Servants of the Wankh

by Jack Vance

  Reith managed a painful grin. “Cizante will arrange the same for you, at my request. It’s as good a boon as any.”

  “Cizante, bah! A wicked parvenu, a moping invert. Blue Jade shall be nothing; the fall of that palace will culminate the ‘round’!”

  Helsse came slightly forward. “Before you enlarge upon your remarkable assertions, be advised that I represent the House of Blue Jade, and that I will be impelled to report to his Excellency Lord Cizante the substance of your comments.”

  “Do not bore me with triviality!” stormed Dordolio. He furiously motioned to Reith. “Fetch my hat, or tomorrow expect the first of the Twelve Touches!”

  “A small concession,” said Reith, “if it ensures your departure.” He picked up Dordolio’s hat, shook it once or twice, handed it to him. “Your hat, which you threw across the square.” He stepped around Dordolio, entered the foyer of the inn. Dordolio gave a somewhat subdued caw of laughter, slapped his hat against his thigh, and, signaling his comrades, walked away.

  In the foyer of the inn Reith asked Helsse, “What are the ‘Twelve Touches’?”

  “At intervals-perhaps a day, perhaps two days-an assassin will tap the victim with a twig. The twelfth touch is fatal; the man dies. By accumulated poison, by a single final dose, or by morbid suggestion, only the Assassins’ Guild knows. And now I must return to Blue Jade. Lord Cizante will be interested in my report.”

  “What do you intend to tell him?”

  Helsse only laughed. “You, the most secretive of men, asking me that! Still, Cizante will hear that you have agreed to accept a boon, that you probably will soon be departing Cath—”

  “I said nothing of this!”

  “It will still be an element of my report.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  REITH AWOKE TO Wan sunlight shining through the heavy amber panes of the windows. He lay on the unfamiliar couch, collecting the threads of his existence. It was difficult not to feel a profound gloom. Cath, where he had hoped to find flexibility, enlightenment, and perhaps cooperation, was hardly less harsh an environment than the Aman Steppe. It was obvious folly to dream of building a spaceboat in Settra.

  Reith sat up on the couch. He had known horror, grief, disillusionment, but there had been corresponding moments of triumph and hope, even a few spasmodic instants of joy. If he were to die tomorrow-or in twelve days after twelve “touches”—he had already lived a miraculous life. Very well then, he would put his destiny to the test. Helsse had predicted his departure from Cath; Helsse had read the future, or Reith’s own personality, more accurately than Reith himself.

  Breakfasting with Traz and Anacho he described his adventures of the previous evening. Anacho found the circumstances perturbing. “This is an insane society, constrained by punctilio as a rotten egg is held by its shell. Whatever your aims-and sometimes I think that you are the most flamboyant lunatic of all—they will not be achieved here.”

  “I agree.”

  “Well then,” said Traz, “what next?”

  “What I plan is dangerous, perhaps rash folly. But I see no other alternative. I intend to ask Cizante for money; this we shall share. Then I think it best that we separate. You, Traz, might do worse than to return to Wyness, and there make a life for yourself. Perhaps Anacho will do the same. Neither of you can profit by coming with me; in fact, I guarantee the reverse.”

  Anacho looked off across the square. “Until now you have managed to survive, if precariously. I find myself curious as to what you hope to achieve. With your permission, I will join your expedition, which I suspect is by no means as desperate as you make it out to be.”

  “I intend to confiscate a Wankh spaceship from the Ao Hidis spaceport, or elsewhere, if it seems more convenient.”

  Anacho threw his hands in the air. “I feared no less.” He proceeded to state a hundred objections which Reith did not trouble to contradict. “All very true; I will end my days in a Wankh dungeon or a nighthound’s belly; still this is what I intend to attempt. I strongly urge that you and Traz make your way to the Isles of Cloud and live as best you may.”

  “Bah,” snorted Anacho. “Why won’t you attempt some reasonable exploit, like exterminating the Pnume, or teaching the Chasch to sing?”

  “I have other ambitions.”

  “Yes, yes, your faraway planet, the home of man. I am tempted to help you, if only to demonstrate your lunacy.”

  “As for me,” said Traz, “I would like to see this far world. I know it exists, because I saw the spaceboat in which Adam Reith arrived.”

  Anacho inspected the youth with eyebrows raised. “You have not mentioned this previously.”

  “You never asked.”

  “How might such an absurdity enter my mind?”

  “A person who calls facts absurdities will often be surprised,” said Traz.

  “But at least he has organized the cosmic relationship into categories, which sets him apart from animals and sub-men.”

  Reith intervened. “Come now; let’s put our energies to work, since you both seem bent on suicide. Today we seek information. And here is Helsse, bringing us important news, or so it appears from his aspect.”

  Helsse approached and gave a polite greeting. “Last night, as you may imagine, I had much to report to Lord Cizante. He urges that you make some reasonable request, which he will be glad to fulfill. He recommends that we destroy the papers taken from the spy and I am inclined to agree. If you acquiesce, Lord Cizante may grant further concessions.”

  “Of what nature?”

  “He does not specify, but I suspect he has in mind a certain slackening of protocol in regard to your presence in Blue Jade Palace.”

  “I am more interested in the documents than in Lord Cizante. If he wants to see me he can come here to the inn.”

  Helsse gave a brittle chuckle. “Your response is no surprise. If you are ready I will conduct you to South Ebron where we will find a Lokhar.”

  “There are no Yao scholars who read the Wankh language?”

  “Such facility would seem pointless expertise.”

  “Until someone wanted a document translated.”

  Helsse gave an indifferent twitch. “At this play of the ‘round,’ Utilitarianism is an alien philosophy. Lord Cizante, for instance, would find your arguments not only incomprehensible but disgusting.”

  “We shall never argue the matter,” said Reith equably.

  Helsse had come in an extremely elegant equipage: a blue carriage with six scarlet wheels and a profusion of golden festoons. The interior was like a luxurious drawing room, with gray-green wainscoting, a pale gray carpet, an arched ceiling covered with green silk. The chairs were deeply upholstered; to the side, under the windows of pale green glass, a buffet offered trays of sweetmeats. Helsse ushered his guests into the car with the utmost politeness; today he wore a suit of pale green and gray, as if to blend himself into the decor of the carriage.

  When all were seated, he touched a button to close the door and retract the steps. Reith observed, “Lord Cizante, while deriding utilitarianism as a doctrine, apparently does not flout its applications.”

  “You refer to the door-closing mechanism? He is not aware that it exists. Someone is always at hand to touch the button for him. Like others of his class he touches objects only in play or pleasure. You find this odd? No matter. You must accept the Yao gentry as you find them.”

  “Evidently you do not regard yourself as a member of the Yao gentry.”

  Helsse laughed. “More tactful might be the conjecture that I enjoy what I am doing.” He spoke into a mesh. “To the South Ebron Mercade.”

  The carriage eased into motion. Helsse poured goblets of syrup and proffered sweetmeats. “You are about to visit our commercial district; the source of our wealth, in fact, though it is considered vulgar to discuss it.”

  “Strange,” mused Anacho. “Dirdir, at the highest level, are never so hoity-toity.”

  “They are a different race,” said Helsse
. “Superior? I am not convinced. The Wankh would never agree, should they trouble to examine the concept.”

  Anacho gave a contemptuous shrug but said no more.

  The carriage rolled through a market area: the Mercade, then into a district of small dwellings, in a wonderful diversity of style. At a cluster of squat brick towers the carriage halted. Helsse pointed to a nearby garden where sat a dozen men of spectacular appearance. They wore white shirts and trousers, their hair, long and abundant, was also white; in striking contrast to the lusterless black of their skins. “Lokhars,” said Helsse. “Migrating mechanics from the highlands north of Lake Falas in Central Kislovan. That is not their natural coloration; they bleach their hair and dye their skin. Some say the Wankh enforced the custom upon them thousands of years ago to differentiate them from Wankhmen, who of course are white-skinned and black-haired. In any event, they come and go, working where they gain the highest return, for they are a remarkably avaricious folk. Some, after laboring in the Wankh shops, have migrated north to Cath; a few of these know a chime or two of Wankh-talk and occasionally can puzzle out the sense of Wankh documents. Notice the old man yonder playing with the child; he is reckoned as adept in Wankh as any. He will demand a large sum for his efforts, and in order to forestall even more exorbitant demands in the future I must haggle with him. If you will be good enough to wait, I will go to make the arrangements.”

  “A moment,” said Reith. “At a conscious level I am convinced of your integrity, but I can’t control my instinctive suspicions. Let us make the arrangement together.”

  “As you wish,” said Helsse graciously. “I will send the chauffeur for the man.” He spoke into the mesh.

  Anacho murmured, “If the arrangements were already made, the qualms of a trusting person might easily be drugged.”

  Helsse nodded judiciously. “I believe I can assuage your anxieties.”

  A moment later the old man sauntered up to the carriage.

  “Inside, if you please,” said Helsse.

  The old man poked his white-maned face through the door. “My time is valuable; what do you want of me?”

  “A matter for your profit.”

  “Profit, eh? I can at least listen.” He entered the carriage, and seated himself with a comfortable grunt. The air took on the odor of a spicy, slightly rancid pomade. Helsse stood in front of him. With a side glance toward Reith he said, “Our arrangement is canceled. Do not heed my instructions.”

  “ ‘Arrangement’? ‘Instructions’? What are you talking about? You must mistake me for another. I am Zarfo Detwiler.”

  Helsse made an easy gesture. “It’s all one. We want you to translate a Wankh document for us, the guide to a treasure hoard. Translate correctly, you shall share the booty.”

  “No, no, none of that.” Zarfo Detwiler waved a black finger. “I’ll share the booty with pleasure; additionally I want a hundred sequins, and no recriminations if I fail to satisfy you.”

  “No recriminations, agreed. But a hundred sequins for possibly nothing? Ridiculous. Here: five sequins and eat your fill of the expensive sweetmeats.”

  “That last I’ll do anyway; am I not your invited guest?” Zarfo Detwiler popped a handful of dainties into his mouth. “You must think me a moon-calf to offer but five sequins. Only three persons in Settra can so much as tell you which side of a Wankh ideogram is up. I alone can read meaning, by virtue of thirty toilsome years in the Ao Hidis machine shops.”

  The haggling proceeded; Zarfo Detwiler eventually agreed to fifty sequins and a tenth share of the assumptive spoils. Helsse signaled Reith, who produced the documents.

  Zarfo Detwiler took the papers, squinted, frowned, ran his fingers through his white mane. He looked up and spoke somewhat ponderously: “I will instruct you in Wankh communication at no charge. The Wankh are a peculiar folk, totally unique. Their brain works in pulses. They see in pulses and think in pulses. Their speech comes in a pulse, a chime of many vibrations which carries all the meaning of a sentence. Each ideogram is equivalent to a chime, which is to say, a whole unit of meaning. For this reason, to read Wankh is as much a matter of divination as logic; one must enunciate an entire meaning with each ideogram. Even the Wankhmen are not always accurate. Now this matter you have here-let me see. This first chimehm. Notice this comb? It usually signifies an equivalence, an identity. A square of this texture shading off to the right sometimes means ‘truth’ or ‘verified perception’ or ‘situation’ or perhaps ‘present condition of the cosmos.’ These marks-I don’t know. This bit of shading-I think it’s a person talking. Since it’s at the bottom, the base tone in the chord, it would seem that-yes, this trifle here indicates positive volition. These marks—hm. Yes, these are organizers, which specify the order and emphasis of the other elements. I can’t understand them; I can only guess at the total sense. Something like ‘I wish to report that conditions are identical or unchanged’ or ‘A person is anxious to specify that the cosmos is stable.’ Something of the sort. Are you sure that this is information regarding treasure?”

  “It was sold to us on this basis.”

  “Hm.” Zarfo pulled at his long black nose. “Let me see. This second symbol: notice this shading and this bit of an angle? One is ‘vision’; the other is ‘negation.’ I can’t read the organizers, but it might mean ‘blindness’ or ‘invisibility…’ ”

  Zarfo continued his lucubrations, poring over each ideogram, occasionally tracing out a fragment of meaning, more often confessing failure, and becoming ever more restive. “You have been gulled,” he said at last. “I’m certain there is no mention of money or treasure. I believe this is no more than a commercial report. It seems to say, as close as I can fathom: ‘I wish to state that conditions are the same.’ Something about peculiar wishes, or hopes, or volitions. ‘I will presently see the dominant man, the leader of our group.’ Something unknown. ‘The leader is not helpful,’ or perhaps ‘stays aloof.’ ‘The leader slowly changes, or metamorphoses, to the enemy.’ Or perhaps, ‘The leader slowly changes to become like the enemy.’ Change of some sort-I can’t understand. ‘I request more money.’ Something about arrival of a newcomer or stranger ‘of utmost importance.’ That’s about all.”

  Reith thought to sense an almost imperceptible relaxation in Helsse’s manner.

  “No great illumination,” said Helsse briskly. “Well, you have done your best. Here is your twenty sequins.”

  “ ‘Twenty sequins’!” roared Zarfo Detwiler. “The price agreed was fifty! How can I buy my bit of meadowland if I am constantly cheated?”

  “Oh very well, if you choose to be niggardly.”

  “Niggardly, indeed! Next time read the message yourself.”

  “I could do as well, for all the help you’ve given us.”

  “You were duped. That is no guide to treasure.”

  “Apparently not. Well then, good day to you.”

  Reith followed Zarfo from the carriage. He looked back in at Helsse. “I’ll remain here, for a word or two with this gentleman.”

  Helsse was not pleased. “We must discuss another matter. It is necessary that the Blue Jade Lord receives information.”

  “This afternoon I will have a definite answer for you.”

  Helsse gave a curt nod. “As you wish.”

  The carriage departed, leaving Reith and the Lokhar standing in the street. Reith said, “Is there a tavern nearby? Perhaps we can chat over a bottle.”

  “I am a Lokhar,” snorted the black-skinned old man. “I do not addle my brains and drain my pockets with drink; not before noon, at any rate. However you may buy me a fine Zam sausage, or a clut of headcheese.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Zarfo led the way to a food shop; the two men took their purchases to a table on the street.

  “I am amazed by your ability to read the ideograms,” said Reith. “Where did you learn?”

  “At Ao Hidis. I worked as a die cutter beside an old Lokhar who was a true genius. He taught me
to recognize a few chimes, and showed me where the shadings matched intensity vibrations, where sonority equated with shape, where the various chord components matched texture and gradation. Both the chimes and the ideograms are regular and rational, once the eye and the ear are tuned. But the tuning is difficult.” Zarfo took a great bite of sausage. “Needless to say, the Wankhmen discourage such learning; if they suspect a Lokhar of diligent study, he is discharged. Oh, they are a crafty lot! They jealously guard their role as intercessors between the Wankh and the world of men. A devious folk! The women are strangely beautiful, like black pearls, but cruel and cold, and not prone to dalliance.”

  “The Wankh pay well?”

  “Like everyone else, as little as possible. But we are forced to concede. If labor costs rose, they would take slaves, or train Blacks and Purples, one or the other. We would then lose employment and perhaps our freedom as well. So we strive without too much complaint, and seek more profitable employment elsewhere once we are skilled.”

  “It is highly likely,” said Reith, “that the Yao Helsse, in the gray and green suit, will ask what we discussed. He may even offer you money.”

  Zarfo bit off a chunk of sausage. “I shall naturally tell all, if I am paid enough.”

  “In that case,” said Reith, “our conversation must deal in pleasantries, profitless to both of us.”

  Zarfo chewed thoughtfully. “How much profit had you in mind?”

  “I don’t care to specify, since you would only ask Helsse for more, or try to extract the same from both of us.”

  Zarfo sighed dismally. “You have a sorry opinion of the Lokhar. Our word is our bond; once we strike a bargain we do not deviate.”

  The haggling continued on a more or less cordial level until for the sum of twenty sequins Zarfo agreed to guard the privacy of the conversation as fiercely as he might the hiding place of his money, and the sum was paid over.

  “Back to the Wankh message for a moment,” said Reith. “There were references to a ‘leader.’ Were there hints or clues by which to identify him?”