Through Darkest Zymurgia!

Chief among the scholarly virtues, the cornerstone of academia, is that of giving credit where credit is due. Thus do scholars build, brick by patient brick, publication by painful publication, citation by irrelevant citation, the edifice of knowledge that is our inheritance as learned men of Arrastia. The cardinal sin in the groves of Academe is to take credit for work that is not one's own--and get caught at it. Oddly, the converse--giving credit for one's work to someone else, generally someone in authority--has no such stigma. But that is by the way. Since reaching the gaudy pinnacle of Grenville Chair of Mythogeography at Glastonbury University, I have scorned to flatter; and I have always scorned to plagiarize, or otherwise take credit for another man's accomplishments. Thus it was, when we regained the hostel, that my first words were to our man Hodgins, who was playing Patience on the refectory table. Fox was watching him quietly.

"Well, Hodgins, I'm not sure but what you've landed us all in the soup. Or saved the expedition, I shan't know which until someone explains to me what just happened." I sat down at the long table, and signaled to Abayla for some refreshment.

Hodgins scratched the back of his neck with a playing card as he thought about this. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Thintwhistle?"

"It's that Bruno," said Carbuncle, "the wee puppy that's just come in and curled himself up at your feet. The Zymurgians don't know what to make of him." Quickly and concisely, he sketched out the highlights of our visit with the Masters of Tomar.

"Yes," I said. "And I couldn't have had Bruno perform all of those foolish antics if you hadn't trained him so well."

"He practically trained himself," said Hodgins. "But I'm sorry if it caused any problems."

"No, never worry about that," I said, sipping at the mug of unfermented juice Abayla had placed before me. I looked at it in dismay. "They seem so civilized," I muttered, shaking my head. "It was worth it to see their faces when Bruno begged to have his collar put back on. Thomas might disgree, but I think it's the high point of the expedition to date."

"The question is," Carbuncle asked, "why were they so fascinated by Bruno? A party of strange men the likes of which they've never seen show up on the doorstep, and they're baying over a great fish-stealing hound." Bruno shifted under the table. "Not that you aren't a grand dog, Bruno."

"We already knew," said Philpott, pushing his glasses back up his nose, "that Basenis is one of their major deities; perhaps their major deity."

"Never mind that you're changing the subject, Thad, how do you arrive at that conclusion?" I asked.

"The Water of Basenis, Leon. As far back as we have records, the Zymurgians have referred to their beer as the Water of Basenis. You can't think that a single individual named Basenis has been alive for so many centuries."

"Humph," I said. "Ask the Lord Mayor of Pelham. For that matter, ask at Eton's department store; they've been around almost as long as the Lord Mayor."

"I got these playing cards at Eton's," said Hodgins. "They've got pictures of Anglish landmarks on them."

Philpott frowned. "That's true, Leon. I suppose Basenis could be a place, or even a folk hero...but wait a moment. That's right. Master Nabili referred to Bruno as one of the 'Pups of Basenis'."

"There's the Tower of Pelham, and Lancaster Cathedral..."

"And your point would be?" I asked, swigging some more fruit juice.

"and Pelham Pond all full of shipping, and Mondrian's Wall..."

"It seems clear that Basenis must be personified as a canine of some kind, Leon."

"I've seen stranger things in Bundyal," said Hodgins, looking into the distance. "Why I saw an idol with three--"

"Let's stick to the subject, Hodgins," I said. "Philpott, what leads you to that conclusion?"

"Well, the dogs, chiefly. They run wild throughout the village, and fight or play as they please. And yet they aren't starving--they are much better fed than any stray dogs I've seen in Angland. But they aren't pets, either. No one here attempts to control them; I think several of the Masters were shocked by the very idea."

We all nodded, or least I did; that tallied with my own observations.

"And then, of course," Philpott continued, "Master Nabili referred to Bruno, and by extension to other dogs, as one of the 'Pups of Basenis'. Now, Bruno is manifestly no puppy, yet Nabili said 'Pups' rather than 'Dogs'. It seems most likely that he was using 'Pups' as we would say 'children', that is, Bruno is one of the children of Basenis."

"That would explain most of their reactions, Leon," said Carbuncle. "If your dog is semi-divine, you don't ask him to fetch your slippers. You let him go about his business, and feed him when he's hungry. If he wants to fight, you let him."

"Basenis the Dog God, eh?" I pondered that for several long breaths. "I've been to the Bundi Nations as well, and I'll wager I've seen stranger things there than Hodgins. Basenis the Dog God is tame by comparison."

"And then we came in with our own tame dog in a collar and made him do tricks," said Carbuncle.

"It would certainly explain the tension in the room," I said. "They were expecting lightning bolts and earthquakes, Great Basenis' wrath poured out on one who dared to discipline a dog." I turned toward Hodgins, and said, "With help from others, of course, Hodgins. If I'm to be blasted in my tracks, I certainly hope you'll have the decency to keep me company."

"I'll do my best, I'm sure," said Hodgins, who was dealing out another hand of Patience.

I raised an eyebrow at Philpott. "Any other thoughts?"

"Well, Leon, it all depends how sophisticated they are. Theologically, I mean." I waved him on, as I drained the mug. "If they aren't very sophisticated, they'll assume that we must have Basenis' blessing."

"Must we?" asked Carbuncle.

"Oh, yes. Because we couldn't possibly control such a good-sized dog as Bruno without help from Basenis. In that case, they will probably give us every honor."

"That's if they are unsophisticated?" I asked. Philpott nodded seriously. "What if they are sophisticated?"

"Oh, that's much simpler," he said. "If they are sophisticated, theologically speaking, they'll consider that Basenis hasn't struck us down for our sins. And then, after they've considered enough..."

"Yes?" I said. Even Hodgins had put down his cards.

"Well, they'll probably decide that Basenis is leaving our punishment up to them. So they'll probably kill us." Philpott stood up, stretched, and continued, "I shall go upstairs and work on my notes."

I followed him with my eyes as he walked around the table and over to the stairs, practically turning myself all the way around on the bench.

"Philpott?"

"Yes, Leon?" He paused with one foot on the stair.

"We're imprisoned in this hostel, awaiting the pleasure of people who may well decide to roast us for impiety."

"Yes, Leon?"

"Are you really going to go work on your notes at a time like this?"

"Oh, yes, Leon. The Zymurgians apparently have a culture stretching back thousands of years. I'd hate to die with my notes in disarray." And off he went, up the stairs.

The careful reader may have been wondering why Fox and Cadbury had not participated in this conversation. Cadbury's absence is easily explained; when we entered, he hied himself to the stables behind the hostel, where Norfolk and Suffolk were caring for our donkeys. Fox, on the other hand, had been sitting across the table from Hodgins for the duration.

Indeed, Fox's behavior was rather beginning to perplex me. He had been one of my brightest pupils. Not eager, not a flatterer, but when asked for an answer, he invariably gave the right one. After only a few semesters, he had a grasp of mythogeography that excelled many (I am ashamed to say) of my colleagues. In his exams, he immediately cut to the heart of whatever topic was assigned, handled it with depth and insight, and finally sewed it all up in a neat conclusion, leaving the patient not at all the worse for the experience.

During the course of a long teaching career, a professor will have many students--indeed, many each year--who can master the material that is given them. If the professor is lucky, some one or two will not only master the material, but will build on it, extending the edifice of knowledge I alluded to earlier. Frederick showed signs of being one of these. And then came the news that his elder brother, the heir to the Mercantile Bank of Pelham and Bundyal, had perished in a boating accident on the river Thyme near the town of Burton-on-Water, and his father called him to work in the family firm. I had been so confident that he would defy his father, and remain in University, eventually taking Academic Orders and joining the faculty. Instead, he quietly packed his things and left. I didn't know he was gone for a full week.

I had, I confess, dragged him along to Zymurgia in hopes of awakening his interest anew. It showed little signs of working. Since my last conversation with him, the night after the trading, Fox had said little, and done less. He had joined us on the barge the previous morning willingly enough, but had retained a stolid silence throughout the horrific ascent. He had said nothing at breakfast, though he willingly did anything we asked of him; he did not seem reluctant so much as detached.

I was put in mind of any number of students I had seen while I was still junior enough to teach the first-year course in mythogeography. It was and is a required course, and there have always been many students from other disciplines who regard it as a waste of time. I recognized in them the same blank expression I now feared I saw on Frederick's face: the mark of one who is determined to bear what must be borne, while paying it as little attention as possible. Had so few years spent banking done this to my prodigy? It did not bode well.

I pondered this for the length of another mug of fruit juice, and came to a conclusion. "Thomas, Hodgins, Fox," I said. "Shall we have a hand or two of whist, to pass the time?"

"Now, Leon," scoffed Carbuncle. "You'd be after playing whist at a time like this, instead of getting your notes in order?" But he took the deck of cards from Hodgins and began to shuffle.

Fox enjoyed a remarkable run of luck or skill during the many hands of whist we played that afternoon; I suppose I must concede that a career in banking has its uses. But he said nothing beyond the commonplace pleasantries of the card table, nor were my attempts to draw him out successful. He played quietly, shuffling with dexterity when called upon, rarely looking up from the table, never laughing or joking. How had so few years changed him so much?

Or had he always been so self-contained? I remembered him smiling more, laughing more, but not, somehow, saying more. Had the eagerness I remembered been real, or just my own hopes projected on a carefully maintained facade of congeniality? I was no longer so certain. And yet I remained convinced of his talents. I began to worry that I had erred in bringing him to Zymurgia.

The reader may wonder why I simply didn't ask him outright. Why not confront him with my suspicions, why not take him aside and question him privately. This course of action was not far from my mind at any time during that tedious afternoon, and yet I restrained myself. I had two reasons, either of which was sufficient cause me to hold my tongue.

The members of an expedition, like the officers of a naval vessel, form a small community. Joined by a shared interest, they are thrown together under stressful conditions for a period of many months, with little opportunity for privacy, and no means of avoiding one another. Under such conditions friendships may grow and become unseverable; alternatively, small annoyances, mannerisms, peccadilloes may grow to monstrous proportions. Minor quarrels can quite literally become murderous. And it is never wise to quarrel with someone on whose skill and good will your life may depend.

I have already related the story of Ambrose Elliot, the expedition leader who was eaten in the South Seas. It frankly amazes me that the man survived to be eaten, that he didn't meet his demise on some earlier expedition, for he had the knack of alienating anyone in any way subordinate to him, as well as many who were not. Accidents are easy to arrange in strange lands. That he did not have one I can only attribute, much to my surprise, to the basic decency of the Anglish academic.

But be all that as it may, I did not wish to begin a potentially lengthy sojourn in Zymurgia by antagonizing one of my companions. And that is all I should succeed in doing by questioning Fox directly. What could I accuse him of beyond a certain coldness of demeanour? And, moreover, a perfectly justified coldness, given that I had brought him rather against his will.

It was a pretty quandary I found myself in, and I still hadn't found my way out of it when Mukden arrived to escort us to the festival.