The Magnificent Showboats

by Jack Vance

  As they spoke a long black galley appeared from the shadows under the eastern crags and thrust at great speed toward Miraldra’s Enchantment. Zamp ordered the howitzer to be brought to bear.

  Damsel Blanche-Aster counseled against any show of defiance. “This is one of King Waldemar’s patrols; you need merely display your safe-conduct. By no means mention my presence!”

  The galley surged across the water on thirty oars, to lay alongside the showboat. Zamp lowered the accommodation ladder and a flashing-eyed dark-haired young officer in a handsome uniform of green, purple and black clambered aboard. “Navigation on this lake is forbidden to aliens,” he declared. “We are ordered to sink all intruding vessels. Prepare to drown.”

  Zamp produced the safe-conduct which he had earned so long ago at Lanteen; the officer scrutinized the metal with care. “You are Apollon Zamp?”

  “I am.”

  “And this ship is Miraldra’s Enchantment?”

  “The legend under the bows speaks for itself.”

  “One moment.” The officer went to the ladder and called down into the galley: “Pass up the ledger of current business.” While waiting he said to Zamp, “You must excuse our severity; the country swarms with folk of unspeakable character, including insurrectionists, political and moral deviates, and persons of low caste. We tolerate no such folk in our realm, except by force of such an instrument as you yourself bear.”

  “Your remark admits of varying interpretations,” said Zamp haughtily. “Since I am not an insurrectionist, it would appear that you have described me as either a deviate or a person of low caste.”

  “Interpret my remarks as you like,” said the officer. “My only concern is your positive identification.” He took the ledger which had been handed up to him. He checked a symbol on Zamp’s plaque and turned to a page in the ledger.

  “‘Summons and invitation issued to one Apollon Zamp at the town Lanteen, that he may bring his troupe of harlequins before King Waldemar. His description is as follows: a man thus and thus …’” The officer scanned the description, comparing the specifics against the person of Zamp himself. “Very well; you may proceed. Bear yonder toward Mount Myr, which marks the mouth of Cynthiana Bay.”

  The officer returned to his galley; Zamp signaled the boatswain, who in turn chirruped to the bullocks and the companies of Garth Ashgale and Baron Banoury respectively. The capstans turned; the stern-wheel pounded at the water; the ship proceeded across the lake. Zamp, idling on the quarterdeck, felt that the velocity of motion was not all that it might have been, and considered a competition between the two groups; but before he was able to formulate the terms of such a contest, a breeze dropped out of the sky to raise cat’s-paws on the lake and fill the sails. Zamp halted all action at the capstans and raised the wheel from the water.

  Phaedra dropped behind the palisades and night fell across the lake. Through the clear air the stars shone bright and exact, and the quartermaster steered by Ormaz the One-eyed. Two hours before midnight the breeze dwindled to a breath and the vessel ghosted across the lake, not as fast as a man might crawl.

  Zamp, unable to sleep or even relax, wandered the decks and found Damsel Blanche-Aster at the bow. She gave no sign that his presence was welcome; nevertheless he joined her. For a moment the two stood in silence, looking across the water. The stars in the sky and those reflected created an all-encompassing cosmos; they might have been drifting through space.

  Zamp asked politely: “Can you see the lights of Mornune?”

  “They are invisible around the slant of the hillside.”

  “Now that you are close to home and the completion of your mission, no doubt you are exultant.”

  In the starlight Zamp saw her shoulders move. She muttered: “I am frightened.”

  After a moment Zamp said: “It is useless offering counsel; you would only tell me another fable.”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster laughed softly. “I have told you no fables. Half-fables, perhaps. What is to be done I must do myself.” She turned to face Zamp. “Only please do not force me to act against my will!”

  It was Zamp’s turn to laugh sadly. “We have been through these matters a dozen times, and you have emerged intact. Why are you now concerned?”

  “I mean at Mornune, or in connection with the performance. You must tolerate my whims.”

  Zamp shrugged. “So long as we win King Waldemar’s prize.”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster made a half-amused half-scornful sound. “You will not win the prize! Poor Apollon Zamp! You do not know the delicacy of Waldemar’s tastes! He will sit unmoved by your hopping witches and heroic declamations!”

  Zamp heaved a deep sigh. “There are no changes I can make now … In all kindness, might you not have explained something of this at Coble?”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster stared northward across the water. “I know nothing of kindness. Little enough has been shown to me, except by Throdorus Gassoon.”

  Zamp said nothing. The night air seemed suddenly chill. Damsel Blanche-Aster went on in a dull voice. “I know what you are thinking. But remember, I never pretended to be anything other than self-serving.”

  “Heigh-ho!” said Zamp. “So here we are at Mornune, and come what may we must play Macbeth for King Waldemar, even though he chokes with boredom.” He turned away and walked slowly aft, leaving Damsel Blanche-Aster standing at the bow. On the quarter-deck he ordered a pot of tea from the steward and sat an hour watching the sails billow pale in the star-shine and listening to the sounds of the ship.

  Gassoon came from his office to stand blinking and peering. “Ah there, Zamp. You sit alone.”

  “This has been a difficult day.”

  “Most difficult. Still we have negotiated it successfully. And ahead lies tomorrow, which I hope will bring us closer to our goal.”

  “So I hope.”

  “It can hardly go otherwise,” said Gassoon. “I must admit to a state of anticipation and excitement.”

  “We have come a long way,” said Zamp. “It will be a long way back to Coble.”

  Dawn appeared in colors of pearl and white opal, from a sky ringed around with mist, and the lake shuddered to the cool light like sensitive flesh.

  Miraldra’s Enchantment had made little progress during the night. Zamp estimated that they now floated at the very center of the lake; and he did not care to speculate upon the black depths below. Zamp brought up a team of bullocks and his two gangs. As he watched Garth Ashgale and Baron Banoury leaning to the capstan he reflected that no matter what the eventualities of this voyage, certain memories would console him to the end of his years.

  Phaedra rose into the sky. The mists dissolved; the air became clear, and ahead, plain to see, was Myrmont and the mouth of Cynthiana Bay. Across the lake darted a pair of black galleys, each mounted with rocket-launching tubes. Zamp was again forced to produce his safe-conduct and submit to an inquisition. Almost reluctantly the officers departed and Zamp was allowed to proceed.

  An hour later the ship slid around the flanks of Myrmont into Cynthiana Bay. On the slopes appeared ranks of white palaces under tall dark syrax trees: the town Mornune.

  A long dock of white stone fronted the lake, beside which floated a half-dozen vessels. Certain of these seemed to be showboats, built to styles different from any Zamp had ever seen or known.

  An esplanade ran parallel to the dock, bounded by a balustrade of carved stone. At fifty-foot intervals great urns on pedestals trailed a black and brown foliage with scarlet blossoms. Across the way shops displayed wares of many styles behind tall glass windows. Palaces occupied the slopes above, half-hidden behind the foliage of syrax, jangal, fern indigo, greenock. The dock and esplanade continued north two miles and finally disappeared around a curve of the shore. Cynthiana Bay gradually narrowed while the hills to either side dwindled and fell back; the bay became a broad river extending far off and away to the north.

  The folk of Mornune passed along the esplanade in costumes of elegant simplici
ty. Few turned glances of more than casual curiosity toward Miraldra’s Enchantment.

  A group of four men in black and gold uniforms approached. They halted, considered the vessel in grave calculation, then one, wearing a black cap with a gold-embroidered visor, consulted the pages of a ledger. He made a sardonic comment to his fellows, and climbed the gangplank.

  Zamp stepped forward to meet him. Gassoon, on the quarterdeck, watched the confrontation with a disdainful expression.

  The official introduced himself. “I am the Director of Docks; be so good as to identify yourself and your ship.”

  In a somewhat lofty voice Zamp said, “I am Master Apollon Zamp and this is my famous vessel Miraldra’s Enchantment.” For the third time Zamp produced his silver warrant. “Our home port is Coble on Surmise Bay, as you no doubt know.”

  The official looked up in mystification, then shrugged and, opening his ledger, checked the plaque against a set of notations. He inspected Zamp, again consulted his ledger. Finally he nodded. “Your authorization appears to be valid. I must remark, unofficially, that you arrive with the most careless and casual insouciance. The Festival of Art and Gaiety begins tomorrow.”

  “So long as we are not late, no great harm is done,” said Zamp.

  The official turned Zamp another cool glance. “Your name of course will be included upon the list of participants. Had you arrived tomorrow your journey might have been in vain.”

  “We intended no disrespect,” said Zamp stiffly. “The way from Coble is long. The winds at this season are undependable.”

  “No doubt, no doubt.” The Director of Docks slapped the ledger against his thigh. “It is all one, since you have evidently arrived. You will be assigned the sixth and final place in the competition.”

  “Such details are of course at your discretion.”

  “Tomorrow morning the festival officially opens. It is recommended that you decorate your vessel in black, scarlet and gold, to honor the Dynastic Tabard.”

  Zamp acknowledged the advice. “We will wish to attend the other presentations. I rely upon you to make the arrangements for us.”

  “You are allowed two places at each phase of the competition,” the Director of Docks responded in an even, if somewhat metallic voice, “which begins at noon tomorrow aboard the ship Voyuz.”

  The Director of Docks performed a formal salute and took his leave. Zamp sought out Gassoon and conveyed the purport of the meeting. Gassoon, who had succumbed to a mood of depression and despondency, listened with only half an ear. “This expedition is a piece of rattle-brained tomfoolery, no more and no less. We are obviously out of our element here. These folk are caustic, cynical, hyper-civilized. They will mock our attempts at authenticity. I am not sanguine as to our chances.”

  “There is little time to prepare a new entertainment,” said Zamp dubiously, “although I suppose —”

  “No!” rasped Gassoon with sudden energy. “Let them scoff as they see fit! I will never compromise what I consider my art, especially for the sake of gain!”

  “For the sake of gain I’d compromise the art of my grandmother,” muttered Zamp under his breath.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Gassoon. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing of consequence. We are allowed two places at the first presentation, aboard the ship Voyuz. Do you choose to attend, or will you allow Damsel Blanche-Aster to go in your stead?”

  “If only two places are allowed us, you shall remain aboard the ship, making ready for our show.”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster herself settled the argument. “I will attend none of the entertainments. You two may go together.”

  The swan-ship Voyuz had been built to lavish and opulent standards, without thought for expense, and with the most assiduous concern for comfort and convenience. The superstructure was pale sanoe wood, embellished with fretwork of intricacy upon intricacy. The audience sat on cushioned benches with a deep rose carpet underfoot and a canopy of patterned silk overhead, to shield away the daylight.

  Zamp and Gassoon boarded the craft an hour early and were conducted to back-row seats by an obsequious usher in pale green livery, and a moment later a girl in dark green tights brought two moist perfumed towels on a tray that they might refresh their faces. Both Gassoon and Zamp were impressed by the luxurious appointments of the ship, although Gassoon asserted the old-rose carpet to be a piece of sheer ostentation and a sore trial to keep clean. “How would a vessel like this look after an evening at Chist or Fudurth? Poorly indeed!”

  Zamp objected on technical grounds to the dimensions of the stage. “Sound will never project from such a cavern,” he told Gassoon. “There is too much height for the breadth. We will hear only mumbling unless the artistes own the lungs and voices of sagmaws.”

  “A theater should be austere and unobtrusive in its decor,” stated Gassoon. “A jewel shows best on a cloth of black velvet; just so should the performance enhance the theater. This luxury —” Gassoon made a scornful gesture “— I consider sheer vulgarity.”

  “I doubt if we’ll see anything too skillful,” Zamp agreed. “Perhaps a set of erotic pantomimes, or a comedy such as my old Cuckold’s Revenge. At least the reactions of the audience will be interesting.”

  “Especially those of King Waldemar, although I doubt if he will reveal himself so early in the competition.”

  Persons of dignified mien began to enter the chamber. Ignoring Zamp and Gassoon as if the two ship-masters failed to exist, they greeted their acquaintances with measured gestures. Seating arrangements, so Zamp noted, were governed by precise protocol, an exactitude reflected in the formality of dress. A peculiar and even somewhat bizarre discord, in Zamp’s opinion, were the cockades worn by the men at the sides of their small stiff hats: green and gold to the right, red and gold to the left. The plumes fixed into the hair-dresses of the ladies were similarly green and gold on the right; red and gold on the left.

  A portly man in a suit of russet and orange, with a black cummerbund, seated himself beside Zamp; the two entered into conversation, the newcomer identifying himself as Roald Tush, Master of the showboat Perfumed Oliolus. For a period the two discussed vicissitudes along the Cynthiana River as compared to those of the Lower Vissel and found many parallel circumstances.

  Zamp however had never encountered an audience like that among which they sat, and Tush in terms which Zamp considered astonishingly frank expressed his own lack of enthusiasm for Mornune and its population. “They are extremely difficult to please, and despite their wealth not altogether open-handed, if in fact they deign to visit your boat in the first place.”

  “You have verified my own instinctive judgment,” said Zamp. “I have never seen folk so punctilious. Notice the precise inclination of their heads as they greet each other!”

  “There is substance in the most trifling nuances of their behavior,” stated Tush. “I would bore you by explaining their etiquette, but you may believe them to be a complicated and subtle folk. For instance, this audience includes princes, dukes, earls, barons and knights, each of whom must carefully graduate his conduct as he pays his respects about the room. Still, to the uninitiated, no great variance is evident.”

  “I admit as much,” said Zamp. “How does one make a distinction? By the tilt of the cockades and feathers?”

  Tush smilingly shook his head. “The green and gold symbolizes their reverence for the memory of the Doro Dynasty. These were heroic kings who defeated the Saguald Dominators, founded the kingdom of Soyvanesse, mined the Black Bog for iron and built the Magic Loom which thereupon wove the green and gold Tabard of Destiny.”

  “An interesting legend, to be sure. King Waldemar claims this lineage?”

  “He would not dare to do so, since he lacks the green and gold Tabard which would certify such a claim. In fact, the line was broken two hundred years ago when Shimrod the Usurper drowned the Green and Gold Tabard, and the last Doro, in Bottomless Lake. Am I boring you with this historical dissertation?”r />
  “By no means!” declared Zamp. “I am anxious to learn something of the local history, for more reasons than one. Where did the line progress after Shimrod?”

  “The Magic Loom wove a blue and gold tabard for the House of Erme. Shimrod was destroyed and the Ermes ruled until King Roble was killed at the Battle of Zemail. The Blue and Gold Tabard was lost under circumstances regarding which it would be folly to speculate, since the Magic Loom might or might not have woven the Scarlet and Gold which King Waldemar now wears. These of course are dangerous topics which I would not dare discuss with anyone but a fellow ship-master. In any event, the colors you see signify the fervent reverence still felt for the Green and Gold, and also the deference duly rendered the Scarlet and Gold of King Waldemar; and your question, if at discursive length, has been answered.”

  “All is clear,” said Zamp, “except as to the Magic Loom.”

  “If you would like to explore the depths of Bottomless Lake, you need only climb Myrmont.”

  “I am curious, but not reckless,” said Zamp.

  “Such curiosity is natural,” said Tush. “I was similarly affected when I first learned of the Magic Loom. Essentially I know nothing but rumor, to the effect that the loom is tended by nine Norns, who are fitful hysterical women, either blind, dumb or deaf from birth. When one dies she selects her successor and announces her choice by means of dreams, and the new Norn then takes the name of the old.”

  “The Magic Loom would appear to control the destinies of Soyvanesse,” Zamp suggested.

  “It is not quite so simple. Still, when King Waldemar appears, the company will give as much reverence to the tabard as to the man.”

  “Master Gassoon, have you heard all this?” demanded Zamp. “To win the prize we should impress and entertain the tabard rather than the man within!”

  Tush held up his hand in a quick gesture of caution. “Be careful with your jokes; skewed phrases carry far in Mornune. Already we have far overstepped discretion, and here now is King Waldemar. You must rise, and stand in the ritual posture: knees bent, head bowed, arms behind your back: so. Silence now; Waldemar is notorious for his impatience.”