The Brave Free Men

by Jack Vance

  “I’ll take care of the matter,” said Etzwane. “You’ll get your metal in a hurry. Meanwhile, I have a somewhat different problem for your attention: a pair of Roguskhoi imps, probably six months to a year old, already vicious, already alert to the presence of women. I think we should learn how and why they are so stimulated, what processes are involved. In short, are they affected visually, by odor, telepathically, or how?”

  “I understand precisely. The problem is one of obvious importance; I will put our biologists to work at once.”

  Etzwane conferred first with the Aesthete Brise, the Director of Transport, then with Aun Sharah. As Doneis had averred, each blamed the other for the lack of massive metal in Garwiy. Etzwane went into explicit detail and concluded that the problem was one of priority. Aun Sharah had pre-empted the available ships to transport food to the refugee-swollen maritime cantons.

  “The health of the people is important,” Etzwane told Aun Sharah, “but our first concern is killing Roguskhoi, which means metal to Garwiy.”

  “I understand all this,” Aun Sharah replied shortly. His complacent ease had gone, his complexion had lost its smooth tone. “I do the best that I can; remember, this is not my chosen occupation.”

  “Is this not true of all of us? I am a musician; Mialambre is a jurist; Brise is an Aesthete; Finnerack is a withe-cutter. We are all fortunate in our versatility.”

  “Possibly true,” said Aun Sharah. “I hear you have greatly changed my old Discriminators.”

  “We have indeed. All Shant is changing: I hope not for the worse.”

  The Roguskhoi swept on through north-central and northeast Shant, roaming at will through Cansume, most of Marestiy, and large parts of Faible and Purple Stone. Three times they attempted to swim the River Maure into Green Stone; on each occasion the regional militia put forth in fishing boats to pelt the invaders with dexax grenades. In the water the Roguskhoi were helpless; men knew the exhilaration of slaughtering their previously invincible opponents. The successes, however, were not real; the Roguskhoi were insensitive both to their own losses and to the human exultation; they marched thirty miles upstream to Opalsand, where the Maure flowed only three feet deep, and crossed in force. Their intent clearly was to sweep through Green Stone, Cape, Galwand, Glirris and grind the survivors against the Roguskhoi forces already in Azume. They would thereby destroy millions of men, capture millions of women, and control all northeast Shant — a disaster of unthinkable proportions.

  Etzwane conferred with Finnerack, Brise and San-Sein, this last man the nominal commander of the Brave Free Men. At this time approximately two thousand Brave Free Men had been armed with halcoid guns: a corps which Finnerack had intended to dispatch through Fairlea into the Hwan foothills of Sable, to hold Seamus and Bastern, to ambush and harass the Roguskhoi as they came down from the Hwan. The northeast, so he declared, must be written off; he saw no profit in desperate half-measures doomed to failure. For the first time Etzwane took issue with Finnerack on a major decision; to Etzwane a lack of reaction in the northeast meant the betrayal of millions; he found the idea unacceptable. Finnerack was unmoved. “Millions must die; the war is bitter. If we are to win we must steel ourselves to death and think in terms of grand strategy rather than a series of hysterical small-scale operations.”

  “The principle is correct,” said Etzwane. “On the other hand, we can’t let preconceived doctrine tie us in knots. Brise, what ships now lie in Shellflower Bay?”

  “Small vessels, the Stonebreaker packet, a few merchantmen, fishing craft: all these mostly in Seacastle harbor.”

  Etzwane spread out his maps. “The Roguskhoi march north down Maure Valley. The militia will impede them with grenades and land-mines. If we land our troops by night, here at this village Thran, they can occupy this ridge above Maurmouth. Then when the Roguskhoi appear, we will deal with them.”

  San-Sein examined the maps. “The plan is feasible.”

  Finnerack grunted and turned half about in his seat.

  Etzwane said to San-Sein: “March your men to Seacastle, embark upon the vessels that Brise will provide; set forth at once to the east.”

  “We will do our utmost; but will there be time?”

  “The militia must hold three days, by any ruse and tactic. Three days of fair winds should fetch you to Thran harbor.”

  Forty-two pinnaces, smacks and trawlers, each carrying thirty Brave Free Men, set forth to the relief of the northeast. San-Sein himself commanded the operation. Three days the wind held fair; on the third night the winds died, to the disgust of San-Sein who had wished to enter the harbor by night. Dawn found the fleet still a half-mile offshore, with any conceivable benefit of stealth or surprise gone by the boards.

  Cursing the calm weather, San-Sein scrutinized the shore through a telescope and went suddenly rigid with consternation. The lens of the telescope showed a sinister stir invisible to the naked eye. Roguskhoi crowded harbor-front houses of Thran village. The militia had not held. The Roguskhoi had won through to the sea, to set up an ambush of their own.

  A dawn wind had come to send ripples dancing over the water. San-Sein signaled his vessels together and issued new orders.

  On the freshening breeze the flotilla drove into Thran harbor; instead of tying up at the jetty or anchoring they grounded upon the shingle. The Brave Free Men, debarking, formed a skirmish line; they slowly advanced toward the harbor-side houses, from which the Roguskhoi demon-masks now peered openly.

  The Roguskhoi burst forth like ants from a broken ant-hill, to charge the beach. They were met by a thousand streaks of incandescent air and destroyed.

  By Intelligence Agency radio San-Sein reported the operation to Etzwane and Finnerack. “We lost not a man; we killed five hundred. As many more retreated to Maurmouth and up the course of the Maure. There now is no question; with the guns we can hunt down the creatures as if they were crippled ahulphs. But this is not all the story. We succeeded, but only by luck. Had we put into Thran by night, as planned, I would not be here now to report the disaster. The Roguskhoi knew of our approach; they were apprised. Who betrayed us?”

  Etzwane sat in cogitation; Finnerack scowled toward the diaphragm.

  Etzwane asked, “Who knew the plans?”

  “Four only: those who formed them.”

  “I will look into the matter,” said Etzwane. “Meanwhile we have saved the northeast: a cause for rejoicing. Pursue the creatures; hunt them down, but use caution; beware ambushes and narrow places. The future at last looks good.”

  Finnerack snorted. “You, Gastel Etzwane, are an optimist, who sees only a foot in front of his nose. The Roguskhoi were sent here to destroy us; do you believe that their sponsors, and I refer to the Palasedrans, will submit so easily? The future holds only trouble.”

  “We shall see,” said Etzwane. “I must say that never before have I been called an optimist.”

  While reporting the foray to Brise, Etzwane inquired as to a possible leakage of information. Brise was perplexed and indignant. “Are you asking if I informed anyone of the raid? Do you take me for a fool? The answer is an unqualified no.”

  “The question was a formality,” said Etzwane. “To close off the matter completely, there was no arrangement or understanding between you and the Office of Material Procurement?”

  Brise hesitated, then chose his words carefully. “There was absolutely no mention of a raid.”

  Etzwane’s senses were alert to the slightest subtlety of intonation. “I see. What precisely was your discussion?”

  “A trivial affair. The Director wanted ships sent to Oswiy, coincidentally on the exact date of the raid. I told him no, and in jocular fashion suggested that he schedule his shipment from Maurmouth instead.” Brise hesitated. “Perhaps in some remote sense this might be considered an indiscretion, were I speaking with a person other than the Director of Material Procurement.”

  “Precisely so,” said Etzwane. “In the future, please joke with no one.”

>   Finnerack approached Etzwane the next day. “What of Brise?”

  Etzwane had already considered his response. To evade or dissemble was to compromise his integrity. “Brise claims to have maintained absolute discretion. However, he made a jocular request that Aun Sharah have freight shipments ready at Maurmouth.”

  Finnerack made a guttural sound. “Ah! So now we know!”

  “It seems so. I must consider what to do.”

  Finnerack raised his blond eyebrows incredulously. “What to do? Is there any question?”

  “There is indeed. Assuming that, like Sajarano, he favors a victory of the Roguskhoi, the matter of interest to us is ‘Why?’ Both Sajarano and Aun Sharah are men of Shant, born and bred. What sets them apart? Lust for power or wealth? Impossible in Sajarano’s case; what more could he want? Have the Palasedrans seduced them with a drug? Have they devised a telepathic method of instilling obedience? We must get to the bottom of these matters, before the same techniques are practiced on you and me. After all, why should we be immune?”

  Finnerack smiled his crooked angry smile. “The same question has often crossed my mind, especially when you are lenient with our enemies.”

  “I am not lenient; be assured of this,” said Etzwane. “But I must be subtle.”

  “What of punishment?” Finnerack demanded. “Aun Sharah contrived the deaths of twelve hundred Brave Free Men! Should he escape because of subtlety?”

  “His guilt is not proved. To kill Aun Sharah on suspicion, or because of rage, could do absolutely no good. We must learn his motives.”

  “What then of the Brave Free Men?” stormed Finnerack. “Must they risk their lives willy-nilly? I am responsible to them, and I must protect them.”

  “Finnerack, you are responsible not to the Brave Free Men, but to the central authority of Shant, which is to say: me. You must not let energy and emotion overpower your reason. Let us be clear on this. If you feel that you cannot work to a long-range plan, you had best detach yourself from the government and fix upon some other occupation.” Etzwane met Finnerack’s flaming blue stare. “I do not claim infallibility,” he continued. “In regard to Aun Sharah, I agree that he is probably guilty. It is absolutely essential that we learn the reason behind his actions.”

  Finnerack said, “The knowledge is not worth the life of a single man.”

  “How do you know this?” demanded Etzwane. “We don’t know what the reason is; how can you assess it?”

  “I have no time for these matters just now,” grumbled Finnerack. “The Brave Free Men occupy my time.”

  Here was the opportunity for which Etzwane had been hoping. “I agree that you have far too much work. I’ll put someone else in charge of the Intelligence System and give you help with the Brave Free Men.”

  Finnerack’s grin became wolfish. “I don’t need any help with the Brave Free Men.”

  Etzwane ignored him. “Meanwhile we’ll watch Aun Sharah carefully and give him no scope to harm us.”

  Finnerack had departed. Etzwane sat thinking. Events seemed to be going favorably. The new weapons were successful; Mialambre and Dystar, each in his way, contributed to the new nation which Shant must now become. Finnerack with his passion and obstinacy posed the most immediate problem; he was not a man to be easily controlled, or even influenced … Etzwane gave a bark of sardonic laughter. When, alone and fearful, he had yearned for a loyal and trustworthy henchman, the image of the placid blond boy at Angwin Junction had come to his mind. The Finnerack Etzwane had finally recruited was a man almost totally unsuited to Etzwane’s needs; he was stubborn, wayward, cantankerous, headstrong, secretive, moody, inflexible, vengeful, narrow-minded, pessimistic, uncooperative, perhaps neither trustworthy nor loyal. Finnerack admittedly had done excellent work with the Brave Free Men and the Intelligence Agency, all of which was beside the point. Etzwane’s original fear had now dissipated. No matter what his own fate, the war against the Roguskhoi had created its own momentum. New Shant was an irrevocable reality. In twenty years, for better or worse, torcs would be museum pieces and the Anome would wield a different sort of power. (Who would then be Anome? Mialambre:Octagon? Dystar? San-Sein?)

  Etzwane went to look down into Corporation Plaza. Dusk was coming on. Tonight he must consider tactics in regard to Aun Sharah.

  He departed his office and descended to the plaza. The folk of Garwiy had now learned of the great victory at Maurmouth; as he walked Etzwane could hear fragments of excited conversation. He was reminded of Finnerack’s gloomy prognostication; conceivably Finnerack was right. The worst might be yet to come.

  Etzwane went to his suite in the Roseale Hrindiana, where he planned to bathe, dine, read intelligence reports, perhaps dally a bit with Dashan of Szandales … He opened the door. The suite was dim, almost dark. Unusual! Who had turned down the lights? He stepped within and touched the light-wand. Illumination failed to come. Etzwane became dizzy. The air held an odd acid tang. He staggered to a divan, then, thinking better of relaxing, started to the door. His senses failed him. He tried to reach and grope; he felt the door latch … A hand took his arm and led him sagging back into the room.

  All was not as it should be, thought Etzwane. He felt peculiarly uneasy, yet fatigued and torpid, as if his sleep had been interrupted by dreams. He sat up from his couch, unaccountably weak; perhaps he had dreamt indeed: the dark, the numbness, the hand on his arm, then — voices.

  Etzwane rose to his feet and went to look out across the Hrindiana gardens. The time was early morning: about the time he usually arose. He went into the bathroom, and stared in wonder at the haggard face in the mirror. His beard was a dark stubble; his pupils were large and dark. He bathed, shaved himself, dressed, and descended to the garden where he took breakfast. He found himself to be ravenously hungry and thirsty as well … Strange. With his breakfast came a copy of the morning journal. He chanced to notice the date — Shristday? Yesterday had been Zaelday; today was Ettaday … Shristday? Something was wrong.

  He walked slowly to the Jurisdictionary. Dashan greeted him with excitement and wonder. “Where have you been? We have all been helpless with anxiety!”

  “I’ve been away,” said Etzwane. “Somewhere.”

  “For three days? You should have let me know,” scolded Dashan.

  Finnerack likewise had been gone three days, reflected Etzwane. Strange!

  Chapter XI

  In Garwiy a new feeling pervaded the air: hope and elation, mingled with melancholy for the passing of a long and placid era. Children no longer took the torc, and it was understood that after the war all deserving persons might have their torcs removed. What then of law and discipline? Who would keep the peace when the Anome lost the last of his coercive powers? For all the elation a degree of uncertainty could be felt everywhere. Etzwane brooded long hours over the situation. He was, so he feared, bequeathing to the new Anome a vexing array of problems.

  Dystar came to Garwiy and presented himself to Etzwane. “To the best of my ability I have done your bidding. My task is at an end. The folk of Shant are one; events have made them one.”

  Etzwane realized suddenly that his indecision had been artificial. The Anome of Shant must be a man of the broadest possible scope, the most profound imagination. “Dystar,” said Etzwane, “your task is done, but another awaits, which only you can fulfill.”

  “This I doubt,” said Dystar. “What is the task?”

  “You are now Anome of Shant.”

  “What? … Nonsense. I am Dystar.”

  Etzwane was taken aback by Dystar’s displeasure. He said stiffly, “My hopes are only for Shant. Someone must be Anome; I thought to choose the best.”

  Dystar, now half-amused, spoke in a milder voice: “I have neither taste nor facility for such affairs. Who am I to judge the theft of a bullock or calculate the tax on candles? If I had power, my deeds would be wild and ruinous: towers among the clouds, pleasure barges a mile long to waft musicians through the isles of the Beljamar, expeditions to
the Lost Kingdom of Caraz. No, Gastel Etzwane; your vision exceeds your practicality: often the case with a musician. Employ the wise Mialambre for your Anome, or better, use none at all; what advantage in an Anome when there are no torcs to explode?”

  “All very well,” said Etzwane in a huff, “but — reverting to the practicality which I so miserably lack — who would govern in this case? who would order? who would punish?”

  Dystar had lost interest in the matter. “These are tasks for specialists, folk who have interest in such affairs … As for myself, I must take myself away, perhaps to Shkoriy. I can play no more music; I am done.”

  Etzwane leaned forward in wonder. “You cannot expect me to believe this! What can be your reason?”

  Dystar smiled and shrugged. “I escaped the torc; I knew the exaltation of freedom, to my great melancholy.”

  “Hmmf … But do not go to Shkoriy to brood; what could be more futile? Seek out Frolitz, attach yourself to his troupe; here is cure for melancholy, I can assure you of this.”

  “You are right,” said Dystar. “It is what I will do. I thank you for your wise advice.”

  For two moments the secret trembled on Etzwane’s tongue, but he said only: “I wish I could join you.” Certainly, on some merry night in a far tavern, while the troupe drank wine and talked at large, Fordyce or Mielke or Cune or even Frolitz would confide to Dystar his connection with Etzwane.

  Dystar had gone his way. As an idle exercise Etzwane tried to contrive a theoretical government which might serve Shant as well as a wise and decisive Anome. He became interested in his construction; he refined and modified and presently evolved what seemed a feasible disposition.