by Jack Vance
Heurisx said, “I have obtained the use of a ship: the Grada. It is larger than I had intended; on the other hand it costs no charter fee, and in fact belongs to my brother Bonar Heurisx.” He indicated his companion. “We will participate jointly in the venture; he will convey a cargo of specialty instruments to Luschein, on Halma, where, according to Rolver’s Directory, there is a ready market for such articles. There will be no great profit, but enough to defer costs. Then, you and he will take the Grada to Ambroy, to buy craft-goods in the manner you describe. The financial risk is reduced to a minimum.”
“My personal risk unfortunately remains.”
Heurisx tossed a strip of enamel upon the table. “This, when impressed with your photograph will identify you as Tal Gans, resident of Daillie. We will dye your skin, depilate your scalp, and fit you with fashionable clothing. No one will recognize you, unless it be an intimate friend, whom you will no doubt take pains to avoid.”
“I have no intimate friends.”
“I consign you then to the care of my brother. He is somewhat more wayward than myself, somewhat less cautious: in short, just the man for such a venture.” Jodel Heurisx rose to his feet. “I will leave the two of you together, and I wish you both good luck.”
Chapter XVIII
Strange to return to Ambroy! How familiar and dear, how remote and dim and hostile was the ramshackle half-ruined city!
They had found no difficulties at Luschein, though the instruments sold for considerably less than Bonar Heurisx had anticipated, causing him despondency. Then up and around the planet, over the Deep Ocean, north beside the Baro Peninsula and Salula, out over the Bight, with the low coast of Fortinone ahead. For the last time Ghyl rehearsed the various aspects of his new identity. Ambroy spread below. The Grada accepted a landing program from the control tower and descended upon the familiar space-port.
The landing formalities at Ambroy were notoriously tedious; two hours passed before Ghyl and Bonar Heurisx walked through the wan midmorning sunlight to the depot. Calling the Boimarc offices by Spay, Ghyl learned that, while Grand Lord Dugald was on the premises, he was extremely busy, and could not be seen without prior appointment.
“Explain to Lord Dugald,” said Ghyl, “that we are here from the planet Maastricht to discuss the Thurible marketing organization; that it will be to his advantage to see us immediately.”
There was a wait of three minutes, after which the clerk somewhat sourly announced that Lord Dugald would be able to give them a very few minutes if they would come immediately to the Boimarc offices.
“We will be there at once,” said Ghyl.
By Overtrend they rode out to the far verge of East Town, a district of abandoned streets, flat areas strewn with rubble and broken glass, a few buildings yet occupied: a forlorn region not without a certain dismal beauty.
In a thirty-acre compound were two structures, the Boimarc administrative center and the Associated Guilds warehouse. Ghyl and Bonar Heurisx, passing through a portal in the barbed fence, proceeded to the Boimarc offices.
From a cheerless foyer they were admitted to a large room where twenty clerks worked at desks, calculators, filing devices. Lord Dugald sat in an alcove with glass walls, slightly elevated from the main floor, and, like the other Boimarc functionaries, appeared to be extremely busy.
Ghyl and Bonar Heurisx were taken to a small open area directly before Lord Dugald’s alcove, under his gaze to a somewhat uncomfortable degree. Here they waited, on cushioned benches. Lord Dugald, after a swift glance through the glass, paid them no heed. Ghyl examined him with vast curiosity. He was short and heavy and sat slumped in his chair like a half-filled sack. His black eyes were close together; tufts of dark gray hair rose above his ears; there was an unnatural purplish overtone to his complexion. He was, almost comically, the realization of a caricature Ghyl had somewhere seen… Of course! Lord Bodbozzle, of Holkerwoyd’s Puppets! And Ghyl worked hard to restrain a grin.
Ghyl watched while Lord Dugald examined, one after another, yellow sheets of parchment, apparently invoices or requisitions, and stamped each with a handsome instrument topped with a great globe of polished red carnelian. The invoices, so Ghyl noted, were prepared by a clerk sitting before an illuminated inventory board, of a sort he had seen at Daillie; the stiff sheets so prepared were then presented to Lord Dugald for the validation of his personal stamp.
Lord Dugald approved the last of the requisitions and hung the stamp by its carnelian globe under his desk. Only then did he make a curt signal to indicate that Bonar Heurisx and Ghyl were to come forward.
The two stepped up into the glass-enclosed alcove; Lord Dugald signaled them to seats. “What is this of Thurible Co-operative? Who are you? Traders, you say?”
Bonar Heurisx spoke carefully. “Yes, this is correct. We have only just arrived from Daillie, on Maastricht, in the Grada. ”
“Yes, yes. Speak then.”
“Our research,” Bonar Heurisx went on more briskly, “leads us to believe that Thurible Co-operative is performing inefficiently. To be brief, we can do a better job with considerably greater return for Boimarc. Or if you prefer, we will buy directly from you, at a schedule also yielding greatly augmented profits.”
Lord Dugald sat immobile except for his eyes, which flicked back and forth, from one to the other. Curtly he responded, “The suggestion is not feasible. We enjoy excellent relations with our various trading organizations. In any case, we are bound by long-term contracts.”
“But the system is not to your best advantage!” Bonar protested. “I will offer new contracts at double payment.”
Lord Dugald rose to his feet. “I am sorry. The subject is not open to discussion.”
Bonar Heurisx and Ghyl looked at him crestfallen. “Why not give us a try, at least?” argued Ghyl.
“Absolutely not. Now, if you will please excuse me…”
Outside, walking west along Huss Boulevard, Bonar said despondently, “So much for that. Thurible holds a long-term contract.” After a moment’s reflection he grumbled, “Obvious, of course. We’re beaten.”
“No,” said Ghyl. “Not yet. Boimarc has contracted with Thurible, but not the guilds. We shall go to the source of the merchandise, and bypass Boimarc.”
Bonar Heurisx gave a skeptical snort. “To what avail? Lord Dugald spoke with clear authority.”
“Yes, but he has no authority over the recipients. The guilds are not bound to sell to Boimarc, craftsmen need not produce for the guilds. Anyone can go noncup as he wishes, if he cares to lose his welfare benefits.”
Bonar Heurisx shrugged. “I suppose that it does no harm to try.”
“Exactly my feeling. Well then, first to the Scriveners’ Guild, to inquire about hand-crafted books.”
They walked south through the old Merchants’ Quarter into Bard Square, upon which most of the guild-houses fronted. Bonar Heurisx, who had been glancing over his shoulder, presently muttered, “We’re being followed. Those two men in black capes are watching our every move.”
“Special Agents,” said Ghyl with a glum smile. “Hardly a surprise…Well, we’re doing nothing irregulationary, so far as I know. But I’d better not appear too well-acquainted with the city.”
So saying he halted, looked around Bard Square with an expression of perplexity and asked directions of a passerby who pointed out the Scriveners’ Hall, a tall structure of black and brown brick with four looming gables of ancient timber. Evincing uncertainty and hesitation for the benefit of the Special Agents, Ghyl and Bonar Heurisx considered the building, then chose one of the three portals and entered.
Ghyl had never before visited the Scriveners’ Hall and was taken aback by the almost indecorous volume of chatter and badinage, deriving from apprentice classes in rooms to either side of the foyer. Climbing a staircase hung with samples of calligraphy, the two found their way to the Guild-master’s office. In the ante-room sat a score of fidgeting, impatient scriveners, each clutching a case containing his work
-in-progress.
In dismay Bonar Heurisx looked at the crowd. “Must we wait?”
“Perhaps not,” said Ghyl. He crossed the room, knocked on a door which swung open to reveal an elderly woman’s peevish countenance. “Why do you pound?”
Ghyl spoke in his best Daillie accent. “Please announce us to his excellency, the Guild-master. We are traders from a far world; we wish to arrange new business with the Scriveners of Ambroy.”
The woman turned away, spoke over her shoulder, then looked back to Ghyl. “Enter, if you please.”
The Scriveners’ Guild-master, a waspish old man with a wild ruff of white hair, sat behind a vast table littered with books, posters, calligraphic manuals. Bonar Heurisx stated his proposal, to the Guild-master’s startlement. “Sell you our manuscripts? What an idea! How could we be sure of our money?”
“Cash is cash,” declared Bonar.
“But—how absurd! We use a long-established method; this is how we have derived our livelihood for time out of mind.”
“All the more reason then to consider a change.”
The Guild-master shook his head. “The current system works well; everyone is satisfied. Why should we change?”
Ghyl spoke. “We will pay double the Boimarc rate, or triple. Then everyone would be even more satisfied.”
“Not so! How would we calculate the welfare deduction, the special assessments? These are handled now with no effort on our part!”
“With all charges met you would still receive twice your previous income.”
“What then? The craftsmen would become avaricious. They would work two times less carefully and two times as fast, hoping for financial independence or some such nonsense. They know now that they must use scrupulous care to secure an Acme or a First. If they were teased by prosperity and set up a great clamor, what of our standards? What of our quality? What of our future markets? Should we throw away security for a few paltry vouchers?”
“Well then, sell us your ‘Seconds’. We will take them across the galaxy and dispose of them there. The craftsmen will double their income and your present markets are safe.”
“And thereafter produce only ‘Seconds’, since they sell as well as ‘Firsts’? The same considerations apply! Our basic stock-in-trade is high quality; if we abandon this principle we debase our merchandise and become mere triflers.”
In desperation Ghyl exclaimed, “Well then, let us be the agent for your sales. We will pay the going rate, we will pay twice this sum into a fund for the benefit of the city. We can clear ruined areas, finance institutes and entertainments.”
The Guild-master glared in outrage. “Are you attempting to deceive me? How can you do so much on the output of the scriveners?”
“Not just the scriveners alone! On the output of all the guilds!”
“The proposal is far-fetched. The old way is tried and true. No one becomes financially independent, no one becomes pompous and self-willed; everyone works meticulously and there is no contention or complaint. Once we introduce innovation, we destroy equilibrium. Impossible!”
The Guild-master waved them away; the two left the Guild Hall in discouragement. The Special Agents standing nearby, discreet rather than surreptitious, watched with open curiosity.
“Now what?” asked Bonar Heurisx.
“We can try the other important guilds. If we fail at least we will have tried our hardest.”
Bonar Heurisx agreed to this; they continued to the Jewellers’ Syndicate, but when finally they gained the ear of the Guild-master and made their proposal, the response was as before.
The Glassblowers’ Guild-master refused to speak to them; at the Lute-makers’ they were referred to the Guild-masters’ Conclave, eight months hence.
The Enamel, Faience and Porcelain-workers’ Guild-master put his head into an anteroom long enough to hear their proposition, said “No” and backed out.
“The Wood-carvers’ Guild remains,” said Ghyl. “It is probably the most influential; if we receive a negative response here, we might as well return to Maastricht.”
They crossed Bard Square to the long low building with the familiar façade. Ghyl decided that he dared not go in. The Guild-master, while no intimate acquaintance, was a man with a keen eye and a sharp memory. While Ghyl waited in the street Bonar went into the office alone. The Welfare Specials who had been following approached Ghyl. “May we ask why you are visiting the guild-masters? It seems a curious occupation for persons new to the planet.”
“We are inquiring after trading possibilities,” said Ghyl shortly. “The Boimarc Lord would not listen to us; we thought to try the guilds.”
“Mmf. The Welfare Agency would disapprove such an arrangement in any case.”
“It does no harm to try.”
“No, of course not. Where is your native planet? Your speech is almost that of Ambroy.”
“Maastricht.”
“Maastricht, indeed.”
The after-work movement to the Overtrend kiosk had begun; people were pushing past. A lank well-remembered female figure loped by, then stopped short, turned to stare. Ghyl looked away. The young woman craned her neck, peered into Ghyl’s face. “Why, it’s Ghyl Tarvoke!” cawed Gedée Anstrut. “What in the world are you doing in that outlandish costume?”
The Welfare Specials leaned forward. One cried: “Ghyl Tarvoke? Have I not heard that name?”
“You have made a mistake,” Ghyl told Gedée.
Gedée drew back, her mouth open. “I forgot. Ghyl Tarvoke went off with Nion and Floriel…Oh my!” She put her hand to her mouth, backed away.
“Just a moment, please,” said the Welfare Special. “Who is Ghyl Tarvoke? Is that your name, sir?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Yes it is too!” shrieked Gedée. “You’re a filthy pirate, a murderer. You are the terrible Ghyl Tarvoke!”
At the Welfare Agency, Ghyl was thrust before the Social Problems Clinic. The members, sitting in a long box behind desks of iron, examined him with expressionless faces.
“You are Ghyl Tarvoke.”
“You have seen my identification.”
“You have been recognized by Gedée Anstrut, by welfare agent Schute Cobol and by others as well.”
“As you like then. I am Ghyl Tarvoke.”
The door opened; into the room came Lord Fanton the Spay. He approached, stared into Ghyl’s face. “This is one of them.”
“Do you admit to piracy and murder?” the chairman of the Social Clinic asked Ghyl.
“I admit to confiscating the ship of Lord Fanton.”
“‘Confiscate’? A pretentious word.”
“My ambitions were not ignoble. I intended to learn the truth of the Emphyrio legend. Emphyrio is a great hero; the truth would inspire the people of Ambroy, who are sorely in need of truth.”
“This is beside the point. You are accused of piracy and murder.”
“I committed no murder. Ask Lord Fanton.”
Lord Fanton spoke in a pitiless voice: “Four Garrion were killed, I know not by which of the pirates. Tarvoke stole my money. We made a terrible march during which the Lady Jacinth was devoured by a beast and Lord Ilseth was poisoned. Tarvoke cannot avoid responsibility for their deaths. Finally he left us stranded in a squalid village without a check. We were forced to make the most unpleasant compromises before we reached civilization.”
“Is this true?” the chairman asked Ghyl.
“I saved the lords and ladies from slavery and from death, several times.”
“But you originally put them into the predicament?”
“Yes.”
“No more need be said. Rehabilitation is denied. You are sentenced to perpetual expulsion from Ambroy, via Bauredel. Expulsion will occur at once.”
Ghyl was taken to a cell. An hour passed. The door opened; an agent motioned to him. “Come. The lords want to question you.”
Two Garrion took Ghyl into custody. He was thrust into a sky-flitter, conveyed up
through the sky toward Vashmont. Down to an eyrie the flitter descended, landing upon a blue-tiled terrace. Ghyl was taken within.
His clothes were removed; he was led stark naked into a high room at the top of a tower. Three lords came into the room: Fanton the Spay, Fray the Underline and Grand Lord Dugald the Boimarc.
“You have been a busy young man,” said Dugald. “Exactly what did you have in mind?”
“Breaking the trade monopoly which strangles the folk of Ambroy.”
“I see. What is this hysterical yammer in regard to ‘Emphyrio’?”
“I am interested in the legend. It holds a special meaning for me.”
“Come, come!” demanded Dugald with surprising sharpness. “This cannot be truth! We demand that you be frank!”
“How do I help myself telling other than the truth?” asked Ghyl. “Or anything but untruth, for that matter.”
“You are quick as mercury!” stormed Dugald. “You shall not evade us, I warn you! Tell us all, or we will be forced to process you, so that you cannot help yourself.”
“I have told the truth. Why do you not believe me?”
“You know why we do not believe you!” And Dugald motioned to the Garrion. They seized Ghyl, propelled him, sick and trembling through a narrow trapezoidal portal into a long narrow room. They seated him in a heavy chair, clamped him so that he could not move.
Dugald said, “Now we shall proceed.”
The inquiry was over. Dugald sat spraddle-legged, looking at the floor. Fray and Fanton stood across the room studiously avoiding each other’s eyes. Dugald suddenly turned to stare at them. “Whatever you heard, whatever you presumed, whatever you even conjectured must be forgotten. Emphyrio is a myth; this young would-be Emphyrio will shortly be less than a myth.” He signaled the Garrion. “Return him to the Welfare Agency. Recommend that expulsion occur at once.”
A black air-wagon waited at the rear of the Welfare Agency. Wearing only a white smock Ghyl was brought forth, thrust into the air-car. The port clanged shut; the air-car throbbed, lifted and swept off to the north. The time was late afternoon; the sun wallowed in a bank of yeast-colored clouds; a wan and weary light bathed the landscape.
