by Jack Vance
Beran said, “Come at your own risk.” He motioned; the screen went blank; he left the room and retired to his chambers …
Three months later the Batch clansmen attacked Pao. A fleet of twenty-eight warships, including six round-bellied transports, appeared in the sky. The monitors made no attempt either to challenge or defend, and the Batch warships slid contemptuously down into the atmosphere.
Here they were attacked by rocket-missiles, but counter-missiles harmlessly exploded the barrage.
In tight formation, they settled toward north Minamand and landed a score of miles north of Eiljanre. The transports debarked a multitude of clansmen mounted on air-horses. They darted high into the air, dashing, cavorting, swerving in a fine display of braggadocio.
A school of anti-personnel missiles came streaking for them, but the defenses of the ships below were alert, and anti-missiles destroyed the salvo. However, the threat was sufficient to hold the riders close to the flotilla.
Evening came and night. The riders wrote vainglorious slogans in the sky with golden gas, then retired to their ships, and there was no further activity.
Another set of events had already occurred on Batmarsh. No sooner had the twenty-eight ship flotilla set forth for Pao, when another ship, cylindrical and sturdy, evidently converted from a cargo-carrier, dropped down into the dank forested hills at the south end of the Brumbo domain. A hundred young men disembarked. They wore ingenious segmented suits of transpar, which became streamlined shells when the wearer’s arms hung by his sides. Anti-gravity mesh made them weightless, electric jets propelled them with great speed.
They flew low over the black trees, along the bottom of the wild valleys. Lake Chagaz glimmered ahead, reflecting the glowing constellations of the cluster. Across the lake was the stone and timber city Slagoe, with the Hall of Honors looming tall over the lesser buildings.
The flyers swooped like hawks to the ground. Four ran to the sacred fire, beat down the aged fire-tenders, quenched the blaze except for a single coal which they packed in a metal pouch. The remainder had continued past up the ten stone steps. They stunned the guardian vestals, charged into the tall smoky-beamed hall.
Down from the wall came the tapestry of the clan, woven with hair from the head of every Brumbo born to the clan. Helter-skelter into bags and gravity boxes went the trophies, the sacred fetishes: old armor, a hundred tattered banners, scrolls and declamations, fragments of rock, bone, steel and charcoal, vials of dried black blood commemorating battles and Brumbo valor.
When Slagoe at last awoke to what was taking place, the warriors were in space, bound for Pao. Women, youths, old men, ran to the sacred park, crying and shouting.
But the raiders had departed, taking with them the soul of the clan, all the most precious treasure.
On dawn of the second day the raiders brought forth crates and assembled eight battle-platforms, mounting generators, anti-missile defenses, dynamic stings, pyreumators and sonic ear-blasters.
Other Brumbo bravos came forth on air-horses, but now they rode in strict formation. The battle platforms raised from the ground and exploded. Mechanical moles, tunneling through the soil, had planted mines to the bottom of each raft.
The air-cavalry milled in consternation. Without protection they were easy targets for missiles — cowardly weapons by the standards of Batmarsh.
The Valiant Myrmidons likewise disliked missiles. Beran had insisted on every possible means to minimize bloodshed, but when the battle-rafts were destroyed, he found it impossible to restrain the Myrmidons. In their transpar shells they darted into the sky and plunged down at the Brumbo cavalry. A furious battle swirled and screamed over the pleasant countryside.
There was no decision to the battle. Myrmidons and Brumbo air-horsemen fell in equal numbers, but after twenty minutes, the air-horsemen suddenly disengaged and plunged to the ground, leaving the Myrmidons exposed to a barrage of missiles. The Myrmidons were not taken entirely unawares, and dove headfirst for the ground. Only a few laggards — perhaps twenty — were caught and exploded.
The horsemen retreated under the shadow of their ships; the Myrmidons withdrew. They had been fewer than the Brumbos; nevertheless, the clansmen had given way, puzzled and awed by the ferocity of the resistance.
The remainder of the day was quiet, likewise the next day, while the Brumbos sounded and probed under the hulls of their ships to disengage any mines which might have been planted.
This accomplished, the fleet rose into the air, lumbered out over the Hylanthus Sea, crossed the isthmus just south of Eiljanre, settled on the beach within sight of the Grand Palace.
The next morning the Brumbos came forth on foot, six thousand men guarded by anti-missile defenders and four projectors. They moved cautiously forward, directly for the Grand Palace.
There was no show of resistance, no sign of the Myrmidons. The marble walls of the Grand Palace rose over them. There was motion on top; down rolled a rectangle of black, brown and tawny cloth. The Brumbos halted, staring.
An amplified voice came from the palace. “Eban Buzbek — come forth. Come inspect the loot we have taken from your Hall of Honors. Come forth, Eban Buzbek. No harm shall come to you.”
Eban Buzbek came forth, called back through an amplifier. “What is this fakery, what cowardly Paonese trick have you contrived? Speak quickly; I will not listen long!”
“We possess all your clan treasures, Eban Buzbek: that tapestry, the last coal of your Eternal Fire, all your heraldry and relicts. Do you wish to redeem them?”
Eban Buzbek stood swaying as if he would faint. He turned and walked unsteadily back to his ship.
An hour passed. Eban Buzbek and a group of noblemen came forth. “We request a truce, in order that we may inspect these articles you claim to have in your possession.”
“Come forward, Eban Buzbek. Inspect to your heart’s content.”
Eban Buzbek and his retinue inspected the articles. They spoke no word — the Paonese who conducted them made no comment.
The Brumbos silently returned to their ships.
A nunciator called, “The time is at hand! Coward Paonese — prepare for death!”
The clansmen charged, driven by the most violent emotion. Halfway across the beach they were met by the Myrmidons, and engaged in hand to hand combat, with swords, pistols and bare hands.
The Brumbos were halted; for the first time their battle-lust met another more intense. They knew fear, they fell back, they retreated.
The voice from the Grand Palace called out, “You cannot win, Eban Buzbek, you cannot escape. We hold your lives, we hold your sacred treasures. Surrender now or we destroy both.”
Eban Buzbek surrendered. He bent his head to the ground before Beran and the Myrmidon captain, he renounced all claim to Paonese overlordship, and kneeling before the sacred tapestry swore never more to molest or plan harm against Pao. He was then permitted the treasures of his clan, which the sullen clansmen carried aboard the flotilla. Eban Buzbek turned abruptly to Beran. “You have defeated us in craft as well as valor. It is a small heart therefore which would hold hate against you. I leave Pao feeling only woe that we have met a band of warriors more skillful and more gallant than we. From what far planet did you recruit them, that we may give them all possible avoidance?”
Beran smiled with mingled pride and misgiving. “They are from no far planet; they are Paonese.”
Eban Buzbek was shocked. He gave Beran a hard stare. “Paonese? Surely not, for I have heard them speak, and the language is not Paonese.”
“Nevertheless, Paonese is their blood. If you doubt, I can direct you to their camp, or you may question them yourself through an interpreter.”
Beran signaled to one of the Interpreter Corps, who was never far distant during these times. But Eban Buzbek declined the opportunity. He boarded the flagship of his flotilla, and so departed Pao.
Chapter XVIII
Time after time Pao traced its orbit around Auriol, marking off five compl
ex and dramatic years. For Pao at large they were good years. Never had living been so easy, hunger so rare. To the normal goods produced by the planet was added a vast variety of imports from far-off worlds. To every corner of the cluster the Technicant ships plied, and many a commercial battle was waged between Mercantili and Technicants. As a result, both enterprises expanded their services, and sought farther afield for trade.
The Valiants likewise became more numerous, but on a restricted basis. There was no further recruiting from the population at large, and only a child of Valiant father and mother could be received into the caste.
At Pon, the Cogitants increased in numbers, but even more slowly than the Valiants. Three new Institutes were established in the misty hills, and high upon the most remote crag of all Pao, Palafox built a somber castle.
The Interpreter Corps was now largely derived from the Cogitants; in fact, the Interpreters might be said to be the operative function of the Cogitants. Like the other groups, the Interpreters had expanded both in numbers and importance. In spite of the separation of the three neo-linguistic groups, from each other and from the Paonese population, there was a great deal of interchange. When an Interpreter was not at hand, the business might be transacted in Pastiche — which by virtue of its relative universality, was understood by a large number of persons. But when communication of any precision was necessary, an Interpreter was called for.
So the years passed, fulfilling all the changes conceived by Palafox, initiated by Bustamonte, and reluctantly supported by Beran. The fourteenth year of Beran’s reign saw the high-tide of prosperity and well-being.
Beran had long disapproved of the Breakness concubinage system, which had taken unobtrusive but firm root at the various Cogitant Institutes.
Originally there had been no lack of girls to indenture themselves for eventual financial advantage, and all the sons and grandsons of Palafox — not to speak of Palafox himself — maintained large dormitories in the neighborhood of Pon. But when prosperity came to Pao, the number of young women available for indenture declined, and presently peculiar rumors began to circulate. There was talk of drugs, hypnotism, black magic.
Beran ordered an investigation of the methods by which the Cogitants secured women for indenture. He realized he would be treading on sensitive toes — but he did not suspect the response would be so instant and so direct. Lord Palafox himself came to Eiljanre.
He appeared one morning on an upper terrace of the palace where Beran sat contemplating the sea. At the sight of the tall spare frame, the angular features, Beran reflected how little this Palafox differed, even to the cloak of heavy brown cloth, the gray trousers, the peaked cap with a sharp bill, from the Palafox he had first seen so many years before. How old was Palafox?
Palafox wasted no time in preliminary small-talk. “Panarch Beran, an unpleasant situation has arisen, concerning which you will wish to take steps.”
Beran nodded slowly. “What is this ‘unpleasant situation’?”
“My privacy has been invaded. A clumsy gang of spies dogs my footsteps, annoys the women in my dormitory with impertinent surveillance. I beg that you discover who has ordered this persecution and punish the guilty party.”
Beran rose to his feet. “Lord Palafox, as you must know, I personally ordered the investigation.”
“Indeed? You astonish me, Panarch Beran! What could you hope to learn?”
“I expected to learn nothing. I hoped you would interpret the act as a warning, and make such changes in your conduct as the fact of the investigation would suggest. Instead you have chosen to contend the issue, which may make for difficulty.”
“I am a Breakness dominie. I act directly, not through devious hints.” Palafox’s voice was like iron, but the statement had not advanced his attack.
Beran, a student of polemics, sought to maintain his advantage. “You have been a valuable ally, Lord Palafox. In recompense, you have received what amounts to control over the continent of Nonamand. But this control is conditional upon the legality of your acts. The indenture of willing females, while socially offensive, is not a crime. However, when these females are unwilling …”
“What basis do you have for these remarks?”
“Popular rumor.”
Palafox smiled thinly. “And if by chance you could verify these rumors, what then?”
Beran forced himself to stare into the obsidian gaze. “Your question has no application. It refers to a situation already of the past.”
“Your meaning is obscure.”
“The way to counter these rumors,” said Beran, “is to bring the situation into the open. Henceforth, women willing to indenture themselves will appear at a public depot here in Eiljanre. All contracts will be negotiated at this depot, and any other traffic is declared a crime equivalent to kidnapping.”
Palafox was silent several seconds. Then he asked softly, “How do you propose to enforce this decision?”
“‘Enforce’?” asked Beran in surprise. “On Pao it is not necessary to enforce the orders of the government.”
Palafox curtly inclined his head. “The situation, as you say, is clarified. I trust neither of us will have cause for complaint.” He took his departure.
Beran drew a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes. He had won a victory — to a certain degree. He had asserted the authority of the state and had wrung tacit acknowledgement of this authority from Palafox.
Beran was clever enough not to gloat. He knew that Palafox, utterly secure in his solipsism, probably felt nothing of the emotional umbra surrounding the occurrence, considered the defeat no more than a momentary irritation. Indeed, there were two highly significant points to consider: first, something in Palafox’s manner which suggested that, in spite of his anger, he had been prepared to accept at least temporary compromise. ‘Temporary’ was the key word. Palafox was a man biding his time.
Second, there was the phrasing of Palafox’s last sentence: “I trust that neither of us shall have cause for complaint.” Implicit was an assumption of equal status, equal authority, equal weight, indicating the presence of a disturbing ambition.
To the best of Beran’s recollection Palafox had never so spoken before. Religiously he had maintained the pose of a Breakness dominie, temporarily on Pao as an advisor. Now it seemed as if he regarded himself a permanent inhabitant, with a proprietary attitude to boot.
Beran contemplated the events leading to the present tangle. For five thousand years Pao had been homogeneous, a planet directed by tradition, somnolent in an ageless tranquillity. Panarchs succeeded each other, dynasties came and went, but the blue oceans and green fields were eternal. The Pao of these times had been easy prey for corsairs and raiders, and there had been much poverty.
The ideas of Lord Palafox, the ruthless dynamism of Bustamonte, in a single generation had changed all. Now Pao was prosperous and sent its merchant fleet cruising throughout the star-system. Paonese traders out-bargained the Mercantil, Paonese warriors out-fought the clansmen of Batmarsh, Paonese intellectuals compared favorably with the so-called wizards of Breakness.
But — these men who excelled, who out-traded, out-fought, out-produced, out-thought their planetary neighbors — were they Paonese? The Cogitants now numbered close to ten thousand and all had Palafox either for sire or grandsire. Palafoxians: a better name for these people!
The Valiants and the Technicants, what of them? Their blood was pure Paonese, but they lived as far from the stream of Paonese tradition as the Brumbos of Batmarsh or the Mercantil.
Beran jumped to his feet. How could he have been so blind, so negligent? These men were not Paonese, no matter how well they served Pao: they were aliens, and it was questionable where their ultimate loyalties lay.
The divergence between Valiant, Technicant and basic Paonese had gone too far. The trend must be reversed, the new groups assimilated.
Now that he had defined his ends, it was necessary to formulate the means. The problem was com
plex; he must move cautiously. First of all — to establish the agency where women could present themselves for indenture. He would give Palafox no ‘cause for complaint’.
Chapter XIX
At the eastern outskirts of Eiljanre, across the old Rovenone Canal, lay a wide commons, used principally for the flying of kites and festival mass-dancing. Here Beran ordered the erection of a large tent-pavilion, where women wishing to hire themselves to the Cogitants might exhibit themselves. Wide publicity had been given the new agency, and also to the edict that all private contracts between women and Cogitant would henceforth be illegal and felonious.
The opening day arrived. At noon Beran went to inspect the pavilion. Construction was in the best tradition of Paonese craftsmanship. Pillars plaited of glass ropes supported a red velvet parasol, the floor was clean shell crushed into a matrix of blue gel. Around the wall were benches and booths of blackwood, comprising accommodation for four hundred applicants and sixty Cogitants.
On the benches sat a scattered handful of women, a miserable group by any standards, unlovely, harassed, peaked — perhaps thirty in all.
Beran stared in surprise. “Is this the lot of them?”
“That is all, Panarch!”
Beran rubbed his chin ruefully. He looked around to see the man he wished least to see: Palafox.
Beran spoke first, with some effort. “Choose, Lord Palafox. Thirty of Pao’s most charming women await your whim.”
Palafox replied in a light voice. “Slaughtered and buried, they might make acceptable fertilizer. Other than that, I see no possible use for them.” He peered to left and right. “Where are the hundreds of prime maidens you promised to display? I see only these charwomen and empty benches.”
Implicit in the remark was a challenge: failure to recognize and answer it was to abandon the initiative. “It appears, Lord Palafox,” said Beran, “that indenture to the Cogitants is as objectionable to the women of Pao as I had supposed. The very dearth of persons vindicates my decision.” And Beran contemplated the lonely pavilion.
