Emphyrio

by Jack Vance

  Ghyl raised on his elbow. “But he promised, he gave me his word!”

  Shanne looked at him in smiling surprise. “You can’t believe that he would hold to an agreement with an underling? A contract is struck between equals. He always intended that you should be punished, and severely.”

  Ghyl nodded slowly. “I see… Why did you warn me?”

  Shanne shrugged, pursed her lips. “I suppose I am perverse. Or coarse. Or bored. There is no one to talk with but you. And I know that you are not innately vicious, like the others.”

  “Thank you.” Ghyl rose to his feet. “I believe I will be returning to the inn.”

  “I will come along too…In so much light and air I easily become nervous.”

  “You are a bizarre people.”

  “No. You are—unperceptive. You are not aware of texture and shadows.”

  Ghyl took her hands and for a moment they stood face to face on the riverbank. “Why not forget you are a lady and come with me? It would mean sharing the life of a vagabond; you would be giving up all that you are accustomed to—”

  “No,” said Shanne, with a cool smile for the opposite bank of the river. “You must not misunderstand me—as you most obviously do.”

  Ghyl bowed as formally as he knew how. “I am sorry if I have caused you embarrassment.”

  He walked back to the inn and sought out Voma. “I am departing. Here—” he gave her coins “—this should cover what I owe.”

  She gazed slack-mouthed down at the coins. “What of the others? That sour Lord Fanton, he told me that you would pay for all.”

  Ghyl laughed scornfully. “What kind of a fool do you take me for? See that he pays his score.”

  “Just as you say, sir.” Voma dropped the coins into her pouch. Ghyl went to his room, took his parcel, ran down to the canal, arriving just in time to leap aboard a passing barge. It was piled high with hides and tubs of pickled reebers and reeked with an offensive odor; nevertheless it was transportation. Ghyl came to an arrangement with the boatman and took himself and his parcel to the windward section of the foredeck. He settled himself to watch the passing countryside and considered his circumstances. Travel, adventure, financial independence: this was the life he had yearned for, and this was the life he had achieved. All but the financial independence. He counted his money: two hundred and twelve interplanetary exchange units: the so-called valuta. Enough for three or four months living expenses, perhaps more if he were careful. Financial independence of a sort. Ghyl leaned back against a bale of hides and, looking up at the slowly passing tree-tops, mused of the past, the malodorous present, and wondered what the future would bring.

  Chapter XVII

  A week later the barge verged alongside a concrete dock on the outskirts of Daillie. Ghyl jumped ashore, half-expecting to be greeted by welfare agents, or whatever the nature of the local police. But the dock was vacant except for a pair of roustabouts handling lines for the barge and they paid him no heed.

  Ghyl found his way to the street. To either side were warehouses and manufacturing plants built of white concrete, panels of blue-green ripple glass, soft convex roofs of white solidified foam: all glaring and flashing in the light of Capella. Ghyl set off to the northeast, toward the center of the city. A fresh wind blew briskly down the street, fluttering Ghyl’s ragged clothes and, he hoped, blowing away the reek of hides and reebers.

  Today seemed to be a holiday: the streets were uncannily empty; the clean crisp structures were silent; there was no sound except for the rush of the wind.

  For an hour Ghyl walked along the bright street, seeing not a single person. The street lifted over the brow of a low hill; beyond spread the immense city, dominated by a hundred glass prisms of various dimension, some as tall or taller than the skeletal structures of Vashmont Precinct, all glittering and winking in the blaze of Capella-light.

  Ghyl set off down the sun-swept street, into a district of cubical white dwellings. Now there were people to be seen: brown-skinned folk of no great stature, with heavy features, black eyes, black hair, not a great deal different from the inhabitants of Attegase. They paused in their occupations to watch as Ghyl passed; he became ever more conscious of the reek of hides, his stained off-world garments, his growth of beard, his untidy hair. Down a side street he spied a market: an enormous nine-sided structure under nine translucent roof-panels, each a different color. An aged man, leaning on a cane, gave him counsel and directed him to a money-changer’s booth. Ghyl gave over five of his coins and received a handful of metal wafers in return. He bought local garments and boots, went to a public rest-room, cleaned himself as well as possible, changed clothes. A barber shaved and trimmed him to the local mode; cleaner and less conspicuous. Ghyl continued toward the center of Daillie, riding most of the way on a public slideway.

  He took a room at an inexpensive hostelry overlooking the river and immediately bathed in a tall octagonal room paneled with strips of aromatic wood. Three children, shaved bald and of indeterminate sex, attended him. They sprayed him with unctuous foam, beat him with whisks of soft feathers, turned gushes of effervescent water over him, the first warm, the second cold.

  Much refreshed Ghyl resumed his new clothes and sauntered out into the late afternoon. He ate in a riverside restaurant with windows shaded by screens much like those carved at Ambroy. Ghyl’s interest, momentarily aroused, waned when he saw the material to be a homogeneous synthetic substance. It occurred to him that he had seen little natural material in Daillie. There were vast masses of concrete foam, glass, synthetic stuff of one sort or another, but little wood or stone or fired clay, and the lack invested Daillie with a curious sterility, a clean sun- and wind-swept emptiness.

  Capella sank behind the glass towers. Dusk fell over the city; the interior of the restaurant grew dim. To each table was brought a glass bulb containing a dozen luminous insects, glowing various pale colors. Ghyl leaned back in his seat and, sipping pungent tea, divided his attention between the luminous insects and the vivacious folk of Daillie at nearby tables. Rakanga Steppe, the Bouns of the deserted village, Attegase and Voma’s Inn were remote. The events aboard the space-yacht were a half-forgotten nightmare. The woodworking shop on Undle Square? Ghyl’s mouth moved in a wistful half-smile. He thought of Shanne. How pleasant it would be to have her across the table, chin on knuckles, eyes reflecting the insect lights. What sport they could have exploring the city together! Then traveling on to other strange planets!

  Ghyl gave his head a wry shake. Impossible dream. He would be sufficiently fortunate if Lord Fanton, through impatience or press of circumstances, failed to lodge a complaint against him…Had he remained with the group, always within eye-range, a continual reminder of outrages and offenses, nothing could have deterred Lord Fanton from charging him with piracy. But out of sight, out of mind: Lord Fanton might well conceive it beneath his dignity to exert himself against an underling… Ghyl returned to the inn and went to sleep, certain that he had seen the last of Lord Fanton, Lady Radance and Shanne.

  Daillie was a city vast in area and population, with a character peculiarly its own yet peculiarly fugitive and hard to put a name to. The components were readily identifiable: the great expanses of sun-dazzled streets constantly swept by wind; the clean buildings essentially homogeneous in architecture, cleverly built of synthetic substances: a population of mercurial folk who nevertheless gave the impression of self-restraint, conventionality, absorption in their own affairs. The space-port was close to the center of the city; ships from across the human universe came to Daillie but seemed to arouse little interest. There were no enclaves of off-world folk, few restaurants devoted to off-world cuisines; the newspapers and journals concerned themselves largely with local affairs: sports, business events and transactions, the activities of the Fourteen Families and their connections. Crime either was non-existent or purposely ignored. Indeed, Ghyl saw no law enforcement apparatus: no police, militia, or uniformed functionaries.

  On the third d
ay of his stay, Ghyl moved to a less expensive hostelry near the space-port; on the fourth day he learned of the Civic Bureau of Information, to which he immediately took himself.

  The clerk noted his requirements, worked a few moments at an encoding desk, then punched buttons on a sloping keyboard. Lights blinked and flashed, a strip of paper was ejected into a tray. “Not much here,” the clerk reported. “Enverios, a pathologist of Gangalaya, died last century, according to the H.I….No? Here’s an Emphyrio, early despot of Alme, wherever that is. H.I….Is that your man? There’s also an Enfero, a Third Era musician.”

  “What of Emphyrio, despot of Alme? Is there further information?”

  “Only what you have heard. And the H.I. reference, of course.”

  “What is ‘H.I.’?”

  “The Historical Institute of Earth, which provided the item.”

  “The Institute could provide more information?”

  “So I would suppose. It has detailed records of every important event in human history.”

  “How can I get this information?”

  “No problem whatever. We’ll put through a research requisition. The charge is thirty-five bice. There is, of course, a wait of three months, the schedule of the Earth packet.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  The clerk agreed. “But I can’t suggest anything quicker—unless you go to Earth yourself.”

  Ghyl departed the Bureau of Information and rode by surface car to the space-port. The terminal was a gigantic half-bubble of glass surrounded by green lawn, white concrete runways, parking plats. Magnificent! thought Ghyl, recalling the dingy space-port at Ambroy. Nonetheless, he felt a lack. What could it be? Mystery? Romance? And he wondered if the lads of Daillie, visiting their space-port, could feel the awe and wonder that had been his when he had skulked the Ambroy space-port with Floriel…Perfidious Floriel. The train of thought thus stimulated set Ghyl to wondering about Lord Fanton. He had barely set foot into the terminal when his speculations were resolved. Hardly fifty feet away stood Shanne. She wore a fresh white gown, silver sandals; her hair was glossy and clean; nevertheless, she herself seemed haggard and worn, and her complexion showed an unhealthy pink flush.

  Making himself inconspicuous behind a stanchion, Ghyl sought around the terminal. At a counter stood Lord Fanton and Lady Radance, both harsh and gaunt, as if even now the hardships they had undergone preyed on them. They completed their transaction; Shanne joined them; the three moved off across the terminal, conspicuous even here, where travelers from half a hundred worlds mingled, for their aloofness and withdrawal: for the Difference!

  Ghyl now felt assured that Lord Fanton had not denounced him to the authorities: in fact, Fanton probably believed that Ghyl had departed the planet.

  Keeping a wary lookout, Ghyl conducted his own business. He learned that any of five different shipping lines would convey him to Earth, in whatever degree of luxury and style he chose. Minimum fare was twelve hundred bice: far more than the sum in Ghyl’s possession.

  Ghyl departed the space-port and returned to the center of Daillie. If he wished to visit Earth he must earn a large sum of money, though by what means he had not the slightest idea. Perhaps he would simply request the Bureau of Information to secure the information he sought…Thus musing, Ghyl strolled along the Granvia, a street of luxury shops dealing in all variety of goods, and here he chanced upon an object which diverted him completely from his previous concerns.

  The object, a carved screen of noble proportions, occupied a prominent position in the display window of Jodel Heurisx, Mercantile Factor. Ghyl stopped short, approached the window. The screen had been carved to represent a lattice festooned with vines. Hundreds of small faces looked earnestly forth. REMEMBER ME, read the plaque. Near the lower right-hand corner Ghyl found his own childhood face. Close at hand, the face of his father Amiante peered forth.

  Ghyl’s gaze seemed to blur; he looked away. When once more he could see, he returned to study the screen. The price was marked at four hundred and fifty bice. Ghyl converted the sum into valuta, then into welfare vouchers. He performed the calculation again. A mistake, surely: only four hundred and fifty bice? Amiante had been paid the equivalent of five hundred bice: little enough, certainly, considering the pride and love and dedication which Amiante gave his screens. Curious, thought Ghyl; curious indeed. In fact—astonishing.

  He entered the shop; a clerk in a black and white robe of a mercantile functionary approached him. “Your will, sir?”

  “The screen in the window—the price is four hundred and fifty bice?”

  “Correct, sir. Somewhat costly, but an excellent piece of work.”

  Ghyl grimaced in puzzlement. Going to the cabinet, he inspected the screen carefully, to learn if it might have been damaged or misused. It seemed in perfect condition. Ghyl peered close, then all his blood turned cold and seemed to drain to his feet. He turned slowly to the clerk. “This screen is a reproduction.”

  “Of course, sir. What did you expect? The original is priceless. It hangs in the Museum of Glory.”

  Jodel Heurisx was an energetic, pleasant-faced man of early middle-age, stocky, strong and decisive in his manner. His office was a large room flooded with sunlight. There was little furniture: a cabinet, a table, a sideboard, two chairs and a stool. Heurisx half-leaned half-sat on the stool; Ghyl perched on the edge of a chair.

  “Well then, young man, and who are you?” asked Heurisx.

  Ghyl had difficulty framing a coherent statement. He blurted: “The screen in your window, it is a reproduction.”

  “Yes, a good reproduction: in pressed wood rather than plastic. Nothing as rich as the original, of course. What of it?”

  “Do you know who carved the screen?”

  Heurisx, watching Ghyl with a speculative frown, nodded. “The screen is signed ‘Amiante’. He is a member of the Thurible Co-operative, no doubt a person of prestige and wealth. None of the Thurible goods come cheap, but they are all of superlative quality.”

  “May I ask from whom you obtained the screen?”

  “You may ask, I will answer: from the Thurible Co-operative.”

  “It is a monopoly?”

  “For such screens, yes.”

  Ghyl sat a half-minute, chin resting on his chest. Then: “Suppose that someone were able to break the monopoly?”

  Heurisx laughed and shrugged. “It is not a question of breaking a monopoly, but destroying what appears to be a strong co-operative organism. Why, for instance, should Amiante care to deal with a newcomer when he already has a good thing going for himself?”

  “‘Amiante’ was my father.”

  “Indeed? ‘Was’, did you say?”

  “Yes. He is dead.”

  “My condolences.” And Jodel Heurisx inspected Ghyl with cautious curiosity.

  “For carving that screen,” said Ghyl, “he received about five hundred bice.”

  Jodel Heurisx leaned back in shock. “What? Five hundred bice? No more?”

  Ghyl gave a snort of sad disgust. “I have carved screens for which I earned seventy-five vouchers. About two hundred bice.”

  “Astounding,” murmured Jodel Heurisx. “Where is your home?”

  “The city Ambroy on Halma, far from here, beyond Mirabilis.”

  “Hmm.” Heurisx plainly knew nothing of Halma nor perhaps of the great Mirabilis Cluster. “The craftsmen of Ambroy sell, then, to Thurible?”

  “No. Boimarc is our trade organization. Boimarc must deal with Thurible.”

  “Perhaps they are one and the same,” suggested Heurisx. “Perhaps you are being cheated by your own folk.”

  “Impossible,” muttered Ghyl. “Boimarc sales are verified by the guild-masters, and the lords take their percentage from this sum. If there were peculation, the lords would be cheated no less than the underlings.”

  “Someone enjoys vast profits,” mused Heurisx. “So much is clear. Someone at the top end of the monopoly.”

  “Suppose
then as I asked before, that you were able to break the monopoly?”

  Heurisx tapped his chin with his finger. “How would this be accomplished?”

  “We would visit Ambroy in one of your ships and buy from Boimarc.”

  Heurisx held up his hands in protest. “Do you take me for a mogul? I am small beer compared with the Fourteen. I own no space-ships.”

  “Well then, can a space-ship be chartered?”

  “At considerable expense. Of course the profit likewise would be large—if the Boimarc group would sell to us.”

  “Why should they not? If we offer double or triple the previous rate? Everyone gains: the craftsmen, the guilds, the welfare agents, the lords. No one loses but Thurible, who has enjoyed the monopoly long enough.”

  “It sounds reasonable.” Heurisx leaned back against the table. “How do you envisage your own position? As of now you have nothing further to contribute to the enterprise.”

  Ghyl stared incredulously. “Nothing but my life. If I were caught I’d be rehabilitated.”

  “You are a criminal?”

  “In a certain sense.”

  “You might do best to disengage yourself at this moment.”

  Ghyl could feel the warmth of anger on the skin of his face; but he carefully controlled his voice. “Naturally I would like financial independence. But no matter about that. My father was exploited; he was robbed of his life. I want to destroy Thurible. I would be happy to achieve no more than this.”

  Heurisx gave a short bark of a laugh. “Well, you can be assured I do not care to cheat you nor anyone else. Suppose, after due reflection, that I agree to provide the ship and assume all financial risks—then I believe that I should receive two-thirds of the net profit, and you one-third.”

  “That is more than fair.”

  “Come back tomorrow and I’ll communicate my decision.”

  Four days later Jodel Heurisx and Ghyl met at a riverside café where the factors of Daillie consummated much of their business. With Heurisx was a young man, ten years or so older than Ghyl, who had little to say.