Emphyrio

by Jack Vance

  Nion said, “To the staterooms then, if you please.”

  The ship floated quietly in space, propulsors at rest, while the five young pirates sat at conference.

  The question of leadership was first discussed. Nion Bohart was all sweet reason. “In a situation of this sort someone has to act as the coordinator. It is a matter of responsibility, of competence, of confidence and mutual trust. Does anyone want the job of leader? I don’t. But I’m willing to tackle it because I feel responsible to the group.”

  “I don’t want to be leader,” said Floriel virtuously, with a rather malicious glance toward Ghyl. “I am quite content to let anyone competent take over the job.”

  Mael grinned uncomfortably. “I don’t want the job, but on the other hand I don’t want to do the dirty work, to run here and there while somebody plays king.”

  “Nor I,” echoed Waldo. “Perhaps we do not really need a leader. It is easy enough to discuss and reconcile differences and arrive at a consensus.”

  “It means a constant argument,” grumbled Floriel. “Much easier to give the job to a man we know to be competent.”

  “There won’t be arguments if we establish a set of rules and abide by them,” said Ghyl. “After all, we are not pirates; we intend no pillage or desperate work.”

  “Oh?” inquired Nion. “How do you expect to exist? If we don’t get ransom money, we have a space-yacht but no means to maintain it.”

  “Our original compact was explicit,” said Ghyl. “We agreed not to kill. Four Garrion are dead, unavoidably I suppose. We agreed to try for ransom; and why not, after all? The lords are parasites and fair game. But most importantly we agreed to use the space-yacht not for pillage or plunder but for travel! To the far worlds all of us have longed to visit!”

  “All very well,” said Floriel, with a glance at Nion, “but what do we eat when the provisions run out? How do we pay port fees?”

  “We can let the ship for charter, we can convey folk here and there, perform explorations or special ventures. Surely there must be honest profit to be gained from a space-yacht!”

  Nion shook his head with a quiet smile. “Ghyl, my friend, this is a cruel universe. Honesty is a noble word, but meaningless. We can’t afford to be sentimental. We have committed ourselves; we can’t back down now.”

  “This is not our original agreement!” said Ghyl. “We pledged: no killing; no plunder.”

  Nion shrugged. “What do the others think?”

  Floriel said easily, “We have to live. I have no qualms.”

  Mael shook his head uncomfortably. “I don’t object to theft, especially from the rich. But I don’t care to kill, or enslave, or kidnap.”

  “I feel about the same,” said Waldo. “Theft in one way or another is a law of nature; every living thing steals from another, in the process of survival.”

  A slow quiet smile was forming on Nion’s face. Ghyl cried passionately, “This is not our compact! We agreed to live as honest men, after taking the yacht. To break the compact would be intolerable! How could we trust each other? Did we not embark upon this venture to search for truth?”

  “‘Truth’?” barked Nion. “Only a fool would use such a word! What does it mean? I don’t know.”

  “One aspect of truth,” said Ghyl, “is the keeping of promises. That is what concerns us most at the moment.”

  Nion began: “Are you suggesting—” but Mael, jumping to his feet, held up his hands. “Let’s not quarrel! It’s insanity! We’ve got to work together.”

  “Exactly,” said Floriel, with a scornful glance toward Ghyl. “We’ve got to think of the common good, and profit for everyone.”

  Waldo said, “But let’s be honest with each other. No denying that we did make the compact, exactly as Ghyl states.”

  “Perhaps so,” agreed Floriel, “but if four of us wish to make certain changes, must we all be thwarted because of Ghyl’s idealism? Remember, the search for ‘truth’—”

  “Whatever that is,” interjected Nion.

  “—won’t put food in our stomachs!”

  “Forget my ‘idealism’ for a moment,” said Ghyl. “I insist only that we keep to the terms of our compact. Who knows? We might do better as honest men than as thieves. And isn’t it better not to have to worry about apprehension and punishment?”

  “Ghyl’s got a sound point there,” admitted Waldo. “At least we should give it a try.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone making a good living with only a space-yacht,” grumbled Nion. “And be sensible: who’s to trouble us if we indulge in a few quiet confiscations?”

  “Our compact was clear and definite,” Ghyl reminded him. “No theft, no piracy. We’ve succeeded in our main enterprise: we now own a space-yacht. If five men such as we can’t make a good honest living for ourselves, we deserve to starve!”

  There was a silence. Nion made a mulish grimace of disgust. Floriel fidgeted and looked up and down, every which way but at Ghyl.

  Mael said heavily, “Very well then. Let’s give it a trial. If we don’t make a go of it, we’ll have to try something else—or perhaps split up.”

  “In that case,” demanded Nion, “what of the space-yacht?”

  “We could sell it and divide the money. Or cast lots.”

  “Bah. What a sorry state of affairs.”

  “How can you say that?” cried Ghyl. “We’ve succeeded! We’ve got our space-yacht! What more could we ask?”

  Nion turned his back, went to look out the forward port.

  Floriel said, “We can still try for ransom. I say, tax the lords one at a time; winkle the truth out of them. I can’t believe that they won’t pay to save themselves from Wale.”

  “Let’s talk to them, by all means,” agreed Waldo, anxious to restore the bonds of cooperation and good-fellowship.

  Lord Fanton was the first brought back to the saloon. Eyes snapping with rage, he looked from one face to the other. “I know what you want: ransom! You will have none.”

  Nion spoke in a suave voice, “Surely you want to save yourself and your family from the man-markets?”

  “Naturally. But I can pay no ransom, nor can my friends. So do your worst. You will get no more wealth from us.”

  “Only the value of your persons,” said Nion. “Very well, return to your stateroom.”

  Xane the Spay was brought forth, Nion swaggered forward, hands on hips, but Ghyl spoke first. “Lord Xane, we wish to cause no one undue hardship, but we were hoping to collect ransom for your safe return.”

  Lord Xane held out his hands helplessly. “Hopes are cheap. I also have hopes. Will mine be realized? I doubt it.”

  “Is it literally true that you can command no ransom?”

  Xane the Spay gave an embarrassed laugh. “In the first place we control very little ready cash.”

  “What?” demanded Mael. “With 1.18 percent of all the income to Ambroy?”

  “Such is the case. Grand Lord Dugald the Boimarc is a strict accountant. After he deducts for expenses, taxes, overhead, and other costs, there is little residue, believe me or not.”

  “I for one do not believe you,” spat Floriel. “‘Expenses’, ‘taxes’—do you take us for fools?”

  Nion asked in a silky voice: “Where does all the money go? It is a sizeable sum.”

  “You must put your question to Grand Lord Dugald. And remember, our law forbids the payment of as much as a twisted sequin in ransom.”

  Lord Ilseth the Spay made a similar statement. Like Fanton and Xane he declared that not a sequin of ransom could be paid.

  “Then,” said Nion grimly, “we will sell you on Wale.”

  Ilseth made a despairing gesture. “Isn’t this carrying vindictiveness too far? After all, you have Lord Fanton’s space-yacht and our funds.”

  “We want an additional two hundred thousand vouchers.”

  “Impossible. Do your worst.” Ilseth departed the saloon. Nion called after him, “Don’t worry; we will!”

 
; Mael said gloomily, “They certainly are an obdurate group.”

  “Curious that they should plead poverty,” mused Ghyl. “What in the world becomes of all their money?”

  “I consider the statement an insolent lie,” sniffed Floriel. “I feel that we should show them no mercy.”

  “It certainly seems strange,” agreed Waldo.

  “They’ll bring a thousand vouchers apiece on Wale,” said Nion briskly. “Five thousand or better for the girl.”

  “Mmph,” said Floriel. “Nine thousand is a far cry from two hundred thousand, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “So then: to Wale,” said Nion. “I’ll give orders to the Lusch.”

  Ghyl declared, “No, no, no! We agreed to put the lords off on Morgan! These are the terms of our compact!”

  Floriel gave a wordless cry of outrage. Nion turned a smiling face toward Ghyl which was more sinister than a glare. “Ghyl, this is the third time you have obstructed the common will.”

  “The third time, rather, that I have reminded you of your promises,” retorted Ghyl.

  Nion stood negligently, with folded arms. “You have brought dissension to the group, which is absolutely intolerable.” He unfolded his arms and it could be seen that he held a hand-weapon. “An unpleasant necessity but…” He aimed the weapon at Ghyl.

  Waldo cried, “Have you gone mad?” He struggled to his feet, grabbed for Nion’s arm. The weapon discharged, directly into Waldo’s open mouth, and he fell forward. Mael, clawing at his own weapon, jumped to his feet; he pointed the gun at Nion, but could not bring himself to shoot. Floriel dodged behind Nion, fired, and Mael spun to the deck. Ghyl leapt back into the engine room, drew his own weapon, aimed at Nion, but held his fire for fear of missing and sending a bolt through the hull. Floriel, against a settee, was more vulnerable; but again Ghyl could not bring himself to fire; this was Floriel, his childhood friend!

  Nion and Floriel retreated to the forward part of the saloon. Ghyl could hear them muttering. Behind him the Luschein crew watched with terrified eyes.

  Ghyl called out, “You two can’t win. I can starve you. I control the engines, the food, the water. You must do as I say.”

  Nion and Floriel muttered at length together. Then Nion called out, “What are your terms?”

  “Stand, with your backs toward me, hands in the air.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll lock you in a stateroom, put you down on a civilized planet.”

  Nion laughed harshly. “You fool.”

  “Starve then,” said Ghyl. “Go thirsty.”

  “What of the lords? The ladies? Do they starve and go thirsty as well?”

  Ghyl considered. “They can come aft one at a time to eat, when necessary.”

  Again came Nion’s jeering laughter. “Now I’ll tell you our terms. Surrender, and I’ll put you down on a civilized planet.”

  “Surrender? What for? You don’t have any bargaining power.”

  “But we do.” There was the sound of motion, a scuffle, low voices. Into the saloon walked Lord Xane the Spay, stiffly.

  “Halt,” said Nion. “Right there.” And he raised his voice to Ghyl. “We have no great bargaining power, perhaps—but we have enough. You dislike killing, so perhaps you’ll try to prevent the death of our guests.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We will kill them, one at a time, unless you agree to our terms.”

  “You would do no such heartless deed!”

  The gun cracked; Lord Xane the Spay collapsed with his head burned black. “Do you now believe?” called Nion. “Next: the Lady Radance!”

  Ghyl wondered: could he run forward and kill the two of them before he himself was killed? No chance whatever.

  Nion spoke, “Do you agree? Yes or no?”

  “Do I agree to what?”

  “Surrender.”

  “No.”

  “Very well; we will kill the lords and ladies one by one, then blow a hole in the side of the ship, and all of us will die. You cannot win.”

  “We will proceed to a civilized planet,” said Ghyl. “You may go ashore. These are my terms.”

  There was more noise, footsteps, a whimper of fear. The Lady Radance staggered into the saloon.

  “Wait!” cried Ghyl.

  “Will you surrender?”

  “I’ll agree to this. We will proceed to some civilized planet. The lords, the ladies, and I will go ashore. The ship will be yours.”

  Nion and Floriel muttered a moment. “Agreed.”

  The space-yacht descended upon the world Maastricht, fifth planet of the star Capella: a destination chosen after careful and emotion-charged discussion between Lord Fanton, Ghyl and Nion Bohart.

  Air composition and pressure had been justified; those who were to disembark had dosed themselves with toners, ameliorators and antigens specific against the biochemical complexes of Maastricht.

  The saloon port opened, to admit a flood of light. Fanton, Ilseth, Radance, Jacinth and Shanne went into the entry chamber, alighted, to stand blinking and dazzled.

  Ghyl did not dare to cross the saloon. Nion Bohart was vindictive and wicked; Floriel, now completely under his control, was no better. Ghyl retired into the engine room, opened the heavy-goods port. He dropped out parcels of food and water, then the lords’ luggage, from which he had previously abstracted all the money: a large sum. Tucking his own bundle of belongings into his jacket, he dropped to the ground, and dodged behind the bole of a nearby tree, prepared for anything.

  But Nion and Floriel seemed content to leave well enough alone. The ports closed; the propulsors hummed; the yacht raised into the air, gathered speed and disappeared.

  Chapter XVI

  The gold and black Deme was gone. Solitude was complete. The group stood on a vast savannah, confined somewhat to east and west by low sugarloaf humps of bald granite or limestone. The sky was a rich soft blue, completely unlike the dusty mauve sky of Halma. An ankle-deep carpet of coarse yellow stalks tipped with scarlet berries spread as far as the eye could reach, the color muting to mustard-ocher in the distance. Here and there stood clumps of dark shrubs, an occasional heavy black tree, all shags and tatters. It soon became apparent that the time was morning. The sun, Capella, hung halfway up the sky, surrounded by a zone of white glimmer: something like the light over an ocean, and the landscape to the east was shrouded in a bright haze.

  Well, then, thought Ghyl: here was the far world he had yearned to visit all of his life. He gave a sardonic chuckle. Never in his wildest imaginings had he anticipated being marooned with two lords and three ladies. He appraised them, where they stood in the shade of a sponge bush, the lords still wearing their splendid garments and proud wide-brimmed hats. Again Ghyl was impelled to a snort of amusement. If he felt discomfited it was clearly nothing compared to the incongruous, almost farcical, spectacle presented by the lords. They spoke quickly among themselves, making nervous gesticulations, looking this way and that, but seeming to bend their most serious attention toward the hills. Now they took note of Ghyl, inspecting him with glares of detestation.

  Ghyl went to join them; they moved fastidiously back. Ghyl asked, “Does anyone know where we are?”

  “This is Rakanga Steppe, on the planet Maastricht,” said Fanton tersely and turned away, as if to exclude Ghyl from the conversation.

  Ghyl asked politely, “Are there cities or towns nearby?”

  “Somewhere; we do not know where,” said Fanton over his shoulder.

  Ilseth, a trifle less brusque than Fanton, said, “Your friends did their best to make our lot difficult. This is the wildest section of Maastricht.”

  “I suggest,” said Ghyl, “that we let bygones be bygones. True, I was part of the group which confiscated your ship, but I meant none of you harm. Remember, I saved your lives.”

  “We are sensible of the fact,” said Fanton coldly.

  Ghyl pointed off across the far savannah. “I see a watercourse in the distance; at least a
line of trees. If we go to this, and if it is a stream, it should eventually lead us to a settlement.”

  Fanton appeared not to hear and engaged Ilseth in an earnest discussion, both staring toward the hills with an expression almost of longing. The older women muttered together. Shanne looked at Ghyl with an unfathomable expression. Ilseth turned to the ladies. “Best that we verge to the hills, to escape these hellish open plains. With luck we can find a grotto or covered shelter of some kind.”

  “Aye,” said Fanton. “We would not be exposed to the sky during the whole of a strange night.”

  “Ah no!” whispered Lady Jacinth in a voice of hushed horror.

  “Well then, let us be off.” Fanton bowed to the ladies, extended his arm in a brave flourish. The ladies, casting apprehensive eyes at the sky, scurried off across the savannah, followed by Lords Fanton and Ilseth.

  Ghyl looked after them non-plussed. He called out, “Wait! The food and water!”

  Fanton spoke over his shoulder: “Bring it.”

  Ghyl stared in mingled rage and amusement. “What! You want me to carry all of it?”

  Fanton paused, inspected the parcels. “Yes, all. Even so, I doubt if there will be sufficient.”

  Ghyl laughed incredulously. “Carry your own food and water.”

  Fanton and Ilseth looked around, eyebrows lofted in irritation.

  “Another matter.” Ghyl pointed toward the hills, where a large hump-backed black beast stood watching. As they looked, it lifted up on its hind-quarters to gaze more intently. “That is a wild beast,” said Ghyl. “It is quite possibly ferocious. You have no weapons. If you value your lives, do not march off by yourselves, without food or water.”

  Ilseth grumbled. “There is something in what he says. We have not much choice.”

  Fanton grudgingly returned. “Give me the weapon then, and you may carry the provisions.”

  “No,” said Ghyl. “You must carry your own provisions. I am walking north, toward the river, which undoubtedly will lead to a human settlement. If you go to those hills you will suffer hunger and thirst, and will probably be killed by the wild beasts.”