The Faceless Man aka The Anome

by Jack Vance

  "Yes, to Bashon."

  "I propose, then, that we share a vehicle."

  Etzwane calculated his probable expense. Fifteen hundred florins for the indenture, a hundred for the return to Brassei with Eathre, another fifty for unforeseen contingencies. Sixteen hundred and fifty. He carried sixteen hundred and sixty-five. "I can't afford anything expensive," he said in a somewhat surly voice. Of all the folk of Shant, he least of all wished to be under obligation to Ifness. Save perhaps his soul-father Osso.

  At the hostelry Ifness ordered a fast trap drawn by a pair of prime pacers. "I'll have to take two hundred florins from you," the hostler told Ifness. "That is the deposit Hire will be twenty florins a day."

  Etzwane said flatly, "I can't afford it." Ifness made an indifferent gesture. "It is how I choose to travel. Pay what you can; I will be satisfied."

  "It's not much," said Etzwane. "Fifteen florins, in fact. Were it not for the Roguskhoi, I'd walk."

  "Pay fifteen florins or nothing whatever," said Ifness. "It's all the same to me."

  Nettled by the condescension, the more irritating for its absent-minded quality, Etzwane brought forth fifteen florins. "If this satisfies you, take it. Otherwise I will walk."

  "Well enough, well enough; let us be off; I am anxious to inspect the Roguskhoi, circumstances offer."

  The pacers, tall, rangy beasts, deep and narrow-chested, long and fine in the legs, sprang off down the road; the trap whirled after.

  Etzwane glowered at Ifness from the corner of his eye. A strange man, for a fact; Etzwane had never seen another like him. Why should he want to inspect the Roguskhoi? There seemed no sensible reason for such an interest. If a Roguskhoi were dead and lying beside the road, Etzwane would pause to examine the corpse from natural curiosity; but to go about the business so purposefully—it seemed sheer lunacy I

  Etzwane pondered the possibility that Ifness, for a fact, might be insane. The preoccupied placidity, the indifference to others, the bizarre predilections, all were suggestive of dementia. Still Ifness was nothing if not self-controlled; his appearance—spare, austere, otherwise nondescript save for the cropped white hair, the old-young face—seemed the very definition of sanity. Etzwane lost interest in the subject; he had other, more pressing concerns.

  Ten miles they drove, up and down the rolling hills of Seamus. Along the road from the east came a man on a thrust-cycle wearing the red cap of invisibility. He rode at the best speed he could muster, lying flat on the pallet, buttocks surging and jerking as he kicked at the ratchet.

  Ifness pulled the trap to a halt and watched the man's approach. A discourteous act, thought

  Etzwane; the man wore red. The cyclist swerved to pass by. Ifness called him to a halt, to the man's displeasure.

  "Why do you molest me? Have you no eyes in your head?"

  Ifness ignored his agitation. "What is the news?"

  "Dreadful news; don't stay me; I'm off to Canton Sable or beyond." He made as if to hump the cycle into motion once more; Ifness called out politely: "A moment, if you please. No danger is visible. From what are you fleeing?"

  "From the Roguskhoi; what else? They burnt Salubra Village; another band pillaged the Chilites. For all I know they're close on my heels! Delay me no longer; if you're wise, you'll turn about and flee west at all speed!" The man thrust his cycle into motion and was gone along the road to Carbade.

  Ifness turned to look at Etzwane. "Well, what now?"

  "I must go to Bash on."

  Ifness nodded and without further remark whipped up the pacers.

  Etzwane leaned forward, heart in his mouth. Visions crossed before his eyes. He thought of florins wasted on drink, gifts to occasional sweethearts, unnecessary garments, his costly silver-mounted wood-horn. Frolitz thought him niggardly; he considered himself a wastrel. Vain regrets. The money was spent; the time was lost. The pacers, prime beasts, ran without fatigue; miles passed under the wheels. They entered Bastern; ahead appeared the shadow of Rhododendron Way. From behind the hill rose a column of smoke. As they entered Rhododendron Way, Ifness slowed the trap to a more cautious pace, inspecting the shadows under the trees, the berry coverts, the hillsides, with an alertness Etzwane had not noticed in him before. All seemed normal, save for the utter silence. The lavender-white sunlight lay in irregular sprinkles along the white dust; in the garden of the first cottage purple and magenta geraniums bloomed among spikes of lime-green ki. The door of the cottage hung askew. Across the threshhold lay the body of a man, face obliterated by a terrible blow. The girl who had lived in the cottage was gone.

  A gap through the trees revealed the temple. Along the upper terraces a few Chilites moved slowly, tentatively, as if trying to convince themselves that they were alive. Ifness touched up the pacers; the trap whirled up the hill toward the temple. From the embers of the tannery and women's dormitory rose the column of smoke they had seen from far off. The temple and its conjoined structures seemed to be whole. Etzwane, standing up in the trap, looked all around. He saw no women, young or old.

  Ifness halted the trap before the temple portico. From the terrace above a group of Chilites, haggard and uncertain, peered down. Ifness called up: "What has happened?" The Chilites stood like ghosts in their white robes. "Hello up there I" called Ifness with acerbity in his voice. "Can you hear me?"

  The Chilites moved slowly back out of sight, as if toppling over backward, thought Etzwane.

  Several minutes passed. The three suns performed their majestic gyrations across the sky.

  The stone walls baked in the glare. Ifness sat without motion. Again, with sharper puzzlement, Etzwane wondered why Ifness troubled himself to such an extent.

  The iron gates moved ajar and revealed a group of Chilites. He who had opened the gate was a round-faced young man, somewhat portly, with overlarge features, scant sandy hair, and a full sandy beard. Etzwane on the instant recognized Geacles Vonoble. Behind stood half a dozen other Chilites, and one among them was Osso Higajou.

  Ifness spoke sharply, "What has occurred here?"

  Osso said in a voice that rasped as if bitter phlegm choked his throat, "We are victims of the Roguskhoi. We have been pillaged; they have done us vast harm."

  "How many were there in the band?"

  "No less than fifty. They swarmed at us like savage beasts! They beat on our doors; they brandished weapons; they burnt our structures!"

  "In the process of defending your women and your property, you doubtless inflicted many casualties?" inquired Ifness dryly.

  The Chilites drew back in indignation; Geacles gave a contemptuous laugh. Osso said in a waspish voice, "We are nonviolent folk; we advocate peace."

  "Did the abducted women defend themselves?" inquired Ifness.

  "Yes, many of them; it did no good, and they violated their consciences in the process."

  "They must suffer doubly in that case," Ifness agreed. "Why did you not shelter them in the temple?"

  The Chilites surveyed him in calm silence, making no response.

  Ifness asked again: "In regard to the Roguskhoi, what weapons did they carry?"

  Geacles pulled at his beard, glanced off across the hillside. He spoke in a subdued voice: "They carried cudgels studded with spikes; these swung from their wrists. They wore scimitars at their belts, which they did not use."

  "How long ago did they depart?"

  "No more than an hour; they herded the women into a file; young and old, infants excepted; these they threw into the tannery vats. We are now bereft."

  Etzwane could restrain himself no longer. "Which way did they go?"

  Geacles stared at Etzwane, then turned and muttered to Osso, who came forward three quick steps.

  Ifness, coldly polite, put the question a second time: "Which way did they go?"

  "Up the Mirk Valley, the way they had come," said Geacles.

  Osso pointed a finger at Etzwane. "You are the Pure Boy Faman Bougozonie who committed foul acts and fled."

  "My name is Gastel E
tzwane. I am the son of Dystar the druithine. My mother is the lady Eathre."

  Osso spoke in a menacing voice: "Why did you come here?"

  "I came to dissolve my mother's indenture."

  Osso smiled. "We do not engage in such casual traffic."

  "I carry an ordinance from the Faceless Man."

  Osso grunted. Geacles said smoothly, "Why not? Pay us our money; the woman will be released to you."

  Etzwane made no response. He turned to look. up Mirk Valley where he had never ventured for fear of ahulphs. The women would walk at less than three miles an hour. The Roguskhoi had departed an hour since. Etzwane thought furiously. He looked toward the tannery: destroyed, burnt to the ground. The far sheds where chemicals and dyes were stored still stood. He turned to Ifness and spoke in a low voice: "Will you lend me the trap and the pacers? If I lose them, I will pay; I carry sixteen hundred florins."

  "Why do you require the trap?"

  "So that I may save my mother."

  "How?"

  "It depends upon Osso."

  "I will lend you the trap. What are a pair of pacers, after all?"

  Etzwane spoke to Osso: "The Roguskhoi are great wine-drinkers. Give me two large kegs of wine. I will convey them up the valley and deliver them."

  Osso blinked in bewilderment. "You intend to assist their revelries?"

  "I intend to poison them."

  "What?" cried Geacles. "And so provoke another attack?"

  Etzwane looked to Osso. "What do you say?"

  Osso calculated. "You plan to deliver the wine in the trap?"

  "I do."

  "What will you pay for the wine? It is our ceremonial liquor; we have none other."

  Etzwane hesitated. Time was too precious to be used haggling; still, if he offered generously, Osso would ask more. "I can only offer what it is worth, thirty florins a cask."

  Osso gave Etzwane a cold glance. Ifness lounged indifferently against the trap. Osso said, "That is not enough."

  Ifness said, "It is ample. Bring forth the wine."

  Osso examined Ifness. "Who are you?"

  Ifness looked unsmilingly off over the valley. Presently he said, "In due course the Faceless Man will move against the Roguskhoi. I will inform him of your refusal to cooperate."

  "I have refused nothing," rasped Osso. "Give me your sixty florins, then go to the door of the storeroom."

  Etzwane paid over the coins. Two casks of wine were rolled forth and loaded into the back of the trap. Etzwane ran over to the chemical storehouse, looked along the lines of jugs and packets. Which would serve his purpose best? He did not know.

  Ifness entered the shed. He glanced along the shelf and selected a canister. "This will serve best. It has no remarkable flavor and is highly toxic."

  "Very well." They returned to the trap.

  "I will be gone at least six hours," said Etzwane. "If possible, I will bring back the trap, but as to this—"

  I paid a large deposit for the use of the trap," said Ifness. "It is a valuable piece of equipment."

  With compressed lips Etzwane brought forth his pouch. "Will two hundred florins suffice? Or" as many as you wish, to sixteen hundred."

  Ifness climbed into the seat. "Put away your florins. I will come along to protect my interests."

  Wordlessly Etzwane sprang aboard; the trap moved off- up Mirk Valley. From the terraces of the temple the Chilites stood watching until the trap passed from view.

  Chapter 8

  The road was little more than a pair of wheel tracks beside the Mirk River. To either side were flats overgrown with rich green bandocks, each plant raising a single pale blue spine that flicked at passing insects. Along the river grew willows, alders, clumps of stately dark blue miter-plants. Signs of the Roguskhoi were evident: odd articles of female clothing; on three occasions the corpses of old women, looking harried beyond their capacity; and in one dreary little heap, the corpses of six infants, evidently pulled from their mothers and dashed to the ground.

  Ifness drove at the best pace the road allowed: The trap bounced, bumped, swung from side to side, but still moved three times the best possible speed of the Roguskhoi and the women.

  Ifness asked after a few minutes, "Where does the road lead?"

  "Up to Gargamet Meadow—that's what the Chilites call it. It's the plantation where they grow their galga bush."

  "And how far to Gargamet Meadow?"

  "Five or six miles from here, at a guess. I would expect the Roguskhoi to stop at Gargamet Meadow for the night."

  Ifness pulled in the pacers. "We don't want to overtake them in this gully. Have you poisoned the wine?"

  "I'll do so now." Etzwane climbed into the rear of the trap and poured half of the canister into each keg.

  The suns passed behind the western slope; the valley began to grow dim. A sense of imminence pressed down on Etzwane; the Roguskhoi could not be too far ahead. Ifness drove with great caution; to blunder into a Roguskhoi rear guard would not serve their purposes. Ahead the road passed through a notch with tall coral-trees silhouetted on the sky at either side. Ifness stopped the cart; Etzwane ran ahead to reconnoiter. The road, passing through the notch, swung around a clump of purple-pear trees, then eased out upon a flat. To the left loomed a grove of dark bawberrys; to the right the galga plantation spread: sixty acres of carefully-tended vines. Beside the bawberry grove a pond reflected back the lavender sky; here the Roguskhoi marshaled their captives. They had just arrived; the women were still moving as the Roguskhoi directed with great roaring commands and sweeps of their huge arms.

  Etzwane signaled back to Ifness, who brought the trap forward to the clump of purple-pears. With pinched nostrils Ifness looked across the flat. "We can't be too transparent in our scheme," he told Etzwane. "We must contrive natural movements."

  Etzwane's nerves began to draw and grate. He spoke in a high-pitched, rasping voice: "Any minute they'll start in on the women! They can hardly contain themselves."

  Indeed, the Roguskhoi now surrounded the women, making tremulous motions, surging toward the shrinking huddle, then drawing back.

  Ifness inquired, "Can you ride a pacer?"

  "I suppose so," said Etzwane. "I've never tried."

  "We will drive across the meadow furtively, as if hoping to evade attention. As soon as they see us—then you must be quick, and I as well!"

  Etzwane, terrified but desperately resolved, nodded to Ifness's instructions. "Anything, anything. We must hurry!"

  "Haste provokes disaster," chided Ifness. "We have just arrived; we must take account of every circumstance." He appraised and considered another ten seconds, then drove out on the edge of the meadow and turned toward the plantation, away from the bawberry grove. They moved in full view of the Roguskhoi, should one by chance remove his glance from the ashen-faced women.

  They drove a hundred yards, attracting no attention; Ifness nodded in satisfaction. "It would seem now as if we are hoping to escape their notice."

  "What if they don't see us?" asked Etzwane in a thin voice he hardly recognized as his own.

  Ifness made no response. They drove another fifty yards. From the Roguskhoi came a yell, hoarse yet wild, with a peculiar crazy timber that started up the hairs behind Etzwane's neck.

  "They have seen us," said Ifness in a colorless voice. "Be quick now." He jumped down from the cart with no undue haste and unsnapped the traces from one of the pacers; Etzwane fumbled with the straps of the other pacer. "Here," said Ifness, "take this one. Climb upon its back and take the reins."

  The pacer jerked at the unaccustomed weight and lowered its head.

  "Ride for the road," said Ifness. "Not too fast."

  Twenty of the Roguskhoi lumbered across the meadow, eyes distended, arms flailing and pumping: A fearful sight. Ifness ignored them. He snapped loose the traces on the second pacer, cut short the reins, tied them deliberately, jumped upon the pacer's back. Then, kicking it in the ribs, he sent the beast loping after Etzwane.

&nb
sp; The Roguskhoi, sighting the casks, forgot the fugitives; with hardly a pause in their stride they lifted the tongue of the trap; cavorting in particularly grotesque fashion, they drew it back across the meadow.

  In the shadow of the purple-pears Ifness and Etzwane halted the pacers. "Now," said Ifness, "we must wait."

  Etzwane made no reply. The Roguskhoi, abandoning the women, swarmed around the trap. The casks were broached; the Roguskhoi drank with hoarse bellows of approval.

  In a strained voice Etzwane asked, "How long before the poison acts?"

  "So much poison would kill a man within minutes. I hopefully assume that the Roguskhoi metabolism is similar."

  The two watched the encampment. The wine had been totally consumed. With no evidence either of sickness or intoxication the Roguskhoi turned upon the women. Each rushed into the whimpering group and without regard for age or condition seized a female and began to tear away clothing.

  Ifness said: "The moment has come."

  Several of the Roguskhoi had stopped short to gaze uncomprehendingly at the ground. Slowly they touched their abdomens, their throats, drew their fingers across their naked red scalps. Others displayed similar symptoms; the women, gasping and sobbing, crawled away in random directions like insects poured from a bottle. The Roguskhoi commenced to writhe, to dance a strange, slow ballet; they raised a crooked leg, clamped knee against abdomen, hopped, then repeated the antic on the opposite leg. Their faces sagged, their mouths hung pendulous.

  Suddenly, in terrible rage, one cried out a word incomprehensible to Etzwane. The others shouted the same word in grotesque despair. One of the Roguskhoi dropped to his knees and slowly crumpled to the ground. He began to work his arms and legs like a beetle turned on its back. Certain of the women who had almost reached the bawberry grove began to run. The movement stimulated the warriors to frenzy. Staggering, reeling, they lurched in pursuit, flailing with their bludgeons. Screaming, sobbing, the women ran this way and that; the Roguskhoi jumped among them; the women were caught and beaten to the ground.

  The Roguskhoi began to topple, one after the other. Ifness and Etzwane stepped out upon the meadow; the last Roguskhoi erect noticed their presence. He snatched out his scimitar and hurled it. Take care I" cried Ifness, and sprang nimbly back. The scimitar whirled murderously through the air but curved to the side and slashed into the dirt. With renewed dignity Ifness once more stepped forward, while the last Roguskhoi fell to the ground.