"Contraband? It certainly seems to be." Don Miguel passed a worried hand through his hair, ruining the careful pre-party endeavours of his barber. "I don't doubt you acted in good faith, but . . . Oh, honestly, Don Arcimboldo! Look at that thing, will you? It must weigh more than twelve pounds; it's so finely wrought it must have been famous in its own period, and it would certainly have come to my notice if the Society had licensed it for importation. Anyway, we wouldn't dispose of something like that -- we'd donate it to the Imperial Museum, or the Mexicological Institute in New Madrid. Didn't its mere condition make you suspect something might be wrong?"
"Ah . . . Well, frankly, no." Don Arcimboldo shifted from foot to foot, but in his position, Don Miguel told himself, he too would have been embarrassed. "I'm afraid I'm not much of an expert on New World artefacts; I collect Saxon, Irish and Norse work. Which is why I didn't hang on to the mask, of course."
"But surely anyone with an interest in any kind of . . . "
Don Miguel let the words trail away. There was no point in arguing. Far more important was to put right the consequences of this disaster, if -- and he shivered a little at the implications of the proviso -- it were still possible to detect them.
"Is there anything I can do?" Don Arcimboldo inquired anxiously.
"Yes. Yes, there is. Find a couple of slaves and send them to the local branches of the Holy Office and the Society of Time, and get someone discreet and capable here as fast as possible. It's going to spoil the party somewhat, I'm afraid, but better a party than the world!"
Even as he spoke he was aware that from his own point of view it would be as bad to be shown wrong as to be shown right -- the Society did not take kindly to people who cried wolf in public about its private affairs. But there was no help for that now; to employ the image he'd used earlier in explaining temporal paradox to the Marquesa, there was a key stone for every avalanche, and in this particular case he'd just knocked it loose and it was rolling.
Imaginary thunder grumbled in his ears.
IV
When, a week later, he was bidden to attend at a meeting in the Chamber of Full Council of the Society of Time -- the first occasion he had set foot within it -- Don Miguel had still not been informed whether his inspired deductions had been correct. It was therefore with considerable apprehension that he took his place and looked around.
The atmosphere of the Chamber was rich with a sense of authority and ritual, like the interior of a great cathedral -- which in many ways it resembled. It was panelled with fine dark woods inlaid with gold; most of its floor-space was occupied by four tables arranged in the shape of two capital L's, with gaps at diagonally opposite corners. These tables were draped with dark red velvet; chairs ranged along them were upholstered in the same material, except for one which was still vacant. That was purple, the prince's colour, and it stood at the eastern end of the room, transfixed like a butterfly on a pin by a shaft of pure white light stabbing down from the ceiling. Another shaft of light, focused horizontally, completed a cross at twice a man's height from the floor.
Along the northern table, robed, cowled, and in shadow, were ranged five persons whom Don Miguel knew to be the General Officers of the Society. But at present he was unable to tell which of them was which. Behind them, immobile, their private secretaries stood dutifully awaiting their masters' orders.
He himself was seated in the middle of the western side of the oblong formed by the tables, while on the southern side, opposite the General Officers, were . . . What to call them? One could hardly say they were prisoners, even if they had been brought here under guard, for as yet there had been no trial nor even any official charges. Perhaps one could call them "the witnesses' -- but then he too was a witness.
At all events, they comprised the Marquesa, attended by two of her personal maids, Don Arcimboldo, who was alone, and the merchant Higgins from whom the Aztec mask had been purchased. The Marquesa had been weeping, Higgins was plainly terrified to the point of petrifaction, but Don Arcimboldo had an air of puzzled boredom, as though he was certain that this stupid misunderstanding would shortly be regulated.
And, on the velvet-covered table in front of the vacant purple chair, the mask itself rested like a great golden toad.
Suddenly there was a ring of trumpets, and the air seemed to grow tense. There was movement behind the empty chair, at the eastern doorway of the Chamber. A herald garbed in cloth-of-gold strode forward and spoke in a voice much resembling the tone of the trumpets which had just sounded.
"Be upstanding for His Highness the Prince of New Castile, by His Majesty's direction Commander of the Society of Time!"
All those present in the room rose to their feet and bowed.
When they were told in a grunting voice to sit down again, the Prince had already taken his place. Previously Don Miguel had only seen the Commander of the Society from a distance, at official functions in public where he was surrounded by his enormous retinue and there was small chance of a mere Licentiate getting to close quarters with him. Accordingly he studied him with interest, seeing a round man with stubby limbs and a short black beard; a ring of baldness was spreading on his scalp. He wore the full-dress uniform of a Knight of the Holy Roman Empire, and his chest glittered with the stars of all the orders which he as a Prince of the Blood had accumulated. The total effect was impressive; it was meant to be.
His face was partly in shadow because the light was above him, but it was possible to discern that his eyes had turned at once in Don Miguel's direction, and after a few seconds the latter began to feel uncomfortable, as though he were under the scrutiny of an inquisitor. He resisted the temptation to fidget in his chair.
At last the grunting voice came again, like a saw rasping into fresh oak-planks.
"You're Navarro, are you?"
"I am, sir," said Don Miguel, finding that his mouth was dry. Having reviewed his actions many times during the past few days, he was convinced he had acted correctly according to the strict rules of the Society. Yet there still remained the nagging possibility that the General Officers might put a different interpretation on the facts . . .
"And this bauble in front of me is the thing that all the fuss is about, I suppose? Hah!" The Prince leaned forward and stretched out his thick fingers, that sprouted coarse black hair along their backs. His touch on the mask was almost a caress. Plainly, he liked it -- or he liked the fine gold of which it was made.
At last he sat back and shot a keen glance in the direction of the prisoners before turning to the cowled and shadowed line of General Officers.
"This is for you, I think, Father Ramón," he said.
Don Miguel watched to see which of the hitherto anonymous officers would reply. He had never met, but he had heard over and over since childhoood about, Father Ramón the Jesuit, the master-theoretician of the Society and the greatest living expert on the nature of time and the philosophical implications of travelling through it.
"I have inspected the object," said the figure on the Prince's immediate right in a dry, precise voice. "It is of Aztec workmanship and Mexican gold -- of that there is no doubt at all. And it has not been licensed by the Society for importation."
Don Miguel felt a surge of relief. At least he had been correct on that score, then.
"The consequences of this temporal contraband cannot as yet be fully assessed," the Jesuit continued. "We are attempting to establish the mask's provenance to within a few years -- its condition is so good, we should have little difficulty in assigning it to at least its city of origin and perhaps even to one particular workshop in that city. Once we've identified it we must then proceed to investigate the effects of its removal. If we find none, we are faced with a serious dilemma."
"How so?" demanded the Prince, leaning back and twisting a little sideways in his chair.
"Imprimis," said Father Ramón, and thrust forward a thin finger from out of darkness to lay it on the table, "we shall have to determine whether we have in fact repl
aced it where it came from. And if we have replaced it, then we shall have to establish the time at which it was replaced, and the circumstances. And secundo, we shall have to determine -- if it has not been replaced -- whether we have in fact a case of history being changed."
Shorn of much of its complexity by this cleanly logic, the problem nonetheless struck Don Miguel as terrifying.
"You mean" -- it startled him to find that he was speaking, but since all present were turning towards him, he ploughed on -- "you mean, Father, that we may find its disappearance incorporated in our new history as an accomplished fact, with no record of the history which the theft has altered?"
The faceless head gazed at him. "Your presumption," said the Jesuit coldly, and hesitated, so that Don Miguel had a little while in which to wonder in what sense he was using the word presumption, "is correct."
Don Miguel murmured a barely audible word of thanks and resolved to hold his tongue until next spoken to.
"May we leave the technical aspects of this in the hands of your staff, then, Father?" the Prince inquired.
"I think for the moment that will be the wisest course. Immediately I have further information, I will relay it to the Council for a decision."
"Good!" The Prince seemed very pleased at abandoning that portion of the discussion, and turned at once to another which appeared to interest him more. "We come now to the associated problems which have been entailed by this affair. To begin with -- Navarro!"
The last word was uttered in so sharp a bark that Don Miguel jumped.
"Navarro, what possessed you to arrest the Marquesa di Jorque when she was so plainly an innocent party in this case?"
Don Miguel's heart sank so rapidly he could almost feel it arriving in his boots. He said stiffly, "I acted, sir, in strict accordance with the law and the rules of the Society."
"Heaven's name, man! Didn't anyone ever tell you that to stick rigidly to the letter of the law is the mark of a man without imagination? I've studied the information laid before me, and it's perfectly clear that her ladyship acted throughout in unquestionable good faith. I'm discharging her from custody here and now, and I require you to apologise to her before she returns to her domains at Jorque."
What?
There was no hope of arguing with the Commander of the Society, especially not in the presence of outsiders, but Don Miguel was horrified. Was not the law, in both letter and spirit, mankind's chief bulwark against the forces of chaos? Even from a Prince of the Blood he could not accept an order to apologise for acting in accordance with the law!
He grew aware that everyone was waiting for him to comply. The invisible faces of the General Officers were turned to stare at him, and the Marquesa, suddenly repossessed of her usual poise, was glaring at him triumphantly, tapping her manicured fingers on the arm of her chair.
To cover his uncertainty, he rose slowly to his feet. By the time he was erect he had decided what to say.
"Sir, with all respect to you as a Prince and my Commander, I will not apologise to the Marquesa for doing as the law lays down. I will apologise for not realising that she is an innocent."
An innocent. A simpleton, in other words. He hoped the distinction would penetrate.
It did. The Marquesa stiffened with fury and the countenance of the Prince began to purple; Don Miguel braced himself for the impact of his royal wrath. But the tension broke suddenly -- broke against a thin, rather high-pitched laugh. With amazement Don Miguel realised it came from Father Ramón.
"Commander, that is an apology exactly meet for the case," the Jesuit exclaimed. "Surely anyone but an innocent would have wondered how so magnificent an artefact came to be on sale instead of in a museum?"
The Prince thought that over for a moment. Eventually he gave a tentative chuckle, and the chuckle developed into an outright guffaw in which the other General Officers joined. To the accompaniment of their mirth the Marquesa hastened from the hall, her shoulders bowed with humiliation.
Don Miguel, surprised by so easy a victory, slowly resumed his chair.
"Well!" the Prince said at length. "I suppose I can look forward now to an almighty row with my cousin the Duchess of Jorque -- but never mind, Father, you were perfectly correct about Navarro's apology, as I realise now I think it over. It would be a good thing, though, if we sorted the rest of the matter out before the storm breaks; at least I'd have a chance to argue back!" He raised a stern finger to point to Don Miguel. "Since you triggered the crisis, I trust you've taken steps of your own to sort it out? For instance, have you discovered where the mask came from in our own time?"
More than ever uncertain of himself, because it struck him as somehow unfitting for a Prince of the Blood to refer so casually to the likelihood of a family quarrel, Don Miguel said, "Ah -- well, sir, as you know, Don Arcimboldo Ruiz bought the mask from the merchant Higgins, who is present. And the latter maintains that he in his turn acquired it from a stranger who called at his shop in the market outside Jorque."
"Yes, I've already been told about this." The Prince turned thoughtful eyes on Higgins, who tried to sink through the seat of his chair; he was a middle-aged man without great personality. "Concerning this stranger, then! What proof did he offer that he was legally in possession of the mask?"
The merchant glanced from side to side as though seeking a way of escape. Finding none, he babbled in the flat broad accent that Peabody exhibited also, and most of the people in the north of England, "Your highness, I swear! I swear what I said is true! I bought it from a stranger, on the first day of April as I recall."
"Are you always so ready to do business with strangers?"
"Sir, never! Never in my life before!" Higgins's voice dropped to a bare whisper. "I can only say I must have been mad -- must have had a brainstom, your highness! For I cannot recall the man's face, and I failed to enter his name in my account-book! Never in my life have I done any such thing before -- ask anyone who knows me in Jorque, they'll say I'm a respectable merchant and -- "
"Enough!" Curtly the Prince cut short the stammered flow of words. "Navarro, have you investigated the fellow's story?"
"I have, sir. And it does seem to be true that up till now Higgins has been a man of excellent reputation. I've spoken to several people who have sold or pawned him goods, and they say he has always been careful to ascertain they had proper title to what they were offering. He has had a number of extratemporal objects through his hands -- small curios not worth space in a museum -- and the office of the Society in Jorque has always found him scrupulously careful about checking the importation licence."
"Yet this time he buys contraband from a total stranger! He must indeed have had a brainstorm!"
"And sold it to me, your highness!" Don Arcimboldo spoke up diffidently. "To me who had no reason for questioning his right to its possession."
The Prince shrugged. "That's as may be, Don Arcimboldo -- one still wonders why you didn't suspect it of being imported illegally. Still, I grant that Higgins's alleged respectability would have disinclined you to investigate."
"Sir." A single dry word from one of the hitherto silent General Officers. Don Miguel tensed, for even that one word betrayed the unmistakable accent of a Mohawk. His guess at the speaker's identity was confirmed in the next second by the Prince.
"Yes, Red Bear?"
The Director of Fieldwork for the Society! They'd really brought the big guns to bear on this case!
"A motion, sir," Red Bear grunted. "That the merchant be further interrogated. That Don Arcimboldo be discharged as an innocent party. That we continue in private session to discuss what has passed."
There was a murmur of agreement from his colleagues. The Prince slapped his palm on the table with a sound like a pistol-shot.
"So resolved! Clear the room," he added in a lower tone to his personal aide.
Don Miguel made to rise, but the Prince motioned him back to his seat with a frown, and he complied with a sense of apprehension. It was not exactly no
rmal practice for a lowly Licentiate of the Society with a mere four years of service and five field trips to his credit to be invited to sit in during a confidential meeting of the General Officers.
Someone -- and from his just-uttered remarks it might well be Red Bear -- was obviously taking this matter very seriously indeed.
V
As soon as all non-members of the Society had left the Chamber and the doors had been locked with a great slamming of heavy bolts, the lights went up and the officers relaxed in their chairs, shaking back the cowls from their heads. Don Miguel was almost surprised to discover that in full illumination the Chamber was just a room -- large, palatial, but simply a room. And, equally, the General Officers were ordinary men. There was exceptional character and experience stamped on their faces; nonetheless, they were men.