The Garments of Caean

In crossing from one extremity to the other of Caeanic territory, trading vessels entered the gulf defined by the Tzist Arm and traced a chord between the two points. In doing so they were, at mid-point, about half-way to Ziode. And somewhere in that region, where one of these trading vessels had suffered some accident and elected to try for a planet-fall, the planet Kyre orbited its lonely primary.

And Mast had heard about it.

Legally the cargo still belonged to the Caeanic trading company that owned the ship, but none of them felt much concern over that. Peder pressed forward through the Hat Hold and nearly swooned at the delights that awaited him in the larger compartments: coats, trousers, breeches, shirts, shoes, and many garments that defied Peder’s vocabulary. Then Mast warned him that the lighter was on its way and he hurried outside to guide it down to a spot where he could most easily carry the merchandise aboard.

In his enthusiasm, Peder once more began to feel admiration for Mast. He had managed everything superbly. For one thing, bringing Peder along was a master stroke; they couldn’t possibly carry away the whole hoard and only someone of Peder Forbarth’s knowledge and experience – he flattered himself that, though little-known, he was perhaps the best sartorial on Harlos – could choose the best prizes from this feast of splendour.

Having guided down the lighter he began selecting garments from the racks, scurrying with armloads to the dumpy little craft and piling them neatly in the small hold. His brain was forced to work as quickly as his hands, discarding the merely superb and taking only the super-excellent. Raiment that otherwise would have had him gasping with pleasure was now carelessly thrust aside, making him feel almost as though he was despoiling something sacred.

He sent up three lighter loads and then entered a compartment that, after a brief examination, had him wishing that he had examined the whole cargo before beginning the selection. At first he doubted his judgement; but then, feeling the material, its texture that seemed to bring the nerves and blood more alive than before, the dazzling twills, damasks, displays and culverts into which it could be woven, he decided that there could be no other explanation. This was the fabled fabric which no one in Ziode was absolutely sure existed. Even of those who had heard of it, not all knew its name. Peder had heard it called ‘Prossim’.

If this was Prossim – Peder was sure now that it was – then he must take every scrap of it that the ship contained, even if it meant throwing out the loads he had already ferried up to the Costa. He didn’t think that would be necessary, though. This compartment probably held all there was. Even in Caean Prossim was reputed to be rare, fine and costly, the stuff of kings, of arcane, mystic dressers. An aura of Caeanic occultism surrounded it, although Peder was not sure why. He only knew that a garment made of Prossim, whoever the maker, was ten times the garment that was made of anything else.

He said nothing to Mast immediately, but got busy emptying out the compartment. Its contents made up barely one lighter load, but when he was gathering up the last armful he noticed a small door in one corner which was unlabelled. Thinking that it might be a cupboard with a few more small items, he opened it, and despite his haste stood stock still for at least five minutes.

The chamber semed, at first, out of proportion to its content. It was a largish chamber, almost a room, and hanging in it was a single suit.

And yet, as one gazed at it, the arrangement was not so disproportionate after all. The suit seemed to command the space around it, to require it, much as a person requires space for comfort. Peder chuckled to himself softly. Some personally valued set of apparel, perhaps, or the private attire of an exalted personage. There was no knowing what customs the Caeanics observed in such matters.

For some reason he did not merely take the suit but continued to stand gazing at it. To begin with it looked like an unpresumptuous suit, the colours muted, the cut consummate but modest. And yet, while he stood there, the impression it made upon him grew. He realized that the subtle flares in trousers and jacket were executed with genius and displayed, to those who could see it, an electric, confident élan. The coloration seemed no longer matt, but to be radiant with eye-defying patterns. The more he looked, the harder he found it to brush aside a stupefying possibility. Finally he stepped forward, extended a waldo arm reverently, and lifted the skirt of the jacket.

On the rich inner lining was woven an intricate design of loops and whirls. Peder snatched away the arm with a gasp. He knew that design; his suspicion was confirmed.

It was a Frachonard suit!

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that he would ever behold, let alone possess such a suit. Frachonard, the crowning genius of Caean’s sartorial art!