The Faceless Man aka The Anome

by Jack Vance

  Ifness said, "The trap appears to be unharmed. Let us reclaim it."

  Etzwane looked at him, face blank with horror. He made a sound in his throat, moved forward a step, then halted. The features of the worn- en had been blurred—by motion, by distance. Almost all he had known. Some had been kind, some had been beautiful; some had laughed, some had been sorrowful. With his poison he had contributed to the massacre, still—what else, what else?

  "Come along," said Ifness brusquely. "Lead your pacer." He marched across the meadow, never troubling to look back.

  Etzwane followed sluggishly, forcing his feet to move.

  Arriving at the Roguskhoi camp, Ifness inspected the bodies with fastidious interest. The Roguskhoi still made small movements: twitches, jerks, clenched digging with the fingers. Etzwane forced himself to look here and there. He noticed the body of his sister Delamber: dead. Her face had been smashed almost beyond recognition; Etzwane recognized first the red-gold glints of her hair. He wandered across the field. There was Eathre. He fell down on his knees beside her and took her hands. He thought she still lived, though blood oozed from both her ears. He said, "It is Etzwane: your son Mur. I am here. I tried to save you, but I failed."

  Eathre's lips moved. "No," he thought to hear her say, "you didn't fail. You saved me . . . Thank you, Mur..."

  Etzwane dragged branches and boughs from the bawberry woods, stacked them high; he had no spade to dig a grave. He placed the bodies of Eathre and Delamber on the pyre and placed more branches to lean around and over. He needed much wood; he made many trips.

  Ifness had been otherwise occupied. He harnessed the restive pacers to the trap and repaired the reins. Then he turned his attention to the Roguskhoi. He examined them closely, with frowning concentration. To Etzwane they seemed much alike: muscular, massive creatures, a head taller than the average man, with a skin hard and sleek as copper. Their features, which might have been hewn with an axe, were contorted and twisted, like those of a demon-mask: probably the effect of the poison. They grew no hair on head or body; their costumes were almost pitifully meager: black leather crotch-pieces, a belt from which hung their bludgeons and scimitars. Ifness took up one of the scimitars and examined the gleaming metal with interest. "No product of Shant here," he mused. "Who forged such metal?"

  Etzwane had no answer; Ifness placed the scimitar in the back of the trap. The cudgels likewise interested him. The handles were seasoned hardwood, eighteen inches long; the heads were iron balls studded with two-inch points: terrible weapons.

  Etzwane finally completed the pyre and set it afire on four sides. Flame licked up into the air.

  Ifness had taken upon himself a grisly investigation. With his knife he had slit open the abdomen of one of the Roguskhoi. Blackish-red intestines rolled out; Ifness moved them aside with a stick; with nostrils fastidiously pinched, he continued his inspection of the creature's organs.

  Dusk had come to the meadow. The pyre burnt high. Etzwane did not care to tarry longer. He called to Ifness: "Are you ready to leave?"

  "Yes," said Ifness. "I have one small further task."

  While Etzwane watched in utter astonishment, Ifness selected the corpses of six women; deftly cutting off the battered heads, he took the six torcs. Going to the pond, he washed torcs, knife, and hands and returned to where Etzwane stood by the trap, wondering as to Ifness's sanity and his own.

  Ifness seemed brisk and cheerful. He stood back to watch the flames from the pyre lick high into the gathering darkness. "It is time to go," said Ifness.

  Etzwane climbed into the seat of the trap. Ifness turned the pacers across the meadow. Etzwane suddenly signaled him to a halt. Ifness pulled up the pacers; Etzwane jumped to the ground. He ran back to the pyre, extracted a burning brand. This he carried to the galga plantation and fired the foliage, which was dense, dry, heavy with resin. Flames surged up through clouds of black smoke. In grim delight Etzwane stood back to watch; then he ran back to the trap.

  Ifness had no comment to make; Etzwane was unable to sense either approval or disapproval but did not care particularly.

  Leaving the meadow, they halted and looked back at the two fires. The galga patch lit the sky; the pyre glowed ruby red. Etzwane turned away, blinking. The fires were the past; when the fires died to ashes, the past would be gone.

  Down the dark valley moved the trap, by the light of the Skiaffarilla. The shuffle of hoofs, the creak of harness, and the soft scrape of wheels were the only sounds; they magnified the silence. Once or twice Etzwane looked back to watch the red glow slowly fading. At last he could see it no more; the sky was dark. He turned in the seat and gazed somberly ahead.

  In a quiet and formal voice Ifness asked, "Now that you have studied the Roguskhoi, what is your opinion?"

  Etzwane said, "They must be mad or demon-possessed. In a sense they are pitiable. But they must be destroyed."

  Ifness said reflectively, "I find myself in agreement with you. The cantons of Shant are highly vulnerable. The Chilites must now change beyond recognition or disappear."

  Etzwane tried to see Ifness's face in the starlight. "You can't believe this is unfortunate?"

  "I regret the passing of any unique organism; there has never been such a human adaptation before in all the history of the race; there may never be again."

  "What of the Roguskhoi: I suppose you'd be sorry to see them destroyed!"

  Ifness gave a small, quiet laugh. "Rather than the Roguskhoi themselves, I fear what they may represent. To such an extent that I have been forced to compromise my principles."

  "I don't understand you," said Etzwane shortly.

  Ifness said in a grave voice, "As you know, I travel here and there across Shant, according to the urgencies of my profession. I see many circumstances, some happy, others grievous, but by the very nature of my affairs I may never involve myself."

  Into Etzwane's mind came the memory of his first encounter with Ifness. "Not even to help a small boy escape the cannibal ahulphs?"

  Ifness turned to peer through the darkness. "You were that boy?"

  "Yes."

  Ifness was silent for several minutes. Then he said, "You have a dark and brooding streak in your nature which persuades you against your best interests. By resurrecting an episode ten years old you risk offending me; what benefit do you derive?"

  Etzwane spoke in a detached voice. "I have long resented that placid man who was willing to let me die. To express myself is a relief and a pleasure. I suppose that is the benefit which you asked about. I don't care a fig whether or not you are offended." Now that he had started talking, he found that he could not stop. "All that I have hoped and worked for is gone. Who is to blame? The Roguskhoi. Myself. The Faceless Man. The Chilites. All of us are to blame. I should have come sooner. I try to excuse myself: I had insufficient funds, I could not have anticipated the Roguskhoi raid. Still, I should have come sooner. The Roguskhoi—they are mad things; I am glad I poisoned them; I would gladly poison the entire race. The Chilites, whom you mourn: I don't care a fig for them, either. The Faceless Man: There is another matter I We have trusted him to protect us; we pay his imposts; we wear his torc; we follow, as we must, his edicts. To what end? Why has he not acted against the Roguskhoi? It is disheartening, to say the least!" "And to say the most?"

  Etzwane only shook his head. "Why did you cut open the Roguskhoi?"

  "I was curious as to their physiology." Etzwane gave a laugh that held a shrill note of wildness. He cut the laugh short. For a period there was silence. The trap moved down the starlit valley. Etzwane had no notion of how far they had come, how far they must go. He asked another question: "Why did you take the torcs?"

  Ifness sighed. "I had hoped you would not ask that question. I cannot provide you a satisfactory answer."

  "You have many secrets," said Etzwane.

  "All of us keep covert certain areas of ourselves," said Ifness. "You yourself for instance: you have evinced dissatisfaction with the Faceless Man, but you d
o not reveal your further intentions."

  "They are not secret," said Etzwane. "I shall go to Garwiy; I shall buy a Purple Petition; I shall argue my views with as much clarity as possible. Under the circumstances the Faceless Man must take notice."

  "One would think so," Ifness concurred. "But let us assume the contrary. What, then?"

  Etzwane squinted sidewise at the stiff yet casual silhouette against the blazing Skiaffarilla. "Why should I trouble myself with remote eventualities?"

  "I agree that overplanning sometimes limits spontaneity," said Ifness. "Still, when there are but two cases of equal probability, it is wise to consider contingencies in both directions."

  "I have ample time to form my plans," said Etzwane shortly.

  Chapter 9

  In the dead middle of the night they came down out of Mirk Valley. A few dim lights flickered from the terraces of the temple; a breeze brought the sweet-acrid whiff of galga mingled with vile odors of charred wood and hides.

  "The Chilites will worship Galexis until their drug runs out," remarked Ifness. "Then they must cry after a new goddess."

  They passed into Rhododendron Way, an avenue breathless and dark, haunted by remembered sounds. The foliage was black overhead, the road a white glimmer below. The cottages stood with doors ajar, offering shelter and rest; neither of the two suggested a halt. They continued on through the night.

  Dawn came as a glorious cascade of orange and violet across the east; as Sasetta curveted into the sky, the trap entered Carbade. The pacers walked slowly, heads drooping, considerably more weary than the men.

  Ifness drove directly to the hostler's and relinquished the conveyance; the torcs and the weapons he wrapped into a parcel and tucked into his jacket.

  Etzwane would return westward; at Brassei Ifness had stated his destination to be in the east. Etzwane said somewhat ponderously, "We go our different ways. I can't ignore the fact that you have helped me a great deal. I give you thanks, and I must say that I leave you in a better spirit than I did on a previous occasion. So then, Ifness, I bid you farewell."

  Ifness bowed courteously. "Farewell to you."

  Etzwane turned and strode across the square to the balloon-way depot. Ifness followed in a more leisurely fashion.

  At the ticket-seller's window Etzwane said in a crisp voice, "I want passage by the first balloon to Garwiy." As he paid the fee, he became conscious of Ifness standing behind him and gave a curt nod that Ifness returned. Ifness went to the wicket and arranged balloon passage for himself.

  The balloon south to Junction would not arrive at Carbade for another hour; Etzwane paced back and forth, then crossed the square to a food-vender's stall where he found Ifness. Etzwane took his meal to a table nearby, as did Ifness, after murmuring a conventional excuse to Etzwane.

  The two ate in silence. Etzwane, finishing, returned to the depot, followed somewhat later by Ifness.

  The slot began to sing: a thin, high-pitched whirring that told of the approaching dolly. Five minutes later the balloon came trembling and swaying down to the loading platform. Etzwane rose to his feet, leaving Ifness looking pensively from the depot window; he entered the gondola and settled himself upon the bench. Ifness came in behind him and took a seat directly opposite. Etzwane could ignore his presence no longer. "I thought you were continuing east."

  "An urgent matter takes me elsewhere," said Ifness.

  "To Garwiy?"

  "To Garwiy."

  The balloon rose into the air; riding the fresh morning wind, it slid up the slot toward Junction.

  During Etzwane's time Frolitz had taken his troupe to Garwiy but seldom, and only for short periods; the folk of Garwiy preferred entertainments more dramatic, more frivolous, more urbane. Etzwane nonetheless found Garwiy a fascinating place, if only for the marvel and grace of its vistas.

  In all the human universe there was no city like Garwiy, which was built of glass—blocks, slabs, prisms, cylinders of glass: purple, green lavender, blue, rose, dark scarlet.

  Among the original exiles from Earth had been twenty thousand Chama Reya, a cult of aestheticians. On Durdane they vowed to build the most magnificent city the race had yet known, and so dedicated themselves. The first Garwiy persisted seven thousand years, dominated in turn by the Chama Reya, the Architectural Corporation, the Director Dynasties, the transitional Superdirectors, and finally the Purple Kings. Each century brought new marvels to Garwiy, and it seemed that the goal of each Purple King was to daunt the memory of the past and stupefy the future. King Cluay Pandamon erected an arcade of nine hundred crystal columns sixty feet tall, supporting a prismatic glass roof. King Pharay Pandamon ordained a market pavilion of startling ingenuity. In a circular lake curved glass hulls were joined to form twelve floating concentric rings, each twenty feet wide, separated by bearings so that each ring floated free of those to either side. On these floating ways merchants and craftsmen established a bazaar, each booth isolated from its neighbor by a panel of colored glass. In a subsurface way around the lake, a hundred bullocks pulled the outside ring into slow rotation, which, through the agency of the water surrounding the hulls, gradually impelled the inner rings to rotations. Every six hours the bullocks reversed the rotational direction of the outer ring, and presently the rings all rotated at various speeds in different directions, presenting a succession of shifting colors and shadows: this the market bazaar built by King Pharay Pandamon.

  During the reign of King Jorje Shkurkane, Garwiy reached its peak. The slopes of the Ushkadel glittered with palaces; at the Jardeen docks glass ships unloaded the wares of the world: fibers, silks, and membranes from North Shant, the meat-products of Palasedra, salts and oxides from the mines of Caraz for the production of glass. All sixty-two cantons contributed to the glory of Garwiy; the Pandamon Bailiff was a familiar sight in the far corners of Shant. During King Kharene's unlucky reign, the south revolted; the Palasedran Eagle-Dukes crossed the Great Salt Bog to spark the Fourth Palasedran War, which terminated the Pandamon Dynasty.

  During the Sixth Palasedran War Palasedran bombardiers established themselves on the Ushkadel Ridges, from where they were able to lob air-mines into the old city. Fountain after fountain of antique glass spurted high into the sunlight. At last the Warlord Viana Paizifume launched his furious uphill assault, which subsequently became the substance of legend. With his cataphracts destroyed, his Elite Pikes dazed and leaderless, his Glass Darts cramped against the base of the cliff, Paizifume destroyed the Palasedran host with a horde of crazed ahulphs, daubed with tar, set afire and directed up the Ushkadel. Victory was a poor exchange for Garwiy shattered; the deed brought the Palasedrans a permanent legacy of distrust and bitterness.

  Viana Paizifume, from Canton Glirris on the east coast, refused to allow another Pandamon upon the Purple Throne and called a conclave of the cantons to form a new government. After three weeks of bickering and caprice, Paizifume's patience was exhausted. Mounting to the podium, he indicated a platform on which a screen had been arranged.

  "Beyond that screen," decreed Paizifume, "sits your new ruler. I will not tell you his name; you will know him only by his edicts, which I shall enforce. Do you understand the virtue of this arrangement? When you do not know your ruler, you will be unable to plot, wheedle, or suborn. Justice at last is possible."

  Did the first Faceless Man actually stand behind the screen? Or had Viana Paizifume invented an invisible alter ego? No one knew then or ever. However, when at last Paizifume was assassinated, the plotters were immediately apprehended, sealed into glass balls and suspended on a cable running between a pair of spires. For a thousand years the balls hung like baubles until one by one they were struck by lightning and destroyed.

  For a period the Faceless Man enforced his commands by means of a coercive corps, which gradually assumed improper prerogatives and stimulated a revolt. The Conservative Counsel quelled the revolt, disbanded the Coercive Corps, and restored order. The Faceless Man appeared before the counsel in armor of bl
ack glass, with a black glass helmet to conceal his identity. He demanded and was conceded greater power and greater responsibility. For twenty years the total energies of Shant were expended in the perfection of the torc system. The Magenta Edict decreed torcs for all and stimulated further strife: the Hundred Years War, which ended only when the last citizen had been clamped into his torc.

  Garwiy never regained its Pandamon magnificence but still was reckoned the first wonder of Durdane. There were towers of blue glass, spires of purple glass, green glass domes, prisms and pillars, walls of clear glass glinting and glittering in the sunlight. At night colored lamps illuminated the city: green lamps behind blue and purple glass, pink lamps behind blue glass.

  The palaces up the Ushkadel still housed the patricians of Garwiy, but these were a far cry from the flamboyant grandees of the Pandamon Era. They drew their income from country estates, from shipping, from the laboratories and workshops where torcs, radios, glow-bulbs, a few other electronic devices, were assembled, using components produced elsewhere in Shant: monomolecular conductor strands, semiorganic electron-control devices, magnetic cores of sintered ironweb, a few trifles of copper, gold, silver, lead, for connections and switches. No technician comprehended the circuits he used; whatever the original degree of theoretical knowledge, it now had become lore: a mastery of techniques rather than of principles. The workshops and factories were located in the industrial suburb Shranke on the Jardeen River; the workers lived nearby in pleasant cottages among gardens and orchards.

  This, then, was Garwiy: a metropolis of considerable area but no great population, a place of entrancing beauty enhanced by antiquity and the weight of history.