The Anome

by Jack Vance

  The light went dim behind him. Mur began a careful investigation of the darkness, feeling out with great delicacy and caution, for thread, string, rod or trip-board. The passage, so he recalled, would turn first left, then right; he kept close to the left wall.

  Darkness was complete. Mur tested the air as if searching for cobwebs. When nothing perceptible was evident, he felt the floor with equal care, probing every inch before he pulled himself forward.

  Foot by painful foot he advanced, darkness pressing upon him like a palpable substance. He was too tense to feel fear; past and future were out of mind; there was only Now, with grinding danger close at hand. With fingers like moth-antennae he searched the darkness: on these fingers his life depended. To his left he lost contact with the wall; the first turn. He stopped short, feeling the walls on both sides, testing the joints of the stone blocks. He turned the corner, anxious to advance, but reluctant to leave safe tested territory. He could still return to the study chamber … Ahead lay the area where danger most likely might be expected. With the most exquisite care he searched the darkness, feeling the air, the walls, the floor. Inch by inch, foot by foot he moved forward … His fingers felt a strange texture along the floor: a rasp, a grain, not so cold as stone. Wood. Wood on the floor. Mur felt for the joint between stone and wood. It ran across the passage, at right angles to the walls. With his knees on the stone Mur reached ahead, feeling first for thread, then testing the floor, now wood. He discovered no thread; the wood seemed sound. He discovered no brinks, no lack of solidity. Laying flat on his face, Mur reached forward as far as his arms could stretch. He felt only wood. He wriggled ahead a few inches and felt again. Wood. He pounded down with his fist, and thought to hear a hollow boom rather than the dullness of a plank on soil or mortar. Danger, danger. He inched forward. The floor began to tilt, elevating his feet. Hastily he retreated. The floor dropped back into place. The wooden section was pivoted near the center. Had he been walking, groping along the walls, he could not have recovered. Once past the balance point, with the back half of the trap rising into the air, he would have been gone, to fall toppling and sprawling through the darkness, to whatever lay below. Mur lay quiet, with lips drawn back in a wolfish grin. He measured from stone to pivot-place: the length of his body, five feet. Ahead, after the pivot, was presumably another five feet of unsupported surface. Had he carried a light he might have risked a running leap. But not in the dark. Suppose he miscalculated and jumped short … Mur’s grin became so tight the muscles of his cheeks ached. He needed a plank, a ladder, something of the sort … He thought of the bench, back in the study chamber, which was six feet long. Rising to his feet, feeling along the wall, he returned much faster than he had come. The chamber was quiet, almost somnolent. Mur took up the bench and carried it back into the dark passage, which now he knew so well. He reached the turn, and once again cautious, dropped to his hands and knees and dragged the bench beside him, upside down. He came to the wood section; bringing the bench past him, he thrust it ahead, until he estimated that the near end rested over the pivot and the far end, hopefully, on solid stone. With the utmost care and precision he rested his weight on the bench, ready to scramble back at a quiver.

  The bench held steady. Mur crossed, and at the far end felt stone under his fingers. He grinned, this time in relief and pleasure.

  He was not yet free of the passage. He proceeded as cautiously as before, and presently came to the second turn. A few yards ahead glimmered a wan bulb. It shone on a door: the old timber door giving upon the unused under-room. Heart in throat once more, Mur stepped forward. The door was locked: not so much to keep him in, he suspected, but to prevent some unwary Chilite or Pure Boy from blundering upon the trap.

  Mur made a sad sound and went to look at the door. It was built of solid planks, doweled and glued, with hinges of sintered iron-web. The frame was wood, somewhat soft and rotten, thought Mur. He pushed against the door, bracing himself and thrusting with the trifling weight of his immature body. The door stood firm. Mur hurled himself at the door. He thought the latch creaked slightly. He battered himself again and again at the door, but other than causing a creaking of old wood he achieved nothing. Mur’s body became bruised and sore, though the pain meant nothing to him. He stood back panting. He remembered the bench and ran back down the passage, around the turn and slowly forward until he felt the end of the bench. He dragged it across the trap-section, and carried it back to the door. Aiming it, he ran forward, to thrust the end against the latch. The frame splintered: the door burst back, and Mur was out into the under-room, echoing and empty.

  He placed the bench along one of the walls, where it would never be noticed. Closing the door, he pressed the splintered wood into place. It might well escape notice and the Chilites would have cause for perplexity!

  A moment later he stepped out into the night, and looked up at the blazing Schiafarilla. “I am Gastel Etzwane,” he muttered in exultation. “As Gastel Etzwane I escaped the Chilites; as Gastel Etzwane I have much to do.”

  He was not yet free and away. His escape would be discovered in due course: perhaps in the morning; at the latest within two or three days. Osso could not call upon the Faceless Man but he might well send up into the Wildlands for ahulph trackers. No trail was too old or too faint for the ahulphs; they would follow until their quarry mounted a wheeled vehicle, a boat or a balloon. Gastel Etzwane must once again use his ingenuity. Osso would expect him to flee, to put all possible distance between himself and Bashon. Hence, if he remained close for a day, until the ahulphs had cast about fruitlessly, and had been sent with a curse back to their master, he might be able to go his way unhindered — wherever the way might lie.

  A hundred yards below and around the hill lay the tannery, its sheds and outbuildings, with dozens of secure nooks and crannies. Gastel Etzwane stood to the side of the portal, hidden in the shadow, listening to the night sounds. He felt as strange and subtle as a ghost. Above in the temple the Chilites lay in the galga smoke, worshipping Galexis; their gasps of adoration were stifled in the heavy darkness.

  Gastel Etzwane stood several moments in the shadows. He felt no urgency, no need for haste. His first concern was the ahulphs, which almost certainly would be called on to track him, by signs invisible to human senses. He slipped back into the temple and presently found an old cloak, cast aside in a corner. Taking it to the portal he tore it in half. Throwing down first one half on the stony ground, then the other, and jumping forward, he made his way away from the temple and down the slope, leaving neither track nor scent for the ahulphs. Gastel Etzwane laughed in quiet exultation, as he reached the first of the tannery outbuildings.

  He took refuge under one of these sheds. Pillowing his head on the torn cloak, he fell asleep.

  Sassetta, Ezeletta and Zael came dancing up over the horizon, to shoot shifting beams of colored light from the east. From the temple sounded a throbbing chime, summoning the Pure Boys to the temple kitchens where they must boil up gruel for the Chilites’ breakfast. Into the eastern courtyard came the Chilites themselves, haggard and red-eyed, their beards stinking of galga smoke. They staggered to benches and sat looking drearily off into the wan sunlight, still somewhat bemused. The tannery women already had taken bread and tea; they trudged forth for roll call, some surly, others voluble. The task-mistresses called out names for special assignments; the women specified went off in various directions. A select few, all matriarchs of the Sisterhood*, sauntered to the chemical shed to compound herbs and powders, dyes and astringents. Another group went to the vats, to scrape, trim, soak, steep, drain. Others worked new hides delivered by the Wildland ahulphs: pelts of all the wilderness animals, ahulph hides as well. After sorting they were laid out on circular wooden tables, where they were given a rough cleaning, trimmed and shaped, then slid down a chute into a vat of lye. To the cleaning tables Eathre had been assigned; she had been issued a brush, a glass knife, a small sharp spoon-scraper. Jatalie, the work-mistress, stood over her, g
iving instructions. Eathre worked quietly, hardly taking her eyes from the work. She seemed apathetic. Etzwane’s hiding place was no more than a hundred feet distant; he wriggled and squirmed to where he could peer through a niche in the foundation; upon seeing his mother he could barely restrain himself from calling out. His gentle mother in such vulgar conditions! He lay biting his lips and blinking. He could not even offer consolation!

  * The Zoriani nac Thair nac Thairi. In loose translation: Female Agents of Desperate Deeds.

  From the direction of the temple came a small commotion. Pure Boys ran out in excitement to peer across the valley; Chilites appeared on the upper terrace, talking in some agitation, pointing here and there. Etzwane guessed that his absence had been discovered, somewhat earlier than he had expected. He watched in a discordant blend of dread and glee. Amusing to see the Chilites in such perturbation; horrifying as well! If he were tracked down and captured … His flesh crawled at the thought.

  Shortly before noon the ahulphs arrived: two bucks with red adept ribbons tied up and down the coarse black fur of their crooked legs. Great Male Osso, standing austerely on a pedestal, explained his needs in dadu*; the ahulphs listened, laughing like foxes. Osso dropped a shirt which Etzwane presumed to be one of his own. The ahulphs seized the shirt in their man-like hands, pressed it to the odor-detectors in their feet, tossed it into the air in a display of the raffish heedlessness which the Chilites found completely detestable. They went to Osso and gave him vehement waggish reassurance; Osso at last made an impatient gesture. The ahulphs, after looking this way and that for something worth stealing, went to the Pure Boys’ under-room. Here, detecting Etzwane’s scent, they leapt into the air and called back to Osso in vast excitement.

  * Dadu: a language of finger signs and the syllables da, de, di, do, du.

  The Pure Boys watched in horrified excitement, as did Etzwane himself, for fear that some trace of his odor might waft itself to the ahulphs.

  The two cast about the temple, and Etzwane was relieved when they crossed his trail and discovered nothing. Somewhat dampened, with ear-flaps hanging dolefully low, they traced around Eathre’s old cottage, again without success. Raging at each other in ahulph fashion, snapping, kicking out with the white talons concealed in their soft black feet, swirling their fur in spiral bristles, they returned to where Osso stood waiting and explained in dadu that the quarry had gone off upon wheels. Osso turned on his heel and stalked into the temple. The ahulphs ran south, back up Mirk Valley into the Hwan Wildlands.

  Peering through his cranny, Etzwane watched the community resume its normal routine. The Pure Boys, disappointed at being deprived of a terrifying spectacle, resumed their duties. The tannery women worked stolidly at the vats, tubs, and tables. Chilites sat like thin white birds on benches along the upper terrace of the temple. Sunlight, tinted noontime lavender, struck down at white dust and parched soil.

  The tannery workers went to the refectory. Etzwane directed urgencies toward his mother: Come this way, come closer! But Eathre moved off without turning her head. An hour later she returned to her table. Etzwane crawled back under the floor and worked up into the shed itself: a storage place for kegs of chemical, tools and the like.

  Etzwane found a lump of sal soda and cautiously approaching the doorway tossed the lump toward his mother. It dropped almost at her feet. She seemed not to notice. Then as if suddenly interrupted from her thoughts she glanced at the ground.

  Etzwane tossed another lump. Eathre raised her head, looked blankly around the landscape, finally toward the shed. From the shadow Etzwane made a signal. Eathre frowned, and looked away. Etzwane stared in puzzlement. Had she seen him? Why had she frowned?

  Past the shed and into Etzwane’s range of vision stalked Great Male Osso. He halted halfway between the shed and the table where Eathre worked. She seemed lost in another dimension of consciousness.

  Osso signaled the task-mistress, and muttered a few words. The woman went to Eathre, who without comment or surprise left her work and walked toward Osso. He made a peremptory signal to halt her while she was still fifteen feet distant, and spoke in a low burning tone. Etzwane could not distinguish his words, nor Eathre’s calm responses. Osso jerked back, and turned on his heel. He stalked back past the shed, so close that had Etzwane reached forth he might have touched the cold face.

  Eathre did not instantly return to her work. As if pondering Osso’s words, she wandered over to the shed and stood by the door.

  “Mur, are you there?”

  “Yes, mother. I am here.”

  “You must leave Bashon. Go tonight, as soon as the suns go down.”

  “Can you come with me? Mother, please come.”

  “No. Osso holds my indenture. The Faceless Man would take my head.”

  “I will find the Faceless Man,” declared Etzwane fervently. “I will tell him of the bad things here. He will take Osso’s head.”

  Eathre smiled. “Don’t be too sure. Osso obeys canton law — only too well.”

  “If I go, Osso will abuse you! He’ll make you work at all the hardest jobs.”

  “It is all the same. The days come and go. I am glad you are leaving; it is what I wanted for you, but I must stay and help Delamber through her birth-times.”

  “But soul-father Osso may punish you, and all on my account!”

  “No, he will not dare; the women are able to protect themselves, as I have only just put forward to your soul-father*. I must return to my work. After dark go forth. Since you wear no torc, be careful of the work-jobbers, especially in Surrume and Cansume and in Seamus as well, where they will put you into a balloon-gang. When you become of age, get a musician’s torc, then you may travel without hindrance. Do not go to the old house, nor to Delamber’s. Do not go for the khitan. I have a few coins put aside but I can’t get them for you now. I will not see you again.”

  * Eathre alluded to the Zoriani nac Thair nac Thairi, which derived power from its ability to defile the temple or any particular Chilite. There were six degrees of defilement, the first being a touch of a female finger, the sixth a drenching with a bucketful of unmentionable substances. The Sister, or Sisters, who executed the defilements were volunteers, usually old, sick and quite willing to end their lives dramatically, by poison wads ingested immediately after achieving their goals.

  Defilement impelled the Chilites to a month-long ritual of the most onerous purification, during which no galga was burnt; if the ecstatic trance were attempted previous to complete purification, Galexis Achiliadnid appeared in horrid guise. During the period of purification the Chilites became surly and restless. The Pure Boys were often victimized, in one fashion or another.

  “Yes you will, you will!” cried Etzwane. “I’ll petition the Faceless Man, and he’ll let you go with me.”

  Eathre smiled wistfully. “Not while Osso holds my indenture. Goodbye, Mur.” She went back to the work-table. Etzwane retreated into the shed. He did not watch his mother.

  The day waned; the women trooped off to their dormitories. When darkness came Etzwane emerged from the shed and stole off downhill.

  Despite Eathre’s warning he went down to the old cottage on Rhododendron Way, already occupied by another woman. He slipped to the rear, found the khitan, and went off through the shadows, down the road. He traveled west, toward Garwiy, where the Faceless Man lived — or so went the rumor.

  Chapter IV

  Shant, an irregular oblong thirteen hundred miles long and six hundred miles wide, was separated from the dark bulk of Caraz by a hundred miles of water: the Straits of Pagane, flowing between the Green Ocean and the Purple Ocean. South across the Great Salt Bog Palasedra hung down between the Purple Ocean and the Blue Ocean like a three-fingered hand, or an udder with three teats.

  A thousand miles east of Shant appeared the first islands of the Beljamar, a vast archipelago, dividing the Green Ocean from the Blue Ocean. The population of Caraz was unknown; there were relatively few Palasedrans; the Beljamar suppo
rted a few scanty blotches of oceanic nomads; most of Durdane’s population inhabited the sixty-two cantons of Shant, in loose confederation under the rule of the Faceless Man.

  The cantons of Shant were alike only in their mutual distrust. Each regarded as Universal Principle its own customs, costumes, jargon and mannerisms, and considered all else eccentricity.

  The impersonal, unqualified rule of the Anome — in popular usage, the Faceless Man — exactly suited the xenophobic folk of the cantons. Governmental apparatus was simple; the Anome made few financial demands; the laws enforced, for the most part, were those formulated by the cantons themselves. The Anome’s justice might be merciless and abrupt, but it was even-handed and adhered to a simple principle, clear to all: He who breaks the law, dies. The Faceless Man’s authority derived from the torc, a band of flexite coded in various shades of purple, dark scarlet or maroon, blue, green, gray, and, rarely, brown.* The torc contained a strand of explosive: dexax, which the Faceless Man, if necessary, could detonate by means of a coded radiation. An attempt to remove the torc worked to the same effect. Usually, when a person lost his head, the cause was well-known: he had broken the laws of his canton. On rare occasions, detonation might take a person’s head for reasons mysterious and inscrutable; whereupon folk would move with great care and diffidence, lest they too excite the unpredictable wrath of the Faceless Man.

  * By the usual Shant symbology, blue, green, purple, gray carried optimistic attributes. Browns were unfavorable, tragic, elegant, authoritative, according to context. Yellow was the hue of death. Red, signifying invisibility, was used to paint objects meant to be ignored. Thieves wore red caps. White indicated mystery, chastity, poverty, anger, dependent upon circumstances. Colors in combination changed significance.