The Garments of Caean

It was a pity he was so vulnerable during that short period between waking and dressing, he reflected ruefully. That was the old Peder Forbarth returning and blinking in the light of the renewed Peder Forbarth.

He dialled the service hatch for breakfast.

He was still eating when the door opened. Two men in dark conservative clothes entered uninvited, looking around them warily. It was obvious they were security police. That they had gained access to his private elevator and neutralized the door lock without arousing the building’s watchdog circuit told him that.

‘You Peder Forbarth?’ demanded the taller of the two.

He nodded.

‘Come with us. You’ve got some questions to answer.’ The plain clothes man flashed a card.

‘Quite impossible!’ declared Peder loudly with a flourish of his arm. ‘Whatever your business is, it must be settled right here. Tonight I am to attend the birthday ball of the Third Minister, so there is a great deal to attend to. Will you have some coffee?’ he finished politely.

They glanced at one another, utterly disconcerted. Peder was inwardly complacent. The suit had stalled them. They did not even know why they felt so paralysed, why they had undergone a loss of confidence immediately on entering his presence. It was a phenomenon he had learned to use. People would even disbelieve the evidence of their senses if he wanted them to – provided he was wearing his Frachonard suit.

‘Then may I know your names?’ he asked with an ironic smile.

‘I’m Lieutenant Burdo,’ the tall security man said. He took a folder from his pocket and began shuffling documents. Finally he decided to get on with it. ‘Where were you between the eighty-fifth and hundred-twentieth of last year?’

Peder paused as if searching his memory. ‘I was vacationing on Hixtos part of that time. For the rest of it I was here in Gridira.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Where did you stay on Hixtos?’

‘At the Pearl Diver Hotel in Permerand. It’s on the Holiday Reefs. A big vacation area.’

‘Yes, I know.’ The lieutenant scribbled on a pad. Then he took out a picture of Realto Mast and laid it on the breakfast table. ‘This man disputes your story. He says you were with him, on a star yacht called the Costa.’

‘What would I be doing with him?’

‘You tell us.’

‘All right,’ Peder said, smiling. ‘Probably smuggling Caeanic contraband, the way you read it.’

‘So you admit it.’ It was the other plain clothes man who spoke, his voice determinedly tough.

‘No, of course not. But I did meet this man once, when I used to keep a shop on Tarn Street. He came in there and tried to sell me Caeanic garments.’

‘Did you buy them?’

‘No. I don’t deal in them.’

‘You didn’t inform the authorities.’

‘I should have, I know, but I didn’t want my customers driven away by any publicity. The line of work I was in…’

‘That’s right,’ Lieutenant Burdo said brusquely, ‘you’re a specialist in bizarre and outlandish garments. A freak tailor, the kind who’s always been regarded as a security risk. Usually with good reason.’

The other man waved a hand at the walls. ‘What’s all this, for instance?’

Peder had adorned his lounge with paintings of Caeanic scenes, some fanciful and imaginary, but others depicting identifiable Caeanic landmarks. One such was the famous tower of Quest, built in the shape of a man with outstretched arms, face raised to the sky, wearing a stiff garment trailing finlike structures down from his shoulders to the ground. In the original the tower was five thousand feet high.

It was admittedly embarrassing to have these pictures on show when the security police called. ‘An interest in the bizarre doesn’t necessarily mean approval of it,’ he said.

‘Why would Realto Mast try to implicate you in the smuggling of Caeanic contraband?’ Lieutenant Burdo asked him.

‘Who knows? I dare say the more people he drags down with him the lighter his sentence will be. That’s how justice works these days, isn’t it?’

The lieutenant gave a wry smile. ‘Well, we’ll have to check this out,’ he finished in a more friendly tone. ‘But don’t leave Gridira without permission.’

Peder dialled the service unit to clear the table and rose to his feet, turning to the two men. All his movements had absolute elegance and precision. The suit was still working for him, subjecting the intruders to a subliminal bombardment of line and gesture, fractional poses whose effect on the unwitting perceptions could be remarkable.

‘I am a loyal Ziodean,’ he drawled, ‘and these aspersions affect me unpleasantly …’ He held out an arm and tweaked the cloth of his sleeve. ‘Feel this: good old crabsheep twill, Ziode’s native fabric. If you want someone to vouch for my loyalty, get in touch with the Eleventh Minister.’

‘The Eleventh Minister?’ Burdo repeated.

‘A personal friend. I am also acquainted with the Third Minister, as I have intimated.’

‘Yes, sir, I see,’ Burdo said respectfully. ‘Forgive us for taking up your time …’