Trullion: Alastor 2262

by Jack Vance

  Glinnes found Akadie without diffculty. He sat at a desk in the shade of a glyptus tree performing clerical work. He greeted Glinnes with neither surprise nor affability.

  “I am here to bring you to your senses,” said Glinnes. “Marucha wants you back at Rorquin’s Tooth.”

  “I will return when the mood strikes me,” said Akadie in a measured voice. “Until you arrived life was peaceful… Though for a fact my wisdom has been in no great demand, I expected to be greeted as a noble sage; instead I sit here doing footling sums.” He made a deprecatory gesture at his desk. “I was told that I must earn my keep and this is a job no one cares to undertake.” He cast a sour glance toward a nearby cluster of tents. “Everyone wants to participate in the gradiose schemes. Directives and announcements flow like chaff.”

  “I should think,” said Glinnes, “that with thirty million ozols you could easily pay your way.”

  Akadie gave him a glance of watery reproach. “Do you realize that this episode has blasted my life? My integrity has been questioned and I can never again serve as mentor.”

  “You have ample wealth even without the thirty million,” said Glinnes. “What shall I tell my mother?”

  “Say that I am bored and overworked, but at least the accusations have not followed me here. Do you plan to see Glay?”

  “No. What are all these concrete structures?”

  “I have made it my business to know nothing,” said Akadie.

  “Have you seen the ghosts?”

  “No, but on the other hand I have not looked for them. You’ll find Trevanyi graves across the river, but the sacred home of the death-bird is a mile up the valley, beyond that copse of deodars. I made a casual exploration and was exalted. An enchanting place, beyond all question—too good for the Trevanyi.”

  “How is the food?” asked Glinnes ingenuously.

  Akadie made a sour grimace. “The Fanschers intend to learn the secrets of the universe, but now they connot so much as toast bread properly. Each meal is the same: gruel and a salad of coarse greens. There is not a flask of wine for miles…” Akadie spoke on for several minutes. He remarked upon Fanscher dedication and Fanscher innocence, but mostly of Fanscher austerity, which he found inexcusable. He trembled with rage at the mention of the thirty million ozols, yet he showed a pathetic anxiety for reassurance. “You yourself saw the messenger; you directed him to my house. Does the fact carry no weight?”

  “No one has requested my evidence. What of your friend Ryl Shermatz? Where was he?”

  “He saw nothing of the transaction. A strange man, that Shermatz! His soul is quicksilver.”

  Glinnes rose to his feet. “Come along then. You acheive nothing here. If you dislike notoriety, stay quietly at Rabendary for a week or so.”

  Akadie pulled at his chin. “Well then, why not?” He gave the papers a contemptuous flick. “What do the Fanschers know of style, urbanity, discernment? They have me doing sums.” He rose to his feet. “I will leave this place. Fanscherade grows tiresome; these folk will never conquer the universe after all.”

  “Come along then,” said Glinnes. “Have you anything to bring? Thirty million ozols, for instance?” ”The joke has lost its savor,” said Akadie. “I will go as I am, and to lend flair to my departure, I will perform an unfamiliar equation.” He scrawled a few flamboyant flourishes on the paper, then slung his cloak over his shoulder. “I am ready.”

  The ground car slid down the Vale of Green Ghosts and toward avness arrived at Circanie. Akadie and Glinnes put up for the night at a little country inn.

  At midnight Glinnes awoke to hear excited voices, and a few minutes later detected the sound of running footsteps. He looked out the window, but the street lay quiet in the starlight. Drunken revelry, thought Glinnes, and returned to his couch.

  In the morning they heard the news that explained the occasion. During the night the Trevanyi had waxed passionate at their conclave; they had walked through fires; they had performed their bounding mood-dances; their “Grotesques,” as they called their seers, had breathed the smoke of baicha roots and had belched forth the destiny of the Trevanyi race. The warriors responded with mad screams and ululations; running and leaping over the starlit hills, they had attacked the Fanscher camp.

  The Fanschers were by no means unprepared. They employed their energy-guns with dire effect; the bounding Trevanyi became startled statues limned in blue sparks. Action became confused. The first zestful onslaught became a mournful writhing of bodies up and down the Vale, and presently there was no more fighting; the Trevanyi were either dead or had fled in a horror as full and wild as their attack. The Fanschers watched them go in dismal silence. They had won but they had lost. Fanscherade would never be the same; its verve and vivacity was gone, and in the morning there would be dreary work to do.

  Akadie and Glinnes returned to Rabendary without incident, but Glinnes’ slipshod housekeeping made Akadie irritable, and before the day was out he decided to return to Rorquin’s Tooth.

  Glinnes telephoned Marucha. who had undergone a change of mood; now she fretted at the prospect of Akadie’s return. “There has been such turmoil and all unnecessary; my head is splitting. Lord Gensifer demands that Janno make instant contact with him. He is most persistent and not at all sympathetic.”

  Akadie’s pent emotions burst forth in outrage. “Does he dare to hector me? I’ll set him straight, and quicly too. Get him on the telephone!”

  Glinnes made the connection. “I understand that you would wish a word or two with Janno Akadie,” said Glinnes.

  “Quite true,” stated Lord Gensifer. “Where is he?”

  Akadie stepped forward. “I am here, and why not? I recall no pressing business with you; still, you have been incessantly telephoning my house.”

  “Come then,” said Lord Gensifer., thrusting forth his lower lip. “There is still a matter of thirty million ozols to be discussed.”

  “Why should I discuss them with you, in any event?” demanded Akadie. “You have nothing at stake. You were not kidnapped; you paid no ransom.”

  “I am secretary to the Council of Lords, and I am empowered to look into the matter.”

  “I still do not take kindly to your tone of voice,” said Akadie. “My poistion has been made clear. I will discuss the matter no further.”

  Lord Gensifer was silent a moment. “You may have no choice,” he said at last.

  “I really don’t understand you,” replied Akadie in an icy voice.

  “The situation is quite simple. The Whelm is delivering Sagmondo Bandolio to Chief Constable Filidice in Welgen. Undoubtedly he will be forced to identify his accomplices.”

  “This means nothing to me. He can identify as he will.”

  Lord Gensifer cocked his head to the side. “Someone with intimate local knowledge furnished information to Bandolio. This person will share Bandolio’s fate.”

  “Deservedly so.”

  “Let me say only tat if you remeber any helpful information, no matter how trifling, you may communicate with me at any hour of the day or night—except of course this day week”—Lord Gensifer chuckled benignly—“which is when I espouse to myself Lady Gensifer.”

  Akadie’s professional interest was stirred. “Who is to be the new Lady Gensifer?”

  Lord Gensifer half closed his eyes in beautific reflection. “She is gracious, beautiful, and virtuous beyond compare, far too fine for a person like myself. I refer to the former Tanchinaro sheirl Duissane Drosset. Her father was killed in the recent battle and she has turned to me for comfort.”

  Akadie added dryly, “The day has then brought us at least one delightful surprise.”

  The screen dimmed on Lord Gensifer’s countenance.

  In the Vale a strange quiet prevailed. Never had the fabled landscape seemed so beautiful. The weather was exceptionally clear; the air, a crystal lens, intensified, deepened the colors. Sounds were clarified but somehow muted, or perhaps the folk in the Vale spoke in somber voices and av
oided sudden sounds. At night the lights were few and dim, and conversations were murmurs in the dark. The Trevanyi raid had corroborated what many had suspected—that Fanscherade, if it were to succeed, must defeat a broad array of negative forces. Now was a time for resolution and a hardening of the spirit! A few persons abruptly left the Vale and were seen no more.

  At the Trevanyi conclave fury had broadened and deepened. If any voices urged moderation, they no longer could be heard for the strident music of drums, horns, and that coiled full-throated instrument known as the narwoun. At night the men leapt through fires and cut themselves with knives to yield blood for their rites. Clans from far Bassway and the Eastlands arrived, and many carried energy-guns. Kegs of an ardent distillation known as racq were broached and consumed, and the warriors sang great oaths to the skirking music of the narwoun, drums and oboes.

  On the third morning after the night raid a squad of constable appeared at the conclave, including Chief Constable Filidice. He advised the Trevanyi to reasonable conduct and announced his resolve to maintain order.

  Trevanyi voices cried out in protest. The Fanschers encroached upon sacred soil, the Vale where ghosts walked!

  Chief Constable Filidice raised his voice. “You have cause for concern. I intend to represent your case to the Fanschers, Nonetheless, whatever the outcome, you must abide by decision. Do you agree?”

  The Trevanyi remained silent. Chief Constable Filidice repeated his demand for cooperation and again received no commitment. “If you refuse to accede to my judgment,” he said, “obedience will be forced upon you. So be warned!”

  The constables returned to their aircraft and flew over the hill into the Vale of Green Ghosts.

  Junius Farfan conferred with Chief Constable Filidice. Farfan had lost weight; the garments hung loosely about his figure, and harsh lines marked his face. He listened to the Chief Constable in silence. His response was cold. “We have worked here for several months, without inconvenience to anyone. We respect the Trevanyi graves; there has been no irreverence; they are never denied freedom of passage into their Vale of Xian. The Trevanyi are irrational; we respectfully must refuse to leave our land.”

  Chief Constable Filidice, a bulky pallid man with ice-blue eyes, ponderous with the majesty of his office, had never taken kindly to recalcitrance. “Just so,” he said. “I have enjoined restraint upon the Trevanyi; I now do the same to you.”

  Junius Farfan bowed his head. “We will never attack the Trevanyi. But we are ready to defend ourselves.”

  Chief Constable Filidice uttered a sarcastic snort. “The Trevanyi are warriors, every man of them. They would cut your throats with a flourish, should we allow them to do so. I strongly advise you to make other arrangements. Why need you build your headquarters in such a place?”

  “The land was free and open. Will you provide us land elsewhere?”

  “Naturally not. In fact, I see no reason why you need a great headquarters in the first place. Why not simply retire to your homes and avoid all this contention?”

  Junius Farfan smiled. “I perceive your ideological bias.”

  “It is not bias to favor the tried and true ways of the past; it is ordinary common sense.”

  Junius Farfan shrugged and attempted no refutation of an irrefutable point of view. The constables established a patrol across the ridge.

  The day passed. Avness brought a lightning storm. For an hour lavender strands of fire stroked the dark flanks of the hills. Fanschers came forth to marvel at the spectacle. Trevanyi shuddered at the portent; in their world-view, Urmank the Ghost-Killer stood on the clouds, spitting the souls of Trevanyi and Trill alike. Nonetheless they arrayed themselves, drank racq, exchanged embraces, and at midnight set forth upon their mission in order that they might attack during the gray hour before dawn. They deployed under the deodars and along the ridges, avoiding the constables and their detection apparatus. In spite of their stealth they encountered a Fanscher ambush. Shouts and screams ruptured the pre-dawn silence. Energy-guns flashed; struggling shapes created grotesque silhouettes against the sky. The Trevanyi fought with hissing curses, guttural cries of pain; the Fanschers strove in dire silence. The constabulary blew horns; waving the black and gray flag of government authority, they advanced upon the conflict. The Trevanyi, suddenly aware that they confronted an insensate foe, gave ground; the Fanschers pursued like Fates. The constables blew their horns and issued orders; they were handled roughly; the black and gray flag was torn from their grasp. The constables radioed Circanie; Chief Constable Filidice, aroused from his sleep and already out of sorts with Fanscherade, ordered out the militia.

  Halfway into morning the militia arrived in the Vale—a company of Trill country-folk. They despised Trevanyi, but knew them and accepted their existence. The freakish Fanschers were outside their experience, and hence alien. The Trevanyi, recovered from their panic, followed the militia into the valley, with musicians loping along at the flank playing screes and warwhoops.

  The Fanschers had retreated to the shelter of the deodar forest; only Junius Farfan and a few others awaited the militia. They no longer hoped for victory; the power of the state was now ranged against them. The captain of the militia came forward and issued orders: the Fanschers must leave the Vale.

  “On what grounds?” asked Farfan.

  “Your presence provokes a disturbance”

  “Our presence is legal.”

  “Nevertheless, it creates a tension which previously did not exist. Legality must encompass practicality, and your continued occupation of the Vale of Green Ghosts is impractical. I must insist that you depart.”

  Junius Farfan consulted with his comrades. Then tears streaming down his cheeks for the destruction of his dream, he turned away to instruct those Fanschers who watched from the shade of the deodars. Addled by racq, the Trevanyi could not contain themselves. They sprang at the hated Farfan; a thrown knife struck squarely into the back of Farfan’s neck. The Fanschers raised a weird moan. Eyes wide in horror, they fell upon militia and Treyanyi alike. The militia, uninterested in the quarrel, broke ranks and fled. Trevanyi and Fanschers tumbled about on the ground, each eager to destroy the other.

  Eventually, through some mysterious process of mutual accord, the survivors crawled apart. The Trevanyi returned over the hills to the keening conclave. The Fanschers paused only a few moments in their camp, then wandered off down the valley. Fanscherade was finished. The great adventure was done.

  Months later the Connatic, in conversation with one of his ministers, mentioned the battle in the Vale of Green Ghosts. “I was in the neighborhood and was kept apprised of events. It was a tragic set of circumstances.”

  “Could you not have halted the confrontation?”

  The Connatic shrugged. “I might have brought down the Whelm. I tried this in a case not dissimilar—the affair of the Tamarchô on Rhamnotia—and there was no resolution. A troubled society is like a man with a stomach-ache. When he purges himself, he improves.”

  “Still—many folk must pay with their lives.”

  The Connatic made a wry gesture. “I enjoy the comradeship of the public house, the country inn, the dockside tavern. I travel the worlds of Alastor and everywhere I find people whom I find subtle and fascinating, people whom I love. Each individual of the five trillion is a cosmos in himself; each is irreplaceable, unique… Sometimes I find a man or a woman to hate. I look into their faces and I see malice, cruelty, corruption. Then I think, these folk are equally useful in the total scheme of things; they act as exemplars against which virtue can measure itself. Life without contrast is food without salt… As Connatic I must think in terms of policy; then I see only the aggregate man, whose face is a blur of five trillion faces. Toward this man I feel no emotion. So it was in the Vale of Green Ghosts, Fanscherade was doomed from its inception—was ever a man so fey as Junuis Farfan? There are survivors, but there are no more Fanschers. Some will move on to other worlds. A few may become starmenters. A stubborn few m
ay persist as Fanschers in their personal lives. And all who participated will remember the great dream and will feel as men apart from those who did not share the glory and the tragedy.”

  Chapter 20

  To Rabendary Island came Glay, his clothes stained and rent, his arm in a sling. “I have to live somewhere,” he said glumly. “It might as well be here.”

  “It’s as good as any,” said Glinnes. “I suppose you didn’t bother to bring along the money.”

  “Money? What money?”

  “The twelve thousand ozols.”

  “No.”

  “A pity. Casagave now calls himself Lord Ambal.”

  Glay was uninterested. He had no emotions left; his world was gray and flat. “Suppose he were Lord Ambal; does that give him the isle?”

  “He seems to think so.”

  The gong summoned Glinnes to the telephone. The screen displayed Akadie’s face. “Ah, Glinnes! I’m happy to have found you at home. I need your assistance. Can you come at once to Rorquin’s Tooth?”

  “Certainly, if you’ll pay my usual fee.”

  Akadie made a petulant gesture. “I have no time for facetiousness. Can you come at once?”

  “Very well. What is your difficulty?”

  “I’ll explain when you arrive.”

  Akadie met Glinnes at the door and led him almost at a trot into the study.

  “I wish to introduce two officials of the prefecture misguided enough to suspect my poor tired person of wrong-doing. On theright is our esteemed Chief Constable Benko Filidice; on the left is Inspector Lucian Daul, investigator jailer, and sergeant of the prutanshyr. This, gentlemen, is my friend and neighbor Glinnes Hulden, whom you know better perhaps as the redoubtable right strike for the Tanchinaros.”

  The three men exchanged salutes; both Filidice and Daul spoke politely of Glinnes’ play on the hussade field. Filidice, a large heavy-chested man with pale melancholy features and cold blue eyes, wore a suit of buff garbardine trimmed with black braid. Dual was thin and spare, with long thin arms, long hands, long fingers. Under a clot of dead black ringlets, his face was as pale as that of his superior, with bony over-emphatic features. Daul’s manner was polite and delicate in the extreme, as if he could not bear the thought of giving offense.