by Jack Vance
“Another small matter,” said Myron. “Captain Maloof insists that fares be paid in advance. But I find no record on my books of such payment, either from you or others of your troupe.”
Moncrief said languidly, “I have made special arrangements with Captain Maloof. My personal fare will be paid from monies collected on Mariah and Coro-Coro, on Fluter. The Klute women must make their own arrangements.”
“What of the three girls?”
Moncrief’s expression became sour. “The Klutes have custody of the girls; they must pay all fees and fares.”
Myron was puzzled. “But you are master of the troupe!”
Moncrief sighed. “The girls are indentured to the Klutes for four hundred sols each. The Klutes control the girls’ services until the indentures are paid off — but this will never happen. At Cax the Klutes will sell off the papers to a rich padroon for an enormous price. The girls will be taken to a Skyland palace; they will disappear into the seraglio, and will never be seen again.”
Myron was shocked. “This is hard to believe!”
“Nevertheless, it is the way things are done on Blenkinsop. The padroons do as they please.”
“It sounds to me like slavery,” said Myron. “Slavery is illegal!”
“Indenture and slavery are sometimes alike — except that you can buy your way out of indenture.”
“Hmf,” said Myron. “Something should have been done long ago.”
“That is easy to say! The indentures are twelve hundred sols in all. I have no such sum. Do you?”
“There is not that much money aboard the ship.”
“Now then, a second matter: even if I had the money, the Klutes are not obliged to settle with me. Only the girls themselves may dissolve the indentures. In effect, the Klutes can do as they like.”
Myron slumped back into the chair. “I don’t understand how such things can happen!”
“Simple enough. On the world Numoy, in the Enders Valley, several institutions take care of lost children. The largest is the Enders Valley Foundling Farm, under the Bleary Hills. Siglaf and Hunzel worked in the refectory, and took out papers on the girls. For two years they have worked with the troupe, but now, as soon as we put into Cax, they will sell off the indenture papers, collect their money and return to the Bleary Hills.”
“This is sickening! It should not happen!”
“So I would like to think.”
An hour later Myron came upon Maloof, alone in the pilot-house. Myron reported what he had learned from Moncrief.
For a time Maloof sat motionless; at last he stirred. “It is an ugly situation.”
Myron asked diffidently, “Is there any way we can interfere?”
“Dozens of ways. One way might even be feasible. Another might be legal.”
Myron and the captain stood silently, staring out the port into space. Finally Maloof spoke. “It’s still a long way to Cax. I will give the matter some thought.”
2
After a time, the pilgrims once again began to play their game, using beans for counters. In the absence of financial pressure, they played in a style more dashing than they had dared when real money had been on the line. At the same time, they took occasion to analyze their play, evaluating the tactics of positional flux, totting up the weight of power-increments which previously they had considered too paltry to note. With their new insights they confidently told each other that at last they understood Schwatzendale’s tricks, and spoke of the strategies by which they would rout his forces should he dare to play with them again.
After a few days of pushing beans back and forth, the pilgrims devised a new currency consisting, as before, of chips equivalent to one of the packets in their cases.
The game proceeded at the old level of excitement. The pilgrims were now convinced of their expertise, confident in their skills, and many still rankled from the defeats inflicted by Schwatzendale. They became brash and challenged him to join the game, so that they might attempt to recover their previous losses.
Schwatzendale pretended disinclination. “I sense a trap! You have honed your skills until they fairly dazzle the eye! Your scumbles rain down like thunderbolts! You are the new demons of double-moko!”
“Bah! That is an illusion! We are the same duffers as before!”
“Is this really true?” asked Schwatzendale, as if his resolve were melting.
“Absolutely! You can depend upon it!”
“What are the stakes? I already hold all your cash.”
“We are using specie even more precious than cash,” declared a pilgrim named Zeitzer. “The units are chips, identical to the last issue. Each chip represents a packet of sacred material, worth at least a sol and perhaps as much as ten sols at Impy’s Landing.”
Schwatzendale performed one of his most picturesque gestures. “Do you take me for a lumpkin? The chips are worthless, until I know what they signify. If I should win a few, how, when and where would I convert them into ordinary cash?”
Zeitzer reluctantly responded. “Is it not clear? At Cape Pallorquin there will be hundreds of pilgrims who have neglected to bring proper tokens. We will supply what is needed at a benevolent price, which of course is subject to market factors. This price determines the worth of both the packet and the chip.”
Schwatzendale hesitated, drawn by the lure of the game. He remembered the triumphant sallies from the corners of hell; the sidelong scumbles, like slashes of a scimitar; the moans of the stricken pilgrims. In the end, Schwatzendale agreed to sit in for a hand or two, to see how the game went.
Zeitzer, a man of conscience, held up a restraining finger. “It is only fair to warn you that we are no longer quite as inept as before. Some of us have learned the rudiments of the game. Will you still take the risk?”
“I have committed myself,” said Schwatzendale. “I would feel a sorry cad if now I showed the white feather.”
“Then let the game begin!”
For a time Schwatzendale played modestly, while he appraised the tactics of the others, but presently he became infected by the spirit of the game and began to play with his usual bravura. His diabolos crashed down like balls of iron; his scumbles instantly found their marks; at his cries of “Out Gehenna!” his rambles carried all before them. In the end the pilgrims sat stunned, with neither chips nor cash, and so the game might have come to a dismal end had it not been for an unforeseen circumstance. Moncrief had wandered past the table once or twice, watching the play with benign disinterest. When the game seemed about to collapse, he settled himself at the table, and meekly asked permission to join the game. The permission was granted and play resumed. Suddenly all went poorly for Schwatzendale. His diabolos never reached the third card, while his scumbles were brushed aside as if they had been puffs of smoke. Schwatzendale endured the reverses with stoic fortitude, and his responses inflicted little damage. He made only timid display of his dragons, while his half-hearted sallies only seemed to arouse Moncrief’s amusement, so that he struck back with ever more novel combinations.
After a dreary two hours Moncrief had won all Schwatzendale’s chips. He would have continued the game had not Schwatzendale called a halt.
Moncrief chided him gently: “My dear chap, why do you stop so soon? The game is at its height! Open your purse! Throw down a few sols! Then let the game proceed!”
Schwatzendale smilingly shook his head. “I have exhausted my bait.”
Moncrief raised his eyebrows. “‘Bait’? Explain, if you please.”
Schwatzendale hesitated, then gave his head a modest shake. “All taken with all, it might be as well to put the subject aside.”
Moncrief was not to be diverted so easily. “Come, my good fellow! Speak up! Let us have neither mysteries nor evasions!”
Schwatzendale shrugged. “Just as you like. The chips, so I suspect, are worthless, since they take on real value only at Impy’s Landing, which is not on our itinerary. Therefore I put the chips to practical use. I played with care, sur
rendering my chips in a measured flow, so that I could observe and analyze your game in detail.”
Moncrief sat back in his chair. “Ha hah! Your schemes were subtle, but — naturally I diagnosed them at once. In response, I showed you a few childish feints, and a set of outmoded positions — all of which you studied with fascinated interest.”
“True,” murmured Schwatzendale. “So I did.”
Moncrief went on. “I wonder as to your purposes — unless you expect more gaming.”
“The possibility exists,” said Schwatzendale seriously, “so long as the stakes are neither chips nor religious items.”
Moncrief tapped his chin with a white forefinger. “This being the case, what stakes do you propose?”
“Money is useful.”
Moncrief smiled wanly. “That is a dictum worthy of good Baron Bodissey himself! At the moment, my finances are in a state of flux, for which I blame a series of unwise speculations.”
“I gather, then, that you are without funds?”
“Correct. But I am not without resource, since the troupe itself must be considered an asset of value.”
Schwatzendale was perplexed. “How can your troupe be used as the stake in a gambling game?”
“By an indirect means. I propose that, using the troupe as security, you advance me, let us say, a thousand sols. With this money I will enter the game, and we shall compete on equal terms.”
Schwatzendale pulled at his chin. He mused. “There is stuff here which requires sober over-thinking.”
Moncrief waved away the idea. “No need! I have done all necessary thinking. The scheme is excellent!”
“So you say. What if I lose my entire stake?”
Moncrief smiled and shrugged. “Need you ask? I would immediately return the thousand sols, retain my troupe and use the winnings to advantage.”
Schwatzendale twisted his mouth in a grimace of distaste. “On the other hand, suppose that I won: what then?”
“Pish!” said Moncrief grandly. “I shall not lose.”
“Let us think the unthinkable,” said Schwatzendale. “Assume that I have won the game and the money as well, then I gain full control of the troupe and all its adjuncts; am I correct?”
“Far-fetched, of course; but, yes, essentially correct.”
“I would also control the services of Flook, Pook and Snook. Again, am I correct?”
Moncrief laughed indulgently. “Your plans become clear. But your conclusions are incorrect!”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. Siglaf and Hunzel have resigned from the troupe, taking the girls with them.”
Schwatzendale inquired, “How can this be?”
“There is no mystery. The Klute women control the girls by the force of legal instruments, known as papers of indenture. The girls must obey until the indentures are paid off.”
Schwatzendale flung himself back in his chair. “This comes as a shock!” After a moment a new thought occurred to him. “The troupe which you value so highly is an empty shell! It includes only you.”
Moncrief spoke loftily. “Along with my reputation, repertory, spectacles, costumes, formulas, musical scores, a vast store of good will and all my glorious experience.”
Schwatzendale sadly shook his head. “That is orotund flapdoodle. When I control the troupe, it shall be like old times! And you shall once again be Moncrief the famous Mouse-rider, and once again the troupe shall prosper! You shall ride like a man possessed, with fury and zeal. I will collect the wagers, and pay out the winnings: all to the exact dinket. There shall be no more chicanery, nor flights in the night; no longer will we disguise ourselves as old women to avoid the ruffians we have cheated!”
“Eh? Eh? What’s this!” cried Moncrief. “The Mouse-riders were models of rectitude, in every respect!”
“Not always,” said Schwatzendale. “I know someone who was mulcted of forty-seven sols and sixty dinkets at a game of Cagliostro! He identified the scoundrel as Moncrief the Mouse-rider and swore revenge!”
Moncrief dismissed the anecdote with a weary sigh. “In my time I have heard endless poor-mouthing. It is all water under the bridge and the topic is moot, since the days of mouse-riding are gone.”
“They shall be revived, with all their old fanfaronade! Buffoonery is popular with the gamesters and helps to open their wallets. You still command your adroit tricks, and you are quite agile, for a person of your age.”
Moncrief grimaced, and started to speak, but Schwatzendale forestalled him. “You mentioned a thousand sols: a fine sum, I agree! But we now must descend from fantasy and speak of what is real. When I look into my cash-box, I find less than two hundred sols. From this I can spare, at most, a hundred sols. This must suffice.”
“Surely you can’t be serious!” cried Moncrief. “The figure is preposterous!”
“It is no more preposterous than your scheme! Think of it! If I win, I lose. If I lose, I lose even more. That is not sound practice.”
Moncrief heaved himself to his feet. Looking down at Schwatzendale he said, “I see that the scheme is impractical. Dismiss it, if you will, from your mind.” He stalked off across the saloon.
3
Aboard the Glicca, in accordance with standard practice, the diurnal unit was arbitrarily divided into twelve hours of day, followed by twelve hours of night. When the ship took departure from a port of call, the on-board computer adjusted shipboard time by small daily increments, either positive or negative, so that upon arrival at the next destination shipboard time was in synchrony with local time, and travellers were able to disembark without temporal jar.
The days passed in orderly sequence. About halfway into the voyage, Schwatzendale noticed a curious alteration in the mood of the pilgrims. From time to time they gathered in small groups, whispering and smirking, turning bland faces toward him as he passed. Once or twice he came upon them chortling, snapping their fingers, clapping each other on the back, though when he drew near, they became stiffly sober.
One day Cooner came ambling across the saloon and, with a grunt, settled into a chair beside Schwatzendale. He peered to right and left, as if to ensure privacy, then asked, “Do you care to learn something of interest?”
“Certainly; why not?” replied Schwatzendale.
Once again Cooner peered over his shoulder. “This is information of a quasi-confidential nature.”
Schwatzendale looked at him blankly: “How is that term defined?”
Cooner chuckled. “Oh, you know! It is matter for select ears only!”
“Very well. My ears have been selected and I am listening.”
Cooner bent forward and tapped Schwatzendale’s knee. “Some of the pilgrims, I regret to say, have performed an act which may or may not be considered irregular.”
“What sort of act?”
“They have established a clubhouse in the corner of the aft cargo bay. They amuse themselves with a new game, which they find quite novel.”
Schwatzendale was puzzled. “That is somewhat irregular, but I doubt if anyone will object, unless they molest the cargo.”
“No; nothing like that. Everyone has been careful.”
“Then why tell me?”
“For a simple reason. They think that you might care to join the game.”
Schwatzendale grinned. “I took all their assets! What are they using for stakes?”
“It is the same as before. They have issued new chips, secured by the contents of other cases.”
“Amazing! I thought that the old chips controlled all the cases.”
“Not quite; we are too wise for that! Only about one third of the goods were put at hazard. This new issue represents three other cases.”
“What do you carry in the cases that is so valuable?”
Cooner pursed his lips. “We are members of the Clantic sect, well and truly, but we are also prone to hunger, thirst, pain, fatigue and ordinary misery. Most of all, we hope to return home after our pilgrimage. To pay for these indulgenc
es, we must undertake practical enterprises.”
“All very well,” said Schwatzendale. “But what do you carry in the cases?”
Cooner gave his hands a flutter of genteel distaste. “I must explain. When pilgrims arrive at Impy’s Landing, some come lacking articles of critical importance. We carry supplies of these stuffs, properly formulated and sanctified, which we sell at ten sols or more per unit. The process is a trifle crass, but since we lack funds, we rely upon sharing the wealth of more fortunate brethren.”
“You are certain that you can sell these items?”
“Absolutely! They are much in demand! Once we arrive at Impy’s Landing, we shall enjoy an amplitude of funds.”
“Then why do you want me to play your game?”
Cooner grinned rather foolishly. “Is it not clear? Think back to the last game! You came at us like a storming tyrant, to take all our chips. We hope to win them back.”
“You have come to the wrong man! The chips were no use to me, so I let Moncrief win them all.”
Cooner gave a poignant cry. “You own no chips whatever?”
Schwatzendale gave his hand a brave flourish. “I can win them back anytime I like. The old mountebank has lost his cunning. Come; show me the game.”
Cooner seemed suddenly hesitant. “We shall go sedately, like gentlemen. There is no need for a headlong rush. In fact, they may not be ready for you.”
“No matter! I am ready for them!” Schwatzendale jumped to his feet. “I will first look the game over; be kind enough to lead the way.”
Cooner stood irresolute. “You will need money.”
“We will stop by my cabin. Come along with you, or I shall find my own way.”
Cooner set off slowly, at a pompous strut.
Schwatzendale finally cried out: “Is this the slow-march at the high abbot’s funeral? You walk like a constipated owl! Come, come! Show a bit more brio!”
Cooner halted and looked over his shoulder. “Are you tired? Perhaps we should rest.”
“I am not tired.”
“A bit of a delay is sometimes nice.”
“Why a delay? We have only just started!”
