Times Without Number by John Brunner

had been erected booths backed by solid stone

warehouses. During the day goods were brought forth from the latter and

displayed under awnings, or by the most prosperous merchants in little

huts sided with glass, while brawny slaves guarded them with clubs. At

night they would be taken back into the warehouses and firmly secured

against robbers.

Instructing Don Pedro to dismiss the coach for an hour, Don Miguel set

forth on foot for a tour of the market. He paused apparently at random

-- to test the quality of nutmegs at a spicer's, to feel some splendid

Eastern brocades in a draper's, to examine a set of candlesticks in a

silversmith's -- and as he did so he asked casual-seeming questions of

the staff. Somehow, to Don Pedro's increasingly obvious admiration, he

contrived to introduce into each such conversation the names of Higgins

and Don Arcimboldo.

The expiry of the hour saw them emerging from a bookbinder's, where

gold-leaf glittered on fine calf bindings and the air was rich with the

scent of leather and size, and with that Don Pedro's patience ran dry.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "The subtlety of your inquiries has amazed me --

truly it has!"

"Subtlety?" Don Miguel echoed with a scowl, striding in the direction

of the spot where they were to rejoin their coach. Their course was

taking them through the heart of the market, and at this noontide

juncture the place was crowded. Retainers from noble families, bearing

conspicuous crests, kept shoving their way through with arrogance, a

fact which greatly annoyed Don Pedro but which Don Miguel put up with

stoically. They could have cleared a path for themselves by merely

mentioning the name of the Society, let alone displaying its arms --

the scythe and hourglass which Borromeo had personally chosen for its

insignia -- but it was a bad time to draw attention to themselves.

"Subtlety?" he said again, and added a savage chuckle. "Well, if it's subtle

to fail completely in trying to answer an all-important question, I'll

agree . . . Don't bother me for a moment, if you please! I'm desperately

struggling to think!"

Embarrassed, Don Pedro shut his mouth like a rat-trap, and did not utter

another word apart from inviting Don Miguel to precede him into the coach,

until the latter spoke again nearly halfway back to the Society's office.

"Don Pedro! A word of advice from you!"

"You do me much honour,' Don Pedro said nervously. "I trust I can provide

what you want."

"Well, I can't figure it out for myself. You have a go. Imagine you were

in Don Arcimboldo's place, heir to lands in Scotland and and a highly

respected collector of antiques: why would you give a very rare and

costly mask of solid gold to a lady who is -- to be blunt -- far past

the age of courtship?"

Don Pedro's eyes widened. For a long moment he said nothing; then finally

he ventured, "Well, perhaps from motives of simple friendship . . . ?"

What Don Arcimboldo had said about the Marquesa during her party ruled

out that possibility, in Don Miguel's view. He dismissed the suggestion

with a wave of his hand, not bothering to explain why.

"Another reason?" he invited.

"Well . . ." Don Pedro swallowed enormously. "Far be it from me to impute

anything to someone as respected as Don Arcimboldo, but . . . Perhaps one

might assume he stood to gain by his action?"

"I'm very much afraid one might. Don Pedro, instruct your coachman to

detour by way of Higgins's residence in the town. I trust you're not in

a great hurry for your lunch -- this may take a little time."

In fact, the stop at Higgins's home lasted a mere twenty minutes,

but when he came away Don Miguel was frowning like thunderclouds and

responded to Don Pedro's attempts at conversation only with frigid grunts.

Then, on their return to the Society's office, he found a message awaiting

him, received by semaphore telegraph from Londres a few minutes before.

It was a report from Red Bear's field-teams, informing him that