by Jack Vance
Fordyce leaned over, put a question to one who sat nearby: “What is the druithine’s name?”
“That is Dystar.”
Fordyce turned marveling to Etzwane. “It is your father!”
Etzwane, with no words to say, gave a curt nod.
Fordyce rose to his feet. “Let me tell him that his natural son is here, who plays the khitan in his own right.”
“No,” said Etzwane. “Please don’t speak to him.”
Fordyce sat down slowly. “Why not, then?”
Etzwane heaved a deep sigh. “Perhaps he has many natural sons. A good number may play the khitan. He might not care to give polite attention to each of these.”
Fordyce shrugged and said no more.
Once more Dystar struck at his khitan, to play music which told of a man striding through the night, halting from time to time to muse upon one or another of the stars.
For a reason Etzwane could not define, he became uncomfortable. Between himself and this man whom he did not know existed a tension. He had no claim against him; he could reproach him for no fault of omission or commission; his debt to Eathre had been precisely that of all the other men who had stepped into her cottage from Rhododendron Way; like the others he had paid in full and gone his way … Etzwane made no attempt to fathom the workings of his mind. He made an excuse to Fordyce, and departed the Old Caraz. In a deep depression he wandered back to camp, Eathre’s image before his mind. He cursed himself for negligence, for lack of diligence. He had saved little money — though for a fact he earned little enough. This was as it should be; Etzwane had no complaint. In addition to sustenance, Frolitz provided instruction and opportunity to play. Musicians other than druithines seldom became wealthy, a situation which persuaded many troupers to try their luck as druithines. A few succeeded; most, finding the cost of their meals undischarged, attempted to enliven their performances with bravura effects, eccentric mannerisms, or when all else failed, singing songs with khitan accompaniment, to audiences of peasants, children and the musically illiterate.
Back at the camp, Etzwane turned dark thoughts back and forth in his mind. He had no illusions; at his present competence, with his present experience of life, he was incapable of becoming a druithine. What of the future? His life with Master Frolitz was satisfactory enough; did he want more? He went to his locker and brought forth his khitan; sitting on the steps of the cart he began to play the slow music, pensive and melancholy, to which the folk of Canton Ilwiy liked to step their pavanes … The music sounded dry, contrived, lifeless. Remembering the supple, urgent music which surged from Dystar’s khitan as if it had its own life, Etzwane became first grim, then sad, then bitterly angry — at Dystar, at himself … He put up the khitan and laid himself into his bunk, where he tried to order his whirling young mind.
Another five years passed. Master Frolitz and the Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greeners, as he now called his troupe, came to Brassei in Canton Elphine, not a great distance from Garwiy. Etzwane had grown into a slight, nervously muscular young man, with a face somber and austere. His hair was black, his skin darkly sallow; his mouth hung in a slightly crooked droop; he was neither voluble, gay nor gregarious; his voice was soft and spare, and only when he had taken wine did he seem to become easy or spontaneous. Certain of the musicians thought him supercilious, others thought him vain; only Master Frolitz sought out his company, to the puzzlement of all, for Frolitz was warm where Etzwane was cold, forward where Etzwane stepped aside. When taxed with his partiality, Frolitz only scoffed; for a fact he found Etzwane a good listener, a wry and taciturn foil to his own volubility.
After establishing camp on Brassei Common, Frolitz, with Etzwane for company, made the rounds of the city’s taverns and music-halls, to learn the news and solicit work. During the late evening they came to Zerkow’s Inn, a cavernous structure of old timber and white-washed marl. Posts supported a roof of a dozen crazy angles; from the beams hung mementoes of all the years of the inn’s existence: grotesque wooden faces blackened by grime and smoke, dusty glass animals, the skull of an ahulph, three dried cauls, an iron meteorite, a collection of heraldic balls, much more. At the moment Zerkow’s was almost deserted, due to the weekly rigor ordained by Paraplastus, the local Cosmic Lord of Creation. Frolitz approached Loy the innkeeper and made his proposals. While the two chaffered, Etzwane stood to the side, absent-mindedly studying the placards on the posts. Preoccupied with his own concerns, he observed nothing of what he read. This morning he had received a large sum of money, an unexpected sum which had substantially augmented his savings. Sufficiently? For the twentieth time he cast up a reckoning; for the twentieth time he arrived at the same figure, on the borderline between adequacy and inadequacy. Yet where would he get more? Certainly not from Frolitz, not for a month or more. But time passed; with his goal so near he itched with impatience … His eyes focused on the placards, for the most part standard exhortations to probity:
The BLANK, being faceless, shows the same semblance to all. Whom no man knows, no man can suborn.
Obey all edicts with alacrity! The casual bystander may be the UNKNOWN FORCE himself!
Lucky folk of Shant! In sixty-two cantons sing praise! How can evil flourish when every act is subject to the scrutiny of the GLORIOUS ANOME?
The posters were printed in magenta, signifying grandeur, on a field of greyed-pink, the color of omnipotence.
On the wall hung a bulletin, somewhat larger, printed in the brown and black of emergency:
WARNING! TAKE CARE! SEVERAL LARGE BANDS OF ROGUSKHOI HAVE RECENTLY BEEN OBSERVED ALONG THE SLOPES OF THE HWAN! THESE NOXIOUS CREATURES MAY NOT BE APPROACHED, AT SURE PERIL OF YOUR LIFE!
Frolitz and Loy came to mutually satisfactory terms: on the following night Frolitz would bring in the Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greeners for a two- or three-week engagement. In recognition of the understanding Loy served Etzwane a free tankard of green cider. Etzwane asked, “When was the black-brown put up?”
“About the Roguskhoi? Two or three days ago. They made a raid down into Canton Shalloran and kidnaped a dozen women.”
“The Faceless Man should act,” said Etzwane. “The least he can do is protect us; isn’t that his function? Why do we wear these torcs otherwise?”
Frolitz, conversing with a stranger in traveler’s clothes who had just entered the tavern, took time to speak over his shoulder: “Pay no heed to the lad; he has no knowledge of the world.”
Loy, puffing out his fat cheeks, ignored Frolitz instead. “It’s no secret that something must be done. I’ve heard ugly reports of the creatures. It seems that they’re swarming like ants up in the Hwan. There aren’t females, you know, just males.”
“How do they breed?” Etzwane wondered. “It is a matter I can’t understand.”
“They use ordinary women, with great enthusiasm, or so I’m told, and the issue is always male.”
“Peculiar … Where would such creatures come from?”
“Palasedra,” declared Loy wisely. “You must know the direction of Palasedran science: always breeding, always forcing, never satisfied with creatures the way they are. I say, and others agree, that an unruly strain slipped out of the Palasedran forcing houses and crossed the Great Salt Bog into Shant. To our great misfortune.”
“Unless they come to spend their florins at Zerkow’s!” Frolitz called down the bar. “Since they’re great drinkers, that’s the way to handle them: keep them in drink and in debt.”
Loy shook his head dubiously. “They’d drive away my other trade. Who wants to bump beakers with a murderous red-faced demon two feet taller than himself? I say, order them back to Palasedra, without delay.”
“That may be the best way,” said Frolitz, “but is it the practical way? Who will issue the order?”
“There’s an answer to that,” said Etzwane. “The Faceless Man must exert himself. Is he not omnipotent? Is he not ubiquitous?” He jerked his thumb toward the pink and magenta placards. “Such are his claims.”
&n
bsp; Frolitz spoke in a hoarse whisper to the stranger. “Etzwane wants the Faceless Man to go up into the Hwan and torc all the Roguskhoi.”
“As good a way as any,” said Etzwane with a sour grin.
Into the tavern burst a young man, a porter employed at Zerkow’s. “Have you heard? At Makkaby’s Warehouse, not half an hour ago, a burglar got his head taken. The Faceless Man is nearby!”
Everyone in the room looked around. “Are you certain?” demanded Loy. “There might have been a swash-trap set out.”
“No, without question: the torc took his head. The Faceless Man caught him in the act.”
“Fancy that!” Loy marveled. “The warehouse is only a step down the street!”
Frolitz turned to lean back against the bar. “There you have it,” he told Etzwane. “You complain: ‘Why does not the Faceless Man act?’ Almost while you speak he acts. Is not that your answer?”
“Not entirely.”
Frolitz swallowed half a tankard of the strong green cider and winked at the stranger: a tall thin man with a head of soft white hair, an expression of austere acquiescence toward the vicissitudes of life. His age was indeterminate; he might have been old or young. “The burglar suffered a harsh fate,” Frolitz told Etzwane. “The lesson to be learned is this: never commit an unlawful act. Especially, never steal; when you take a man’s property, your life becomes forfeit, as has just been demonstrated.”
Loy rubbed his chin with uneasy fingers. “In a sense, the penalty seems extreme. The burglar took goods, but lost his life. These are the laws of Elphine which the Faceless Man correctly enforced — but should a bagful of goods and a man’s life weigh so evenly on the balance?”
The white-haired stranger offered his opinion. “Why should it be otherwise? You ignore a crucial factor in the situation. Property and life are not incommensurable, when property is measured in terms of human toil. Essentially property is life; it is that proportion of life which an individual has expended to gain the property. When a thief steals property, he steals life. Each act of pillage therefore becomes a small murder.”
Frolitz struck the bar with his fist. “A sound exposition, if ever I heard one! Loy, place before this instructive stranger a draught of his own choice, at my expense. Sir, how may I address you?”
The stranger told Loy: “A mug of that green cider, if you please.” He turned somewhat upon his chair, toward Frolitz and Etzwane. “My name is Ifness; I am a traveling mercantilist.”
Etzwane gave him a sour look; his rancor toward the man in the pacer trap had never waned. Ifness then was his name. A mercantilist? Etzwane had his doubts. Not so Frolitz. “Odd to hear such clever theories from a mercantilist!” he marveled.
“The talk of such folk is often humdrum,” agreed Loy. “For sheer entertainment, give me the company of a tavern-keeper.”
Ifness pursed his lips judiciously. “All folk, mercantilists as well as tavern-keepers and musicians, try to relate their work to abstract universals. We mercantilists are highly sensitive to theft, which stabs at our very essence. To steal is to acquire goods by a simple, informal and inexpensive process. To buy identical goods is tedious, irksome and costly. Is it any wonder that larceny is popular? Nonetheless it voids the mercantilist’s reasons for being alive; we regard thieves with the same abhorrence that musicians might feel for a fanatic gang which beat bells and gongs whenever musicians played.”
Frolitz stifled an ejaculation.
Ifness tasted the mug of green cider which Loy had set before him. “To repeat: when a thief steals property he steals life. For a mercantilist I am tolerant of human weakness, and I would not react vigorously to the theft of a day. I would resent the theft of a week; I would kill the thief who stole a year of my life.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Frolitz. “Words to deter the criminal! Etzwane, have you listened?”
“You need not single me out so pointedly,” said Etzwane. “I am no thief.”
Frolitz, somewhat elevated by his draughts of cider, told Ifness, “Quite true, quite true! He is not a thief, he is a musician! Owing to the virtue of my instruction, he has become an adept! He finds time for nothing but study. He is master of six instruments; he knows the parts to two thousand compositions. When I forget a chord he is always able to call out a signal. This morning, mark you, I paid over to him a bonus of three hundred florins, out of the troupe’s instrument fund.”
Ifness nodded approvingly. “He seems a paragon.”
“To a certain extent,” said Frolitz. “On the other hand, he is secretive and stubborn. He nurtures and nurses every florin he has ever seen; he would breed them together if he could. All this makes him a dull dog at a debauch. As for the three hundred florins, I long ago had promised him five hundred, and decided to stint him for his cheerlessness.”
“But will not this method augment his gloom?”
“To the contrary; I keep him keen. As a musician he must learn to be grateful for every trifle. I have made him what he is, at least in his better parts. For his faults you must cite a certain Chilite, Osso, whom Etzwane claims as his ‘soul-father’.”
“On my way east I will be passing through Canton Bastern,” said Ifness politely. “If I encounter Osso, I will convey him your greetings.”
“Don’t bother,” said Etzwane. “I am going to Bashon myself.”
Frolitz jerked around, to focus his eyes on Etzwane. “Did I hear correctly? You mentioned no such plans to me!”
“If I had, you would not have paid me three hundred florins this morning. As a matter of fact I just made up my mind ten seconds ago.”
“But what of the troupe? What of our engagements? Everything will be discommoded!”
“I won’t be gone long. When I return you can pay me more money, since I seem to be indispensable.”
Frolitz raised his bushy eyebrows. “No one is indispensable save myself! I’ll play khitan and wood-horn together, if I feel so inclined, and produce better music than any four fat-necked apprentices!” Frolitz banged his mug on the bar by way of emphasis. “However, to keep my friend Loy satisfied, I must hire a substitute — an added expense and worry. How long will you be gone?”
“Three weeks, I suppose.”
“‘Three weeks’?” roared Frolitz. “Are you planning a rest-cure on the Ilwiy beach? Three days to Bashon, twenty minutes for your business, three days back to Brassei: that’s enough!”
“Well enough, if I traveled by balloon,” said Etzwane. “I must walk or ride a wagon.”
“Is this more parsimony? Why not go by balloon? What is the difference in cost?”
“Something like thirty florins each way, or so I would guess.”
“Well then! Where is your pride? Does a Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greener travel like a dog-barber?” He turned to Loy the publican. “Give this man sixty florins, in advance, on my account.”
Somewhat dubiously Loy went to his till. Frolitz took the money and clapped it down on the bar in front of Etzwane. “There you are; be off with you. Above all, do not let yourself be deceived by other troupe-masters. They might offer more money than I pay, but be assured, there would be hidden disadvantages!”
Etzwane laughed. “Never fear, I’ll be back, perhaps in a week or ten days. I’ll take the first balloon out; my business at Bashon will be short enough, then it’s the first balloon back to Brassei.”
Frolitz turned to consult Ifness, but found an empty chair; Ifness had departed the tavern.
Chapter VII
A storm had struck in from the Green Ocean, bringing floods to Cantons Maiy and Conduce; a section of the Great Transverse Route had been washed out; balloons were delayed two days, until crews were able to rig an emergency pass-over.
Etzwane was able to secure a place on the first balloon out of Brassei, the Asper. He climbed into the gondola and took a seat; behind him came other passengers. Last aboard was Ifness.
Etzwane sat indifferently, making no sign of recognition. Ifness saw Etzwane, and after the briefe
st of hesitations nodded and sat down beside him. “It seems that we are to be traveling companions.”
Etzwane made a cool response. “I will find it a pleasure.”
The door was closed; bars were lowered to provide the passengers a grip when the balloon swayed and heeled. The wind-tender entered his compartment, tested the winches, checked valves and ballast release. He signaled the ground crew; they rolled the Judas-dolly out along the slot; the Asper rose into the air. The running dolly was released; the Asper danced and flounced in the beam wind until the wind-tender trimmed guys, whereupon the Asper steadied and surged ahead, with taut guys and singing dolly.
Ifness spoke to Etzwane: “You seem totally relaxed. Have you ridden the balloon-way before?”
“Many years ago.”
“A wonderful experience for a child.”
“It was indeed.”
“I am never altogether comfortable in the balloons,” said Ifness. “They seem so frail and vulnerable. A few sticks, the thinnest of membranes, the most fugitive of gases. Still, the Palasedran gliders seem even more precarious: transport no doubt which accords with their temperament. You are bound for Bashon, I understand.”
“I intend to pay off my mother’s indenture.”
Ifness reflected a moment. “Perhaps you should have entrusted your business to a job-broker. The Chilites are a devious folk and may try to mulct you.”
“No doubt they’ll try. But it won’t do any good. I carry an ordinance from the Faceless Man, which they must obey.”
“I see. Well, I still would be on my guard. The Chilites, for all their unworldliness, are seldom bested.”
