The Magnificent Showboats

by Jack Vance

  “Jailer!” called the prisoner. “I am ready to take my beer!”

  “In due course. Have you memorized the speech?”

  “Yes, yes,” grumbled the prisoner. “Must I recite to you?”

  “These were Master Ashgale’s instructions.”

  In a bored voice the prisoner declaimed: “‘Prince Orchelstyne, how you have betrayed me! Forever will shame shroud your name! Never will you know the love of Rusemund, though you come to her splendid in pearls and iron! My ghost, dank and terrible, will stand between when you seek to enclasp her! Take my life then, Prince Orchelstyne’ — I forget the rest.”

  “Hmm,” said the watchman. “Your style is far from convincing. Still, who am I to deny you your beer?”

  “Good evening to you both,” said Zamp and descended the gangway. He walked up the esplanade, where flaring orange torches illuminated booths selling fried whitebait, mounded pink sweetmeats, skewers of barbecued clams. Farther along the dock loomed the hulls of several other showboats which Zamp could not surely identify; the nearest, he thought to be Lemuriel Boke’s Chrysanthe.

  A sign hanging over the esplanade identified the Jolly Glassblower, a structure of brown glass brick and weathered timber. Zamp entered, to find himself in a great room lit by twenty lamps of red, blue and green glass. Benches, tables and booths were crowded with townspeople in knee-length smocks and low flat-crowned hats, as well as folk from the showboats. The air was warm and heavy with the sound of voices, laughter, the clink of goblets, a thin wailing music. Lamplight sparkled and refracted from a thousand glass baubles and oddments. A side of beef turned on a spit beside a vertical bed of coals; a cook naked to the waist, sweating and shining in the fire-glow, basted the meat with sauce from a tray and carved to order of the patrons. On a platform at the far end of the room sat an orchestra of four nomads, wearing red and brown shag trousers, black leather vests, cocked hats of black felt. With concertina, screedle, thump-box and guitar they played a merry quickstep, to which a man more than half-drunk solemnly attempted a jig, with indifferent success.

  Garth Ashgale sat in a booth to the side of the room: a handsome dark-haired man, grave and pale, several years older than Zamp, with an exquisite air of elegant self-assurance. Beside him sat a young woman of distinguished appearance. A long black cape hung at a dramatic slant from her shoulders; a soft black cap controlled glossy hair, as fair as Zamp’s own, which fell artlessly to the line of her jaw. A young woman of considerable charm, thought Zamp, though her aristocratic hauteur appealed to him no more than did Garth Ashgale’s languid sophistication.

  Zamp shot his cuffs, set his coat to best advantage. He approached the booth, doffed his hat and performed a punctilious bow, and had the satisfaction of seeing Garth Ashgale’s eyebrows rise. “Good evening to you, Master Ashgale.”

  “I wish you as well, Master Zamp.” Ashgale made no effort to introduce the young woman, who gave Zamp a look of supercilious distaste, then turned her gaze toward the musicians.

  “I am surprised to find you here,” said Zamp. “At Coble, if you recall, we discussed the leak in your garboard strake, and a day or so later I was told that you had put into the Surmise Boatworks for repairs.”

  Garth Ashgale smilingly shook his head. “Some mendacious person has amused himself at your expense.”

  “This is quite possible,” said Zamp. “I am a simple man, and I have achieved my status through simple excellence. Others have used malice and machination against me, but what have they gained? Nothing. I ignore such folk, and if they now look after me and grind their teeth in envy, what do I care?”

  “The point is well taken,” declared Ashgale. “As for your reputation, it is justly deserved. Your trained insects are consistently amusing and I believe your grotesques to be the most repulsive anywhere along the river. Still — what brings you so far north, you who are so notoriously partial to the outskirts of Coble?”

  Zamp made a placid sign. “No particular reason. A few months ago I declined King Waldemar’s invitation to play the Mornune Festival and I suggested a set of trials to select a substitute. This is the course he adopted, and I am on hand to witness the occasion and to advise King Waldemar’s representatives in regard to the worth of the competing ship-masters.”

  Garth Ashgale raised his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head wonderingly. Zamp meanwhile attracted the attention of a waiter. “I will have ale; also serve this charming lady and Master Ashgale according to their needs.”

  The young woman gave an indifferent shrug. Garth Ashgale gestured to the empty wine bottle; the waiter hastened off to fulfill the order.

  Zamp said: “Along the way I met Master Osso Santelmus, and I believe that several other boats of quality equal to the Two Varminies and Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit are on the way. The trials will be amusing to watch.”

  Garth Ashgale’s easy smile had become strained. “So you will not compete?”

  Zamp signified in the negative. “I have wealth, health and honor; what do I lack? Let others strive after elusive goals. But come, Garth Ashgale, where are your manners? Why do you not introduce me to your companion?”

  Ashgale turned an amused glance toward the young woman. “Because I am not acquainted with her. The tavern was full; I asked if I might share her table and this she graciously allowed.”

  The young woman rose to her feet. “You may now use the table in its entirety.” With a cool inclination of her head she crossed the room and departed the tavern.

  Zamp stared after the supple form. “What a peculiar person!”

  “‘Peculiar’?” Garth Ashgale shrugged and raised his eyebrows, as if perplexed by the quality of Zamp’s standards. “I thought her quite charming.”

  “No dispute on this account,” said Zamp. “But is she not an unusual person to find here at Lanteen? Surely she is not some glass-blower’s daughter?”

  “I was on the point of making inquiry when you arrived,” said Garth Ashgale, “and now I believe I will return to my ship. Good evening to you, Apollon Zamp.”

  The two men exchanged salutes, and Garth Ashgale departed the tavern. Zamp immediately summoned the waiter. “The lady in the black cape who sat at this table: are you acquainted with her name?”

  “No, sir. She has engaged a chamber at the Alderman’s Hostel and regularly takes her meals with us. She conducts herself with the pride of a noblewoman and pays in good iron groats; otherwise nothing is known.”

  “A rather mysterious person, in short.”

  “So much might well be said, sir.”

  Zamp sat for an hour, listening to the music and watching the glass-blowers at their loose-kneed jigs.

  Certain decisions must be made. By arriving at Lanteen he had demonstrated to Ashgale the futility of his paltry deceptions; but now: should he proceed further and attempt to earn the invitation to Mornune? To succeed would be pleasant; to fail would be correspondingly bitter — even though Zamp felt no inclination whatever to undertake the long upstream voyage to the Bottomless Lake.

  He made his decision. He would compete, but only as if in a careless half-serious manner. His principal rival would of course be Garth Ashgale, and two methods of attaining victory suggested themselves. He could strain every nerve to produce an obviously superior entertainment, or he could use equal diligence to ensure the inferiority of Garth Ashgale’s presentation. Both options must be explored from all angles.

  Zamp mused a few moments longer, then paid his score and departed the tavern. The vendors along the esplanade were now darkening their lamps and wheeling away their booths. Mist blowing down from the north obscured the water and swirled around the masthead lamps of the docked vessels. Tomorrow no doubt would see the arrival of the Two Varminies and perhaps other boats, none of which need be seriously feared. Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit, however, could not be dismissed so lightly. Garth Ashgale, for all his elegant ways and wicked duplicities, had achieved many notable successes; the fact could not be disputed.

>   In deep thought Zamp returned to his ship, noting as he passed the light in the stern cabin of Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit, where Garth Ashgale no doubt sat preoccupied with his own calculations.

  On the following day, as Zamp had expected, Osso Santelmus arrived with his Two Varminies followed, one after the other, by the Psychopompos Revenant and the Vissel Dominator.

  Santelmus came aboard Miraldra’s Enchantment to take a glass of spirits and to exchange gossip with Zamp. “A very adequate turnout; I foresee intense competition ahead.”

  “Unquestionably,” said Zamp. “But I still lack certain elements of information. For instance: when does this event occur? How will it be conducted? Who makes the judgments?”

  “Had you received the initial announcement,” said Santelmus, “you would not have needed to ask. We are merely to present ourselves here on this day, and further information will then be forthcoming. I suppose that you have been preparing a remarkable new production?”

  “The time is too short,” said Zamp. “I will simply play one of my musical farces.”

  “There will be no novelties aboard the Two Varminies,” said Santelmus. “I do not expect to win unless the river swallows up all the other contestants, so why exert myself?”

  Zamp refilled the glasses with brandy. “You are much too pessimistic.”

  Santelmus sadly shook his head. “My triumphs are all in the past. I recall that in order to demonstrate my Bath of Beauty I employed two sisters. I would call for a volunteer from the spectators and the ugly sister would step forward and enter the bath, where the beautiful sister already crouched. I would pour in a gill of my Rainbow Essence, and the beautiful sister would spring forth exultant. The stratagem earned considerable sums of iron.”

  “So why did you abandon it?”

  “Circumstances compelled a change. The sisters became disgruntled, and one day they spitefully reversed their roles. I was helpless to prevent the beautiful girl from jumping into the bath, apparently to emerge long-nosed and pock-marked. The event unnerved me and I was never able to continue.”

  “I have suffered similar embarrassments,” said Zamp. “At Langlin on the Suanol the sound of the letter ‘r’ is considered an offensive obscenity, and at my introductory speech I was pelted with stones which they had brought along for this purpose.”

  “The artist’s life is at least eventful.” Santelmus rose to his feet. “Well, I must see to my affairs.”

  Walking out on deck the two were attracted by the sound of declamations and music from Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit. Santelmus nodded sagely. “Garth Ashgale is intent at his rehearsals; he is not one to ignore any detail. What is that pounding noise?”

  “I don’t know,” said Zamp. “No doubt a repair of some sort.”

  Santelmus descended the gangplank and Zamp immediately clambered up into the crow’s nest, where he could overlook the length of Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit. It appeared that Ashgale, like Zamp, had been experiencing difficulty with his drive-shaft. The great member of resin-treated skeel had been hoisted to the quarter-deck and laid out on trestles for scraping and justification. Zamp’s own engineer, Elias Quaner, stood discussing the problem with his kinsman, the engineer aboard Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit.

  Zamp descended to the deck, and when Quaner returned summoned him to the stern cabin. “How goes Ashgale’s drive-shaft?”

  “Not too badly. A simple case of warp, which must be cured with steam and pressure.”

  “And the propeller?”

  “It has been taken to the boatyard for refinishing. Master Ashgale intends a long voyage north, and insists that all be in best condition.”

  Zamp brought out his best brandy and poured generously into a goblet which he handed to Elias Quaner. “No doubt you know why we are here?”

  “I have heard rumors of a competition at Mornune.”

  “The rumors are accurate. Now, it goes without saying that if Miraldra’s Enchantment prospers, all of us prosper.”

  Elias Quaner, a short man with earnest blue eyes and red-brown hair worn in the typical Quaner tufts, responded cautiously: “That would be the general hope.”

  Zamp developed his ideas a step further. “We can either exert ourselves to win, or ensure that Ashgale loses.”

  “Or both.”

  “As you say: both … Ashgale’s drive-shaft is a member of rather large diameter?”

  “Precisely sixteen inches, like our own.”

  “Which necessarily would be the diameter of the hole through the sternpost?”

  “Almost exactly.”

  “And the water is denied admittance how?”

  “A plug is the usual contrivance to this end.”

  “An externally applied plug?”

  “This is the best and easiest application.”

  “How might this plug be dislodged?”

  Elias Quaner pursed his lips. “By any of several methods. A sharp blow, for instance.”

  “Would such a blow be difficult to administer?”

  “By no means; a person so inclined need merely stand on the rudder and swing a mallet.”

  Zamp raised his glass. “To your health and the strength of Bonko’s right arm! At an appropriate time we will discuss this matter again. In the meantime — not a word to anyone! Least of all your cousin aboard Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit!”

  “I understand completely.”

  At the door of the cabin sounded a rap-rap-rap. “Come!” called Zamp.

  Chaunt the steward entered with an envelope of bright yellow paper. “This has just been handed aboard.”

  Opening the envelope, Zamp withdrew a sheet of yellow paper. He read:

  To the estimable Apollon Zamp:

  I speak for King Waldemar of Mornune. Your noble ship Miraldra’s Enchantment being on hand, I invite your participation in a competition to be held tomorrow.

  The procedure is this: the master of each vessel shall present that program which he considers his best. An anonymous observer will adjudge each presentation and decide upon the most excellent. Programs will follow each upon the other, commencing at noon upon the Two Varminies to the north of the harbor, then proceeding south from boat to boat, to terminate upon the Miraldra’s Enchantment.

  On the following morning the qualifying shipmaster will be notified, and an announcement will be posted on the notice board before The Jolly Glassblower.

  It is suggested that no entrance fee be levied upon the public for the performances of tomorrow, and that a lapse of fifteen minutes be allowed between programs, for the convenience of all.

  A noble prize at Mornune lies within the scope of tomorrow’s victor! Each should strive to his best avail! Affixed below: the Seal of the House of Bohun.

  The red seal attached to the yellow page depicted two griffins in a circle, each biting the other’s tail.

  Zamp handed the letter to Elias Quaner, who read the letter twice in the thorough fashion of the Quaners. “Our performance will follow that of Garth Ashgale, so it would appear.”

  “That would be my interpretation of the instructions. Our own drive-shaft is securely in place?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “Garth Ashgale is cursed with a fecund imagination. We must be vigilant. It might be wise to bring all the ship’s company aboard for the rest of the day and night.”

  “A sensible precaution.”

  Osso Santelmus opened the competition with little more than a token performance. His clowns capered to raucous music; a magician caused objects to sprout wings and fly across the stage; Santelmus himself delivered a comic monologue and simulated a fight between two vulps and a grotock.

  The next presentation, aboard the Vissel Dominator, was somewhat more ambitious: “The Legend of Malganaspe Forest” in sixteen tableaux. The Psychopompos Revenant staged a ballet: “The Twelve Virgins and Buffo the Lewd Ogre”. The middle afternoon was enlivened by “Gazilda and his Unfortunate Double-jointed Idiots,” on the Fireglass Prism. As Phaedr
a the sun settled into the Lant River, the troupe aboard the Chantrion staged a rather macabre burlesque: “The Oel’s Dinner Party”.

  The merry population of Lanteen, unaccustomed to so generous a spate of free entertainment, next thronged aboard Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit, where Garth Ashgale’s disciplined eight-piece orchestra played a lively mazurka.

  Garth Ashgale came out on the stage and stood smiling in the focused glow of a dozen lamps. He wore a suit of rich dark blue velvet, a shirt of fine white lawn, the headdress of a Sarklentine mage. His manner was easy and suave; he held his hands up and apart to signal the orchestra to silence, and behind him the curtain drew aside a trifle to display a glimpse of the stage-setting. “My dear friends of Lanteen! It is a great pleasure to bring my troupe before an audience so discriminating; I promise I will not insult either your intelligence or your sensibilities with trivial farce or mindless saltations or lewd contortions. No! This pleasant night I bring you the drama Rorqual: full, authentic and unexpurgated, complete with the awful death of the traitor Eban Zirl.”

  Thud. Standing in the bow of Miraldra’s Enchantment, Zamp grimaced in apprehension. The sound had been somewhat louder than he expected. But Ashgale never paused in his remarks, and a moment later Bonko the boatswain crawled up a ladder from out of the dark water, to stand dripping on the deck immediately aft of the forepeak. He made a significant gesture to Zamp, then hauled on a line to bring a great skeel mallet up on deck, which he carried forward into the boatswain’s locker. Zamp returned his attention to the remarks of Garth Ashgale:

  “— all realize the circumstances of this unique event. I sincerely hope that the noble observer from Mornune, whose identity is unknown to us, will derive from our performance that same sublime emotion which we, with all our hearts and faculties, have tried to put into it.

  “So now: Rorqual!” The curtains parted to reveal one of Ashgale’s most sumptuous stage-settings.

  “We find ourselves at Dalari Temple. The priestesses greet Prince Orchelstyne with music and chanting. From behind the columns of the temple appear the priestesses, weaving back and forth in a sinuous dance.”