by Jack Vance
The Mamarone looked around, sprang back, squinted in wonder.
“I am Beran Panasper, Panarch of Pao.”
Chapter XVI
Pao celebrated the accession of Beran in a frenzy of joy. Everywhere, except in the Valiant camps, along the shore of Zelambre Bay, at Pon, there was rejoicing of so orgiastic a nature as to seem non-Paonese. In spite of a vast disinclination, Beran took up residence in the Grand Palace and submitted to a certain degree of the pomp and ritual expected of him.
His first impulse was to undo all Bustamonte’s acts, to banish the entire ministry to Vredeltope, the penal isle in the far north. Palafox, however, counseled restraint. “You act emotionally — there is no point in discarding the good with the bad.”
“Show me something good,” responded Beran. “I might then be less determined.”
Palafox thought a moment, seemed to be on the point of speaking, hesitated, then said, “For instance: the Ministers of Government.”
“All cronies of Bustamonte’s. All nefarious, all corrupt.”
Palafox nodded. “This may be true. But how do they comport themselves now?”
“Ha!” Beran laughed. “They work night and day, like wasps in autumn, convincing me of their probity.”
“And so they perform efficiently. You would only work confusion in de-robing the lot. I advise you to move slowly — discharge the obvious sycophants and time-servers, bring new men into the ministry only whenever opportunity presents itself.”
Beran was forced to admit the justice of Palafox’s remarks. But now he sat back in his chair — the two were taking a lunch of figs and new wine on the palace roof garden — and seemed to brace himself. “These are only the incidental alterations I wish to make. My main work, my dedication, is to restore Pao to its former condition. I plan to disperse the Valiant camps to various parts of Pao, and do something similar with the Technicant installations. These persons must learn Paonese, they must take their places in our society.”
“And the Cogitants?”
Beran rapped his knuckles on the table. “I want no second Breakness on Pao. There is scope for a thousand institutes of learning — but they must be established among the Paonese people. They must teach Paonese topics in the Paonese language.”
“Ah yes,” sighed Palafox. “Well, I expected nothing better. Presently I will return to Breakness, and you may restore Nonamand to the shepherds and furze-cutters.”
Beran concealed his surprise at Palafox’s docility. “Evidently,” he said at last, “you plan something quite different. You assisted me to the Black Throne only because Bustamonte would not cooperate with you.”
Palafox smiled to himself as he peeled a fig. “I plan nothing. I merely observe and, if requested to do so, advise. Whatever is to occur stems from plans long ago formulated and given momentum.”
“It may become necessary to frustrate these plans,” said Beran.
Palafox ate his fig without concern. “You are naturally at liberty to make such attempts.”
During the next few days Beran pondered at great length. Palafox seemed to regard him as a predictable quantity, one which would automatically react in a direction favorable to Palafox. This consideration moved him to caution and he delayed immediate action against the three non-Paonese enclaves.
Bustamonte’s splendid harem he sent packing, and began the formation of his own. It was expected of him; a Panarch without suitable concubines would be regarded with suspicion, and his masculinity called to question.
Beran felt no disinclination on this score; and since he was young, well-favored, and a popular hero, his problem was not so much one of seeking as of selection.
However, the affairs of state left him little time for personal indulgence. Bustamonte had overcrowded the penal colony on Vredeltope, with criminals and with political offenders mingled indiscriminately. Beran ordered an amnesty for all except confirmed felons. In the latter part of his reign, Bustamonte likewise had raised taxes until they approached those of Aiello’s reign, with peculant officials absorbing the increment. Beran dealt decisively with these, setting the peculators to unpleasant types of menial labor, with earnings applied to their debts.
One day, without warning, a red, blue and brown corvette dropped down from space. The sector monitor issued the customary challenge; the corvette, disdaining response other than to break out a long serpent-tongue banderole, landed with insolent carelessness on the roof of the Grand Palace.
Eban Buzbek, Hetman of the Batmarsh Brumbos, and a retinue of warriors debarked. Ignoring the palace preceptors, they marched to the great throne-room, called loudly for Bustamonte.
Beran, arrayed in formal black, entered the hall.
By this time Eban Buzbek had heard a report of Bustamonte’s death. He gave Beran a hard quizzical stare, then called to an interpreter. “Inquire if the new Panarch acknowledges me his overlord.”
To the interpreter’s timid question, Beran made no immediate reply. Conflict was the least of his desires; yet tribute was a humiliation he did not wish to prolong.
Eban Buzbek barked out, “What is the new Panarch’s reply?”
The interpreter translated. “In truth,” said Beran, “I have no reply ready. I wish to reign in peace, still I feel that the tribute to Batmarsh has been paid long enough.”
Eban Buzbek roared a quick gust of laughter when he heard the interpreter’s translation. “This is not the manner in which realities arrange themselves. Life is a pyramid — only one may stand at the top. In this case it is I. Immediately below are others of the Brumbo Clan. In the remaining levels I have no interest. You must win the stage to which your prowess entitles you. My mission here is to demand more money from Pao. My expenses are increasing — therefore, the tribute must increase. If you agree, we part in amity. If not, my restive clansmen will visit Pao and you will regret your obstinacy.”
Beran said, “I have no alternative. Under protest I pay you your tribute. I will say also that you would profit more as a friend to us than as an overlord.”
In the Batch tongue the word ‘friend’ could only be interpreted as ‘companion-in-arms’. Upon receiving Beran’s reply, Eban Buzbek laughed. “Paonese as companions-at-arms? They who turn up their rumps for a kicking when so ordered? Better warriors are the Dinghals of Fire Planet, who march behind a shield of their grandmothers. No — we Brumbos have no need of such an alliance.”
Retranslated into Paonese, the words became what seemed a series of gratuitous insults. Beran swallowed his wrath. “Your money shall be transmitted to you.” He bowed stiffly, turned, strode from the room. One of the warriors, deeming his conduct disrespectful, leapt forward to intercept him. Beran’s hand came up, his finger pointed — but again he restrained himself. The warrior somehow sensed that his doom had been close at hand, and stood back.
Beran left the hall unmolested. Eban Buzbek ordered a banquet set before him and demanded women. These were supplied from the harlots’ guild-house, and the Batch clansmen passed a merry evening.
Beran, trembling with anger, went to the quarters of Palafox, who displayed no great interest at the news. “You acted correctly,” he said. “It is hopeless quixotry to defy such experienced warriors.”
Beran assented gloomily. “No question but what Pao needs protection against brigands … Still, we are well able to afford the tribute, and it is cheaper than maintaining a large military establishment.”
Palafox agreed. “The tribute is a decided economy.”
Beran searched the long lean face for the irony he suspected, but finding none, took his leave.
The next day, after the Brumbos had departed, he called for a map of Shraimand, and studied the disposition of the Valiant camps. They occupied a strip along the coast ten miles wide by a hundred long, although the hinterland area had been depopulated another ten miles in anticipation of their increase.
Recalling his term of duty at Deirombona, Beran remembered the ardent young men and women, the tense faces,
the steady undeviating expressions, the dedication to glory … He sighed. Such traits had their uses. These were men and women of Paonese blood! If only they spoke the true language, shared the ancient traditions! In this case, he reflected sadly, they would no longer be warriors …
But such enclaves were intolerable. Tribute or no tribute, the Valiant camps must be abandoned, the Myrmidons re-educated and merged with the rest of the population. Yet, after preparing the decree which would activate this principle, he hesitated, and finally put it aside.
He called Palafox to him, and began arguing heatedly, although Palafox had said nothing. “Theoretically, I agree to the need for an army, and also an efficient industrial establishment. But Bustamonte’s procedure is cruel, artificial, disruptive!”
Palafox spoke gravely. “Suppose that by some miracle you were able to recruit, train and indoctrinate a Paonese army — then what? Whence will come their weapons? Who will supply warships? Who will build instruments and communications equipment?”
“Mercantil is the present source of our needs,” Beran said slowly. “Perhaps one of the out-cluster worlds might supply us.”
“The Mercantil will never conspire against the Brumbos,” said Palafox. “And to procure merchandise from an out-cluster world, you must pay in suitable exchange. To acquire this foreign exchange, you must engage in trading.”
Beran gazed bleakly from the window. “When we have no cargo ships, we can not trade.”
“Precisely true,” said Palafox, in high good humor. “Come, I would show you something of which you are perhaps not aware.”
In a swift black torpedo, Palafox and Beran flew to Zelambre Bay. In spite of Beran’s questions, Palafox said nothing. He took Beran to the eastern shore, to an isolated area at the root of Maesthgelai Peninsula. Here was a group of new buildings, stark and ugly. Palafox landed the boat, took Beran inside the largest. They stood before a long cylinder.
Palafox said, “This is the secret project of a group of advanced students. As you have deduced, it is a small space-ship. The first, so I believe, ever built on Pao.”
Beran surveyed the vessel without comment. Clearly Palafox was playing him as a fisherman plays a fish. It was impossible not to feel resentment.
He went closer to the ship. The finish was rough, the detailing crude; the general impression however was one of rugged serviceability. “Will it fly?” he asked Palafox.
“Not now. But undoubtedly it shall — in another four or five months. Certain delicate components are on order from Breakness. Aside from these, it is a true Paonese production. With such a fleet of ships you may make Pao independent of Mercantil. I do not doubt that you will find sufficient trade, since the Mercantil screw the maximum advantage from any transaction.”
“Naturally, I am — gratified,” said Beran reluctantly. “But why was this work held secret from me?”
Palafox held up his hand and spoke in a soothing voice. “There was no attempt to keep you from knowledge. This is one project of many. These young men and women attack the problems and lacks of Pao with tremendous energy. Every day they undertake something new.”
Beran grunted skeptically. “As soon as possible, these isolated groups shall be returned into the main current of Paonese life.”
Palafox demurred. “In my opinion, the time is hardly ripe for any dilution of Technicant enthusiasm. Admittedly there was inconvenience to the displaced population, but the results seem to vindicate the conception.”
Beran made no reply. Palafox signaled to the quietly observing group of Technicants. They came forward, were introduced, showed mild surprise when Beran spoke to them in their own language, and presently conducted him through the ship. The interior reinforced Beran’s original conception of rough but sturdy serviceability. And when he returned to the Grand Palace it was with an entirely new set of doubts and speculations in his mind. Could it be possible that Bustamonte had been right, and he, Beran, wrong? The miseries inflicted upon the displaced Paonese, on the indentured girls, on the children abstracted from the rich old culture of Pao and trained in raw new ways — were they after all justifiable means to a necessary end? The question was one which Beran could not answer. But when he once again considered the decree which merged the neo-lingual enclaves with the rest of Pao, again he set it aside.
Chapter XVII
A year went by. The prototype space-ship of the Technicants was completed, tested and put into service as a training ship. On plea of the Technicant Coordinating Council, public funds were diverted to a large-scale ship-building program.
Valiant activity proceeded as before. A dozen times Beran decided to curtail the scope of the camps, but on each occasion the face of Eban Buzbek appeared to his mind’s-eye and his resolve diminished.
The year saw great prosperity for Pao. Never had the people fared so well. The civil service was uncharacteristically self-effacing and honest; the taxes were light; there was none of the fear and suspicion prevalent during Bustamonte’s reign. In consequence the population lived with almost non-Paonese gusto. The neo-lingual enclaves, like tumors, neither benign nor malignant, were not forgotten, but tolerated. Beran paid no visit to the Cogitant Institute at Pon; he knew however that it had expanded greatly: that new buildings were rising, new halls, dormitories, workshops, laboratories — that the enrollment increased daily, derived from youths arriving from Breakness, all bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Lord Palafox, and from other youths, rather younger, graduating from the Institute crèches — children of Palafox and children of his children.
Another year passed, and down from space came the gay-colored corvette of Eban Buzbek. As before, it ignored the challenge of the monitor, and landed on the roof-deck of the Grand Palace. As before, Eban Buzbek and a swaggering retinue marched to the great hall, where they demanded the presence of Beran. There was a delay of ten minutes, during which the warriors stamped and jingled impatiently.
Beran entered the room, and halted, surveying the clansmen, who turned cold-eyed faces toward him.
Beran came forward. He made no pretense of cordiality. “Why do you come to Pao this time?”
As before, an interpreter transferred the words into Batch.
Eban Buzbek sat back into a chair, motioned Beran to another nearby. Beran took the seat without comment.
“We have heard unpleasant reports,” said Eban Buzbek, stretching forth his legs. “Our allies and suppliers, the artifactors of Mercantil, tell us that you have lately sent into space a fleet of cargo-vessels — that you bargain and barter, and eventually bring back to Pao great quantities of technical equipment.” The Batch warriors moved behind Beran; they towered over his seat.
He glanced over his shoulder, turned back to Eban Buzbek. “I cannot understand your concern. Why should we not trade where we will?”
“Sufficient should be the fact that it is contrary to the wish of Eban Buzbek, your liege-lord.”
Beran spoke in a conciliatory voice. “But you must remember that we are a populous world. We have natural aspirations …”
Eban Buzbek leaned forward; his hand rang on Beran’s cheek. Beran fell back into the chair, stunned by surprise, face white but for the red welt. It was the first blow he ever had received, his first contact with violence. The effect was peculiar — it was a shock, a stimulus, not altogether unpleasant, the sudden opening of a forgotten room. Eban Buzbek’s voice sounded almost unheard: “… your aspirations must at all times be referred to Clan Brumbo for judgment.”
One of the warriors of the retinue spoke. “Only small persuasion is needed to convince the ocholos.”
Beran’s eyes once more focussed on the broad red face of Eban Buzbek. He raised himself in his seat. “I am happy you are here, Eban Buzbek. It is better that we talk face to face. The time has come when Pao pays no further tribute to you.”
Eban Buzbek’s mouth opened, curved into a comical grimace of surprise.
“Furthermore, we shall continue to send our ships across the uni
verse. I hope you will accept these facts in good spirit and return to your world with peace in your heart.”
Eban Buzbek sprang to his feet. “I will return with your ears to hang in our Hall of Arms.”
Beran rose, backed away from the warriors. They advanced with grinning deliberation. Eban Buzbek pulled a blade from his belt. “Bring the rascal here.” Beran raised his hand in a signal. Doors slid back on three sides; three squads of Mamarone came forward, eyes like slits. They carried halberds with cusped blades a yard long, mounted with flame sickles.
“What is your will with these jackals?” the sergeant rasped.
Beran said, “Subaqueation. Take them to the ocean.”
Eban Buzbek demanded the sense of the comments from the interpreter. On hearing it, he sputtered, “This is a reckless act. Pao shall be devastated! My kinsmen will leave no living soul in Eiljanre. We shall sow your fields with fire and bone!”
“Will you then go home in peace and bother us no more?” Beran demanded. “Come, the choice is yours. Death — or peace.”
Eban Buzbek looked from right to left; his warriors pressed close together, eyeing their black adversaries.
Eban Buzbek sheathed his blade with a decisive snap. He muttered aside to his men. “We go,” he said to Beran.
“Then you choose peace?”
Eban Buzbek’s mustaches quivered in fury. “I choose — peace.”
“Then throw down your weapons, leave Pao and never return.”
Eban Buzbek, wooden-faced, divested himself of his arms. His warriors followed suit. The group departed, herded by the neutraloids. Presently the corvette rose from the palace, darted up and away.
Minutes passed; then Beran was called to the telescreen. Eban Buzbek’s face glowed, glistening with hate. “I left in peace, young Panarch, and you shall have peace — only so long as it takes to bring the clansmen back to Pao. Not only your ears but your head will be mounted among our trophies.”
