by Jack Vance
“Up to where I anchored my ship.”
Beran looked wistfully down to the pavilion. It glowed in many colors, like a sea-anemone. He had no wish to return; there was only a vague regret. Up into the sky they floated, for fifteen quiet minutes, and the pavilion became a colored blot far below. His eyes flooded with tears; he lapsed into a state of apathy, hardly caring what happened to him.
Palafox held out his left hand; impulses from the radar-mesh in his palm were reflected back from the ground, converted into stimulus. High enough. Palafox touched his tongue to one of the plates in the tissue of his cheek, spoke a sharp syllable.
Moments passed; Palafox and Beran floated like wraiths. Then a long shape came to blot out the sky. Palafox reached, caught a hand-rail, swung himself and Beran along a hull to an entrance hatch. He pushed Beran into a staging chamber, followed and closed the hatch.
Interior lights glowed.
Beran, too dazed to take an interest in events, sagged upon a bench. He watched Palafox mount to a raised deck, flick at a pair of keys. The sky went dull, and Beran was caught in the pulse of sub-space motion.
Palafox came down from the platform, inspected Beran with dispassionate appraisal. Beran could not meet his gaze.
“Where are we going?” asked Beran, not because he cared, but because he could think of nothing better to say.
“To Breakness.”
Beran’s heart took a queer jump. “Why must I go?”
“Because now you are Panarch. If you remained on Pao, Bustamonte would kill you.”
Beran recognized the truth of the statement. He felt bleak, lost, forlorn. He knew nothing of Breakness, except what had been conveyed by the attitudes and voice-tones of others. The image so formed in his mind was not reassuring.
He stole a look at Palafox — a man far different from the quiet stranger at Aiello’s table. This Palafox was tall as a fire-demon, magnificent with pent energy. A wizard, a Breakness wizard!
Palafox glanced down at Beran. “How old are you, boy?”
“Nine years old.”
Palafox rubbed his long chin. “It is best that you learn what is to be expected of you. In essence, the program is uncomplicated. You will live on Breakness, you shall attend the Institute, you shall be my ward, and the time will come when you serve me as one of my own sons.”
“Are your sons my age?” Beran asked hopefully.
“I have many sons!” said Palafox with grim pride. “I count them by the hundreds!” Becoming aware of Beran’s bemused attention, he laughed humorlessly. “There is much here that you do not understand … Why do you stare?”
Beran said apologetically, “If you have so many children you must be old, much older than you look.”
Palafox’s face underwent a peculiar change. The cheeks suffused with red, the eyes glittered like bits of glass. His voice was slow, icy cold. “I am not old. Never make such a remark again. It is an ill thing to say to a Breakness dominie!”
“I’m sorry!” quavered Beran. “I thought …”
“No matter. Come, you are tired, you shall sleep.”
Beran listlessly rose to his feet.
Palafox, displaying neither kindliness nor severity, lifted him into a bunk. Heat rays warmed Beran’s skin; turning his face to the dark-blue bulkhead, he fell asleep.
Beran awoke in puzzlement to find himself not in his pink and black bed. After contemplating his position, he felt relatively cheerful. The future promised to be interesting, and when he returned to Pao he would be equipped with all the secret lore of Breakness.
He rose from the bunk, shared breakfast with Palafox who seemed to be in high spirits. Beran took sufficient courage to put a few further inquiries. “Are you actually a wizard?”
“I can perform no miracles,” said Palafox, “except perhaps those of the mind.”
“But you walk on air! You shoot fire from your finger!”
“As does any other Breakness dominie.”
Beran looked wonderingly at the long keen visage. “Then you are all wizards?”
“Bah!” exclaimed Palafox. “These powers are the result of bodily modification. I am highly modified.”
Beran’s awe became tinged with doubt. “The Mamarone are modified, but …”
Palafox grinned down at Beran like a wolf. “This is the least apt comparison. Can neutraloids walk on air?”
“No.”
“We are not neutraloids,” said Palafox decisively. “Our modifications enhance rather than eliminate our powers. Anti-gravity web is meshed into the skin of my feet. Radar in my left hand, at the back of my neck, in my forehead provides me with a sixth sense. I can see three colors below the red and four over the violet. I can hear radio waves. I can walk under water, I can float in space. Instead of bone in my forefinger, I carry a projection tube. I have a number of other powers, all drawing energy from a pack fitted into my chest.”
Beran was silent for a moment. Then he asked diffidently, “When I come to Breakness, will I be modified too?”
Palafox considered Beran as if in the light of a new idea. “If you do exactly as I say you must do.”
Beran turned his head. “What must I do?” he asked in a restrained voice.
“For the present, you need not concern yourself.”
Beran went to the port and looked out, but nothing could be seen but speed-striations of gray and black. “How long before we reach Breakness?” he asked.
“Not so very long … Come away from the port. Looking into sub-space can harm a susceptible brain.”
Indicators on the control panel vibrated and fluttered; the space-boat gave a quick lurch.
Palafox stepped up to look from the observation dome. “Here is Breakness!”
Beran, standing on his tiptoes, saw a gray world, and behind, a small white sun. The space-boat whistled down into the atmosphere, and the world grew large.
Beran glimpsed mountains enormous beyond imagination: claws of rock forty miles high trailing plumes of vapor, rimed by ice and snow. The boat slipped across a gray-green ocean, mottled by clumps of floating weed, then once more rode over the crags.
The boat, now moving slowly, dipped into a vast valley with rock-slab walls and a bottom hidden by haze and murk. Ahead a rocky slope, wide as a prairie, showed a trifle of gray-white crust. The boat approached, and the crust became a small city clinging to the shoulder of the mountain-side. The buildings were low, constructed of rock-melt with roofs of russet brown; some of them joined and hung down the crag like a chain. The effect was bleak and not at all imposing.
“Is that Breakness?” asked Beran.
“That is Breakness Institute,” said Palafox.
Beran was vaguely disappointed. “I had expected something different.”
“We make no pretensions,” Palafox remarked. “There are, after all, a very few dominie. And we see very little of each other.”
Beran started to speak, then hesitated, sensing that he was touching upon a sensitive subject. In a cautious voice he asked, “Do your sons all live with you?”
“No,” said Palafox shortly. “They attend the Institute, naturally.”
The boat sank slowly; the indicators on the control board fluttered and jumped as if alive.
Beran, looking across the chasm, remembered the verdant landscape and blue seas of his homeland with a pang. “When will I go back to Pao?” he asked in sudden anxiety.
Palafox, his mind on other matters, answered offhandedly. “As soon as conditions warrant.”
“But when will that be?”
Palafox looked swiftly down at him. “Do you want to be Panarch of Pao?”
“Yes,” said Beran decidedly. “If I could be modified.”
“Perhaps you may be granted these wishes. But you must never forget that he who gets must give.”
“What must I give?”
“We will discuss this matter later.”
“Bustamonte will not welcome me,” said Beran gloomily. “I think he wants to
be Panarch too.”
Palafox laughed. “Bustamonte is having his troubles. Rejoice that Bustamonte must cope with them and not you.”
Chapter VII
Bustamonte’s troubles were large. His dreams of grandeur were exploded. Instead of ruling the eight continents of Pao and holding court at Eiljanre, his retinue consisted of a dozen Mamarone, three of his least desirable concubines, and a dozen disgruntled officials of magisterial rank. His realm was a remote village on the rain-swept moors of Nonamand; his palace a tavern. He enjoyed these prerogatives only on the sufferance of the Brumbos who, enjoying the fruits of their conquest, felt no great urge to seek out and destroy Bustamonte.
A month passed. Bustamonte’s temper grew short. He beat the concubines, berated his followers. The shepherds of the region took to avoiding the village; the innkeeper and the villagers every day became more taciturn, until one morning Bustamonte awoke to find the village deserted, the moors desolate of flocks.
Bustamonte despatched half the neutraloids to forage for food, but they never returned. The ministers openly made plans to return to a more hospitable environment. Bustamonte argued and promised, but the Paonese mind was not easily amenable to any sort of persuasion.
Early one dreary morning the remaining neutraloids decamped. The concubines refused to bestir themselves, but sat huddled together, sniffling with head colds. All forenoon a miserable rain fell; the tavern became dank. Bustamonte ordered Est Coelho, Minister of Inter-Continental Transport, to arrange a blaze in the fireplace, but Coelho was in no mood to truckle to Bustamonte. Tempers seethed, boiled over; as a result the entire group of ministers marched forth into the rain and set out for the coastal port of Spyrianthe.
The three women stirred, looked after the ministers, then like a single creature, turned to look slyly toward Bustamonte. He was alert. At the expression on his face, they sighed and groaned.
Cursing and panting Bustamonte broke up the tavern furniture and built a roaring blaze in the fireplace.
There was a sound from outside, a faint chorus of yells, a wild Rip-rip-rip!
Bustamonte’s heart sank, his jaw sagged. This was the hunting chivvy of the Brumbos, the clan call.
The yelling and rip-rip-rip! grew keener, and finally came down the single street of the village.
Bustamonte wrapped a cloak about his stocky frame, went to the door, flung it open, stepped out upon the cobbles.
Down the road from the moors came his ministers at a staggering lope. Above, a dozen warriors of the Brumbo Clan rode air-horses, cavorting, whooping and shouting, herding the ministers like sheep. At the sight of Bustamonte they screamed in triumph, swung down, grounded their air-horses, sprang forward, each anxious to be first to lay hands on the nape of Bustamonte’s neck.
Bustamonte retreated into the doorway, resolved to die with dignity intact. He brought out his wasp, and blood would have flowed had not the Batch warriors stood back.
Down flew Eban Buzbek himself, a wiry jug-eared little man, his yellow hair plaited into a foot-long queue. The keel of his air-horse clattered along the cobbles; the tubes sighed and sputtered.
Eban Buzbek marched forward, pushed through the sobbing huddle of ministers, reached to seize Bustamonte by the nape and force him to his knees. Bustamonte backed further into the doorway, pointed his wasp. But the Brumbo warriors were quick; their shock-pistols bellowed; Bustamonte was buffeted against the wall. Eban Buzbek seized him by the neck and hurled him into the mud of the street.
Bustamonte slowly picked himself up to stand shaking in rage.
Eban Buzbek waved his hand. Bustamonte was seized, trussed with belts, rolled into a net. Without further ado, the Brumbos climbed into the saddles and rode through the sky, with Bustamonte hanging below like a pig for the market.
At Spyrianthe the group transferred into a domed air-ship. Bustamonte, dazed from the buffeting wind, half-dead of chill, slipped to the deck, and knew nothing of the trip back to Eiljanre.
The air-ship landed in the court of the Grand Palace; Bustamonte was hustled through the ravaged halls and locked in a sleeping-chamber.
Early the next day two women servants roused him. They cleaned him of mud and grime, dressed him in clean clothes, brought him food and drink.
An hour later the door opened; a clansman signaled. Bustamonte came forth, pallid, nervous but still uncowed.
He was taken to a morning room overlooking the famous palace florarium. Here Eban Buzbek waited with a group of his clansmen and a Mercantil interpreter. He seemed in the best of spirits, and nodded jovially when Bustamonte appeared. He spoke a few words in the staccato language of Batmarsh; the Mercantil translated.
“Eban Buzbek hopes you have passed a restful night.”
“What does he want of me?” growled Bustamonte.
The message was translated. Eban Buzbek replied at considerable length. The Mercantil listened attentively, then turned to Bustamonte.
“Eban Buzbek returns to Batmarsh. He says the Paonese are sullen and stubborn. They refuse to cooperate as a defeated people should.”
The news came as no surprise to Bustamonte.
“Eban Buzbek is disappointed in Pao. He says the people are turtles, in that they will neither fight nor obey. He takes no satisfaction in his conquest.”
Bustamonte glowered at the pig-tailed clansman slouching in the Black Chair.
“Eban Buzbek departs and leaves you as Panarch of Pao. For this favor you must pay one million marks each Paonese month for the duration of your reign. Do you agree to the arrangement?”
Bustamonte looked from face to face. No one looked at him directly; the expressions were empty. But each warrior seemed peculiarly taut, like runners crouched at the start of a race.
“Do you agree to the arrangement?” the Mercantil repeated.
“Yes,” muttered Bustamonte. There was an imperceptible rustle of motion around the room; a regretful relaxation.
The Mercantil translated. Eban Buzbek made a sign of assent, rose to his feet. A piper bent to his diplonet, blew a brisk march. Eban Buzbek and his warriors departed the hall without so much as a glance for Bustamonte.
An hour later, Buzbek’s red and black corvette knifed up and away; before the day’s end no single clansman remained on Pao.
With a tremendous effort Bustamonte asserted his dignity, and assumed the title and authority of Panarch. His fifteen billion subjects, diverted by the Batch invasion, showed no further recalcitrance; and in this respect Bustamonte profited from the incursion.
Chapter VIII
Beran’s first weeks on Breakness were dismal and unhappy. There was no variety, inside or out; all was rock-color, in varying tones and intensities, and the look of distance. The wind roared incessantly, but air was thin, and the effort of breathing left an acrid burn in Beran’s throat. Like a small pale house-sprite, he wandered the chilly corridors of Palafox’s mansion, hoping for diversion, finding little.
The typical residence of a Breakness dominie, Palafox’s house hung down the slope on the spine of an escalator. At the top were workrooms not permitted to Beran, but where he glimpsed marvellously intricate mechanisms. Below were rooms of general function panelled in dark board, with floors of russet rock-melt, generally unoccupied except for Beran. At the bottom, separated from the main chain of rooms was a large circular structure, which Beran eventually discovered to be Palafox’s private dormitory.
The house was austere and chilly, without devices of amusement or ornament. No one heeded Beran; it was as if his very existence were forgotten. He ate from a buffet in the central hall, he slept where and when it suited him. He learned to recognize half a dozen men who seemed to make Palafox’s house their headquarters. Once or twice in the lower part of the house he glimpsed a woman. No one spoke to him except Palafox, but Beran saw him only rarely.
On Pao there was small distinction between the sexes; both wore similar garments and enjoyed identical privileges. Here the differences were emphasized. Men wore
dark suits of close-fitting fabric and black skull-caps with pointed bills. Those women whom Beran had glimpsed wore flouncing skirts of gay colors — the only color to be seen on Breakness — tight vests which left the midriff uncovered, slippers tinkling with bells. Their heads were uncovered, their hair was artfully dressed; all were young and handsome.
When he could tolerate the house no longer, Beran bundled himself into warm garments and ventured out on the mountainside. He bent his head into the wind and pushed to the east until he reached the verge of the settlement, where the Wind River dwindled in mighty perspective. A mile below were a half dozen large structures: automatic fabrication plants. Above reared the rock slope, far up to the gray sky, where the wild little white sun swerved like a tin disc on the wind. Beran retraced his steps.
A week later he ventured forth again, and this time turned west with the wind at his back. A lane melted from the rock wound and twisted among dozens of long houses like that of Palafox, and other lanes veered off at angles, until Beran became concerned lest he lose his way.
He halted within sight of Breakness Institute, a group of bleak buildings stepped down the slope. They were several stories high, taller than other buildings of the settlement, and received the full force of the wind. Streaks of sooty gray and black-green ran across the gray rock-melt, where years of driven rime and sleet had left their marks.
As he stood, a group of boys several years older than himself came up the road from the Institute; they swerved up the hill, marching in a solemn line, apparently bound for the space-port.
Curious! thought Beran. How unsmiling and silent they seemed. Paonese lads would have been skipping and skylarking.
He found his way back to Palafox’s manse, puzzling over the lack of social intercourse on Breakness.
The novelty of life on the new planet had worn smooth; the pangs of homesickness stabbed Beran hard. He sat on the settee in the hall tying aimless knots in a bit of string. There was the sound of footsteps; Beran looked up. Palafox entered the hall, began to pass through, then noticed Beran and came to a halt. “Well, the young Panarch of Pao — why do you sit so quietly?”
