by Jack Vance
“They did not know my name.”
“These affairs inevitably excite comment.”
“Still, if Ramus Ymph is a returned emigrant, they can scarcely insist upon prosecuting me, especially since I am under your protection.”
Nai the Hever smiled faintly. “All is not so simple. You have made yourself obnoxious to the Ymphs, who are the first ilk of Wysrod. It is always reckless to challenge powerful men, unless you can bring to bear a compensating power. This is simple reality.”
“The murder of my brother and the burning of my home: is this not also real?”
“The past is never real,” said Nai the Hever. “The flux of events is the present; unless you are able to enforce a pattern upon this flux, it is wiser not to try.”
Jubal said slowly: “All this is undoubtedly correct.”
Nai the Hever prepared to break contact, then said: “It is barely possible that you may be approached—either by Ramus Ymph or through an intermediary—in regard to Cape Junchion. If this occurs, communicate with me at once.”
“I will certainly do so.”
Chapter 14
Ragged clouds hurried across the night sky, alternately obscuring and revealing the bright half-face of Skay. The air carried dampness and the Hever House gardens smelled fresh of wet foliage and damp soil.
An ancient hack entered the grounds; a dark-haired man alighted, wearing splendid garments of pale purple and white. A black quat with a dangling amethyst covered his head; a short black cape hung down his back. He ordered the driver to wait, then walked with long elastic strides to the front entrance.
A footman slid aside the tall doors; Flanish advanced even more sedately than usual. He peered uncertainly at the newcomer. “Good evening, Your Honor?” The rising intonation conveyed the absence of recognition.
“Please inform the Nobilissimus that I have arrived, and wish to consult with him on an urgent matter.”
“Certainly, sir; what name shall I announce?”
“Merely mention a connection with the name ‘Ramus Ymph’.”
Flanish departed. The dark-haired man waited in the foyer, where first he inspected his reflection in a mirror, then went to a carved satin-wood table, idly to turn the pages of a journal.
He heard steps and looked up to see Mieltrude descending the sweeping stairs. She was dressed for a party, in white, with a dark blue jacket. Clasping her pale hair was a circlet of enormous sapphires, the color and luminosity of her eyes. She paused to look at the visitor, at first artlessly, with only casual attention, then with increasing perplexity.
The visitor made a polite salute. “Good evening, Lady Mieltrude.”
“Good evening… I’m sure that I know you—but I can’t recall your name.”
“Our acquaintance has been only casual.”
“Yes, but I am puzzled. I feel…” She studied his face, then gave a sudden incredulous laugh. “The Glint!”
She laughed again. “Now I remember your name. Jubal Droad!” She crossed the hall, paused to look back over her shoulder.
Nai the Hever appeared in the doorway. He inspected Jubal with an expression of mild inquiry. Mieltrude murmured something to him with a choking bubbling laugh, and Nai the Hever’s expression changed to grim amusement. He spoke to Jubal. “Your regalia is most splendid, but why are you here?”
“As for the regalia,” said Jubal, “the last time I came to Wysrod I was met at the airport. Now I come secretly and disguised as one of your local jackanapes.”
“But did I not clearly intimate that you were to remain in Glentlin?”
Jubal said: “I came to Wysrod for three reasons: to report to you, to collect my salary, and in accordance with your advice.”
“I advised you to come to Wysrod?”
“Indirectly, yes. You told me to explore Ramus Ymph’s movements in detail and to discover his motives.”
“I specified that you confine your researches to Glentlin.”
“No. You instructed me to conduct the inquiry from my base in Glentlin. I did so. The trail led here to Wysrod.”
“The instructions perhaps were ambiguous. I suggest that you leave at once. As for your salary, it is nonexistent; you are no longer employed by D3.”
“For what reason?”
“Because the Ymphs have you under proscription, and I can tolerate no embarrassment at this moment.”
“Does it mean nothing that Ramus Ymph murdered my brother, burned my home and blinded my brother’s daughter?”
Nai the Hever made a skeptical sound. “Derson Ymph informs me that Ramus has been resting at Sarpentine Lodge for over three weeks. I am forced to accept his word.”
“In the face of proof to the contrary?”
“What sort of proof?”
“I told you that he had taken ship at Arrasp. I arrived at Wysrod a week ago, and I have made inquiries and gained some very interesting information. First I located the felucca in which Ramus Ymph sailed; I have obtained an identification from the master of the vessel, and in the presence of witnesses I have lifted the fingerprints of Ramus Ymph from the cabin of the ship. This is definite proof that Ramus Ymph participated in the assault upon Droad House.”
Nai the Hever made a sour sound. “The information is futile and irrelevant. I want placid relations with the Ymphs until certain patterns reveal themselves. That time is not now.” He touched his chin with a forefinger, on which glowed a milk-opal. “From sheerest curiosity, what else have you learned?”
“Am I definitely employed by D3 or not?”
Nai the Hever looked at him blankly. “Definitely not! Have I not explained my position?”
“Then I will reserve the information and act as I see fit.”
Nai the Hever gave an almost petulant shrug. “If you bring yourself to the attention of the Ymphs, they will prosecute you as a renegade emigrant.”
“What of that? You will assert the official nature of my business.”
“And reveal the extent of my knowledge? By no means. You will be forced to pay the penalty, I warn you.”
“But you cannot disavow our signed and witnessed contract.”
“Of course I can, and I will.”
“Your signature is quite clear.”
“Indeed? Have you examined the contract lately?”
“Why should I? I recall the terminology.”
“Please do so now.”
“If you wish.” Jubal brought forth a sheaf of papers, from which he selected an envelope. “This is the document.”
“Open the envelope.”
Jubal turned Nai the Hever a questioning glance, then broke the seal, lifted the flap, withdrew the paper and unfolded it—to reveal a virgin blankness. Jubal dubiously studied the empty sheet.
Nai the Hever said: “The ink has evaporated, and with it your privileged capacity. You should know that I could never give such a document currency. I would be compromising myself.”
“I thought along these same lines,” said Jubal. “On that same night I made several notarized and certified copies of the original.” He selected another paper. “Here is one of them. It is a legal document.”
Nai the Hever inspected the paper, the corners of his mouth drooping. “This places a different light on the matter. You are an unscrupulous man. I must consider a moment.”
Mieltrude made a flippant gesture. “I am already late; I must go. Flanish! Call my hack!”
“Not just yet, if you please,” said Nai the Hever. “I want a word with you, on tactics which perhaps must be revised. You will see our messenger tonight?”
“Yes.”
Nai the Hever looked at Jubal with a speculative expression. “You are at your old address?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It is not important. Call me tomorrow; we will formulate a policy. I can tell you no more now.”
“What of my salary?”
“It continues, of course.”
“In view of past services, I request an increa
se to, let us say, forty-five toldecks a week.”
“This may well turn out to be possible,” said Nai the Hever mildly. “Goodnight.”
Jubal departed the house unescorted by footman or major-domo. Clouds still wandered across the vast bright half-face of Skay; Skay-light waxed and waned, and perhaps infected Jubal with its influence. He thought of Mieltrude descending the stairs, of her amusement and her over-the-shoulder glance as she started from the foyer; of Nai the Hever’s bland duplicities and Mieltrude’s careless connivance. He stared up at Skay, and became charged with an emotion to which no name could be attached, one which he had never felt before: sad-sweet longing mingled with passion and reckless resolve. What use was his one, single life if he did not use it bravely? Instead of departing Hever House and proceeding about his affairs, he went to his hack and called the driver down from his seat. “I have decided to play a joke upon my friends. Here is ten toldecks; I will drive the hack; you go to the Hexagram Café, near Travan Square and wait there for me.”
The driver looked from Jubal to the ten toldecks and back to Jubal. “How shall I convey myself to the Hexagram Café?”
“Walk, run, ride a hack; however you like.”
“But you may wreck the hack!”
“I am a careful man. Your hack will be safe.”
“Ten toldecks is truly not enough.”
“Here: five more. Now off with you.”
With backward glances the driver departed on foot. Jubal took the hack to the entrance portal and waited.
Silence across the Cham, which presently refined to near-silence, as near-imperceptible sounds impinged on the ear: the creak of gyjits in the damp mold; the sibilant murmur of a garden fountain; a similar sound, even fainter, generated by the city Wysrod itself.
Ten minutes passed. Down the lane came a hack. Jubal stepped into the driveway and waved it to a halt.
“The call was a mistake,” he told the driver. “Another hack had already been summoned.” He gave the driver a toldeck. “This is for your pains.”
“Very well, sir, and thank you.” The hackman turned his vehicle and drove away.
Jubal turned up the collar of his cape and pulled the quat down over his forehead. He drove the hack up to Hever House and halted in the shadow of the portal.
The door slid aside, Mieltrude came out. She ran to the hack, jumped in, settled herself. “Take me to Bazenant House, up around Mathis Mount.”
Jubal drove the hack up the lane and out upon Cham Way. He turned down the Baunder, toward the Marine Parade, rather than continuing through the hills. Mieltrude, lost in meditation, failed to notice for several minutes, then cried out: “You’re going the wrong way! I want to go to Bazenant House, on Mathis Mount!”
Jubal stopped the hack and turned to face Mieltrude. “There is no mistake.”
“Jubal Droad the Glint!”
“Yes; please don’t protest.” He selected another of his documents. “This is the warrant I took out against you, for your illegal attempt to have me murdered. It has not been challenged, contested nor voided. It is valid, and it stipulates two years penal servitude, at the discretion of the plaintiff, together with two blows of the rat-whisk daily. I now serve this warrant upon you. For the next two years, you will be at my orders. I am sorry that you will miss your party but tonight—not ten minutes ago—I decided to take you into custody. It is a convenient time, especially since your father was planning to have me killed tomorrow. Possibly with your connivance. He must now reconsider.”
Mieltrude said in a hushed voice: “How do you know all this?”
Jubal chuckled. “He agreed to a raise in my salary.”
“You happen to be wrong. He knew that the Ymphs would kill you. Why should he exert himself?”
“It amounts to the same thing,” said Jubal. “His plans include my corpse. My plans do not. Therefore, I choose this time to serve the warrant. The punishment, incidentally, is well-deserved.”
“Do you really intend to inflict this upon me?”
“Of course. It is the force of the law.”
“I need hardly point out that you will ultimately be the loser.”
“What have I to lose?”
“Your life.”
“Death comes to everyone: Droad, Ymph and Hever alike. Meanwhile you will gain useful experience, for which you may eventually thank me.”
Mieltrude said nothing.
“Now be so good as to sit upon the floor, so that I may spare you the indignity of gag, blindfold and bonds.”
Mieltrude tried to leap from the hack. Jubal seized her and bore her to the floor. For a moment they wrestled and then she lay subdued, her face inches from Jubal’s, both panting, her hair disarranged, her tart flower fragrance tingling in his nostrils.
He slowly drew back. She lay quiet, and did not move when he started the hack. Looking up and out the window she could see only foliage brushing across the half-face of Skay, the occasional glimmer of street-lighting.
The hack turned cautiously into a shadowed lane, halted. Mieltrude could hear the whisper of Duskerl Bay’s modest surf.
Jubal opened the door. “Out with you.”
Mieltrude, drawing herself into a sitting position, eased out of the hack. She recognized the area: the beach near Sea-Wrack Inn. Behind her glowed the lights of Wysrod; the bay sparkled with Skay-light; across loomed the long bulk of the Cham.
“This way.”
Mieltrude looked over her shoulder. If she screamed someone might well hear and, at the very least, summon the security patrol. But the Glint, standing by her elbow, would allow no such signal. He took her arm; she cringed from the contact.
They walked down the beach. Jubal picked up a line and drew it in, hand over hand, while Mieltrude stood hunched and shivering. A dinghy grated stern-first up on the beach. Jubal motioned. Mieltrude gingerly climbed aboard; Jubal pushed off through the surf, jumped upon the stern, then, clambering to the bow, heaved on another line. The dinghy presently drifted alongside an anchored vessel.
At Jubal’s signal, Mieltrude climbed aboard, gloomy and apprehensive, at last fully aware of her plight.
She suddenly ran to the rail and heedless of grinder-fish tried to dive overboard; Jubal caught her around the waist and hauled her back. “You are attempting an illegal act. The warrant stipulates two daily strokes of the rat-whisk. If you want it applied smartly upon your bare person, continue along these lines.”
Mieltrude found the concept so outrageous that she stood quivering, at a loss for words.
“This boat is under my command,” said Jubal expansively. “It is named Clanche. You will undergo at least a period of your servitude aboard this boat.”
Mieltrude, now more than half-confused, stammered: “I thought you were a Glint; how can you be a National?”
“I have chartered this boat with toldecks paid me by your father. I am still a Glint, and the Droad of Droad House.”
“You are a despicable scoundrel!” cried Mieltrude bitterly, “and you shall be punished.”
“You dare to call me a scoundrel? You performed the crime, not I!”
Mieltrude, recovering her composure, became stonily silent.
“I will reassure you to this extent,” said Jubal. “You need not fear a violation of your person. Unlike yourself, your father and your friend Ramus Ymph, I have scruples. For the foreseeable future you will serve aboard the Clanche as cook and stewardess.”
“Show me your warrant.”
“Step aft into the cabin.”
By the glow of the night-light Mieltrude inspected the warrant. Then she went to sit in the armchair of carved Dohobay skaneel. “How much money do you want?”
In a precise voice Jubal asked: “How much are you prepared to pay?”
She reckoned a moment. “For three thousand toldecks you can hire two stewards.”
“True. But is this justice?”
Mieltrude made an impatient gesture. “Let us talk of reality.”
“I was hoping you would get around to doing so. Look around this cabin. This table, these chairs, the berth yonder, the rug on the deck: this is reality. Even your father would concede this. This warrant derives from your insolent disregard of my life and comfort. The warrant is reality. If you continue your insolence you will feel the rat-whisk. That too is reality.”
Mieltrude listened without expression. She said in an almost idle voice: “I am not afraid of your rat-whisk. It means nothing to me. I will do as I see fit. I will not become your servant.”
“In that case,” said Jubal graciously, “you will remain in my custody until you decide to begin your penal servitude. Please notify me when the moment arrives; we will reckon two years from that instant.”
Mieltrude sat brooding. She was younger than he had supposed, thought Jubal, and certainly younger than Sune Mircea, whose charms, in retrospect, seemed somewhat obvious. To rollick Sune around a bed no doubt would be a rewarding experience for nerve, gland and body. To stand by the taffrail of the Clanche with Mieltrude, shoulders touching, watching the night sky and the monstrous rising of Skay, would be an exhilaration of the soul, to linger a lifetime. Talk of rat-whisks was simply preposterous.
Mieltrude finally spoke. “I assume that you are putting to sea?”
“Very likely.”
“So now you run away,” sneered Mieltrude, “Glint that you are, who breathed such fine fire against Ramus Ymph!”
Jubal managed a bitter laugh. “Yes, I run away, or rather sail away. Wysrod is too hot for me, thanks to you and your father.”
“These are matters beyond your comprehension.”
“I doubt that. Still, I have not forgotten Ramus Ymph; far from it.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“I don’t know yet. I won’t know until my mate comes aboard.”
“And who is your mate?”
“The owner of the Clanche. He should be aboard by dawn. And now, observe this locker. It is commodious, dark and not too uncomfortable. It is ventilated and it has a stout lock on the door. Inside, please. I must go ashore, to return the hack, and to arrange that a message be delivered to your father. He will be relieved to learn that you are in good hands. In with you! I will be no more than an hour; don’t be frightened.”
