by Jack Vance
“Nothing whatever. Last night you mentioned fifteen vouchers for a certain project. Nion asked me to drop by to collect.”
“Yes, of course.” But Ghyl hesitated. In the full light of day the prank seemed somehow pointless. Even malicious. Or more properly: mocking and jeering. Still, as Amiante had pointed out, if the population wished to vote for a legend, why should the opportunity not be extended to them?
Ghyl temporized. “Where did everyone go from the Twisted Willow?”
“Up-river to a private home. You should have come. Everyone had a wonderful time.”
“I see.”
“Floriel certainly has good taste in girls.” Here Shulk cocked his head to look at Ghyl sidewise. “I can’t say the same for you. Who was that fearful goat you brought?”
“I didn’t bring her. I just had to take her home.”
Shulk gave an uninterested shrug. “Give me the fifteen vouchers, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Ghyl frowned and winced, but could see no help for it. He looked toward his father, half-hoping for some sort of admonition against foolishness, but Amiante seemed oblivious to all.
Ghyl went to a cabinet, counted fifteen vouchers, handed them to Shulk. “Here.”
Shulk nodded. “Excellent. Tomorrow to the Municipal Parade and post up our candidate for Mayor.”
“Who is going?”
“Anyone who wants. Won’t it be great? Imagine the fuss!”
“I suppose so.”
Shulk gave a casual wave and departed.
Ghyl went to the work bench, seated himself across from Amiante. “Do you think I am acting correctly?”
Amiante carefully put down his chisel. “You certainly are doing no wrong.”
“I know—but am I being foolish? Reckless? I can’t decide. After all, the mayoralty isn’t an important office.”
“To the contrary!” declared Amiante with a vehemence which Ghyl found surprising. “The office is specified by the Civic Charter, and is very old indeed.” Amiante paused, then gave a soft grunt of disparagement—toward whom or what Ghyl could not divine.
“What can the Mayor do?” Ghyl asked.
“He can, or at least he can try to enforce the provisions of the Charter.” Amiante frowned up at the ceiling. “I suppose it could be argued that Welfare Regulation effectually supersedes the Charter—though the Charter has never been abrogated. The mayoralty itself testifies to the fact!”
“The Charter is older than Welfare Regulation?”
“Indeed yes. Older and rather more general in scope.” Amiante’s voice was again dispassionate and reflective. “The mayoralty is the last functional manifestation of the Charter, which is a pity.” He hesitated, pursed his lips. “In my opinion the Mayor might usefully take it upon himself to assert the principles of the Charter…Difficult, I suppose. Yes, difficult indeed.”
“Why difficult?” asked Ghyl. “The Charter is still valid?”
Amiante tapped his chin thoughtfully and stared through the open door out into Undle Square. Ghyl began to wonder if Amiante had heard his question.
Amiante at last spoke—obliquely, hyperbolically, so it seemed to Ghyl. “Freedom, privileges, options, must constantly be exercised, even at the risk of inconvenience. Otherwise they fall into desuetude and become unfashionable, unorthodox—finally irregulationary. Sometimes the person who insists upon his prerogatives seems shrill and contentious—but actually he performs a service for all. Freedom naturally should never become license; but regulation should never become restriction.” Amiante’s voice dwindled; he picked up his chisel and examined it as if it were a strange object.
Ghyl frowned. “You think then that I should try to become Mayor and enforce the Charter?”
Amiante smiled, shrugged. “As to this, I can’t give advice. You must decide for yourself…Long ago I had the opportunity to do something similar. I was dissuaded, and I have never felt completely comfortable since. Perhaps I am not a brave man.”
“Of course you’re brave!” declared Ghyl. “You’re the bravest man I know!”
But Amiante only smiled and shook his head and would say no more.
At noon the following day Nion, Floriel and Shulk came to visit Ghyl. They were excited, keyed-up, alive. Nion, wearing a suit of black and brown, looked older than his years. Floriel was casually friendly. “What in the world happened to you the other night?” he asked ingenuously. “We waited and waited and waited. Finally we decided that you had gone home, or maybe—” he winked “—had stopped to cuddle a bit with Gedée.”
Ghyl turned away in disgust.
Floriel shrugged. “If you want to be that way about it.”
Nion said, “There was a minor difficulty. We couldn’t register the name ‘Emphyrio’ for election unless it was attached or affixed to a recipient in residence, of good moral standing. Naturally, just off Cheer and Health Squad, I was out. Floriel and Shulk are in trouble with their guild. Mael was expelled from Temple. Uger—well, you know Uger. He just wouldn’t do. So we nominated you, under the cognomen ‘Emphyrio’.” Nion came forward, slapped Ghyl jovially on the back. “My lad, you may be the next Mayor!”
“But—I don’t want to be Mayor!”
“Realistically, the chances are small.”
“Are there no age qualifications? After all…”
Nion shook his head. “You’re a full recipient, you’re in good standing with your guild, you’re not listed by the Temple. In short, you’re an acceptable candidate.”
From the bench Amiante chuckled; all turned to look at him, but Amiante said no more. Ghyl frowned. He had not wished to become so intimately involved with the program. Especially since, with Nion involved, he had no real control over events. Unless, again, he exerted himself to exercise leadership, which meant contention with Nion, or, at the very least, a test of wills.
On the other hand—as Amiante had pointed out—the candidacy was neither irregulationary nor disreputable. There was no reason whatever why, if he so chose, he should not become a candidate, using the name ‘Emphyrio’ as a cognomen, after clearly identifying himself as ‘Ghyl Tarvoke’.
Ghyl said, “I have no objection—if one condition is met.”
“Which is?”
“That I am in control of the entire affair. You will have to take orders from me.”
“‘Orders’?” Nion’s mouth twisted wryly. “Really, now!”
“If you want it otherwise—use your own name.”
“As you know, I can’t do that.”
“Well then, you will have to agree to my conditions.”
Nion rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. “Oh well, if you want to be pompous about the situation…”
“Call it what you like.” From the corner of his eye Ghyl could see that Amiante had been listening intently. Now Amiante’s mouth curved in the smallest of smiles and he bent over his screen.
“Do you agree to my conditions?”
Nion grimaced, then smiled, and at once was as before. “Yes, of course. The main thing, of course, is not authority or prestige, but the whole great farcical situation.”
“Very well then. I want no noncups or criminals involved, directly or indirectly. The affair must be totally regulationary.”
“Noncups are not necessarily immoral,” argued Nion Bohart.
“True,” intoned Amiante from his bench.
“But the noncups you know are,” Ghyl told Nion, after a look toward his father. “I don’t care to be at the mercy of your acquaintances.”
Nion drew his lips back, to show, for an instant, sharp white teeth. “You certainly want things your own way.”
Ghyl threw up his hands in a gesture of heartfelt relief. “Do without me! In fact—”
“No, no,” Nion Bohart cut in. “Do without you—the originator of the whole wonderful scheme? Nonsense! A travesty!”
“Then—no noncups. No statements or expositions or activity of any kind without my prior endorsement.”
; “But you can’t be everywhere at once.”
Ghyl sat for ten seconds looking at Nion Bohart. Just as he opened his mouth to disassociate himself irrevocably from the project, Nion shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
Schute Cobol made a heated protest to Amiante. “The idea is absolutely ridiculous! A stripling, a mere lad, among the candidates for Mayor! And calling himself ‘Emphyrio’ to boot! Do you consider this social conduct?”
Amiante asked mildly, “Is it irregulationary?”
“It is certainly bumptious and improper! You mock an august office! Many people will be disturbed and distracted!”
“If an activity is not irregulationary, then it is right and proper,” said Amiante. “If an activity is right and proper, then any recipient may indulge in it to his heart’s content.”
Schute Cobol’s face flushed brick-red with anger. “Do you not realize that you are bringing difficulty, if not censure, down upon me? My superior will ask why I do not control such antics! Very well. Obduracy works both ways. It so happens that the orders for your yearly stipend increases are in my office for discretionary recommendation. I must make a ‘Not approved’ indication on the basis of social irresponsibility. You gain nothing by affronting me!”
Amiante was unmoved. “Do as you think best.”
Schute Cobol swung around to Ghyl. “What is your final word?”
Ghyl, previously the most lukewarm of candidates, could hardly control his voice from outrage. “It is not irregulationary. Why should I not become a candidate?”
Schute Cobol flung himself from the shop.
“Bah!” muttered Ghyl. “Maybe Nion and the noncups are right after all!”
Amiante made no direct response. He sat pulling at his little chin, an unimpressive foundation to his massive face. “It is time,” said Amiante in a heavy voice.
Ghyl looked at him questioningly, but Amiante was talking to himself. “It is time,” he intoned once more.
Ghyl went to his bench, seated himself. As he worked he turned puzzled glances toward Amiante, who sat staring out the open doorway, his mouth occasionally moving as he made soundless but emphatic utterances to himself. Presently he went to the cabinet and brought forth his portfolio. With Ghyl watching in disquietude, Amiante turned through his papers.
That night Amiante worked late in his shop. Ghyl tossed and turned on his couch, but did not go down to learn what his father was doing.
The following morning a curious sour odor permeated the shop. Ghyl asked no questions; Amiante volunteered no explanation.
During the day Ghyl attended a Guild outing to Pyrite Isle, twenty miles to sea: a little knob of rock with a few wind-beaten trees, a pavilion, a few cottages, a restaurant. Ghyl had hoped that his involvement with the mayoralty campaign—a relatively obscure and unpublicized affair—might escape attention, but such was not the case. All day he was patronized, taunted, inspected covertly, avoided. A few young men and a few girls inquired regarding his eccentric cognomen, his motives, his plans if elected. Ghyl was unable to supply intelligent answers. He did not care to identify his candidacy either as a prank, or a Chaoticist ploy, or an act of drunken bravado from which he was unable to disengage himself. At the day’s end he felt humiliated and angry. When he arrived home, Amiante was out. In the shop was yet a trace of the sour odor he had noticed that morning.
Amiante did not return home until late, an unusual occurrence.
On the following day it was discovered that throughout the precincts Brueben, Nobile, Foelgher, Dodrechten, Cato, Hoge, Veige and out into Godero and East Town placards had been posted. In dark brown characters on a gray background a message read:
Let us promote change for the better
EMPHYRIO SHOULD BE OUR NEXT MAYOR
Ghyl saw the placards with amazement. They clearly had been printed by some manner of duplication; how else to explain the large number of placards?
One of the placards hung on a wall across Undle Square. Ghyl went close to the printing, sniffed the ink, and recognized the sour smell which had permeated the workroom.
Ghyl went to sit on a bench. He looked blankly across the square. A harrowing situation! How could his father be so irresponsible? What perverse motivation could so obsess him?
Ghyl started to rise to his feet, then sank back. He did not want to go home; he did not want to talk to his father… And yet, he could not sit on the bench all day.
He pulled himself upright, walked slowly across the square.
Amiante stood at his bench blocking out the pattern for a new screen: a Winged Being plucking fruit from the Tree of Life. The panel was a dark and glossy slab of perdura which Amiante had been saving for this specific design.
Seeing his father so placid Ghyl stopped short in the doorway to stand staring. Amiante looked up, nodded. “So then—the young political aspirant arrives home. How goes the contest?”
“There is no contest,” muttered Ghyl. “I’m sorry I ever agreed to the foolishness.”
“Oh? Think of the prestige—assuming of course that you are elected.”
“Small chance of that. And prestige? I have more prestige as a wood-carver.”
“If you were elected as ‘Emphyrio’, the situation would be different. The prestige would derive from the extraordinary circumstances.”
“‘Prestige’ or ridicule? More likely the latter. I know nothing about being Mayor. It is absurd.”
Amiante shrugged, returned to his design. A shadow fell across Ghyl’s bench. He turned. As he had feared: Schute Cobol with two men in dark blue and brown uniforms—Special Agents.
Schute Cobol looked from Ghyl to Amiante. “I regret the necessity for this visit. However I can prove that an irregulationary process has occurred in this shop, resulting in the duplicated production of several hundred placards.”
Ghyl leaned back on his bench. Schute Cobol and the two agents stepped forward. “Either one or both of you are guilty,” declared Schute Cobol. “Prepare…”
Amiante stood looking from one to the other in a puzzled fashion. “‘Guilt’? In printing political placards? No guilt whatever.”
“You printed these placards?”
“I did, certainly. It is my right to do so. There is no guilt involved.”
“I choose to think differently, especially after you have been warned. This is a serious offense!”
Amiante held out his hands. “How can it be an offense, when I exercise a right guaranteed by the Great Charter of Ambroy?”
“Eh then? And what is this?”
“The Great Charter: are you not familiar with it? It provides the basis for all regulation.”
“I know nothing of any charter. I know the Welfare Code of Regulations, which is sufficient.”
Amiante was more than courteous. “Permit me to show you the passage to which I refer.” He went to his cabinet, brought forth one of his ancient pamphlets. “Notice: the Great Charter of Ambroy; surely you are acquainted with it?”
“I have heard of such a thing,” Schute Cobol grudgingly admitted.
“Well then, here is the passage. ‘Any citizen of virtuous quality and good reputation may aspire to public office; furthermore he and his sponsors may present to public attention notice of such candidacy, by means of advertisement, public posting of printed bulletins or placards, verbal messages and exhortation, on or off of public property…’ There is more, but I believe this is sufficient.”
Schute Cobol peered at the pamphlet. “What gibberish is this?”
“It is written in Formal Archaic,” said Amiante.
“Whatever it is, I can’t read it. If I can’t read it, it can’t bind me. This trash might be anything! You are trying to swindle me!”
“No indeed,” said Amiante. “Here is the basic law of Ambroy, to which the Welfare Code and Guild Regulations both must yield.”
“Indeed?” Schute Cobol gave a grim chuckle. “And who enforces the law?”
“The Mayor and the people of Ambroy.”
<
br /> Schute Cobol made a brusque motion to the agents. “To the office with him. He has performed irregulationary duplicating.”
“No, no! I have not done so! Do you not see this passage? It avows my rights!”
“And have I not told you I cannot read it? There are hundreds, thousands, of such obsolete documents. Get along with you! I have no sympathy for Chaoticists!”
Ghyl leapt forward, striking at Schute Cobol. “Let my father alone! He has never done a wrong act!”
One of the agents thrust Ghyl aside, the second tripped him and sent him sprawling. Schute Cobol stood above him with flared nostrils. “Luckily for you, the blow did not strike home; otherwise…” He did not finish his sentence. He turned to the agents. “Come along then; to the office with him.” And Amiante was hustled away.
Ghyl picked himself up, ran to the door, followed the welfare agents to their five-wheeled car.
Amiante looked from the window, his expression strained and wild, but in some curious manner, calm. “Make a representation to the Mayor! Demand that he enforce the Charter!”
“Yes, yes! But will he heed?”
“I don’t know. Do what you can.”
The agents thrust Ghyl aside; the car departed; Ghyl stood looking after it. Then, ignoring aghast stares of friends and neighbors, he returned to the shop.
He thrust the charter into a folder, took money from the cabinet, ran forth once more to the Undle Overtrend kiosk.
Eventually Ghyl located the Mayor, cousin to Floriel’s mother, at the Brown Star Inn. As Ghyl had expected he had never heard of the ancient Charter and squinted at it with less than no interest at all. Ghyl explained the circumstances and implored the Mayor to intervene, but the Mayor shook his head decisively. “The case is clear-cut, or so it seems to me. Duping is prohibited, for good and sufficient reason. Your father seems a capricious sort to violate such an important regulation.”
Ghyl glared into the bland face, then turned furiously away and strode through the dusk back to Undle Square.
Once more in the shop he sat brooding for hours as the sepia gloom of twilight became darkness.
At last he stumbled up to bed, to lay staring into nothing, his stomach churning at the thought of what was being done to his father.
