by Jack Vance
Etzwane walked slowly to the Corporation Plaza. To buy a five hundred florin petition, to assert his views, must bring him to the attention of the Faceless Man. Well, what then? His concerns, his petition: neither were illegal; they expressed honest anxiety; by his own assertion the Faceless Man was servant to the people of Shant!
Etzwane crossed the Corporation Plaza to the long low structure of magenta glass, where once before he had come. The front wall supported a panel of dull purple satin, to which were pinned petitions and the Faceless Man’s response. Twenty or thirty folk, in a variety of cantonal costumes, stood waiting at the five-florin window. They had come from every corner of Shant with their grievances; as they stood in line they watched the passing folk of Garwiy with truculent expressions. Nearby were more dignified precincts for those earnest enough to buy a hundred florin petition. At the far end of the building, a door distinguished by a purple star opened into the chamber where the very wealthy or the very vehement bought petitions at a cost of five hundred florins.
Through this latter door marched Etzwane without slackening his stride.
The chamber was empty. He was the single petitioner. Behind the counter a man jumped to his feet. “Your wishes, sir?”
Etzwane brought forth his money. “A petition.”
“Very well, sir. A matter of grave importance, no doubt.”
“This is my opinion.”
The clerk brought forth a magenta document, a pen, a dish of black ink; as Etzwane wrote, the clerk counted the money and prepared a receipt.
Etzwane indited his petition, folded it, tucked it into the envelope provided by the clerk, who, examining Etzwane’s torc, noted the color code. “Your name, sir, if it please you?”
“Gastel Etzwane.”
“Your native canton?”
“Bastern.”
“Very good, sir; that is sufficient.”
“When will I have my response?”
The clerk held wide his hands. “How can I answer? The Anome comes and goes; I know no more of his movements than you. In two or three days you might expect to find your response. It must be posted publicly like all the rest; no one may claim that the Anome performs private favors.”
Etzwane went off somewhat less briskly than he had come. The deed was accomplished. He had done all he could; now he must wait upon the decision of the Faceless Man … He climbed a flight of green glass steps to a refreshment garden; the flowers, plants, fronds and trees were all simulated of blue, green, white and scarlet glass. At a table overlooking the plaza, he ate a dish of fruit and hard cheese. He ordered wine and was brought a goblet, slender and high as his lips, of pale cool Pelmonte … He felt dull, deflated. He even felt somewhat absurd. Had he been too bombastic? The Faceless Man surely understood every aspect of the problem; the petition would seem brash and callow … Etzwane glumly sipped his wine. Five hundred florins gone. For what? Expiation of guilt? So that was it. This flinging down of five hundred florins on a useless petition was the way he punished himself. Five hundred hard-earned florins!
Etzwane compressed his lips. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. What was done was done. At all events, the Faceless Man’s reply would provide information regarding counter-Roguskhoi measures now in progress.
Etzwane finished his wine and returned to the Fontenay Inn. He found the proprietor in the pot-room with a trio of cronies. He had been testing his own merchandise and had reached a difficult and captious state.
Etzwane asked politely, “Who plays the music here of evenings?”
The proprietor turned his head to survey Etzwane from head to toe; Etzwane regretted the expensive new clothes. In his old garments he looked the part of a traveling musician.
The proprietor responded curtly: “At the moment no one.”
“In that case I wish to apply for the chair.”
“Aha. What are your abilities?”
“I am a musician. I often play the khitan.”
“A budding young druithine, it seems.”
“I do not present myself in such terms,” replied Etzwane.
“A singer then, with three chords and as many bogus dialects?”
“I am a musician, not a singer.”
One of the cronies, seeing how the wind blew, held up his goblet and looked through the glass at the contents. “New wine is thin; old wine is rich.”
“My own opinion exactly,” said the proprietor. “A new musician knows too little, has felt too little; remember the great Aladar Szantho? He secluded himself fourteen years. Now, with no reflection upon either your aptitudes or potentialities, how could you interest a mature and knowledgeable company?”
“You will never know until you hear me.”
“You refuse to be daunted? Very well, you shall play. I pay nothing unless you attract custom into the tavern, which I doubt.”
“I expect no pay,” said Etzwane, “other than my board and lodging.”
“I can’t even agree to that until I hear you. Garwiy is not a city which takes to outland music. If you could hypnotize toads or recite lewd verse or sing topical ballads, or roll your eyes in opposite circles, that is another matter.”
“I can only play music,” said Etzwane. “My fee, if any, I will leave to your generosity. Is there a khitan on the premises?”
“You will find one or two such in the cupboard yonder.”
Three days passed. Etzwane played in the pot-room, well enough to amuse the customers and satisfy the proprietor. He attempted no bravura and used the rattle-box with a delicate elbow.
On the third night, with the time growing late, the mood came upon him, and he struck the idle chords of the druithine commencing a reverie. He played a reflective melody and a minor retrospect … Music is the result of experience, he thought; he had had sufficient experience to be a musician. Admittedly some of his emotions were raw, and some of his chords were played with his knee too hard against the brilliancy lever. The awareness of this came to Etzwane; he changed, almost in mid-phrase, to soft, quiet passages … He noticed that the company had become attentive; before he had been playing in an abstraction; now he felt self-conscious. Modulating into a set of conventional chords, he finished … He was afraid to raise his eyes and look out over the company. Might they have felt what he felt? Or were they smiling at his excesses? He put down the instrument and stepped from the chair.
To confront Frolitz. Who faced him with a queer half-smile. “The sublime young druithine! Who performs his fantastic surprises at Fontenay’s, while his master, poor doddering old Frolitz, prays for his return at Brassei.”
“I can explain everything,” said Etzwane.
“Your mother is well, I hope?”
“She is dead.”
“‘Dead’ is a sour word,” said Frolitz. He scratched his nose, drank from his mug, looked over his shoulder. “The troupe is here. Shall we play music?”
On the following morning Etzwane (again wearing his new garments) went to the Corporation Plaza and across to the Office of Petitions. To the left, gray cards gave answers to the five-florin petitions: adjudications of petty disputes, actions for damage, complaints against local restrictions. In the center, sheets of pale green parchment, pinned to the board with emerald-glass cabochons, decided hundred-florin actions. At the far right documents of vellum with surrounding bands of black and purple announced responses to the five hundred florin petitions. Only three of these were posted on the board.
Etzwane could hardly restrain his strides as he crossed the plaza; the last few steps he almost ran.
He scanned the purple- and black-bordered documents. The first read:
Lord Fiatz Ergold, having called for the ANOME’S intercession against the unusually harsh judgment rendered in Canton Amaze against his son, the Honorable Arlet, now may hear: The ANOME has requested a transcript of the proceedings and will study the case. The cited penalty appears disproportionate to the offense. Lord Fiatz Ergold however must know that an act merely vulgar or inopport
une in one canton is a capital offense in the next. The ANOME, despite sympathy for Lord Fiatz Ergold, may not in justice contravene local laws. However, if circumstances warrant, the ANOME will pray for leniency.
The second read:
The gentlewoman Casuelda Adrio is advised that notwithstanding her anger and concern, the punishment she urges for the man Andrei Simic will not beneficially repair circumstances as they now exist.
The third read:
For the attention of the gentleman Gastel Etzwane and the other worthy folk who have expressed concern for the Roguskhoi bandits in the Wildlands of the Hwan, the ANOME counsels a calm mien. These disgusting creatures will never dare to venture down from the wilderness; their depredations are not likely to molest folk who make it their business to avoid reckless exposure of themselves and their properties.
Etzwane leaned forward, gaping in disbelief. His hand went to his torc, the unconscious gesture of Shant folk when they reflected in regard to the Faceless Man. He looked again. The statement read exactly as it had originally. With a trembling hand Etzwane reached to claw the document from the display board. He restrained himself. Let it stay. In fact …
He brought a stylus from his pocket; he wrote on the parchment:
The Roguskhoi are murderous beasts! The Faceless Man says, ignore them while they kill and plunder.
The Roguskhoi infest our lands. The Faceless Man says, keep out of their way.
Viana Paizifume would have spoken differently.
Etzwane drew back from the board, suddenly abashed. His act was close to sedition, for which the Faceless Man had little patience. Anger flooded Etzwane again. Sedition, intemperance, insubordination: how could affairs be otherwise? Any man must be prompted to outrage by public policy so bland and irresponsible! He looked around the plaza, in trepidation and defiance. None of the folk nearby paid him any close attention. He noticed a man strolling slowly across the square, head bowed as if in cogitation. It was surely Ifness. He seemed not to have observed Etzwane, though he must have passed only thirty feet from the Petitioners’ Board. On a sudden impulse Etzwane ran after him.
Ifness looked around without surprise. He seemed, thought Etzwane, even more placid than usual. Etzwane said, somewhat grimly, “I saw you pass and I thought to pay my respects.”
“Thank you,” said Ifness. “How go your affairs?”
“Well enough. I am back with Master Frolitz; we play at the Fontenay Inn. You should come by and hear our music.”
“A pleasant thought. Unluckily I fear I will be occupied. You seem to have altered your style.” His glance indicated Etzwane’s garments.
Etzwane scowled. “The clothes are nothing: a waste of money.”
“And your petition to the Faceless Man: have you had a response?”
Etzwane stared at him stonily, wondering if Ifness enjoyed subterfuge for its own sake; surely Ifness had noticed him at the board! He said carefully, “I bought the petition, at a cost of five hundred florins. The answer has been posted. It is yonder.”
He led Ifness to the board. Ifness read with his head thrust slightly forward. “Hmm,” said Ifness. Then in a sharp voice: “Who wrote the remarks at the bottom of the sheet?”
“I did.”
“What!” Ifness’ voice was vibrant. Etzwane had never before seen him exercised. “Do you realize that in the building opposite a telescope is fixed on this board! You scribble your callow and irrelevant complaints, then stalk grandly over to associate me with your scrawling. Do you realize that you are about to lose your head? Now we are both in danger.”
Etzwane started to make a hot retort, but Ifness’ gesture cut him short. “Act naturally; do not pose or posture. Cross to the Pomegranate Portal; continue slowly along. I must alter certain arrangements.”
His head whirling, Etzwane crossed the plaza, moving with as natural a stride as he could muster. He looked toward the Aesthetic Corporation offices, from which, so Ifness averred, the board was telescopically monitored. The objective lens might well be that particularly lucid glass boss directly opposite the board. The Faceless Man hardly sat with his own eyes glued to the lens; a functionary no doubt kept vigil. The telescope would readily pick up the colors in Etzwane’s torc; when he turned away, the man’s curiosity would hold on him, and he would have observed the colloquy with Ifness.
If all were as Ifness declared. At least, thought Etzwane, he had startled Ifness from his supercilious calm.
He passed through the Pomegranate Portal, so called for the festoons of dark scarlet fruit, into Serven Airo Way beyond.
Ifness caught up with him. “It is possible that your act went unnoticed,” said Ifness. “But I cannot risk even one chance in ten.”
Etzwane, still surly, said, “I understand none of your actions.”
“Still you would prefer not to lose your head?” asked Ifness in his most silky voice.
Etzwane gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Here is the situation,” said Ifness. “The Faceless Man will shortly learn of your acts. He may well take your head; he has already taken the heads of three persons who have pushed too hard in this connection. I propose to prevent this. Next I intend to learn the identity of the Faceless Man. Then I will urge him to alter his policy.”
Etzwane looked at Ifness in awe. “Can you do this?”
“I intend to try. You may be able to assist me.”
“Why have you formed such plans? They are surprising!”
“Why did you file a five hundred florin petition?”
“You know my motives,” said Etzwane stiffly.
“Exactly,” said Ifness. “It gives me reason to trust in your participation … Walk faster. We are not being followed … Turn to the right at the Old Rotunda.”
Passing from the city of glass, they walked a quarter-mile north along the Avenue of the Thasarene Directors, into a lane shaded by tall blue-green hedges, through a gap to a small cottage of pale blue tile. Ifness unlocked the door, ushered Etzwane within. “Take off your jacket quickly.”
Etzwane sulkily obeyed the instructions. Ifness indicated a couch. “Lie down, on your face.”
Again Etzwane obeyed. Ifness wheeled over a table on which rested an assortment of tools. Etzwane rose from the couch to examine them; Ifness curtly told him to lie back. “Now, on your life, do not move.”
Ifness switched on a bright light and clamped Etzwane’s torc in a small vise. He slipped a metal strip between the torc and Etzwane’s neck, then clipped a U-shaped device to the strip. He touched a switch; the device set up a soft hum; Etzwane felt a tingle of vibration. “Electron flow is impeded,” said Ifness. “It is safe to open your torc.” With a spinning razor-sharp wheel he sliced the flexite of the torc along its seam. Putting the tool aside, he split the torc open, then, with a long-nose pliers, he drew forth a length of black soft stuff. “The dexax is removed.” With a hooked rod, he worked at the internal lock. The torc fell away from Etzwane’s neck.
“You are no longer subject to the control of the Faceless Man,” said Ifness.
Etzwane rubbed his neck, which felt thin-skinned and naked. Rising from the couch, he looked slowly from the torc to Ifness. “How did you learn to do this?”
“You will remember the torcs I salvaged on Gargamet Meadow. I studied these with great care.” He indicated the interior of Etzwane’s torc. “These are the coded receptors; this is a trigger mechanism. If a signal comes through from the Faceless Man this fiber jerks to detonate the explosive: off comes your head … This is the echo relay, which allows the Faceless Man to discover your whereabouts; it is now inoperative. These nodules I believe to be energy accumulators.”
He stood frowning down at the device, so long that Etzwane became restless and donned his tunic.
Ifness finally said, “If I were the Faceless Man, I might well suspect a cabal, of which Gastel Etzwane was not the most important member. I would not instantly take Etzwane’s head, but I would use the echo circuit to locate him and investigat
e his activities.”
“That seems reasonable enough,” said Etzwane grudgingly.
“On this basis,” said Ifness, “I will attach a signal to your torc; if and when the Faceless Man tries to locate you, we will be warned.” He busied himself. “When he receives no return signal, he must assume that you have left the district, and we will have verified his interest in Gastel Etzwane. Above all, I do not wish to alarm him, or put him on his guard.”
Etzwane asked the question which long had been at the front of his mind. “What, in fact, are your wishes?”
“I hardly know,” Ifness murmured. “My perplexity is greater than your own.”
Sudden illumination came to Etzwane. “You are a Palasedran! You come to observe the work of the Roguskhoi!”
“Not true.” Ifness, seating himself on a couch, regarded Etzwane with a passionless gaze. “Like yourself, I wonder at the Roguskhoi and the Faceless Man’s unconcern. Like yourself, I have been prompted to action. It is no less illicit for me than for you.”
“What kind of action do you plan?” Etzwane asked cautiously.
“My first goal must be to identify the Faceless Man,” said Ifness. “After that I will be guided by events.”
“You claim not to be Palasedran,” said Etzwane. “Nevertheless, this remains a possibility.”
