by Jack Vance
“Put it on,” said Rolver, turning away. He himself wore a fabrication of dull green scales, blue-lacquered wood. Black quills protruded at the cheeks, and under his chin hung a black and white checked pom-pom, the total effect creating a sense of sardonic supple personality.
Thissell adjusted the mask to his face, undecided whether to make a joke about the situation or to maintain a reserve suitable to the dignity of his post.
“Are you masked?” Rolver inquired over his shoulder.
Thissell replied in the affirmative and Rolver turned. The mask hid the expression of his face, but his hand unconsciously flicked a set of keys strapped to his thigh. The instrument sounded a trill of shock and polite consternation. “You can’t wear that mask!” sang Rolver. “In fact—how, where, did you get it?”
“It’s copied from a mask owned by the Polypolis museum,” declared Thissell stiffly. “I’m sure it’s authentic.”
Rolver nodded, his own mask more sardonic-seeming than ever. “It’s authentic enough. It’s a variant of the type known as the Sea-Dragon Conqueror, and is worn on ceremonial occasions by persons of enormous prestige: princes, heroes, master craftsmen, great musicians.”
“I wasn’t aware—”
Rolver made a gesture of languid understanding. “It’s something you’ll learn in due course. Notice my mask. Today I’m wearing a Tarn Bird. Persons of minimal prestige—such as you, I, any other out-worlder—wear this sort of thing.”
“Odd,” said Thissell, as they started across the field toward a low concrete blockhouse. “I assumed that a person wore whatever he liked.”
“Certainly,” said Rolver. “Wear any mask you like—if you can make it stick. This Tarn Bird for instance. I wear it to indicate that I presume nothing. I make no claims to wisdom, ferocity, versatility, musicianship, truculence, or any of a dozen other Sirenese virtues.”
“For the sake of argument,” said Thissell, “what would happen if I walked through the streets of Zundar in this mask?”
Rolver laughed, a muffled sound behind his mask. “If you walked along the docks of Zundar—there are no streets—in any mask, you’d be killed within the hour. That’s what happened to Benko, your predecessor. He didn’t know how to act. None of us out-worlders know how to act. In Fan we’re tolerated—so long as we keep our place. But you couldn’t even walk around Fan in that regalia you’re sporting now. Somebody wearing a Fire Snake or a Thunder Goblin—masks, you understand—would step up to you. He’d play his krodatch, and if you failed to challenge his audacity with a passage on the skaranyi*, a devilish instrument, he’d play his hymerkin—the instrument we use with the slaves. That’s the ultimate expression of contempt. Or he might ring his dueling-gong and attack you then and there.”
“I had no idea that people here were quite so irascible,” said Thissell in a subdued voice.
Rolver shrugged and swung open the massive steel door into his office. “Certain acts may not be committed on the Concourse at Polypolis without incurring criticism.”
“Yes, that’s quite true,” said Thissell. He looked around the office. “Why the security? The concrete, the steel?”
“Protection against the savages,” said Rolver. “They come down from the mountains at night, steal what’s available, kill anyone they find ashore.” He went to a closet, brought forth a mask. “Here. Use this Moon Moth; it won’t get you in trouble.”
Thissell unenthusiastically inspected the mask. It was constructed of mouse-colored fur; there was a tuft of hair at each side of the mouth-hole, a pair of feather-like antennae at the forehead. White lace flaps dangled beside the temples and under the eyes hung a series of red folds, creating an effect at once lugubrious and comic.
Thissell asked, “Does this mask signify any degree of prestige?”
“Not a great deal.”
“After all, I’m Consular Representative,” said Thissell. “I represent the Home Planets, a hundred billion people—”
“If the Home Planets want their representative to wear a Sea-Dragon Conqueror mask, they’d better send out a Sea-Dragon Conqueror type of man.”
“I see,” said Thissell in a subdued voice. “Well, if I must…”
Rolver politely averted his gaze while Thissell doffed the Sea-Dragon Conqueror and slipped the more modest Moon Moth over his head. “I suppose I can find something just a bit more suitable in one of the shops,” Thissell said. “I’m told a person simply goes in and takes what he needs, correct?”
Rolver surveyed Thissell critically. “That mask—temporarily, at least—is perfectly suitable. And it’s rather important not to take anything from the shops until you know the strakh value of the article you want. The owner loses prestige if a person of low strakh makes free with his best work.”
Thissell shook his head in exasperation. “Nothing of this was explained to me! I knew of the masks, of course, and the painstaking integrity of the craftsmen, but this insistence on prestige—strakh, whatever the word is…”
“No matter,” said Rolver. “After a year or two you’ll begin to learn your way around. I suppose you speak the language?”
“Oh, indeed. Certainly.”
“And what instruments do you play?”
“Well—I was given to understand that any small instrument was adequate, or that I could merely sing.”
“Very inaccurate. Only slaves sing without accompaniment. I suggest that you learn the following instruments as quickly as possible: the hymerkin for your slaves. The ganga for conversation between intimates or one a trifle lower than yourself in strakh. The kiv for casual polite intercourse. The zachinko for more formal dealings. The strapan or the krodatch for your social inferiors—in your case, should you wish to insult someone. The gomapard* or the double-kamanthil* for ceremonials.” He considered a moment. “The crebarin, the water-lute and the slobo are highly useful also—but perhaps you’d better learn the other instruments first. They should provide at least a rudimentary means of communication.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating?” suggested Thissell. “Or joking?”
Rolver laughed his saturnine laugh. “Not at all. First of all, you’ll need a houseboat. And then you’ll want slaves.”
Rolver took Thissell from the landing field to the docks of Fan, a walk of an hour and a half along a pleasant path under enormous trees loaded with fruit, cereal pods, sacs of sugary sap.
“At the moment,” said Rolver, “there are only four out-worlders in Fan, counting yourself. I’ll take you to Welibus, our Commercial Factor. I think he’s got an old houseboat he might let you use.”
Cornely Welibus had resided fifteen years in Fan, acquiring sufficient strakh to wear his South Wind mask with authority. This consisted of a blue disk inlaid with cabochons of lapis-lazuli, surrounded by an aureole of shimmering snake-skin. Heartier and more cordial than Rolver, he not only provided Thissell with a houseboat, but also a score of various musical instruments and a pair of slaves.
Embarrassed by the largesse, Thissell stammered something about payment, but Welibus cut him off with an expansive gesture. “My dear fellow, this is Sirene. Such trifles cost nothing.”
“But a houseboat—”
Welibus played a courtly little flourish on his kiv. “I’ll be frank, Ser Thissell. The boat is old and a trifle shabby. I can’t afford to use it; my status would suffer.” A graceful melody accompanied his words. “Status as yet need not concern you. You require merely shelter, comfort and safety from the Night-men.”
“‘Night-men’?”
“The cannibals who roam the shore after dark.”
“Oh yes. Ser Rolver mentioned them.”
“Horrible things. We won’t discuss them.” A shuddering little trill issued from his kiv. “Now, as to slaves.” He tapped the blue disk of his mask with a thoughtful forefinger. “Rex and Toby should serve you well.” He raised his voice, played a swift clatter on the hymerkin. “Avan esx trobu!”
A female slave appeared wearing a dozen tig
ht bands of pink cloth, and a dainty black mask sparkling with mother-of-pearl sequins.
“Fascu etz Rex ae Toby.”
Rex and Toby appeared, wearing loose masks of black cloth, russet jerkins. Welibus addressed them with a resonant clatter of hymerkin, enjoining them to the service of their new master, on pain of return to their native islands. They prostrated themselves, sang pledges of servitude to Thissell in soft husky voices. Thissell laughed nervously and essayed a sentence in the Sirenese language. “Go to the houseboat, clean it well, bring aboard food.”
Toby and Rex stared blankly through the holes in their masks. Welibus repeated the orders with hymerkin accompaniment. The slaves bowed and departed.
Thissell surveyed the musical instruments with dismay. “I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about learning these things.”
Welibus turned to Rolver. “What about Kershaul? Could he be persuaded to give Ser Thissell some basic instruction?”
Rolver nodded judicially. “Kershaul might undertake the job.”
Thissell asked, “Who is Kershaul?”
“The fourth of our little group of expatriates,” replied Welibus, “an anthropologist. You’ve read Zundar the Splendid? Rituals of Sirene? The Faceless Folk? No? A pity. All excellent works. Kershaul is high in prestige, and I believe visits Zundar from time to time. Wears a Cave Owl, sometimes a Star Wanderer or even a Wise Arbiter.”
“He’s taken to an Equatorial Serpent,” said Rolver. “The variant with the gilt tusks.”
“Indeed!” marveled Welibus. “Well, I must say he’s earned it. A fine fellow, good chap indeed.” And he strummed his zachinko thoughtfully.
Three months passed. Under the tutelage of Mathew Kershaul, Thissell practised the hymerkin, the ganga, the strapan, the kiv, the gomapard, and the zachinko. The others could wait, said Kershaul, until Thissell had mastered the six basic instruments. He lent Thissell recordings of noteworthy Sirenese conversing in various moods and to various accompaniments, so that Thissell might learn the melodic conventions currently in vogue, and perfect himself in the niceties of intonation, the various rhythms, cross-rhythms, compound rhythms, implied rhythms and suppressed rhythms. Kershaul professed to find Sirenese music a fascinating study, and Thissell admitted that it was a subject not readily exhausted. The quarter-tone tuning of the instruments admitted the use of twenty-four tonalities which, multiplied by the five modes in general use, resulted in one hundred and twenty separate scales. Kershaul, however, advised that Thissell primarily concentrate on learning each instrument in its fundamental tonality, using only two of the modes.
With no immediate business at Fan except the weekly visits to Mathew Kershaul, Thissell took his houseboat eight miles south and moored it in the lee of a rocky promontory. Here, if it had not been for the incessant practising, Thissell lived an idyllic life. The sea was calm and crystal-clear; the beach, ringed by the gray, green and purple foliage of the forest, lay close at hand if he wanted to stretch his legs.
Toby and Rex occupied a pair of cubicles forward, Thissell had the after-cabins to himself. From time to time he toyed with the idea of a third slave, possibly a young female, to contribute an element of charm and gaiety to the menage, but Kershaul advised against the step, fearing that the intensity of Thissell’s concentration might somehow be diminished. Thissell acquiesced and devoted himself to the study of the six instruments.
The days passed quickly. Thissell never became bored with the pageantry of dawn and sunset; the white clouds and blue sea of noon; the night sky blazing with the twenty-nine stars of Cluster SI 1-715. The weekly trip to Fan broke the tedium, Toby and Rex foraged for food; Thissell visited the luxurious houseboat of Mathew Kershaul for instruction and advice. Then, three months after Thissell’s arrival, came the message completely disorganizing the routine: Haxo Angmark, assassin, agent provocateur, ruthless and crafty criminal, had come to Sirene. ‘Effect detention and incarceration of this man!’ read the orders. ‘Attention! Haxo Angmark is superlatively dangerous. Kill without hesitation!’
Thissell was not in the best of condition. He trotted fifty yards until his breath came in gasps, then walked: through low hills crowned with white bamboo and black tree-ferns; across meadows yellow with grass-nuts, through orchards and wild vineyards. Twenty minutes passed, twenty-five minutes passed, twenty-five minutes; with a heavy sensation in his stomach Thissell knew that he was too late. Haxo Angmark had landed, and might be traversing this very road toward Fan. But along the way Thissell met only four persons: a boy-child in a mock-fierce Alk Islander mask; two young women wearing the Red Bird and the Green Bird; a man masked as a Forest Goblin. Coming upon the man, Thissell stopped short. Could this be Angmark?
Thissell essayed a stratagem. He went boldly to the man, stared into the hideous mask. “Angmark,” he called in the language of the Home Planets, “you are under arrest!”
The Forest Goblin stared uncomprehendingly, then started forward along the track.
Thissell put himself in the way. He reached for his ganga, then recalling the hostler’s reaction, instead struck a chord on the zachinko. “You travel the road from the space-port,” he sang. “What have you seen there?”
The Forest Goblin grasped his hand-bugle, an instrument used to deride opponents on the field of battle, to summon animals, or occasionally to evince a rough and ready truculence. “Where I travel and what I see are the concern solely of myself. Stand back or I walk upon your face.” He marched forward, and had not Thissell leapt aside the Forest Goblin might well have made good his threat.
Thissell stood gazing after the retreating back. Angmark? Not likely, with so sure a touch on the hand-bugle. Thissell hesitated, then turned and continued on his way.
Arriving at the space-port, he went directly to the office. The heavy door stood ajar; as Thissell approached, a man appeared in the doorway. He wore a mask of dull green scales, mica plates, blue-lacquered wood and black quills—the Tarn Bird.
“Ser Rolver,” Thissell called out anxiously, “who came down from the Carina Cruzeiro?”
Rolver studied Thissell a long moment. “Why do you ask?”
“Why do I ask?” demanded Thissell. “You must have seen the space-gram I received from Castel Cromartin!”
“Oh yes,” said Rolver. “Of course. Naturally.”
“It was delivered only half an hour ago,” said Thissell bitterly. “I rushed out as fast as I could. Where is Angmark?”
“In Fan, I assume,” said Rolver.
Thissell cursed softly. “Why didn’t you delay him?”
Rolver shrugged. “I had neither authority, inclination nor the capability to stop him.”
Thissell fought back his annoyance. In a voice of studied calm he said, “On the way I passed a man in rather a ghastly mask—saucer eyes, red wattles.”
“A Forest Goblin,” said Rolver. “Angmark brought the mask with him.”
“But he played the hand-bugle,” Thissell protested. “How could Angmark—”
“He’s well-acquainted with Sirene; he spent five years here in Fan.”
Thissell grunted in annoyance. “Cromartin made no mention of this.”
“It’s common knowledge,” said Rolver with a shrug. “He was Commercial Representative before Welibus took over.”
“Were he and Welibus acquainted?”
Rolver laughed shortly. “Naturally. But don’t suspect poor Welibus of anything more venal than juggling his accounts; I assure you he’s no consort of assassins.”
“Speaking of assassins,” said Thissell, “do you have a weapon I might borrow?”
Rolver inspected him in wonder. “You came out here to take Angmark bare-handed?”
“I had no choice,” said Thissell. “When Cromartin gives orders he expects results. In any event you were here with your slaves.”
“Don’t count on me for help,” Rolver said testily. “I wear the Tarn Bird and make no pretensions of valor. But I can lend you a power pistol. I haven’t used i
t recently; I won’t guarantee its charge.”
Rolver went into the office and a moment later returned with the gun. “What will you do now?”
Thissell shook his head wearily. “I’ll try to find Angmark in Fan. Or might he head for Zundar?”
Rolver considered. “Angmark might be able to survive in Zundar. But he’d want to brush up on his musicianship. I imagine he’ll stay in Fan a few days.”
“But how can I find him? Where should I look?”
“That I can’t say,” replied Rolver. “You might be safer not finding him. Angmark is a dangerous man.”
Thissell returned to Fan the way he had come.
Where the path swung down from the hills into the esplanade a thick-walled pisé-de-terre building had been constructed. The door was carved from a solid black plank; the windows were guarded by enfoliated bands of iron. This was the office of Cornely Welibus, Commercial Factor, Importer and Exporter. Thissell found Welibus sitting at his ease on the tiled verandah, wearing a modest adaptation of the Waldemar mask. He seemed lost in thought and might or might not have recognized Thissell’s Moon Moth; in any event he gave no signal of greeting.
Thissell approached the porch. “Good morning, Ser Welibus.”
Welibus nodded abstractedly and said in a flat voice, plucking at his krodatch, “Good morning.”
Thissell was rather taken aback. This was hardly the instrument to use toward a friend and fellow out-worlder, even if he did wear the Moon Moth.
Thissell said coldly, “May I ask how long you have been sitting here?”
Welibus considered half a minute, and now when he spoke he accompanied himself on the more cordial crebarin. But the recollection of the krodatch chord still rankled in Thissell’s mind.
“I’ve been here fifteen or twenty minutes. Why do you ask?”
“I wonder if you noticed a Forest Goblin pass?”
Welibus nodded. “He went on down the esplanade—turned into that first mask shop, I believe.”
