by Jack Vance
Jubal signaled to the waitress for wine. “My dilemma is this. I am a Glint of irreproachable caste; however this serves no purpose at Wysrod. I have been offered the post of sewer inspector at a salary of seventeen toldecks a week. Needless to say, my ambitions reach beyond a career of this sort.”
Shrack accepted a goblet of wine from the waitress. “Seventeen toldecks would seem an inadequate stipend for a gallant gentleman. I, a mere sea-farer, average almost half this amount.”
“I see three choices for myself,” said Jubal. “I can become a National; I can emigrate; or I can submit to expediency and become an inspector.”
The sea-farer drank from the goblet. Leaning back, he turned his mild gaze up to the ceiling. “Each of these courses, it is safe to say, entails a characteristic set of consequences which a stranger to the situation can only imagine. His projections will be inaccurate; how can anyone create real worlds from will-o’-the-wisps? Experience is the only source of wisdom: by which I mean, the competent conduct of life. In short, I can advise you only in regard to sea-faring. To complete your survey you should confer with an inspector and then an emigrant.”
“By coincidence I know one of each,” said Jubal, “but I can rely on neither for information, especially the emigrant. Will you drink more wine?”
“With pleasure! But allow me to arrange this phase of our discussion.” Shrack the sea-farer acquainted the waitress with his needs, then resumed his easy posture. “Like yourself, I was at one time forced to make a hard choice. By and large, I have not regretted it. I have seen strange sights; I have known startling experiences of which no city-dweller could be aware, no matter how agile his intellect.
The Clanche is my home. I love each splinter of her fabric, but I agree that a boat is different from a parcel of land, with a cottage, a stream, a meadow and an orchard of fruit. Better? Or worse? I have known both and I cannot decide.”
“Please continue,” said Jubal. “Your remarks bear directly on my problem.”
“I have taken the Clanche fourteen times around the Long Ocean. I have visited the Happy Isles, the Morks, and the Apparitions. I have bartered honey for musk with Wolvishmen of Dohobay. I have sailed up the Swal River of far Djanad to the town Rountze; on the Rountze mud-flats, during the dark of Skay20, nineteen Binadaries attacked me with sharp staves. I have traded at Weary on Bazan; at Thopold on the Sea of Storms; at Erdstone Pool on Wellas. In exchange for a good adze, a half-witted Wael dryad took me to a talking tree, and was subsequently planted—”
“Planted?”
“That is the Wael punishment. I consider them the strangest folk of Maske, perhaps of the whole Gaean Reach; they are said to derive from a union between the Vile Fourteenth and a band of rogue Djans.”
“I have heard a similar theory, but I am not convinced.”
Shrack nodded. “The coupling of Gaean with Djan produces no issue, as we all can attest. Still special potions might have been used; who knows the truth? I hope to visit Erdstone Pool soon, if only to drink rum punch at Tanglefoot Tavern.”
“Might you need an inexperienced assistant?”
“You have applied to the wrong ship,” said Shrack. “I am as land-bound as you; I cannot sail till I clear myself of certain writs. Rather than shipping as a deck-hand, which pays nothing but hard work, save your seventeen toldecks until you own a boat of your own.”
“What would be the price for a decent vessel?”
“Five thousand toldecks, or more.”
“At seventeen toldecks a week? This is a long-range goal.”
“Somehow you must augment your income.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Not at all. The secret is to seize upon the opportunity and wring it dry.”
“No such opportunity has ever been offered to me.”
“That is the common complaint.” Shrack rose to his feet. “I must return to my vessel. Certain rogues noticing the dark portholes might think to recognize one of these precise opportunities of which we spoke.
Goodnight and good luck.”
“Goodnight to you.”
Shrack departed the tavern. Jubal sat brooding. The two fat businessmen were dining upon an enormous poached buttle-fish. The man with the knotted muscles and gaunt visage conversed with a burly man wearing a maroon quat.21 Other folk had entered the tavern: a party of three young bravos in pretentious garments; a pair of old ladies who now sat blowing into pewter mugs of hot spiced beer.
Jubal saw nothing to interest him. He paid his score and left the tavern.
For a moment he stood on the verandah. Waves lapped quietly along the beach. Skay had set; deep darkness had come to the sky; a single filament of Zangwill Reef yet showed above the Cham.
Jubal went slowly along the verandah. Wan light shone briefly on his back as the tavern door opened and closed; behind him came firm measured steps. Against the street glow appeared a pair of silhouettes: one tall and gaunt, the other squat and burly… Jubal lengthened his step and reached his chamber; when he tried to open the door a plug in the keyhole blocked his key. He jerked it loose, inserted his key, but the two men stood at his shoulder.
The tall man spoke in a precise voice. “I address Jubal Droad the Glint?”
“I do not care to acknowledge my identity, whatever it may be, to strangers. I suggest that you transact your business at a more conventional time.”
The tall man’s voice did not seem to change; nevertheless Jubal detected a rasp of amusement. “Sir, we proceed along conventional lines. I am known as ‘Scales’. My colleague may be addressed as ‘Balance’.
We are officers of the Faithful Retribution Company. We carry a proper warrant, signed and officially stamped, for a ‘Well-Merited Extreme’, to be applied to your person,22 at this moment.”
Jubal spoke in a voice he tried to hold firm. “Let me see the warrant.”
Balance produced a sheet of parchment; Jubal took it into his room. Scales attempted to follow; Jubal roughly shoved him back. Balance, however, inserted his foot in the door.
Jubal read the document. His offense was defined as ‘wanton, unreasonable, cruel, and unverifiable slander, rendered against the reputation of the Excellent Ramus Ymph.’ The complainant signed herself ‘Mieltrude Hever, affianced bride of the said Ramus Ymph.’
“And what is this ‘Extreme Penalty’?” asked Jubal through the door-opening.
“We must infuse you with hyperas,” explained Scales. “This is a hyperaesthesic agent and a glottal inhibitor. Then we bathe you for twenty minutes in lukewarm herndyche, a dermal irritant; then we make thirteen applications of the bone-breaker upon your limbs. Your penalty thereupon is fulfilled.”
“I contest and appeal the penalty,” declared Jubal. “The arbitrator will strike down this warrant; so take your foot from the door.”
“All formalities have already been accomplished in your name. Notice, at the bottom of the page, where the arbitrator has rendered his findings.”
Jubal saw a stamp and a red seal. The subscription read:
Appeal indignantly denied. Let justice be done.
A signature was appended:
Delglas Ymph,
High Arbitrator to Wysrod.
“The Arbitrator is an Ymph! He is related to Ramus Ymph!” croaked Jubal.
“That matter lies beyond our instructions. Now, Sir Droad, allow us to enter your room.”
“Never. Stand back or I’ll kill you.”
Scales spoke in a hoarse rasping monotone: “Most unwise, even to talk so, Sir Droad. We are simple men, bent only on our duty.”
As he spoke Jubal noticed a soft hiss; near the floor he observed a large nozzle from which exuded a wisp of condensation.
Jubal turned and sprinted for the window across the room, only to find that a wooden panel had been fitted from the outside, blocking his escape.
Scales laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we are experienced; please come with us now.”
Jubal drove his fist
into Scales’ stomach; it was like striking a tree. Balance caught his arms and pinned them. Jubal was frog-walked out the door, across the verandah, and down upon the dark beach. He lurched and kicked; Scales adjusted a preventer over his head with prongs entering his mouth; Jubal could no longer struggle without breaking his teeth.
The three moved fifty yards, to halt where a copse of water-holly screened the beach from the Marine Parade. Balance caused a blue-lamp to glow; Jubal saw a tank seven feet long, half full of an iridescent liquid. Thrust in the sand was the bone-breaker—an iron club four feet long.
Scales told Jubal: “You may disrobe or not, as you wish; our warrant does not specify. We have learned that entering the bath fully dressed is distinctly more uncomfortable; one notes the chafe of fabric. But first we must administer the hyperas. Just relax, sir…” Jubal felt the pang of a bladder-sting and a wave of sensitivity expanding across his skin.
Balance approached. “These shackles, sir, prevent you from flailing your arms and legs; we find them indispensable. But first, do you wish to disrobe?”
Jubal wrenched himself from Scales’ grip; he thrust against Balance, and driving his feet into the sand, pushed. Balance, lurching backwards, tripped against the tank and fell back full length, with a sluggish sucking splash. His outcry, first hoarse in horror and anger, became swiftly shrill.
Scales had seized Jubal. “That was a very unfair act. You have injured my colleague in pursuit of his lawful duties. I will not be surprised if he solicits a warrant against you.”
For a moment the two stood immobile, Scales clamping Jubal’s arms, both watching Balance as he tried to scramble from the tank, only to trip and fall back, but finally to heave himself over the lip and writhe upon the sand.
“The herndyche is a particularly pungent formulation,” observed Scales. “Poor Balance mixed it himself.
He works no good for himself rolling about on the sand. Balance! Oh, I say, Balance! Remove your clothes, then make for the water! This is my best advice.”
Balance, whether he heard or heeded, crawled for the water, howling high-pitched curses.
“Poor Balance,” said Scales. “He has been seriously injured. It is the risks of the trade; nevertheless I deplore your action. Be so good as either to disrobe or enter the tank as you stand.”
Jubal squirmed, heaved, kicked. His skin ached and crawled in response to the hyperas; the hair felt heavy on his head. He could not break Scales’ clutch; the hands gripped with numbing force. Jubal’s head began to spin; his mouth felt dry; he, a Glint and a gentleman, to be dipped into a tank like a baby? He heard a thud, a voice; the hand-grips loosened. Jubal fell to the sand and lay flat on his face. Thuds, gasps, a bleat of rage. Jubal leadenly raised himself to his hands and knees. With stately composure and smiling dignity Scales fought the man who had attacked him.
Jubal tottered erect. He seized the bone-crusher, raised it high, swept it down at Scales’ head, but struck only the shoulder. Scales moaned. Jubal swung again, and Scales fell. Jubal struck again and again, with all his force.
Hands drew him back. Shrack spoke. “Enough. You may have killed him already. The bar has broken his bones.”
Jubal let the implement fall to the ground. He stood gasping. “For speaking simple truth must a person be tortured and killed?” Even to his own ears his voice sounded high-pitched and hysterical.
“Truth offends worse than falsehood.” Shrack gazed in awe along the prone shape of Scales. “He is a prodigy. No man has dealt with me so easily.”
Jubal looked to sea, where Balance thrashed fitfully somewhere out in the dark. He gave a crazy laugh.
“Scales’ bones are broken; Balance took the bath; I am dosed with hyperas… My thanks to you. I am in your debt, to whatever extent you name.”
Shrack grunted. “If I stood quiet to watch two men harm another I would doubt my manhood. Sometime do as much for another man, and the debt shall be justified.”
Jubal reached to the ground, seized the warrant. “Notice this warrant. They laid it for arbitration even before I knew it existed! Imagine the insolence!”
By the glow of the blue-lamp Shrack read the warrant. “You have strong enemies.”
“Tomorrow I will learn whether I have friends as well. If not, please hold open a berth for me aboard the Clanche.”
A horrid blood-stained face rose into the illumination; Scales tried to grasp Jubal’s ankle but his right arm seemed to articulate on four joints instead of two and he could not control the motion.
“Vermin!” spat Jubal, stepping back. “Shall I break more of your bones?”
Scales’ voice was guttural and profound. “I must execute the warrant.”
“An illegal warrant, you ditch-skulker?”
“The warrant was in legal form.”
“As to that, we shall see tomorrow. I too have connections.” The hyperas had inflamed Jubal’s brain; words poured forth in a spate. “If you fail to die here on the beach as I hope, you will be disbarred from your trade, and that wallowing Balance as well. Lie here and suffer.”
Jubal tottered away, the soles of his feet tingling and tender from the drug. Shrack gave Scales a civil nod and followed. They walked along the beach to where Shrack had drawn up his dinghy; ahead the lights of the inn glimmered through the daldank trees.
Shrack hesitated a moment, then said in a pensive voice: “A thought has entered my mind which you may wish to consider.”
“Speak; I can only profit.”
“Tonight we discussed opportunities and how they must be grasped. Need I say more?”
“Your idea throws a new light upon the incident,” said Jubal. “I will certainly consider it.”
“A restful night to you.”
“And you as well.” Jubal limped to his chamber, which now reeked with decomposing narcogen. Wearily he considered the barred window, but lacked the strength to go around to the back and pry it loose.
Gingerly he removed his clothes: a sensation like ripping away adhesive bandages. The linen prickled like stubble when he lay upon the pallet. Presently he fell into an uneasy doze and the night passed without further incident.
Chapter 7
Midmorning: two and a half hours after that time stipulated by Eyvant Dasduke. Mora, a crackling violet-white ball inside a magenta coruscation, hung halfway up the sky. Skay was nowhere to be seen; the sky, to use the Thariot terminology, was ‘free’.
Jubal Droad, departing the Hall of Chancery, crossed the plaza to the ancient black hulk of the Parloury.
The parcel of off-world clothes had earned him a mere seventeen toldecks a week; he had failed to extract maximum advantage from Nai the Hever. On this occasion he would take a firm line.
Jubal entered the Parloury foyer, an enormous hall painted a dingy and depressing yellow-brown. At a number of counters the citizens of Wysrod conferred with functionaries, both in tranquil accord and rancorous debate. Along the walls hung a row of placards, designating the location of the various departments; Jubal learned that Department Three of the Bureau of Trade occupied the north wing of the third floor.
An escalator carried him aloft and discharged him into an octagonal chamber. Behind a semi-circular desk sat a stern old man wearing an official black quat. He thrust his head forward, scrutinized Jubal from head to foot, and seemed to arrive at no favorable opinion. “Your business, sir?”
“I am Jubal Droad, an employee of this department. I wish to—”
The functionary incisively interrupted him. “Your name is not on our lists; your person is not familiar to me. You have made a mistake. Return below and consult the proper index.”
Jubal said coldly: “Notify the Eminent Eyvant Dasduke that I am being kept waiting by an underling.”
The functionary reappraised Jubal. “You work for D3?”
“I do indeed.”
“What is your rating?”
“I am a Junior Assistant Inspector.”
The old man gave a hoarse chuckle. �
��Your time is of the least possible value. You will be kept waiting for hours on end; you might as well learn patience now!”
Jubal raised his eyes to the ceiling; he must learn to ignore petty provocations. In an even voice he said: “Your opinions are not as absorbing as you may believe. Announce me, if you will, to Eyvant Dasduke.”
The functionary spoke into a communicator. “Yes, sir… A fellow here to see you… What is your name?”
“Have I not told you? Jubal Droad!”
“He is called Jubal Droad, and looks to be a Glint… Admit him?”—a quaver of surprise. Then, in resignation: “Just as you say.” He turned to Jubal. “Enter by the blue door, follow the hall to the junction, turn left, proceed to the end and announce yourself.”
Jubal marched to the blue door, which slid back at his approach. He passed through, into a high-ceilinged hall, painted a fusty green and broken at regular intervals by doors peculiarly tall and narrow through the caprice of some long-dead architect. The floor creaked underfoot; the air carried the bitter-acrid reek of decaying varnish.
The hall angled, then joined another hall. Jubal turned left and presently was brought to a halt by a door even taller and more dilapidated than the others. The placard read: Bureau of Sanitary Inspection. Use the Admittance Signal.
Jubal found a toggle, which he twitched without apparent effect. He rapped on the panels and rattled the latch, and presently the door opened. An old woman wearing a brown turban peered forth. “Yes sir: what are your needs?”
“I am Jubal Droad, attached to this department. I wish to see Eyvant Dasduke.”
“Enter, then.”
Jubal stepped through the door. “This is a place most difficult of access.”
“True. Too many folk with grievances bring them here to lay at our feet, like faithful hunting dogs. They are most difficult, and refuse to be consoled by a word or two, so we keep them away, and our lives are the easier for it. Come along; this is our waiting room.” She led Jubal into a chamber furnished with only a pair of benches and her own desk. She spoke into a mesh: “Jubal Droad awaits your convenience.”
