by Jack Vance
More folk from the town came out on the dock, hunched in a dour and almost sullen silence. Zamp was not discouraged; each community along the river had its distinctive style: Port Whant was notoriously wary with strangers.
The gangplank was lowered to the dock; Zamp stepped out upon the landing. He looked back over his shoulder and gave a merry flourish of arm and hand; the frenzied demonstration instantly halted and the members of the troupe gratefully descended to the main deck.
Zamp paused a moment, the better to focus the attention of his audience. He wore one of his most elaborate costumes: a wide-brimmed brown hat with a great orange plume; a doublet striped orange and black belted over loose brown breeches, foppish knee-high boots precisely creased and pleated. The faces looking up from the dock expressed neither hostility nor friendliness nor even much interest; Zamp felt only a condition of introverted gloom. Hardly a handsome folk, he thought; both men and women showed pale broad faces, lank black hair, heavy black eyebrows, burly physiques. Still, for all the apparent uniformity of garb and appearance, the sense of personality and self-autonomy was strong: perhaps as a result of the brooding melancholy which Zamp now determined to dispel. He held up his hands. “Friends of Port Whant! I am Apollon Zamp; this is my marvelous showboat Miraldra’s Enchantment. We have voyaged up the Lant to bring you one of our unparalleled entertainments.
“Tonight we plan a program which for sheer grandeur may never be surpassed in the long and glorious history of Port Whant!
“Citizens! Tonight we present not one, not two, but a three-part program, each part of supreme elegance. First: the Birdmen, or so they call themselves, for they literally seem to fly through the air. Gravity is no more to them than dirt to a chicken; they leap, they plunge, they hurtle and somersault with grace and aplomb. Secondly, we plan to perform a mischievous little trifle, still totally decorous and nonprovocative, entitled The Love-ways of Far Climes and Far Times. I suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that you will be amazed by these absolutely authentic customs — but, naturally, it is all in good fun; our girls wear pale green and pale blue and are merely playing saucy jokes. If anyone considers such a program offensive or suggestive, please communicate with me, and we will substitute an equally amusing alternate piece. Third, and the high point of the evening: that famous drama of hate and passion and woe Evulsifer! You will experience poignant realism; you will witness the betrayal of a king, a palace orgy, the death of a traitor in its grisly actuality: a program to edify and instruct the discriminating folk of Port Whant!
“For this grandiose entertainment are we demanding a vast and unreasonable sum? By no means! A single groat per person allows participation in this moving experience. So then! In one hour let us have the entire population of Port Whant here at the dock! Time for all to go home, to spread the news to friend and neighbor, to bring all the family aboard our wonderful showboat!”
Zamp raised his hand; the orchestra played a fanfare. “In one hour then this gangplank will conduct you into a world of colored lights and wonderful happenings! Thank you, my friends, for your attention!” Zamp bowed and swept his plumed hat to the deck. The Whants muttered to each other, and presently departed the dock.
“An odd group!” Zamp told Bonko. “They seem bloodless and apathetic, as if just risen from their death-beds.”
“What says the River Index?” asked Bonko.
“The Whants are described as a fiery folk, quick to resent insult. These Whants act as if they had been converted to a religion of abnegation and piety.”
“Here comes an old man; why not put the question to him?”
Zamp inspected the man approaching along the dock. “In all candor, I am reluctant to put any questions to anyone for fear of provoking annoyance. Still, this man seems mild enough.”
Zamp descended to the dock and waited until the old man hobbled past. “Good afternoon, Grandfather; what is the news at Port Whant?”
“The news is as always,” stated the old man. “Murder, capture, defeat, and mischief. Why are you so concerned with our great tragedy?”
“Only so that my company may help assuage your grief,” was Zamp’s glib reply. Evidently even the oldsters could not be taken lightly. “Our drama Evulsifer may well purge your souls of useless emotion.”
“Easier said than done. Lop Loiqua is gone, the victim of treachery, and part of our souls are gone with him. Where will we find another to take his place; he who was known as the Scourge of the Vale? The arrival of your boat may well be an omen.”
“Such it is!” declared Zamp heartily. “An omen of entertainment, but no more!”
“Surely you would not think to dictate how we must read omens?”
“By no means! I only ventured to suggest —”
“Your suggestions are irrelevant; you know nothing of us and our habits.”
“I agree with all you say; my only intent is to ensure your good opinion of myself.”
The old man turned on his heel and limped away, only to pause after a few steps and look back over his shoulder. “I will only say this, that your insistent arguments would certainly provoke a man less obsessed with grief than myself!” He went his way. Zamp thoughtfully climbed the gangplank. He summoned his troupe and made an announcement:
“A word regarding our performance tonight and our general conduct. The folk of Port Whant are neither easy nor expansive. Attempt no familiarities; answer all questions ‘yes’ or ‘no’ with a suitable honorific; offer no opinions of your own! The females must wear no hint of yellow; the men must strip from their garments every trace of red. Black is a color of shame and debasement; offer nothing black to a Whant! Do not look at the audience lest they suspect a glare; maintain mild pleasant expressions, but do not affect a smile which might be considered derision. Immediately after the performance we will depart; I would do so now did I not fear their revenge. All now into costumes; play your parts with skill!”
Zamp went aft to his cabin and refreshed himself with a glass of wine. On the quarterdeck stood Damsel Blanche-Aster. Zamp finished his wine and joined her. “Did you hear my remarks? Even as a naked ghost you must display tact.”
Damsel Blanche-Aster seemed bitterly amused. “It is enough that I must display myself before these louts. Must I also appeal to their better natures?”
“If possible, yes! Walk slowly, with an abstracted air; the part need not be overplayed. It is time to get into your costume.”
“In due course. The evening is not warm.”
Zamp went to confer once more with Bonko. “It goes without saying that our emergency system is at the ready.”
“Yes, sir. The pumps are manned; bullocks are at the capstan; crews are stationed at the under-jacks.”
“Very good; be vigilant.”
Half an hour passed. Despite their preoccupations Whants began to assemble on the dock, and when Zamp opened the wicket, they paid the not inconsiderable price of admission without complaint and in an orderly fashion took their seats on the midship deck.
Zamp made the briefest of welcoming speeches and the evening’s program began. Zamp was pleased with his tumblers and acrobats; never had they performed with such precision. The audience, though somewhat sullen, responded with mutters of amazement to some particularly daring feat. All in all Zamp was well-pleased.
The second section of the performance began as smoothly. In deference to the Whants, Zamp had truncated certain of the scenes and altered others, so that essentially the pastiche was little more than a series of courtships, performed in quaint costumes and with whatever picturesque elaborations Zamp had been able to contrive. The audience seemed mildly amused, but showed fervor only at those mildly erotic passages which Zamp had left intact. Still, no one complained or seemed uncomfortable and again Zamp felt that his audience was pleased with the show.
Zamp delivered the prologue to Evulsifer with a long blue cape hiding his costume. The orchestra played an obligato of themes from the musical score, and Zamp, now somewhat less appr
ehensive, prepared for the first act almost with anticipation. Swince had outdone himself with his settings. The great salon at Asmelond Palace was splendid in scarlet and purple and green; the costumes of King Sandoval and his courtiers were almost too splendid.
The court intrigues at first seemed inconsequential; subtly they began to propel the plot until King Sandoval and Prince Evulsifer were caught in tides of emotion they could not control.
Zamp staged the palace orgy with rather more latitude than he had originally planned, but the audience showed only approval, and when the rebel Trantino rose up behind the throne to stab King Sandoval they hissed in horror.
The second act occurred on the Plain of Goshen, before Gade Castle where Evulsifer, accused of complicity in the death of his father, had taken refuge.
In front of the castle the action swirled. Evulsifer fought three duels with successively more ferocious opponents, then came forth by moonlight* for a tryst with his beloved Lelanie. He sang a wistful song to slow chords from his guitar; she swore devotion as changeless as the love which the fabled Princess Azoë had for her lover Wylas. And now Lelanie drew back in horror and pointed up to the battlements. “There walks the ghost of Azoë! It is a portent!”
* Big Planet has no moon; however the concept of moonlight, with all its romantic associations, is engraved deep within the Big Planet psyche.
Zamp also drew back to inspect the battlements and to gauge the quality of Damsel Blanche-Aster’s performance. A curtain of gauze surreptitiously dropped through the dimness blurred the image for the audience; Zamp however was afforded a better view, if from an inconvenient perspective; in any event, he had no fault to find with the quality of this ghost.
The ghost disappeared; Zamp somewhat mechanically spoke his lines and the act concluded with his capture through the perfidy of Lelanie.
Act Three opened with Evulsifer in chains, facing his accusers; he railed and challenged to no effect; he was sentenced to death and chained to a post, and left in solitude. Evulsifer delivered his tragic soliloquy and now Lelanie appeared on the set and the two performed that ambiguous scene which can be played in dozens of ways. Had she come to taunt him and mortify his distress? Was her heart balanced between love and guilt, cruelty and repentance? Did some evil madness compel her to evil? In the end Lelanie approached Evulsifer and tenderly kissed his forehead, then drew back and spat in his face; laughing almost hysterically she fled the scene.
Evulsifer must die at sunrise. Already the sky was flushed with dawn. He spoke his final dismal soliloquy and looked up to the platform where Bonko, costumed and masked as an executioner, prepared his axe and block.
Rays from the sun slanted over the horizon; Evulsifer was unchained from the post. A black cloak was thrown around him and a black hood pulled down over his head, and he was led out through the back of the stage, where the prisoner, similarly cloaked and hooded, had been brought from his cage.
“Must you be so brusque?” he demanded. “Hold back! I have scratched my arm on this splinter; bring me a bandage!”
“A trifle, a trifle,” said Bonko. “This way, if you will.”
The prisoner only kicked and struck out with his elbows; a gag was thrust between his teeth and he was dragged up to the platform where he struggled and groaned in a satisfactorily dramatic manner; four men fought to thrust him down with his neck on the block, dislodging his hood.
The executioner raised his axe; the first rays of the sun shone across the stage. “Strike!” cried the traitor Toraphin. The executioner struck; the head parted from the body, fell free of the hood, bounced off the platform, rolled across the stage to stare out at the audience. Very untidy, thought Zamp; the illusion had been somewhat damaged. Nonetheless, the audience had been profoundly affected; indeed they seemed paralyzed; all sat with bulging eyes fixed on the head. Peculiar, thought Zamp.
Someone spoke aghast in a voice half-moan, half-whisper: “Lop Loiqua.”
Someone else hissed between clenched teeth: “Killed while in black.”
Into Zamp’s mind burst a single name: Garth Ashgale.
No time now for dismay. Zamp threw down cloak and hood and called to Bonko: “Stand by to cut the hawsers! Start up the beasts! Ready to make sail! I’ll talk to the audience.” Bonko lumbered off to deal with three tasks at once; Zamp mounted to the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen: gallant Whants all: this concludes our entertainment for the evening. Please file from the ship in an orderly fashion. Tomorrow we present an amusing and inspiring program of agilities and magics —” Zamp ducked. Past his ear hurtled an axe. The audience had gained their feet. Each rage-distended face was fixed upon him; men and women scrambled over each other, clumsy and disoriented, intent only on laying hands on Apollon Zamp.
Zamp sprang aft and pulled the alarm gong; the troupe, drilled a hundred times to such a contingency, reacted with precision. Deck-hands cut the hawsers; the vessel drifted away from the dock. Latches on the gunwales were pulled; the rails fell back and over, to hang down beside the hull. Below decks acrobats, magicians and stewards worked great screw jacks to raise the deck in half sections so that each section sloped out toward the water. The bullocks turned the capstan to power the pumps; blasts of water tumbled the Whants down the sloping decks into the dark river.
A few, nevertheless, gained the foredeck. Some grappled the deck-hands at the nozzles and flung them over the side. Others ran forward, toppled the great bow-lamp and threw torches up at the sails. Others brought oil from the forepeak and poured it across the decks; flame blasted high into the night. Zamp bawled down into the hold: “Reverse the jack; lower the deck!” but the troupe, appalled by the flames, clambered out of the hold and joined Zamp on the quarterdeck.
The entire bow of the boat seethed with flames. Whants ran crazily back and forth, yelling and hooting. The open hold deterred them from attacking the quarterdeck and they were finally forced by the flames to jump overboard.
“Down river!” roared Zamp. “We’ll ride the current as far as we can. Man the pumps! To the fire hoses!”
But no one cared to venture down into the hold, under the burning rigging.
“Downstream with all speed!” cried Zamp, waving Evulsifer’s sword defiantly toward Port Whant. “We’ll drive our good ship as far as she’ll carry us, then we’ll beach her and let any who molest us beware!”
Bonko, still wearing his executioner’s costume, politely disputed the order. “Better that we take to the boats, sir! If we beach, the boats may be burnt with the ship and tomorrow the Whants will ride us down.”
Zamp threw aside the useless weapon and bleakly gazed forward at the roaring flames. “This is how it must be. Stand by to lower boats; we’ll ride the old craft till she falters then let her go her own way.”
Bonko ran off, shouting orders and instructions; Zamp retired to his cabin. He tore off his costume and donned a suit of gray twill, a fisherman’s cap and sturdy boots; he belted on his best steel-pointed rapier, shoved a pair of snapples into his waist-band together with a magazine of darts and charges. He stood in the center of his cabin and looked all around him, half-blinded by grief and fury. All within the range of his vision was precious: scripts, masks, mementos, testimonials, trophies, his carved furniture and fine blue carpet; his strongbox … He rummaged in his chest and found a lank leather pouch into which he poured all his iron: five pounds or more. What else? He could take nothing else; all must burn. Someday he would own another vessel, the grandest on the river; he’d want no sad recollections, nothing to remind him of the old Miraldra’s Enchantment save possibly the head of Garth Ashgale mounted on a plaque like a hunting trophy … He had almost forgotten his jewels! He crossed to his dressing table and transferred the contents of his jewel-box to his pocket: a topaz and galena clasp, a wristlet of gold set with amethysts and iron studs, a silver chain with a great peridot cabochon; an emerald ear-clip; the silver tablet inviting his presence at the Mornune Festival; a contrivance of iron bars which he
usually wore dangling and jingling from the side of his soft black velvet cap: all into his pocket; and now there was time for nothing more. Zamp slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and returned to the quarterdeck.
Bonko had worked with efficiency; at each of the four boats stood a complement of troupe and crew, awaiting orders to launch the life-boats. Somewhat to the side, aloof and disinterested, Damsel Blanche-Aster waited with a bundle of her own belongings. Forward, the flames raged and crackled, illuminating the surface of the Lant: a dramatic and awful spectacle.
Bonko approached. “We must take to the boats. The planks are springing away from the stem and we’re taking water forward; we might go down in a dive.”
“Very good, lower the boats. Make sure the animals are released; give them a chance to swim for their lives.”
The boats were lowered: three pinnaces and the somewhat more comfortable captain’s gig, to which Zamp assigned Damsel Blanche-Aster. She climbed down the ladder and Zamp passed her bundle down to Chaunt the steward, then handed down his own heavy leather pouch. “Chaunt, make sure of this pouch; secure it in the forward cuddy!”
“Yes, sir!”
Zamp was last to leave the ship, already wallowing to the action of the water taken aboard. He climbed down into the gig. “Cast off!”
Oars were shipped; the boats pulled away from the flaming hulk. Zamp gazed steadfastly down-stream, unwilling to watch the passing of his proud vessel. Flickering orange light played over his shoulder, brightening the fascinated faces of those who chose to look back.
In sudden puzzlement Zamp looked from person to person: where was Chaunt? Not in the gig. Odd. There he was in the pinnace a few feet to port. Zamp called across: “Chaunt! Where is my pouch?”
