by Jack Vance
“And in the meantime?” inquired Finisterle.
Esteban Carbone chewed his lip. “Things must proceed more or less as usual.” He eyed Beran. “Do you, then, acknowledge my power?”
Beran laughed. “Freely. In accordance with your wish, I hereby order that every child of Pao: Valiant, Technicant, Cogitant and Paonese, must learn Pastiche, even in precedence to the language of his father.”
Esteban Carbone stared at him searchingly, and said at last, “You have come off better than you deserve, Beran. It is true that we Valiants do not care to trouble with the details of governing, and this is your one bargaining point, your single usefulness. So long as you are obedient and useful, so long may you sit in the Black Chair and call yourself Panarch.” He bowed, turned on his heel, marched from the hall.
The Field Marshals swung smartly after him, and next the officers. The chant began, the rhythm pounding to the beat of steps on marble: it dwindled in volume and presently was heard no more. Shortly the black warships lifted from Eiljanre, climbed into the sky amid triumphant showers of colored fire, and sailed southwest to Deirombona.
Beran sat slumped in the Black Chair. His face was white and haggard, but his expression was calm.
“I have compromised, I have been humiliated,” he said to Finisterle, “but in one day I have achieved the totality of my ambitions. Palafox is dead, and we are embarked on the great task of my life — the unifying of Pao.”
Finisterle handed Beran a cup of mulled wine, drank deep from a cup of his own. “Those strutting cockerels! At this moment they parade around their stele, beating their chests, and at any instant …” He pointed his finger at a bowl of fruit. Blue flame lanced forth, the bowl shattered.
“It is better that we allowed them their triumph,” said Beran. “Basically, they are decent people, if naïve, and they will cooperate much more readily as masters than as subjects. And in twenty years …”
He rose to his feet; he and Finisterle walked across the hall, looked out over the roofs of Eiljanre. “Pastiche — composite of Breakness, Technicant, Valiant, Paonese. Pastiche — the language of service. In twenty years, everyone will speak Pastiche. It will fertilize the old minds, shape the new minds. What kind of world will Pao be then?”
They looked out into the night, across the lights of Eiljanre, and wondered.
