by Jack Vance
Sajarano uttered a sob and staggered to his feet.
“So you instructed Jurjin to stand behind the ivy and kill me at your signal!” said Etzwane grimly.
“No, no! She carried an ampule gun, to drug you.”
“You are insane! Can you imagine I would not have taken your head? And the tea — poisoned?”
“A soporific.”
“What purpose does drugging me serve? Answer!”
Sajarano only shook his head. He had totally lost his poise; he pounded his forehead as if to subdue his thoughts.
Etzwane shook his shoulder. “What do you gain by drugging me? My friends would kill you!”
Sajarano mumbled, “I act as my inner soul dictates.”
“From now on I am your inner soul! Take me to your office. I must learn how to communicate with the Discriminators* and the cantonal governments.”
* Avistioi: ‘Nice Discriminators’: the constabulary of the Garwiy Aesthetic Corporation, and the single sophisticated police force of Shant.
Sajarano, round shoulders slumping, led the way through his private study to a locked door. He touched code-keys, the door opened; they climbed a spiral staircase to a chamber overlooking all Garwiy.
A bench along the far wall supported a number of glass boxes. Sajarano made a vague gesture. “This is radio equipment. It sends a narrow beam to a relay station on top the Ushkadel, and cannot be tracked. I press this button to transmit messages to the Office of Proclamations; by this, to the Chief Discriminator; by this, to the Hall of Cantons; by this, to the Office of Petitions. My voice is disguised by a filtering device.”
“What if I were to speak?” asked Etzwane. “Would anyone know the difference?”
Sajarano winced. His eyes were dull with pain. “No one would know. Do you plan to become Anome?”
“I have no such inclination,” said Etzwane.
“In effect this is the case. I refuse all further responsibility.”
“How do you answer the petitions?”
“This was Garstang’s job. I regularly checked his decisions on the display board. Occasionally he found it necessary to consult; not often.”
“When you use the radio, what is your routine? What do you say?”
“It is very simple. I say: ‘The Anome instructs that such an act be accomplished.’ That is the end of it.”
“Very good. Call now the Office of Proclamations, and all the rest. This is what you must say:
‘In response to the depredations of the Roguskhoi I proclaim a state of emergency. Shant must now mobilize its strength against these creatures and destroy them.’”
Sajarano shook his head. “I cannot say that; you must do so yourself.” He seemed disoriented. His hands twitched; his eyes jerked from side to side, his skin showed an ugly yellowish tint.
“Why can’t you say it?” asked Etzwane.
“It is contrary to my inner soul. I cannot participate in your venture. It means chaos!”
“If we don’t destroy the Roguskhoi it means no more Shant, which is worse,” Etzwane said. “Show me how to use the radio.”
Sajarano’s mouth trembled; for a moment Etzwane thought that he would refuse. Then he said, “Push that switch. Turn the green knob until the green light glows. Push the button of the agency you choose to call. Press the purple button, to signal the monitor. When the purple light flashes, speak.”
Etzwane approached the bench; Sajarano drew back a few steps. Etzwane pretended to study the equipment. Sajarano darted for the door, passed through, swung it shut. Etzwane hurled himself into the opening; the two struggled. Etzwane was young and strong; Sajarano thrust with hysterical frenzy. Their two heads, on opposite sides of the opening, were only inches apart. Sajarano’s eyes bulged, his mouth hung open. His feet slipped, the door swung back.
Etzwane said politely, “Who lives here beside yourself?”
“Only my staff,” muttered Sajarano.
“The radio can wait,” said Etzwane. “First I must deal with you.”
Sajarano stood with sagging shoulders. Etzwane said, “Come. Leave these doors open. I want you to instruct your staff that I and my friends will be taking up residence here.”
Sajarano gave a fatalistic sigh. “What are your plans for me?”
“If you cooperate, your life is your own.”
“I will do my best,” said Sajarano, in the voice of an old man. “I must try, I must try … I will call Aganthe, my major-domo. How many persons will be coming? I live a solitary life.”
“I’ll have to take counsel with them.”
Chapter II
Sajarano lay drugged in his bed-chamber; Etzwane stood in the hall. What to do with the corpse? He did not know. Unwise to order the servants to remove it. Let it stay then, until he had organized matters … Lovely Jurjin! What a waste of beauty and vitality! He could summon no more fury against Sajarano; such emotion seemed stale. Sajarano clearly was insane.
Now: the proclamation. Etzwane returned to the radio room, where he wrote what he considered a succinct and emphatic message. Then he manipulated the array of dials and buttons as Sajarano had instructed. He first signaled the Office of Proclamations.
The purple light flashed.
Etzwane spoke. “The Anome orders dissemination throughout Shant of the following proclamation:
“In response to the dangerous presence of the Roguskhoi in our midst, the Anome proclaims a state of emergency, effective immediately.
“For several years the Anome has attempted to deal with the invaders on the basis of peaceful persuasion. These efforts have failed; we now must act with the total force of our nation; the Roguskhoi will be exterminated or repelled into Palasedra.
“The Roguskhoi exhibit an unnatural lust, from which many women have suffered. To minimize further episodes of this type, the Anome orders that all women depart those cantons adjacent to the Wildlands. They are to travel to maritime cantons, where the authorities must prepare safe and comfortable accommodations.
“Simultaneously, the authorities in each canton shall organize a militia of able men, to the number of at least one man for each one hundred persons of population. Further orders in this regard will be forthcoming. Cantonal authorities, however, must immediately start the process of recruitment. Delay will not be tolerated.
“The Anome will make additional proclamations at an appropriate time. My Executive Aide is Gastel Etzwane. He will coordinate the separate efforts and speak with my voice. He must be obeyed in all regards.”
Etzwane called the Chief Discriminator of Garwiy and once again read his proclamation. “Gastel Etzwane must be obeyed as if he were the Anome himself. Is this clear?”
The Chief Discriminator’s voice returned: “Gastel Etzwane will be accorded full cooperation. I may say, your Excellency, that this policy will be welcomed throughout Shant. We are pleased that you are taking action!”
“It is not I,” declared Etzwane. “The folk of Shant are taking action. I only direct their efforts. I alone can do nothing!”
“This of course is correct,” came the response. “Are there further instructions?”
“Yes. I want the most able technists of Garwiy assembled tomorrow at noon in the Corporation Offices, in order that I may take advice upon weapons and weapons production.”
“I will see to this.”
“For the moment, that is all.”
Etzwane explored Sershan Palace. The staff watched him askance, muttering and wondering. Never had Etzwane imagined such elegance. He found richness accumulated over thousands of years: glass columns inlaid with silver symbols; rooms of pale blue opening upon rooms of old rose; whole walls worked into vitran* landscapes; furniture and porcelain of the far past; magnificent rugs of Maseach and Cansume; a display of distorted gold masks stolen at fearful risk from the interior of Caraz.
* Vitran: a process of visual representation unique to Garwiy. The artist and his apprentice use minute rods of colored glass a quarter-inch long, one twe
ntieth of an inch in diameter. The rods are cemented lengthwise against a back-plate of frosted glass. The finished work, illuminated from behind, becomes a landscape, portrait or pattern vital beyond all other representational processes, combining radiance, chromatic range, flexibility, refinement, detail and scope. Inordinate effort and time is required to produce even a small work, with approximately sixty thousand individual rods comprising each square foot of finished surface.
Such a palace, mused Etzwane, could be his own if he desired. Absurd that Gastel Etzwane, casually fathered by the druithine Dystar upon Eathre of Rhododendron Way, should be — why not admit the situation? — effectively Anome of Shant!
Etzwane gave a melancholy shrug. During his youth he had known penury; each florin he could save represented the fifteen-hundredth part of his mother’s freedom. Now the wealth of Shant lay open to his hand! It held no appeal … And what to do about the corpse in the morning room?
In the library he sat down to ponder … Sajarano seemed not a villain, but a figure of doom. Why could he not have expressed himself frankly? Why could they not have worked together? Etzwane reviewed the dismal circumstances. Sajarano could not be kept drugged indefinitely; on the other hand he could not be trusted in any other condition — except dead.
Etzwane grimaced. He longed for the presence of Ifness, who seemed never to lack resource. In the absence of Ifness, allies of any sort would be welcome.
There was always Frolitz and his troupe: the Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greeners. A ridiculous idea, which Etzwane rejected at once … who else? Two names entered his mind: Dystar his father, Jerd Finnerack.
Essentially he knew little of either. Dystar was not even aware of his existence. Etzwane nevertheless had heard Dystar’s music, and had been provided evidence as to Dystar’s inner self. As for Finnerack, Etzwane remembered only a sturdy youth with a determined brown face and sun-bleached blond hair. Finnerack had been kind to the desperate waif Gastel Etzwane; he had encouraged Etzwane to attempt escape from Angwin Junction, an island in the air. What had become of Jerd Finnerack?
Etzwane returned to the radio room. He called the Chief Discriminator’s office and requested that information regarding Jerd Finnerack be solicited from the balloon-way office.
Etzwane looked in upon Sajarano, who lay supine in drugged slumber. Etzwane scowled and left the room. He summoned a footman to the great parlor and sent him to Fontenay’s Inn, where he was to find Frolitz and fetch him to Sershan Palace.
In due course Frolitz arrived, at once truculent and apprehensive. At the sight of Etzwane, he stopped short, jerked his head back in suspicion.
“Come in, come in,” said Etzwane. Waving away the footman, he led Frolitz into the great parlor. “Sit down. Will you take tea?”
“Certainly,” said Frolitz. “Are you about to divulge the reason for your presence here?”
“It is a queer set of circumstances,” said Etzwane. “As you know I recently submitted a five hundred florin petition to the Anome.”
“Of this I am aware; more fool you.”
“Not altogether. The Anome had come to share my views; he therefore asked me to assist in what will be a great campaign against the Roguskhoi.”
Frolitz gaped in astonishment. “You? Gastel Etzwane the musician? What fantasy is this?”
“No fantasy. Someone must do these jobs. I agreed; additionally, I volunteered your services in this same cause.”
Frolitz’s grizzled jaw dropped even further. Then his eyes took on a sardonic gleam. “Of course! Precisely what is needed to send the Roguskhoi scuttling: old Frolitz and his savage troupe! I should have thought of it myself.”
“The situation is extraordinary,” said Etzwane. “Still, you need only accept the evidence of your senses.”
Frolitz gave a qualified assent. “We seem to be sitting like Aesthetes in an uncommonly luxurious palace. What next?”
“It is as I told you originally. We are to assist the Anome.”
Frolitz examined Etzwane’s face with renewed suspicion. “One matter must be clear beyond any reconsideration: I am not a warrior; I am too old to fight.”
“Neither you nor I will actually wield a sword,” said Etzwane. “Our duties are to be somewhat clandestine and — naturally — profitable.”
“In what regard and to what degree?”
“This is Sershan Palace,” said Etzwane. “We are to take up residence here: you, I, the entire troupe. We will be fed and lodged like Aesthetes. Our duties are simple, but before I tell you more I want to learn your opinion of this appointment.”
Frolitz scratched his head, working his sparse gray hair into a bristle. “You spoke of profit. This sounds like the Gastel Etzwane of old, who nurtured each florin as if it were a dying saint. All else carries the flavor of hallucination.”
“We sit here in Sershan Palace. Hallucination? I think not. The proposal is unexpected, but as you know, strange things happen.”
“True! The musician lives a startling life … I certainly have no objection to occupying Sershan Palace, for as long as the Sershans permit. This would not be your idea of a prank, to see old Frolitz hauled off to Stonebreakers’ Island, protesting innocence all the while?”
“Absolutely not, I swear it. What of the troupe?”
“Would they ignore such an opportunity? What then would be our duties — assuming the matter not to be a hoax?”
“It is a peculiar situation,” said Etzwane. “The Anome wants Sajarano of Sershan kept under observation. To be blunt, Sajarano is to be held under house-arrest. That is to be our function.”
Frolitz grunted. “Now I am beset by another fear: if the Anome starts to employ his musicians as jailers, he may decide to use the displaced jailers as musicians.”
“The process will not go so far,” said Etzwane. “Essentially, I was instructed to recruit a few trustworthy persons; I thought first of the troupe. As I say, we will all be well paid; in fact, I can requisition new instruments for everyone in the troupe: the best wood-horns, blackbirk khitans with bronze hinges, silver tipples, whatever may be needed or desired, and no thought for expense.”
Frolitz’s jaw dropped again. “You can do all this?”
“I can.”
“If so, you may count upon the cooperation of the troupe. Indeed, we long have needed such a period of relaxation.”
Sajarano occupied chambers high in a tower of pearl-glass to the back of the palace. Etzwane found him primly at ease on a green satin couch, toying with a beautiful set of puzzle ivories. His face was drawn; his skin showed the color and texture of old paper. His greeting was reserved; he refused to meet Etzwane’s gaze.
“We have acted,” said Etzwane. “The force of Shant is now committed against the Roguskhoi.”
“I hope that you find the problems as easy to resolve as to create,” said Sajarano curtly.
Etzwane seated himself across from Sajarano on a white wood chair. “You have not altered your views?”
“When they derive from earnest study over a period of years? Of course not.”
“I hope however that you agree to desist from adverse actions?”
“The power is yours,” said Sajarano. “I must now obey.”
“So you said before,” noted Etzwane. “Then you attempted to poison me.”
Sajarano gave a disinterested shrug. “I could only do as my inner voice dictated.”
“Hmmf … What does it dictate now?”
“Nothing. I have known tragedy and my only wish is for seclusion.”
“This you shall have,” said Etzwane. “For a brief period, until events order themselves, a company of musicians with whom I am associated will ensure this seclusion. It is the minimal inconvenience I can impose on you. I hope you will take it in good part.”
“So long as they do not rehearse or indulge in destructive horseplay.”
Etzwane looked out the window toward the forests of the Ushkadel. “How should we remove the corpse from the morning room?”<
br />
Sajarano said in a low voice: “Push the button yonder; it will summon Aganthe.”
The major-domo appeared. “In the morning room you will find a corpse,” said Sajarano. “Bury it, sink it in the Sualle, dispose of it as you like, but with all discretion. Then clean the morning room.”
Aganthe bowed and departed.
Sajarano turned to Etzwane. “What else do you require?”
“I will need to disburse public money. What procedure do I follow in this regard?”
Sajarano’s lips twitched with bitter amusement. He put aside the ivories. “Come.”
They descended to Sajarano’s private study, where for a moment Sajarano stood in cogitation. Etzwane wondered if he planned another grim surprise, and ostentatiously put his hand into his pouch. Sajarano gave the slightest of shrugs as if dismissing from his mind whatever idea had entered. From a cabinet he extracted a packet of vouchers. Etzwane cautiously came forward, finger on the yellow button. But Sajarano’s defiance had waned. He muttered, “Your policies are far too bold for me. Perhaps they are right; perhaps I have buried my head in the sand … Sometimes I feel as if I have been living a dream.”
In a dull voice he instructed Etzwane in the use of the vouchers.
“Let us have no misunderstandings,” Etzwane told Sajarano. “You must not leave the palace, use the radio, send the servants on missions or entertain friends. We intend you no inconvenience, so long as you do nothing to provoke our suspicion.”
Etzwane then summoned Frolitz and made him known to Sajarano. Frolitz spoke with a waggish cordiality. “This for me is unfamiliar employment; I trust that our association will be placid.”
“It will be so on my part,” said Sajarano in a bitter voice. “Well then, what else do you require?”
“At the moment, nothing.”
Sajarano went off to his chambers in the pearl tower. Frolitz said in a quizzical voice, “Your duties appear to exceed the simple jailing of Sajarano.”
“Quite true,” said Etzwane. “If you are curious —”
