The Brave Free Men

by Jack Vance

  Durdane, Book 2

  The Brave Free Men

  Jack Vance

  Copyright 1970, 2012 by Jack Vance

  Cover art by Tais Teng

  Published by

  Spatterlight Press

  ISBN 978-1-61947-045-3

  2012-09-01

  Visit jackvance.com for more

  Spatterlight Press releases

  This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.

  Digitize: Herve Goubin, Joel Hedlund, Charles King, Peter Strickland, Format: Joel Hedlund, Diff: Hans van der Veeke, Suan Hsi Yong, Tech Proof: Ron Chernich, Text Integrity: Rob Friefeld, Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, Suan Hsi Yong, Implement: Derek W. Benson, Mike Dennison, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Joel Anderson, Comp Review: Mark Adams, Marcel van Genderen, Charles King, Update Verify: Bob Luckin, Paul Rhoads, John A. Schwab, RTF-Diff: Patrick Dusoulier, Bill Schaub, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Proofread: Neil Anderson, Mike Barrett, Malcolm Bowers, Robert Collins, Chris Coulter, Patrick Dusoulier, Andrew Edlin, Patrick van Efferen, Harry Erwin, Rob Friefeld, Rob Gerrand, Ed Gooding, Yannick Gour, Tony Graham, Peter Ikin, David A. Kennedy, Joe Keyser, Per Kjellberg, Michael Mitchell, Bob Moody, Till Noever, Greg Reddick, David Reitsema, Joel Riedesel, Axel Roschinski, Mark Shoulder, Fred Zoetemeyer

  Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden

  THE COMPLETE WORKS

  of

  Jack Vance

  Durdane, Book 2

  The Brave Free Men

  THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION

  Oakland

  2012

  Previously published as

  The Roguskhoi

  West Shant • Central Shant • East Shant

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Maps

  Chapter I

  In a chamber high under the dormers of Fontenay’s Inn, Etzwane stirred on his couch. He had slept but little. Presently he arose and went to the window, where the stars had paled on the violet dawn. The far slopes of the Ushkadel showed only the occasional green sparkle of a street-lamp; the Aesthete palaces were dark.

  In one of these palaces, thought Etzwane, the Faceless Man had slept no better than himself.

  He turned away from the window and went to the wash-stand. A carbon-fume mirror gave back his image, a face altered both by the gloom of dawn and the umbral quality of the mirror. Etzwane peered close. This unreal, somewhat menacing, person might well be himself most truly: the face sardonic, drooping of mouth, hollow of cheek; the skin sallow with a leaden sheen; the eyes dark holes, punctuated by a pair of glittering reflections. He thought: here stands Gastel Etzwane, first Chilite Pure Boy, then Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greener, now a man of enormous power. He spoke to the image: “Today is a day of important events; Gastel Etzwane must not allow himself to be killed.” The image gave back no reassurance.

  He dressed and went down to the street. At a booth on the riverbank he ate fried fish and bread and considered his prospects for the day.

  In broad essence his job was simple. He must go to Sershan Palace and there compel Sajarano, the Anome of Shant, to do his bidding. If Sajarano demurred, Etzwane need merely press a button to explode his head, for now Sajarano wore a torc and Etzwane did not. It was work of stark and brutal simplicity — unless Sajarano divined his solitary condition, his lack of ally or confederate, in which case his situation became precarious.

  With his breakfast finished there was nothing to deter him; he set forth up Galias Avenue. Sajarano, he reflected, would desperately be seeking to escape from his intolerable predicament. Etzwane asked himself: what, in Sajarano’s place, would be his own response? Flight? Etzwane stopped short. Here was a contingency he had not considered. From his pouch he brought the pulse-emitter, once Sajarano’s basic tool of law-enforcement. Etzwane encoded the colors of Sajarano’s torc. The yellow button would now — if necessary — detonate the torc, thereby removing Sajarano’s head. Etzwane pushed the red ‘Seek’ button. The box hummed, the sound fluctuating with change of direction. At maximum the box pointed toward Sershan Palace. Etzwane proceeded, more thoughtful than ever. Sajarano had not taken to flight. He might have evolved a strategy more active.

  Galias Avenue terminated at the Marmione Plaza where a fountain of milk-white water played over artifacts of purple glass; the Koronakhe Steps opposite, constructed by King Caspar Pandamon, rose toward the terraces of the Ushkadel. At the Middle Way Etzwane left the steps and proceeded eastward, around the sweep of the Ushkadel. The prismatic Palace Xhiallinen rose above him; here lived Jurjin, the Faceless Man’s ‘Benevolence’. Among a dozen other mysteries, this: why had Sajarano selected so conspicuously beautiful a girl for his deputy? … The mystery, in this case, might be more apparent than real, so Etzwane speculated. The Anome, like any man, could suffer the pangs of love. Jurjin of Xhiallinen perhaps had reacted coolly to the attentions of Sajarano, who was neither handsome, dashing nor distinguished. Perhaps she wondered when the Faceless Man had ordered her into his service, and had commanded her to take no lovers. In due course the Faceless Man might have ordered her to look kindly upon Sajarano. So Etzwane conjectured … He came to the Palace Sershan, neither more nor less splendid than any of the others. Etzwane halted, to review all circumstances. The next half-hour would determine the future of Shant; each minute carried more weight than all the days of a normal man’s life. He looked up and down the façade of Sershan Palace. Columns of crystal, more lucid and transparent than air itself, fractured the beams of the triple suns; the violet and green domes beyond sheltered chambers where sixty Sershan generations had lived, celebrated their festivals, and died.

  Etzwane trudged forward. He crossed the loggia, approached the portico, and here he paused. Six doors of inch-thick glass, each fifteen feet high, barred his way. No light or movement appeared within. Etzwane hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. He began to feel foolish, hence angry. He rapped on the glass. His bare knuckles made little noise; he pounded with his fist. He saw movement within; a moment later a man came around the side of the palace. It was Sajarano himself.

  “These are ceremonial doors,” said Sajarano in a mild voice. “We seldom open them; would you come this way?”

  In glum silence Etzwane followed Sajarano to a side entrance. Sajarano motioned him within. Etzwane halted and searched Sajarano’s face, to which Sajarano returned a faint smile, as if he found Etzwane’s wariness amusing. With his hand on the yellow button Etzwane entered the palace.

  “I have been expecting you,” said Sajarano. “Have you breakfasted? Perhaps you’ll take a cup of tea. Shall w
e go up to the morning room?”

  He led the way to a sunny chamber with a floor of green and white jade tiles. The wall to the left was shrouded in dark green vines; the wall to the right was clear white alabaster. Sajarano motioned Etzwane to a wicker chair beside a wicker table, then at a sideboard served himself a few morsels of food and poured tea into a pair of silver-wood cups.

  Etzwane carefully seated himself; Sajarano took the chair opposite, his back to the ceiling-high windows. Etzwane studied him with somber calculation and Sajarano once again gave back his faint smile. Sajarano was not an imposing man physically; his features were small; under a broad high forehead his nose and mouth seemed almost immature; his chin was a nubbin. The Anome of popular conception was vastly different from this mild, reasonable man.

  Sajarano sipped his tea. Best to take the initiative, thought Etzwane; he spoke in a careful monotone: “As I previously mentioned, I represent that segment of the public which is seriously concerned in regard to the Roguskhoi. We believe that if decisive steps are not taken, in five years there will be no more Shant — only a great horde of Roguskhoi. As the Anome it is your duty to destroy these creatures; such is the trust the people of Shant repose in you.”

  Sajarano nodded without emphasis, and sipped his tea. Etzwane left his cup untouched. “These considerations,” Etzwane continued, “forced my friends and myself to extreme lengths, as you know.”

  Sajarano nodded once more: a kindly reassuring nod. “These friends: who are they?”

  “Certain persons who are shocked by the acts of the Roguskhoi.”

  “I see. And your position: you are the leader?”

  “I?” Etzwane gave an incredulous laugh. “By no means.”

  Sajarano frowned. “Would it be fair to assume that the others of your group are known personally to me?”

  “It is a matter which really has no bearing on the issue,” said Etzwane.

  “Perhaps not, except that I like to know with whom I am dealing.”

  “You need deal with no one; you need only muster an army and drive the Roguskhoi back into Palasedra.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” said Sajarano. “A further question: Jurjin of Xhiallinen spoke of a certain Ifness, who demonstrated remarkable abilities. I confess to curiosity regarding this Ifness.”

  “Ifness is a remarkable man indeed,” said Etzwane. “As to the Roguskhoi: what do you propose to do?”

  Sajarano ate a slice of fruit. “I have considered the matter carefully, to this effect. The Anome is what he is only because he controls the lives of all the people of Shant but is himself exempt from such control. This is the definition of the Anome. It no longer defines me; I wear a torc. I can take no responsibility for acts or policies not my own. In short I propose to do nothing.”

  “Nothing whatever? What of your normal duties?”

  “I resign them all to you and your group. You wield the power; you must bear the burdens.” Sajarano laughed at Etzwane’s glum expression. “Why should I go into a hysteria of effort over policies whose wisdom I doubt? What nonsense this would be!”

  “Am I to understand that you no longer consider yourself Anome?”

  “That is correct. The Anome must work anonymously. I can no longer do this. You, Jurjin of Xhiallinen, others in your group know my identity. I am no longer effective.”

  “Then who is to be Anome?”

  Sajarano shrugged. “You, your friend Ifness, another member of your group. You control the power, you must accept the responsibility.”

  Etzwane frowned. Here was a contingency for which he had not prepared. Obduracy, threats, scorn, anger: yes. Supine relinquishment: no. It was too easy. Etzwane became wary. Sajarano’s subtlety far exceeded his own. He asked cautiously, “You will cooperate with us?”

  “I will obey your orders, certainly.”

  “Very well. First, a state of national emergency is to be proclaimed. We will identify the danger, then make it clear that an effort of major proportions must be made.”

  Sajarano made a polite sound. “So much is easy. Remember, however, that the population of Shant is over thirty million souls; to cry emergency to so many is a serious affair.”

  “Agreed; no dispute here whatever. Second, women must be evacuated from all areas adjacent to the Wildlands.”

  Sajarano gave him a look of polite bewilderment. “Evacuated to where?”

  “To the coastal cantons.”

  Sajarano pursed his small mouth. “It is not all so simple. Where will they live? Will their children accompany them? What of their homes, their ordinary duties? The cantons affected would number twenty or thirty. That is a large number of women.”

  “Which is precisely why we want them moved,” said Etzwane. “That number of women impregnated by Roguskhoi means a vast horde of Roguskhoi!”

  Sajarano shrugged. “What of the other difficulties I mentioned? They are real.”

  “Administrative detail,” said Etzwane.

  “To be handled by whom? Me? You? Your group?” Sajarano’s tone had become patronizing. “You must think in terms of practicalities.”

  His strategy becomes clear, thought Etzwane. He will not oppose, but he will not help, and will do all in his power to induce indecision.

  “Thirdly,” said Etzwane, “the Anome, by executive order, must call into being a national militia.”

  Etzwane politely waited for Sajarano’s objections; Sajarano did not disappoint him. “I regret the role of the carper, the defeatist; nevertheless I must point out that it is one matter to issue fiats; it is quite another to implement them. I doubt if you realize the full complexity of Shant. There are sixty-two cantons with nothing in common but language.”

  “Not to mention music and color-lore*. Additionally every citizen of Shant, with the seeming exception of yourself, hates and fears the Roguskhoi. The cantons are more united than you think.”

  * Ael’skian: more exactly: the symbology of color and color-combinations; in Shant an intensely meaningful aspect of life, adding another dimension to the perception.

  Sajarano gave his little finger an annoyed jerk. “Let me recite the difficulties; perhaps then you will understand why I have drawn back from an intolerable confusion. To integrate sixty-two distinct militias, with sixty-two versions of life itself, is a stupendous task. An experienced staff is necessary. There is only myself and my single Benevolence — a girl.”

  “Since you consider my proposals inept,” said Etzwane, “what were your own plans?”

  “I have learned,” said Sajarano, “that not every problem requires a solution. Many apparently urgent dilemmas dwindle and disappear if ignored … Will you drink more tea?”

  Etzwane, who had drunk no tea, signaled in the negative.

  Sajarano leaned back in his chair. He spoke in a reflective voice: “The army you propose is impractical for yet another reason — perhaps the most cogent of all. It would be futile.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It is really obvious. When any problem must be solved, when some irksome duty must be performed, it is referred to the Faceless Man. When folk complain of the Roguskhoi — have you heard them? — they always call on the Faceless Man to act! As if the Anome need only issue an ordinance to abate all and any nuisances! He has maintained peace for two thousand years, but it is the peace of a father upon a household of children.”

  Etzwane was silent for a period. Sajarano watched him with peculiar intensity. His gaze dropped to Etzwane’s cup of tea. An idle thought drifted into Etzwane’s head, which he rejected; certainly Sajarano would not attempt to poison him.

  Etzwane said, “Your opinions are interesting, but they argue only for passivity. My group insists that definite steps be taken: first, a declaration of national emergency; second, women must be evacuated from regions surrounding the Hwan; third, each canton must mobilize and train a militia; fourth, you must designate me as your First Aide, with all the authority you yourself command. If you are finished with
your breakfast, we will issue these proclamations now.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  Etzwane brought out the metal box. “I will take your head.”

  Sajarano nibbled at a wafer. “Your arguments are convincing.” He sipped his tea and indicated Etzwane’s cup. “Have you tasted it? I grow it at my own plantation.”

  Etzwane pushed his cup across the table. “Drink it.”

  Sajarano raised his eyebrows. “But I have my own cup.”

  “Drink it,” said Etzwane in a harsh voice. “Otherwise I will believe that you have tried to drug me.”

  “Would I attempt so banal a ploy?” demanded Sajarano in a brassy voice.

  “If you believed that I would discount such a trick as banal, then it becomes subtle. You can refute me by drinking.”

  “I refuse to be hectored!” spat Sajarano. He tapped his finger on the table. From the corner of his eye Etzwane saw the dark green ivy tremble; he glimpsed a glinting trifle and jerked back. From his sleeve he brought the wide-effect tube he had taken from Sajarano and pointed it at the ivy. Sajarano emitted a terrible screech; Etzwane pushed the button. From behind the ivy sounded an explosion. Sajarano sprang across the table at Etzwane. “Murderer, murderer! Oh, the horror, the murder, the blood of my dear one!”

  Etzwane struck Sajarano with his fist; Sajarano fell to the rug and lay moaning. From under the ivy a red puddle began to well out across the jade.

  Etzwane fought to control his stomach. His mind twisted and reeled. He kicked Sajarano, who looked up with a yellow face and a wet mouth. “Get up!” cried Etzwane hoarsely. “If Jurjin is dead, the fault is yours; you are her murderer! You are my mother’s murderer as well; if you had controlled the Roguskhoi long ago, there would not be this trouble!” He kicked Sajarano again. “Get up! Or I take your head in the bargain!”