by Jack Vance
Mialambre broke the silence. “But you were instructed to avoid a close approach to Palasedra.”
“Our basic purpose,” said Finnerack, “is to destroy the enemy. His whereabouts is immaterial.”
“You may think so. I do not. Must we fight a new Palasedran war because of your intractability?”
“We have already been fighting a Palasedran war,” said Finnerack. “The Roguskhoi were not generated out of nothingness.”
“This is your opinion! Who gave you the right to act for all Shant?”
“A person does what his inner soul directs.” Finnerack jerked his head toward Etzwane. “Who gave him the right to take to himself the authority of the Anome? He had no more right than I.”
“The difference is real,” retorted Mialambre. “A man sees a house on fire. He rouses the inhabitants and extinguishes the blaze. Another, in order to punish the arsonist, fires a village. One man is a hero, the other is a maniac.”
San-Sein said: “Black Finnerack, your courage is beyond all question. Unfortunately, your zeal is excessive. Recklessness destroys our freedom of action. Convey these orders instantly to the Flyers of Shant: return to the home territory! Do not again fare forth into the Great Salt Bog until so commanded!”
Finnerack removed his helmet, tossed it upon the marble. “I cannot give these orders. They are not realistic. When the Flyers of Shant are attacked, they fight back with unyielding ferocity.”
“Must we send Brave Free Men to control our own Flyers?” roared San-Sein, suddenly in a fury. “If they fly forth again, we will take their gliders and rip off their uniforms! We, the Purple and Green of Shant, are in authority!”
Into the chamber burst a steward: “From the city Chemaoue in Palasedra comes a strong radio message: the Chancellor demands the voice and ear of the Anome.”
The entire Council of Patricians listened to the words of the Palasedran Chancellor, spoken in a language of odd accents and altered sound quality. “I am Chancellor to the Hundred Sovereigns. I will speak to the Anome of Shant.”
Etzwane spoke. “The rule of the Anome is ended. You now address the Council of Patricians; say what you will.”
“I ask you then: why do you attack us after two thousand years of peace? Have not four wars and four defeats taught you to beware?”
“The attacks were directed against the Roguskhoi. We drive them back whence they came.”
The atmosphere crackled softly while the Chancellor collected his thoughts. He said, “They are nothing of ours. You have driven them from the Bog into Palasedra; is this not an offensive act? You have sent your gliders into our lands; is this not an intrusion?”
“Not if, as we are convinced, you sent the Roguskhoi against us in the first place.”
“We worked no such acts. Do you believe this? Send your envoys to Palasedra; you shall see for yourself. This is our generous offer. You have acted with irresponsibility. If you choose not to learn the truth, we will consider you spitefully stupid and men will die.”
“We are neither spiteful nor stupid,” Etzwane returned. “It is only sensible that we discuss and adjust our differences; we welcome the opportunity to do so, especially if you can demonstrate your non-involvement in our troubles.”
“Send your envoys,” said the Chancellor. “Fly them by a single glider to the port Kaoime; they will come to no harm, and there our escort will meet them, with proper demeanour.”
Chapter XIV
Palasedra hung below Shant like a gnarled three-fingered hand, with the Great Salt Bog for a wrist. The mountains of Palasedra formed the bones of the Palasedran hand. They rose in naked juts, and many held aloft the lonely castles of the Eagle-Dukes. The forests of Palasedra tumbled down the seaward valleys. Giant loutranos with straight black trunks supported disproportionately small parasols of dough-colored pulp. Around their shanks surged a dark green froth of similax and wax-pod, which in turn towered above arbors of gohovany, argove, jajuy. The towns of Palasedra guarded the valley sea-mouths. Tall stone houses with high-pitched roofs stood cramped together, one growing from the next like crystals in a rock. Palasedra! a strange, grim land, where every man reckoned himself noble and acknowledged only the authority of an ‘honour’ which everyone recognized but no one enforced; where no door was locked, where no window was shuttered; where each man’s brain was a citadel as quiet as the castle of an Eagle-Duke.
At Kaoime the glider from Shant slid to a landing on the narrow beach. Four men climbed down from the saddles within the truss. The first was the flyer, the remaining three were Etzwane, Mialambre and Finnerack, who had agreed to visit Palasedra only after his courage, judgment and quality of intelligence had been mocked and challenged, whereupon Finnerack declared his willingness to explore the far side of Caraz if need be.
The stern houses of Kaoime looked down from the back of the beach. Three tall men wearing fitted black gowns and high-crowned black hats came forward. Their movements were stately and mannered.
These were the first Palasedrans Etzwane had seen and he examined them with interest. They exemplified a race somewhat different from his own. Their skin, pallid as parchment, showed a faint arsenical tarnish to glancing light. Their faces were long, thin and convex, the forehead and chins receding, the nose a prow. One spoke in a muffled guttural voice, forming his words somewhere behind his palate. For this reason, and because he used a strange, oddly accented dialect his speech was almost incomprehensible. “You are the envoys from Shant?”
“We are.”
“You wear no torcs; you have for a fact thrown off the yoke of your tyrant?”
Mialambre started to make a didactic qualification; Etzwane said, “We have altered our style of government; this is a fact.”
“In that case, I greet you in my official capacity. We fly at once to Chemaoue. With me then, to the sky-lift.”
They mounted to a platform of woven withe. With a surge and a sway an endless cable took them aloft: up under the argoves, through a hole in the dark green mat and into the airy aisles between the loutranos, up past the dough-colored parasols into the lavender light of the three suns. A platform stood on spider-leg stilts at the lip of a cliff; here they disembarked. A glider awaited them: an intricate device of struts, cords, vanes, with a cabin of withe and film hanging under bat-wing sails.
The one Palasedran and the three men of Shant entered the cabin. Far across the plateau a group of enormous men, indistinctly seen, thrust a wicker basket full of stones over the precipice. A cable accelerated the glider; smoothly it climbed into the sky and was launched out into the empty spaces.
The Palasedran showed no disposition for conversation. Etzwane presently asked, “You know why we are here?”
The Palasedran said, “I read no exact knowledge. Your ideas find no correspondence with mine.”
“Ah,” said Mialambre, “you were sent to read our minds.”
“I was sent to convey you politely to Chemaoue.”
“Who is Chancellor? One of the Eagle-Dukes?”
“No, we are now five castes rather than four. The Eagle-Dukes concern themselves with honor.”
“We are ignorant of Palasedra and its customs,” said Etzwane. “If the Chancellor is not an Eagle-Duke, how does he rule them?”
“The Chancellor rules no one. He acts only for himself.”
“But he speaks for Palasedra?”
“Why not? Someone must do so.”
“What if he commits you to an unpopular course of action?”
“He knows what is expected of him. It is the way we conduct ourselves, doing what is expected of us. If we fail, our sponsors bear the brunt. Is this not right?” He touched the band surrounding his hat which bore a dozen heraldic badges. “These folk have sponsored me. They gave me their trust. Two are Eagle-Dukes … Behold yonder, the castle of Duke Ain Palaeio.”
The castle occupied a saddle between two crags: a mouldering structure almost invisible against the surrounding stone. To either side stood a handful
of black cypresses. Gray-green stoneflower grew in festoons down the foundation walls … It fell behind and was lost to view.
Up columns of wind, down slopes of air floated the black glider, sliding ever southward. The mountains became lower; the loutranos disappeared; the similax and argove gave way to hangman tree, dark oak, occasional groves of cypress.
The afternoon waned; the winds and draughts became less definite. As the suns rolled behind the western mountains, the glider slid softly down toward a far leaden shine of water, and presently landed in the dusk beside the town Chemaoue.
A vehicle of pale varnished wood on four tall wheels stood waiting. The draught animals were naked men, bulky of leg and chest, seven feet tall, with skins of a peculiar ruddy ocher. The small neat heads lacked hair; the blunt features showed no expression. Finnerack, who had spoken little during the journey — if anything he seemed uneasy and looked frequently, almost with longing, back the way they had come — now turned Etzwane a sardonic glance as if claiming vindication for his theories.
Mialambre demanded of the Palasedran: “These creatures are the work of your man-makers?”
“They are, though the process is not quite as you assume it to be.”
“I make no assumptions; I am a jurist.”
“Are never jurists irrational? Especially the jurists of Shant?”
“Why the jurists of Shant, specifically?”
“Your land is rich; you can afford irrationality.”
“Not so!” declared Mialambre. “By saying this, you make all your words suspect.”
“A matter of no consequence.”
The carriage trundled through the dusk. Watching the heaving orange backs, Etzwane asked: “The man-makers continue to do their work in Palasedra?”
“We are imperfect.”
“What of these toiling creatures? Do they become perfect?”
“They are good enough as they are. Their stock was cretinous; should we then waste cooperative flesh? Should we kill the cretins and condemn sensitive men to the toil?” The Palasedran’s lips curved in a sour smile. “It would be as if we put all our cretins into the upper castes.”
“Before we sit down to a ceremonial banquet,” said Mialambre, “let me ask this: do you use these creatures for food?”
“There will be no ceremonial banquet.”
The carriage rattled along the esplanade, then halted at an inn. The Palasedran made a gesture. “Here you may rest for a period.”
Etzwane stared haughtily at the Palasedran. “You bring the envoys of Shant to a waterfront tavern?”
“Where else should we take you? Do you care to pace up and down the esplanade? Should we loft you to the castle of Duke Shaian?”
“We are not sticklers for formality,” explained Mialambre. “Still, if you sent envoys to Shant, they would be housed in a splendid palace.”
“You accurately represent the distinction between our nations.”
Etzwane alighted from the carriage. “Come,” he said shortly. “We are not here for pomp and ceremony.”
The three marched to the inn. A door of timber planks opened into a narrow room paneled with varnished wood. High along one wall yellow lamps flickered; below were tables and chairs.
An old man with a white shawl over his head stepped forward. “Your wants?”
“A meal and lodging for the night. We are envoys from Shant.”
“I will prepare a room. Sit then, and food will be served to you.”
The single other occupant of the room, a spare man in a gray cloak, sat at a platter of fish. Etzwane stopped short, puzzled by the familiar poise of head. The man looked around, nodded, returned to work fastidiously at his fish.
Etzwane stood indecisively, then went to stand by the man’s table. “I thought you had returned to Earth.”
“Such were the orders of the Institute,” said Ifness. “However I made an urgent protest and I am now on Durdane in a somewhat altered capacity. I am happy to say, moreover, that I have not been expelled from the Institute.”
“Good news indeed,” said Etzwane. “May we join you?”
“Certainly.”
The three took seats. Etzwane performed introductions. “These persons are Patricians of Shant: Mialambre:Octagon and Jerd Finnerack. This gentleman —” he indicated Ifness “— is an Earthman and Fellow of the Historical Institute. His name is Ifness.”
“Precisely true,” said Ifness. “I have had an interesting sojourn upon Durdane.”
“Why did you not make your presence known?” demanded Etzwane. “You owed a large responsibility to the situation.”
Ifness made a gesture of indifference. “Your management of the crisis was not only competent but local. Is it not better that the enemies of Shant fear Shant rather than Earth?”
“The question is many-sided,” said Etzwane. “What do you do here in Palasedra?”
“I study the society, which is of great interest. The Palasedrans dare anthromorphological experiments which have few counterparts elsewhere. A frugal people, they adapt human waste material to a set of useful functions. The indefatigable resource of the human spirit is a continuing wonder. In an austere land the Palasedrans have evolved a philosophical system by which they take pleasure in austerity.”
Etzwane recognized Ifness’ old tendency toward evasive prolixity. “In Garwiy I noticed no tendency of your own toward austerity, nor did you espouse a philosophy glorifying want.”
“You observed accurately,” said Ifness. “As a scholar I am able to transcend my personal inclinations.”
For a brief period Etzwane tried to puzzle out the sense of Ifness’ words, then said: “You do not seem to wonder at our presence here in Palasedra.”
“A person who conceals his curiosity has knowledge thrust upon him, so I have learned.”
“Did you know that the Roguskhoi have sought refuge on Palasedran soil? That our Flyers and the Black Dragons of Palasedra have engaged in combat?”
“This is interesting information,” declared Ifness, neglecting a direct answer to the question. “I wonder how the Palasedrans will deal with the Roguskhoi.”
Finnerack snorted in disgust. “Do you doubt that the Palasedrans sponsor the Roguskhoi?”
“I do indeed, if only for socio-psychological reasons. Consider the Eagle-Dukes who live in grandeur: are these men to gnaw quietly at the vitals of an enemy? I could not be so convinced.”
Finnerack said curtly, “Theorize as you will. What my instincts assert, I believe.”
Food was brought to the table: salt fish stewed in vinegar, coarse bread, a pickle of sea-fruits. “The Palasedrans have no concept of gastronomy,” Ifness noted. “They eat from hunger. Pleasure, as defined by a Palasedran, is victory over hardship, the assertion of self over environment. The Palasedrans swim at dawn toward the sunrise. When a storm rages they climb a crag. As a secret accomplishment a man may know five phases of mathematics. The Eagle-Dukes build their own towers with stone they quarry with their own hands; some gather their own food. The Palasedrans know no music; one food is as good as another; they adorn themselves only with the emblems of their guarantors. They are neither cordial nor generous, but they are too proud to be suspicious.” Ifness paused, to study first Mialambre, then Etzwane, and finally Finnerack. “The Chancellor will presently arrive. I doubt if he will show much sympathy for your problems. If you have no objection I will join your group, in the role, let us say, of observer. I have already represented myself as a traveler from Shant.”
“As you wish,” said Etzwane, despite Finnerack’s grunt.
Mialambre said, “Tell us of the planet Earth, the home of our perverse ancestors.”
Ifness pursed his lips. “Earth is not a world briefly to be described. We are perhaps over-civilized; our ambitions are no longer large. Our schismatics go forth to the outer worlds; by some miracle we continue to generate adventurers. The human universe constantly expands, and here, if anywhere, is the basic essence of Earth. It is the home w
orld, the source from which all derives.”
“Our ancestors left Earth nine thousand years ago,” said Mialambre. “They fared through space a vast distance to Durdane, where they thought to be isolated forever. Perhaps now we are no longer remote from other Earth-worlds.”
“This is the case,” said Ifness. “Durdane still lies beyond the human perimeter, but to no great degree … The Chancellor has arrived. He comes to transact the business of state in this waterfront tavern, and perhaps it is as good a system as any.”
The Chancellor stood in the doorway, talking to someone in the street, then he turned and surveyed the room: a man tall and gaunt, with a stubble of gray hair, an enormous crescent of a nose. He wore the usual black gown, but rather than a hat he wore a workman’s white shawl about his head.
Etzwane, Finnerack, Mialambre rose to their feet; Ifness sat looking down at the floor as if in sudden reverie.
The Chancellor approached the table. “Please sit down. Our business is simple. Your flyers entered Palasedra; the Black Dragons drove them back. You state that you invaded us to punish the Roguskhoi; these, you further claim, are agents of Palasedra. I say: the Roguskhoi are now on Palasedran soil and Palasedrans shall deal with them. I say: the Roguskhoi are not agents of Palasedra. I say: to send your flyers into Palasedra was a rash and foolish act — indeed, so rash and so foolish that we have held back our hands from sheer astonishment.”
Ifness made an approving sign and uttered a somewhat sententious remark, apparently addressed to no one: “Another aspect of human behavior to confuse and deter our enemies: which is to say, unpredictable forbearance.”
