The Magnificent Showboats

by Jack Vance

  Zamp’s gait was most distinctive. His torso was sturdy, although good living had blurred the taut outline of his middle regions. His legs were long; he walked with a loping bent-kneed stride, shoulders hunched, head somewhat forward, with blue eyes gleaming, fair hair flouncing and aristocratic nose turned first to this side, then that.

  On the midship platform the acrobats and jugglers were at practice, with the animal-trainers and insect-masters under screened awnings to port and starboard. On the foredeck the mime troupe rehearsed their routines, quarreling for space with the grotesques who attempted a new contortion. On the stage itself the Dildeks, who simulated combat with knives, bolos, claws and snapples, ran back and forth across chalked patterns.

  Zamp climbed the shrouds to the crow’s-nest, but observed no cushions, bottles, musical instruments or under-garments, all of which he had discovered at one time or another. The eye at the end line of the triatic stay joining foremast and mainmast showed evidence of chafe. This was the high-wire upon which his funambulists performed their feats. If it broke during a performance, Zamp’s professional reputation would suffer; he would have a word with Bonko at once.

  From this lofty perch the boat presented a scene of cheerful activity; everyone seemed in good spirits. Zamp knew better. Miraldra’s Enchantment carried its full quota of dyspeptic grumblers. Some told of idyllic conditions aboard rival boats; others, slaves to avarice, incessantly demanded iron and more iron. Up here in the crow’s-nest, Zamp could ignore all that was paltry and take pleasure in the view, which extended forever across the vast Big Planet horizons. That far smudge was a line of mountains; that fainter air-colored mark beyond was another, higher, range; and still beyond, at the uncertain limits of perception, a silken line of pale blue ink on gray paper represented still another mountain range of unknown proportions. A glint in the west might be a sea and that trace of smoky lavender along the far shore perhaps indicated a desert. Southward the brimming river dwindled to a twinkling thread of silver; to the north a sugarloaf bluff of red chert concealed the course of the river across the Tinsitala Steppe, onward and onward: where? Past Badburg and Fudurth, and Glassblower’s Point; past the Meagh Mountains and Dead Horse Swamp and Garken; across Slyland, through the Mandaman Gates into Bottomless Lake and the legendary kingdom of Soyvanesse, whose people lived in mansions and dined off iron plates and allowed no strangers to enter, in order to protect their wealth and the suavity of their lives. The River Index showed these places, but who knows? The chart might be factitious. Zamp knew of folk who had journeyed north as far as Garken, but the lands beyond were no more real than the marks on the chart. Zamp nodded his head sagely. So much for the worlds of fancy! Reality lay here, along the Vissel, from Coble to Ratwick, or perhaps Euvis; here was real iron, and a pinch of black in the hand was worth more than clangorous disks and noble bowls of the imagination.

  Zamp descended the shrouds and strode back to the quarterdeck, where he flung himself into a wicker chair and sat staring moodily across the water.

  At noon the wind slackened and the ship moved upstream only listlessly, barely making way against the current, and Zamp was forced to anchor overnight in mid-stream.

  In the morning the monsoon again blew steady and sent the boat plunging through the water. At noon the lookout spied Gotpang Bump on the horizon, and presently Gotpang Town: a crusty efflorescence of stone huts up the steep stone sides of the Bump. A stone wall around the summit enclosed a stone cloister half-hidden in an ancient orchard of madura orange trees. Here was housed that fraternity of cenobites known as the Actuarians, who fixed the local terms of birth and death. Zamp had played Gotpang ten years previously to no great financial advantage, and since had passed it by. Today he had the choice of putting into Gotpang and performing possibly for small profit, or anchoring again in mid-stream with no profit whatever. Zamp decided to stop at Gotpang.

  He refreshed his memory from the River Index and was advised to make no reference to disease, accident or death, nor to suggest that birth could be achieved other than through the cooperation of an Actuarian.

  At the base of the Bump a jetty enclosed a snug little harbor; the flat to the back provided space for a pair of warehouses, three taverns and a small market-place. Already at the dock, to Zamp’s annoyance, was the Two Varminies, operated by a certain Osso Santelmus, who presented what Zamp considered a rather paltry program of slapstick farce, animal acts and a minstrel who sang ballads to the accompaniment of a guitar. Santelmus augmented his income with games of chance, the sale of tonics, lotions and salves, and a booth where he foretold the future.

  Zamp glumly ordered Miraldra’s Enchantment to the dock. Neither boat would destroy the custom of the other; indeed, a pair of boats in competition often augmented trade for both. Zamp felt assured that such would not be the case at Gotpang.

  As soon as his boat was secure, Zamp, as etiquette demanded, went aboard the Two Varminies to pay his respects to Osso Santelmus. The two sat down to a bottle of brandy in the after cabin.

  Santelmus had nothing good to remark about either Gotpang or the Actuarians. “Every year they impose three new ordinances. I learn now that I cannot advertise my ‘Miracle Bath’ as a sure elixir of charm and beauty, nor may I foretell the future unless I first obtain an approved forecast from their Bureau of Schedules.”

  Zamp shook his head in disgust. “Petty officials are always anxious to justify their existences.”

  “True. Nonetheless, I mute my complaints. Experience has taught me the defense against pettifoggery. I now offer my ‘Miracle Bath’ only as a soothing lotion, with mildly laxative qualities if taken internally. In my booth I command voices of the dead, and I achieve approximately equal earnings. But let us speak of a more elevating subject. How do you rate your chances at Mornune?”

  Zamp stared, blue eyes wide in wonder. “My chances where?”

  Santelmus poured more brandy. “Come now, my friend; between the two of us evasiveness surely is out of order. I too am bound for Lanteen, but I doubt if my entertainments, diverting though they may be, will enthrall King Waldemar’s emissary. The choice, I suspect, lies between yourself and Garth Ashgale.”

  Zamp said: “I have no idea of what you are talking about.”

  Now it was Santelmus’s turn to stare in wonder. “Surely you received notice of the great occasion? It was announced at the Coble conclave not a month ago!”

  “I did not attend the conclave.”

  “True! Now I recall as much. Garth Ashgale volunteered to convey the information to you.”

  Zamp set his goblet down with a thump. “Just as the vulp* in the fable volunteered to notify the farmer of the break in the fowl-yard fence.”

  * Vulp: a small voracious predator, common throughout the Dalkenberg region of south-central Lune XXIII.

  “Aha,” said Santelmus, “Ashgale evidently failed to bring you the news?”

  “All I saw of Ashgale was the stern of his boat moving full-speed up the river.”

  Santelmus gave his head a doleful shake, as if the scope of human iniquity were a never-ending source of wonder. “The news is simple but startling. You know of King Waldemar and the realm Soyvanesse beyond the Bottomless Lake?”

  Zamp made a noncommittal gesture. “We are hardly personal friends.”

  “King Waldemar is new on the throne but already famous for splendid impulses. His latest concept is a Grand Festival at Mornune, and he has ordained a competition between the entertainment troupes of all the Dalkenberg, from north, east, south and west of Bottomless Lake. The news which pertains to us is this: at Lanteen, one week from today, an adjudicator will select a showboat to represent the Lower Vissel at the festival.”

  “Indeed! And the grand prize?”

  “The leader of the victorious troupe will receive a patent of nobility, a palace at Mornune, and a treasure of metal: enough to excite even a tired old charlatan like myself!”

  “Do not belittle your very real talents! But was it not a naï
ve act to entrust my notification to Garth Ashgale?”

  “So it now would appear,” said Santelmus, pulling at his chin. “At the time there was much expansive talk; some said this and some said that. Garth Ashgale remarked: ‘Imagine the excitement of our colleague Apollon Zamp when he learns of this rich competition! Why not allow me to surprise him with the news?’ Everyone agreed to the suggestion, and Garth Ashgale departed, presumably to seek you out.”

  “He will find me at Lanteen,” said Zamp.

  Santelmus heaved a sigh. “So now it is definite. You have decided to compete for the great prize at Mornune.”

  Zamp held up his hand in a gesture of disclaimer. “Not so fast! Mornune lies at the far edge of a wilderness; why tempt the certain attention of the Tinsitala robbers?”

  Santelmus gave an unctuous chuckle. “And you are anxious that Garth Ashgale be spared these same dangers?”

  Zamp drained his cup and set it deliberately down upon the table. “All of us have played a prank or two in our time; nonetheless, I absolutely deplore the self-serving turpitude which Garth Ashgale has so vividly demonstrated. I intend to refute it.”

  “In principle, I also deplore turpitude,” said Santelmus. He lifted the jug. “I see no reason why we should not take another drop or two to certify this proposition.”

  “Nor I.”

  Chapter III

  From Gotpang the Vissel swung back and forth in lazy loops across the Sarklentine Swamp. Purple and lavender fern-trees hung over the water with clusters of spore pods pendent from the frond-tips. Channels and sloughs slanted away to invisibility behind islands of green and black reeds; everywhere flew flocks of blackbirds*; coots and loons fluttered along the surface of the water.

  * No avians are indigenous to Big Planet. Birds and fowl are all immigrants from Earth, as are many varieties of vegetation. Most undergo a swift evolutionary transition to new types.

  The wind, while fitful, never failed completely, to Zamp’s relief, for the swamp allowed no tow-paths and Ship’s Engineer Elias Quaner had not yet repaired the linkage between drive-capstans and the propeller shaft.

  Quietly up the river floated Miraldra’s Enchantment, leaving a barely perceptible wake, no more than a turbulence of brown water. Zamp worked in his cabin adapting a complicated old musical farce to the talents of his company. At dusk the boat tied up to the rotting wharf of a long-deserted hamlet. Three young acrobats went exploring the pallid ghost-huts and came upon a rare swamp-oel* which ran clicking after them along the dock. Zamp attempted to capture the valuable creature with a cargo net, but it emitted a horrid stench and fled through the reeds.

  * Oel: a creature indigenous to Big Planet and found in many varieties. Typically the creature stands seven feet tall on two short legs, with a narrow four-horned head of twisted cartilage. Its black dorsal carapace hangs low to the ground; to its ventral surface are folded a dozen clawed arms. From a distance an oel might be mistaken for a gigantic beetle running on its hind legs.

  The night passed quietly under a blaze of stars; dawn came cool and calm and Phaedra rose into a cloudless sky.

  Zamp climbed to the crow’s-nest and looked for signs of wind; he saw only vast expanses of reeds, an occasional rotting hag-tree, and the motionless surface of the river.

  An hour later Elias Quaner* reported that the capstan drive might now be used. Zamp at once ordered up the ship’s complement of bullocks, which were harnessed to the staves of the capstans and set to toiling around and around a twenty-foot circle. Water roiled behind the propeller; the ship moved forward. Halfway through the morning the south wind arrived. The sails billowed taut and thrust the boat northward.

  * The Quaners: a caste of engineers, architects and builders, active everywhere across the Dalkenberg.

  A line of low hills approached the river; at the base huddled the town Port Optimo. For reasons best known to themselves the citizens of the town spoke a secret gibberish and pretended not to comprehend standard speech. From time to time Zamp played a program at Port Optimo, earning no great profit, for when he tried to haggle with the folk of the town over the price of the commodities with which they paid their admissions, they were never able to understand his remarks. Today, with the wind blowing fresh and fair, Zamp decided to press onward.

  On the following day the boat passed the towns Badburg and Fwyl, and late in the afternoon put into Fudurth, where the Suanol joined the Vissel. Fudurth, ordinarily Zamp’s northernmost port of call, had originally been established by traders as a transshipment point for goods and wares brought down the Suanol from the Barthelmian Uplands, and the town’s lack of special quirks was almost a peculiarity in itself.

  Zamp presented his program to a full house, which gave the new musical farce a cordial reception.

  In the morning Zamp once more set sail to the north, and all day fared across a flat dismal land, barren except for furze and garnet-bush, and at sunset the blue-gray outline of Glassblower’s Point, at the confluence of the Lant with the Vissel, rose against the horizon. Nomads shunned this particular area and Zamp felt safe passing the night moored to a gnarled spatterack on the western shore.

  All next day the winds teased Zamp, puffing and dying, slanting and veering and backing the sails, and Zamp thought to spend another night on the river, but late in the afternoon the wind steadied and blew fair. Zamp ordered up the sky-master and the great bluff bow crumpled and crushed the surface of the river to pale foam.

  At sunset the wind slackened to a whisper, barely sufficient to hold the boat steady against the current, with Glassblower’s Point and Lanteen still seven miles distant. Zamp, now irritated at the elements, ordered bullocks to the capstans. Miraldra’s Enchantment moved forward once more, riding water glossy as silk.

  Zamp hugged the western shore to avoid the weight of the Lant current. Glassblower’s Point loomed overhead, with the lamps of Lanteen glimmering on its far flank. Zamp brought the boat even closer to the shore and riding an eddy from the Lant, nosed quietly up to the Lanteen dock, and moored directly astern of Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit.

  Ashgale’s cabin showed no light, and indeed the entire ship was dark, except for the masthead beacon and a set of thief-lamps along the rails.

  As soon as hawsers had been set out, Zamp retired to his cabin where he donned one of his most splendid outfits: pale blue breeches, puffed and tucked at the knees, a black high-shouldered coat, a white shirt clasped at wrist and neck with buckles of iron-skin. From his locker he brought a fine blue hat which he brushed and laid aside. Into his sash he thrust a dress rapier; into his coat he tucked a kerchief and a small pomander. He combed out his fair curls, clipped a few strands from his goatee, clapped the hat on his head and marched ashore.

  Etiquette required that he pay a call to Garth Ashgale aboard his ship, a duty which Zamp would have willingly neglected, but why provoke the sneers of his rival? Decorum, after all, was a more subtle and ultimately more satisfactory weapon than high feelings and improper conduct.

  He mounted the gangplank to Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit, and halting on the deck looked right and left. The gangway watchman sat by the felon’s cage conversing with a prisoner. All else aboard was quiet. Without haste or smartness the gangway watchman rose to his feet and ambled toward Zamp, who waited with raised eyebrows at the lack of punctilio. Aboard Miraldra’s Enchantment affairs went differently.

  The watchman recognized Zamp, and touched his forehead. “Good evening to you, sir. I fear that Master Ashgale is off somewhere ashore; in fact I would be willing to change places with him this very instant.”

  Zamp acknowledged the information with a curt nod. “Have you knowledge of where he might be found?”

  “I can provide a reasonable guess. Five taverns replenish the good folk of this town, of which The Jolly Glassblower is the most select. At this location, by all tenets of logic, Master Ashgale should be found.”

  Zamp looked around the vessel. “Master Ashgale has been giving daily performa
nces?”

  “This is the case; and I have never known him to be so meticulous in regard to detail. The productions have aroused favorable comment.”

  From the cage came a call: “Jailer, what is the hour of the night?”

  The watchman called back: “Why trouble to ask? You are going nowhere.” He winked at Zamp. “What do you think of this great hulk of bloodthirsty mischief? Master Ashgale gave ten groats of iron for him. The Lanteeners are religiously inclined and not allowed the pleasure of cutting his throat.”

  Zamp, peering into the cage, saw a black-bearded face and a pair of glittering eyes. “Impressive. What was his crime?”

  “Brigandage, raid, atrocity and murder. Still, all in all, not so bad a fellow.”

  “Where then is my beer?” the prisoner called out.

  “All in good time,” replied the watchman.

  Zamp asked: “Master Ashgale evidently has scheduled a tragic drama?”

  “We are to play Emphyrio presently, perhaps for the competition. The prisoner refuses to learn his lines, surly fellow that he is. Still, in his place I might take no great interest in the production either.”