this diamond?"

  He hesitated. “I should not like to say too much. She herself speaks of certain misapprehensions to which she is prey. You heard her say so. Whether this jewel has connection to that, I cannot say. It appears very unlike, but it was at that time she began to complain. Some who have known her claim to have noticed a change, but she was always something bewildered in the world."

  "Are there those who wish her harm?"

  "You see our little universe here, so like a court of rural royalty. There is hardly anyone who is not wished some degree of harm by another. The countess is subject to arbitrary humors and peremptory demands, some say. Injured feelings follow in her train."

  "Have you ever felt the brunt of her impulsiveness?” Astolfo asked.

  "Not I, no. But it is well known that all women are prey to changeable moods. Her position is precarious and demands perhaps more will-call than she may possess."