The Best of Jack Vance (1976) SSC

by Jack Vance

  The gentlemen between whom O.C. Charle represented a compromise were both highly respected, but distinguished by basically different attitudes toward existence. The first was the talented Garr of the Zumbeld family. He exemplified the traditional virtues of Castle Hagedorn: he was a notable connoisseur of essences, and he dressed with absolute savoir, with never so much as a pleat nor a twist of the characteristic Overwhele rosette awry. He combined insouciance and flair with dignity; his repartee coruscated with brilliant allusions and turns of phrase; when aroused his wit was utterly mordant. He could quote every literary work of consequence; he performed expertly upon the nine-stringed lute, and was thus in constant demand at the Viewing of Antique Tabards. He was an antiquarian of unchallenged erudition and knew the locale of every major city of Old Earth, and could discourse for hours upon the history of the ancient times. His military expertise was unparalleled at Hagedorn, and challenged only by D.K. Magdah of Castle Delora and perhaps Brusham of Tuang. Faults? Flaws? Few could be cited: over-punctilio which might be construed as waspishness; an intrepid pertinacity which could be considered ruthlessness. O.Z. Garr could never be dismissed as insipid or indecisive, and his personal courage was beyond dispute. Two years before, a stray band of Nomads had ventured into Lucerne Valley, slaughtering Peasants, stealing cattle, and going so far as to fire an arrow into the chest of an Isseth cadet. O.Z. Garr instantly assembled a punitive company of Meks, loaded them aboard a dozen power-wagons, and set forth in pursuit of the Nomads, finally overtaking them near Drene River, by the ruins of Worster Cathedral. The Nomads were unexpectedly strong, unexpectedly crafty, and were not content to turn tail and flee. During the fighting, O.Z. Garr displayed the most exemplary demeanor, directing the attack from the seat of his power-wagon, a pair of Meks standing by with shields to ward away arrows. The conflict ended in a rout of the Nomads; they left twenty-seven lean black-cloaked corpses strewn on the field, while only twenty Meks lost their lives.

  O.Z. Garr’s opponent in the election was Claghorn, elder of the Claghorn family. As with O.Z. Garr, the exquisite discriminations of Hagedorn society came to Claghorn as easily as swimming to a fish. He was no less erudite than O.Z. Garr, though hardly so versatile, his principal field of study being the Meks, their physiology, linguistic modes, and social patterns. Claghorn’s conversation was more profound, but less entertaining and not so trenchant as that of O.Z. Garr; he seldom employed the extravagant tropes and allusions which characterized Garr’s discussions, preferring a style of speech which was unadorned. Claghorn kept no Phanes; O.Z. Garr’s four matched Gossamer Dainties were marvels of delight, and at the Viewing of Antique Tabards Garr’s presentations were seldom outshone. The important contrast between the two men lay in their philosophic outlook. O.Z. Garr, a traditionalist, a fervent exemplar of his society, subscribed to its tenets without reservation. He was beset by neither doubt nor guilt; he felt no desire to alter the conditions which afforded more than two thousand gentlemen and ladies lives of great richness. Claghorn, while by no means an Expiationist, was known to feel dissatisfaction with the general tenor of life at Castle Hagedorn, and argued so plausibly that many folk refused to listen to him, on the grounds that they became uncomfortable. But an indefinable malaise ran deep, and Claghorn had many influential supporters.

  When the time came for ballots to be cast, neither O.Z. Garr nor Claghorn could muster sufficient support. The office finally was conferred upon a gentleman who never in his most optimistic reckonings had expected it: a gentleman of decorum and dignity but no great depth; without flippancy, but likewise without vivacity; affable but disinclined to force an issue to a disagreeable conclusion: O.C. Charle, the new Hagedorn.

  Six months later, during the dark hours before dawn, the Hagedorn Meks evacuated their quarters and departed, taking with them power-wagons, tools, weapons and electrical equipment. The act had clearly been long in the planning, for simultaneously the Meks at each of the eight other castles made a similar departure.

  The initial reaction at Castle Hagedorn, as elsewhere, was incredulity, then shocked anger, then — when the implications of the act were pondered — a sense of foreboding and calamity.

  The new Hagedorn, the clan chiefs, and certain other notables appointed by Hagedorn met in the formal council chamber to consider the matter. They sat around a great table covered with red velvet: Hagedorn at the head; Xanten and Isseth at his left; Overwhele, Aure and Beaudry at his right; then the others, including O.Z. Garr, I.K. Linus, A.G. Bernal, a mathematical theoretician of great ability, and B.F. Wyas, an equally sagacious antiquarian who had identified the sites of many ancient cities: Palmyra, Lübeck, Eridu, Zanesville, Burton-on-Trent, and Massilia among others. Certain family elders filled out the council: Marune and Baudune of Aure; Quay, Roseth and Idelsea of Xanten; Uegus of Isseth, Claghorn of Overwhele.

  All sat silent for a period of ten minutes, arranging their minds and performing the silent act of psychic accommodation known as ‘intression’.

  At last Hagedorn spoke. “The castle is suddenly bereft of its Meks. Needless to say, this is an inconvenient condition to be adjusted as swiftly as possible. Here, I am sure, we find ourselves of one mind.”

  He looked around the table. All thrust forward carved ivory tablets to signify assent — all save Claghorn, who however did not stand it on end to signify dissent.

  Isseth, a stern white-haired gentleman magnificently handsome in spite of his seventy years, spoke in a grim voice. “I see no point in cogitation or delay. What we must do is clear. Admittedly the Peasants are poor material from which to recruit an armed force. Nonetheless, we must assemble them, equip them with sandals, smocks and weapons so that they do not discredit us, and put them under good leadership: O.Z. Garr or Xanten. Birds can locate the vagrants, whereupon we will track them down, order the Peasants to give them a good drubbing, and herd them home on the double.”

  Xanten, thirty-five years old — extraordinarily young to be a clan chief — and a notorious firebrand, shook his head. “The idea is appealing but impractical. Peasants simply could not stand up to the Meks, no matter how we trained them.”

  The statement was manifestly accurate. The Peasants, small andromorphs originally of Spica Ten, were not so much timid as incapable of performing a vicious act.

  A dour silence held the table. O.Z. Garr finally spoke. “The dogs have stolen our power-wagons, otherwise I’d be tempted to ride out and chivy the rascals home with a whip.”*

  * This, only an approximate translation, fails to capture the pungency of the language. Several words have no contemporary equivalents. ‘Skirkling’, as in ‘to send skirkling’, denotes a frantic pell-mell flight in all directions, accompanied by a vibration or twinkling or jerking motion. To ‘volith’ is to toy idly with a matter, the implication being that the person involved is of such Jovian potency that all difficulties dwindle to contemptible triviality. ‘Raudlebogs’ are the semi-intelligent beings of Etamin Four, who were brought to Earth, trained first as gardeners, then construction laborers, then sent home in disgrace because of certain repulsive habits they refused to forgo.

  The statement of O.Z. Garr, therefore, becomes something like this: “Were power-wagons at hand, I’d volith riding forth with a whip to send the raudlebogs skirkling home.”

  “A matter of perplexity,” said Hagedorn, “is syrup. Naturally they carried away what they could. When this is exhausted — what then? Will they starve? Impossible for them to return to their original diet. What was it? Swamp mud? Eh, Claghorn, you’re the expert in these matters. Can the Meks return to a diet of mud?”

  “No,” said Claghorn. “The organs of the adult are atrophied. If a cub were started on the diet, he’d probably survive.”

  “Just as I assumed.” Hagedorn scowled portentously down at his clasped hands to conceal his total lack of any constructive proposal.

  A gentleman in the dark blue of the Beaudrys appeared in the doorway: he poised himself, held high his right arm, and bo
wed so that the fingers swept the floor.

  Hagedorn rose to his feet. “Come forward, B.F. Robarth; what is your news?” For this was the significance of the newcomer’s genuflection.

  “The news is a message broadcast from Halcyon. The Meks have attacked; they have fired the structure and are slaughtering all. The radio went dead one minute ago.”

  All swung around, some jumped to their feet. “Slaughter?” croaked Claghorn.

  “I am certain that by now Halcyon is no more.”

  Claghorn sat staring with eyes unfocused. The others discussed the dire news in voices heavy with horror.

  Hagedorn once more brought the council back to order. “This is clearly an extreme situation — the gravest, perhaps, of our entire history. I am frank to state that I can suggest no decisive counter-act.”

  Overwhele inquired, “What of the other castles? Are they secure?”

  Hagedorn turned to B.F. Robarth. “Will you be good enough to make general radio contact with all other castles, and inquire as to their condition?”

  Xanten said, “Others are as vulnerable as Halcyon: Sea Island and Delora, in particular, and Maraval as well.”

  Claghorn emerged from his reverie. “The gentlemen and ladies of these places, in my opinion, should consider taking refuge at Janeil or here, until the uprising is quelled.”

  Others around the table looked at him in surprise and puzzlement. O.Z. Garr inquired in the silkiest of voices: “You envision the gentlefolk of these castles scampering to refuge at the cock-a-hoop swaggering of the lower orders?”

  “Indeed, should they wish to survive,” responded Claghorn politely. A gentleman of late middle age, Claghorn was stocky and strong, with black-gray hair, magnificent green eyes, and a manner which suggested great internal force under stern control. “Flight by definition entails a certain diminution of dignity,” he went on to say. “If O.Z. Garr can propound an elegant manner of taking to one’s heels, I will be glad to learn it, and everyone else should likewise heed, because in the days to come the capability may be of comfort to all.”

  Hagedorn interposed before O.Z. Garr could reply. “Let us keep to the issues. I confess I cannot see to the end of all this. The Meks have demonstrated themselves to be murderers: how can we take them back into our service? But if we don’t — well, to say the least, conditions will be austere until we can locate and train a new force of technicians. We must consider along these lines.”

  “The spaceships!” exclaimed Xanten. “We must see to them at once!”

  “What’s this?” inquired Beaudry, a gentleman of rock-hard face. “How do you mean, ‘see to them’?”

  “They must be protected from damage! What else? They are our link to the Home Worlds. The maintenance Meks probably have not deserted the hangars, since, if they propose to exterminate us, they will want to deny us the spaceships.”

  “Perhaps you care to march with a levy of Peasants to take the hangars under firm control?” suggested O.Z. Garr in a somewhat supercilious voice. A long history of rivalry and mutual detestation existed between himself and Xanten.

  “It may be our only hope,” said Xanten. “Still — how does one fight with a levy of Peasants? Better that I fly to the hangars and reconnoiter. Meanwhile, perhaps you, and others with military expertise, will take in hand the recruitment and training of a Peasant militia.”

  “In this regard,” stated O.Z. Garr, “I await the outcome of our current deliberations. If it develops that there lies the optimum course, I naturally will apply my competences to the fullest degree. If your own capabilities are best fulfilled by spying out the activities of the Meks, I hope that you will be largehearted enough to do the same.”

  The two gentlemen glared at each other. A year previously their enmity had almost culminated in a duel. Xanten, a gentleman tall, clean-limbed, and nervously active, was gifted with great natural flair, but likewise evinced a disposition too easy for absolute elegance. The traditionalists considered him ‘sthross’, indicating a manner flawed by an almost imperceptible slackness and lack of punctilio: not the best possible choice for clan chief.

  Xanten’s response to O.Z. Garr was blandly polite. “I shall be glad to take this task upon myself. Since haste is of the essence I will risk the accusation of precipitousness and leave at once. Hopefully I return to report tomorrow.” He rose, performed a ceremonious bow to Hagedorn, another all-inclusive salute to the council, and departed.

  He crossed to Esledune House where he maintained an apartment on the thirteenth level: four rooms furnished in the style known as Fifth Dynasty, after an epoch in the history of the Altair Home Planets, from which the human race had returned to Earth. His current consort, Araminta, a lady of the Onwane family, was absent on affairs of her own, which suited Xanten well enough. After plying him with questions she would have discredited his simple explanation, preferring to suspect an assignation at his country place. Truth to tell, he had become bored with Araminta and had reason to believe that she felt similarly — or perhaps his exalted rank had provided her less opportunity to preside at glittering social functions than she had expected. They had bred no children. Araminta’s daughter by a previous connection had been tallied to her. Her second child must then be tallied to Xanten, preventing him from siring another child.*

  * The population of Castle Hagedorn was fixed; each gentleman and each lady was permitted a single child. If by chance another were born the parent must either find someone who had not yet sired to sponsor it, or dispose of it another way. The usual procedure was to give the child into the care of the Expiationists.

  Xanten doffed his yellow council vestments and, assisted by a young Peasant buck, donned dark yellow hunting-breeches with black trim, a black jacket, black boots. He drew a cap of soft black leather over his head and slung a pouch over his shoulder, into which he loaded weapons: a coiled blade, an energy gun.

  Leaving the apartment, he summoned the lift and descended to the first level armory, where normally a Mek clerk would have served him. Now Xanten, to his vast disgust, was forced to take himself behind the counter and rummage here and there. The Meks had removed most of the sporting rifles, all the pellet ejectors and heavy energy-guns: an ominous circumstance, thought Xanten. At last he found a steel sling-whip, spare power slugs for his gun, a brace of fire grenades and a high-powered monocular.

  He returned to the lift and rode to the top level, ruefully considering the long climb when eventually the mechanism broke down, with no Meks at hand to make repairs. He thought of the apoplectic furies of rigid traditionalists such as Beaudry and chuckled: eventful days lay ahead!

  Stopping at the top level, he crossed to the parapets and proceeded around to the radio room. Customarily three Mek specialists connected into the apparatus by wires clipped to their quills sat typing messages as they arrived; now B.F. Robarth stood before the mechanism, uncertainly twisting the dials, his mouth wry with deprecation and distaste for the job.

  “Any further news?” Xanten asked.

  B.F. Robarth gave him a sour grin. “The folk at the other end seem no more familiar with this cursed tangle than I. I hear occasional voices. I believe that the Meks are attacking Castle Delora.”

  Claghorn had entered the room behind Xanten. “Did I hear you correctly? Delora Castle is gone?”

  “Not gone yet, Claghorn. But as good as gone. The Delora walls are little better than a picturesque crumble.”

  “Sickening situation!” muttered Xanten. “How can sentient creatures perform such evil? After all these centuries, how little we actually knew of them!” As he spoke he recognized the tactlessness of his remark; Claghorn had devoted much time to a study of the Meks.

  “The act itself is not astounding,” said Claghorn shortly. “It has occurred a thousand times in human history.”

  Mildly surprised that Claghorn should use human history in reference to a case involving the sub-orders, Xanten asked, “You were never aware of this vicious aspect to the Mek nature?”


  “No. Never. Never indeed.”

  Claghorn seemed unduly sensitive, thought Xanten. Understandable, all in all. Claghorn’s basic doctrine as set forth during the Hagedorn selection was by no means simple, and Xanten neither understood it nor completely endorsed what he conceived to be its goals; but it was plain that the revolt of the Meks had cut the ground out from under Claghorn’s feet. Probably to the somewhat bitter satisfaction of O.Z. Garr, who must feel vindicated in his traditionalist doctrines.

  Claghorn said tersely, “The life we’ve been leading couldn’t last forever. It’s a wonder it lasted as long as it did.”

  “Perhaps so,” said Xanten in a soothing voice. “Well, no matter. All things change. Who knows? The Peasants may be planning to poison our food … I must go.” He bowed to Claghorn, who returned him a crisp nod, and to B.F. Robarth, then departed the room.

  He climbed the spiral staircase — almost a ladder — to the cotes, where the Birds lived in an invincible disorder, occupying themselves with gambling, quarrels, and a version of chess, with rules incomprehensible to every gentleman who had tried to understand it.

  Castle Hagedorn maintained a hundred Birds, tended by a gang of long-suffering Peasants, whom the Birds held in vast disesteem. The Birds were garish garrulous creatures, pigmented red, yellow or blue, with long necks, jerking inquisitive heads and an inherent irreverence which no amount of discipline or tutelage could overcome. Spying Xanten, they emitted a chorus of rude jeers: “Somebody wants a ride! Heavy thing!” “Why don’t the self-anointed two-footers grow wings for themselves?” “My friend, never trust a Bird! We’ll sky you, then fling you down on your fundament!”