by Jack Vance
“And why do you wear this belt?”
“For the most simple reason imaginable: vanity.”
Ifness went to the cupboard and returned with a small sac, which he pressed to the girl’s neck: sides, nape, and front. She looked at him in apprehension. “It is wet … What did you do to me?”
“The liquid penetrates your skin and enters your blood. In a moment it will reach your brain and paralyze a certain small organ. Then we will talk further.”
Jurjin’s face became rueful and anxious. Etzwane watched her in morbid fascination, wondering as to the details of her existence. She wore her gown with flair and ease; she used the manners of the Garwiy patricians; her coloring was that of the Garwiy race. But her features showed a trace of some foreign strain. Xhiallinen, one of the Fourteen Families, was ancient, and if anything inbred … Jurjin spoke. “I will tell you the truth voluntarily, while I still can think. I wear the belt because the Anome required service of me, and I could not refuse.”
“What was the service?”
“To act as Benevolence.”
“Who are the other Benevolences?”
“There is only Garstang of Allinginen.”
“Might there not be others?”
“I am certain that there are none.”
“You, Garstang and the Faceless Man controlled the whole of Shant?”
“The cantons and the cities are ruled by their particular leaders. It is only necessary to control these folk. One alone could do this.”
Etzwane started to speak, then controlled his voice. These slim hands must often have pressed the yellow stud of her belt; she must often have seen the heads of men disappear. He did not care to know how many times. He turned away with a heavy feeling in his throat.
“Who,” asked Ifness ingenuously, “is the Faceless Man?”
“I don’t know. He is as faceless to me as he is to you.”
Ifness asked, “The box Garstang carried, and your belt: are they guarded against unauthorized use?”
“Yes. Gray must be pressed before the colors are coded.”
Ifness leaned forward, inspected her eyes, and gave a slight nod. “Why did you summon the Discriminators to Fontenay’s?”
“I did not summon them.”
“Who did?”
“The Faceless Man, I suppose.”
“Who was your escort?”
“The Second of Curnainen, Matheleno.”
“Is he the Faceless Man?”
Jurjin’s face showed a flicker of astonishment. “Matheleno? How could he be so?”
“Have you received orders from the Faceless Man in regard to Matheleno?”
“No.”
“He is your lover?”
“The Faceless Man said I might take no lovers.” Jurjin’s voice began to slur; her eyelids drooped.
“Was the Faceless Man at Fontenay’s Tavern?”
“I am not sure. I think he was there and noticed something which impelled him to call in the Discriminators.”
“What could that have been?”
“Spies.”
“Spies from where?”
“From Palasedra.” Jurjin’s voice came slowly; her eyes took on a curious blank stare.
Ifness spoke sharply: “Why should he fear Palasedrans?”
Jurjin’s voice was an unintelligible mutter; her eyes closed.
She slept. Ifness stood looking down in annoyance.
Etzwane looked from Ifness to the girl and back to Ifness. “What troubles you?”
“Her lapse into coma came swiftly. Too swiftly.”
Etzwane peered into the girl’s calm face. “She could not feign such a thing.”
“No.” Ifness bent over Jurjin’s face. He scrutinized each of her features, opened her mouth, peered within. “Hmm.”
“What do you see?”
“Nothing conclusive, or even suggestive.”
Etzwane turned away, his mind inhabited only by doubts and uncertainties. He straightened the girl’s body on the couch and drew a shawl over her. Ifness watched with brooding detachment.
“What do we do now?” Etzwane asked. He no longer felt antagonism toward Ifness; such an emotion seemed pointless.
Ifness stirred, as if rousing from a reverie. “We return to a consideration of the Faceless Man and his identity — though for a fact other mysteries seem more cogent.”
“Other mysteries?” Etzwane asked, uncomfortably aware that he must seem numb and stupid.
“There are several. First I might cite the Roguskhoi scimitars. Then Garstang for no clear or good reason attempts a desperate attack. Jurjin of Xhiallinen lapses into a coma as if her brain has been turned off. And the Faceless Man resists, not passively but actively, all demonstrations against the Roguskhoi. All seem guided by a transcendent policy beyond our present imagination.”
“It is very strange,” muttered Etzwane.
“Were the Roguskhoi human we might reconcile these grotesque acts with simple treachery; but the concept of Garstang and Jurjin of Xhiallinen plotting with the Roguskhoi is sheer insanity.”
“Not if the Roguskhoi are Palasedran freaks, sent here to destroy us.”
“The theory is arguable,” said Ifness, “until someone troubles to examine the physiology of the Roguskhoi, and considers their reproductive methods. Then doubt is renewed. However — to the lesser mystery. Who is the Faceless Man? We have thrown two stones; the quail has made two startled motions. To recapitulate: we are told with authority that the Anome employed only two Benevolences. Jurjin was not at Pandamon Park, yet an attempt was made to take your head. We must credit this attempt to the Faceless Man. Garstang was not at Fontenay’s, still someone summoned the Discriminators: again we must hold the Faceless Man responsible. I took photographs at both locations; if we find a person common to both — well, let’s see what the Laws of Probability have to tell us. I believe that I can quote precise odds. There are roughly two hundred thousand adults in this immediate area, of which two hundred heard the ‘anonymous adventurer’ — not a large turnout: one in each thousand persons. A similar number might have come to Fontenay’s to enjoy the music of Frolitz’s troupe: only about a hundred, or one in each two thousand, did so. The chances of the same person being present at both locations — unless he had urgent business at both, as did you, I and the Faceless Man — are therefore one in two million: sufficiently scant to discount. So then — let us investigate.”
Ifness brought from his pocket a tube of dull black metal an inch in diameter, four inches long. Along the flattened top a number of knurled knobs caught the light and glittered in Ifness’ hand. He made an adjustment, pointed the tube at the wall beside Etzwane and projected a cone of light.
Etzwane had never seen a photograph so detailed. He glimpsed several views of the Corporation Plaza; then Ifness made new adjustments, sending a thousand images flickering against the wall … The picture became still, to depict Pandamon Park and the folk who had come to hear the ‘anonymous adventurer’.
“Look carefully at these faces,” said Ifness. “Unfortunately I can’t show these pictures and those from Fontenay’s in juxtaposition; we must shift from one set to another.”
Etzwane pointed: “There stands Garstang. Here — here — here — here —” he pointed to other faces. “I noticed these men; I wondered which might be the Anome.”
“Study them. He will certainly know tricks of altering his appearance.” Ifness projected pictures from various angles and vantages, and together they studied every face visible.
“Now to Fontenay’s tap-room.”
The tap-room was half-empty; the musicians sat on the dais. Matheleno and Jurjin had not yet occupied the table near Etzwane.
Ifness chuckled. “You chose a perfect disguise,” said Ifness. “You appear as yourself.”
Etzwane, uncertain as to the quality of Ifness’ amusement, gave a noncommittal grunt.
“We go forward in time. The young woman and Matheleno are at your table. Could Matheleno be one of th
e men at Pandamon Park?”
“No,” said Etzwane, after reflection. “He somewhat resembles Garstang, however.”
“True … The Aesthetes are a distinctive group — a race, in fact, in the process of differentiating.”
The picture changed once more. “It is now four to five minutes before the Discriminators arrived. I would suppose the Faceless Man to be in the room. He would stand where he could watch his Benevolence.” Ifness expanded the cone of light, magnifying the images, sending some to the ceiling, some to the floor. Moving the projector, he brought the faces one at a time to the wall beside Etzwane. “This one?” “No.” “This one?” “No.”
Etzwane pointed. “The man in the far corner, leaning against the bar.”
Ifness expanded the image. They looked at the face. It was a quiet face, broad of forehead, clever of eye, small of chin and mouth. The man himself was short, trim, compact. His age could not be guessed.
Ifness flicked back to Pandamon Park. Etzwane pointed out the small man with the pursed mouth and the clever sidelong eyes. “There he is.”
“Yes,” said Ifness. “That is he.”
“Now what?”
“For now — nothing. Go to bed, sleep. Tomorrow we will try to identify the fellow.”
“What of her?” Etzwane indicated the dazed girl.
“She won’t move for twelve to fourteen hours.”
Chapter XII
The suns tumbled up into the mauve autumn sky like rollicking kittens: Sassetta over Ezeletta behind Zael. Ifness left the cottage slowly and cautiously, like an old gray fox going forth to hunt. Etzwane sat elbows on knees, pondering Jurjin of Xhiallinen. She lay as Ifness had left her, breathing shallowly: a creature, Etzwane thought, of absolutely entrancing appearance, beautiful enough to hypnotize a man. He studied her face: the pure pale skin, the innocent profile, the dusky eye-lashes. How to reconcile this Jurjin of Xhiallinen with her dark occupation? No question but what the work must be done by someone: if unlawful acts went unpunished, Shant would lapse into anarchy, as in the old days when canton feuded with canton. Etzwane’s mind was a confusion, swinging between noble rationalization and disgust. She had been commanded by the Anome; she had no choice but to obey. But why had the Anome commanded her, Jurjin of Xhiallinen, to serve as his Benevolence? Surely men like Garstang were more apt for such a service. The Anome’s mind was a labyrinth with many strange chambers … Like the minds of all men, including his own, Etzwane told himself bitterly.
He reached forth, arranged a lock of her soft dark hair. Her eyelids flickered, and slowly opened. She turned her head and looked at Etzwane. “You are the musician.”
“Yes.”
She lay quiet, thinking. She noticed the light pouring through the window and made a sudden movement. “It is daytime; I can’t stay here.”
“You must.”
“But why?” She turned him a melting glance. “I have done you no harm.”
“You would, had you the chance.”
Jurjin inspected Etzwane’s dour face. “Are you a criminal?”
“I am the ‘anonymous adventurer’ that Garstang went forth to kill.”
“You taught sedition!”
“I urged that the Faceless Man protect Shant from the Roguskhoi. That is not sedition.”
“The Roguskhoi are nothing to be feared. The Anome has told us this.”
Etzwane gave an angry ejaculation. “I saw the results of the raid on Bashon. My mother was killed.”
Jurjin’s face became blank and distant. She murmured, “The Roguskhoi are nothing to fear.”
“How would you cope with them then?”
Jurjin focused her eyes upon him. “I don’t know.”
“And when they swarm down upon Garwiy, what will you do then? Do you wish to be ravaged? Would you bear a dozen imps that creep from your body while you sleep?”
Jurjin’s face twitched. She started to wail, stopped short and became placid. “It’s a matter for the Anome.” She raised to her elbow, and watching Etzwane slowly slid her legs to the floor. Etzwane watched impassively. He asked, “Are you hungry, or thirsty?”
She made no direct reply. “How long will you keep me here?”
“Until we find the Faceless Man.”
“What do you want with him?”
“We will insist that he deal with the Roguskhoi.”
“You intend him no harm?”
“Not I,” said Etzwane, “though he has unjustly tried to kill me.”
“The acts of the Anome must always be just … What if you can’t find him?”
“Then you will remain here. Could it be otherwise?”
“Not from your point of view … Why do you look at me like that?”
“I wonder about you … How many men have you killed?”
She screamed, “One less than I would wish to!” and sprang for the door. Etzwane sat watching. Ten feet from the couch she was jerked to a halt by the cord Ifness had tied from her waist to the couch. She cried out in pain, turned and tugged frantically at the cord. Etzwane watched with detachment, feeling no pity.
Jurjin found the knot too cunning for her fingers. Slowly she returned to the couch. Etzwane had no more to say to her.
So they sat for two hours. Ifness returned as quietly as he had gone. He carried a folder which he handed to Etzwane; it contained six large photographic prints, so detailed that Etzwane could count the hairs of the Anome’s sparse eyelashes. At Pandamon Park the Anome had worn a soft black rimless cap pulled low over his forehead; this, with his down-curving little mouth and small, almost immature, nose, gave his face a fore-shortened bulldog look. At Fontenay’s the dark hair of a wig was drawn straight back from his forehead to swirl down and around each ear: a style popular among the upper middle-classes of Garwiy, which displayed to advantage the philosopher’s forehead and diminished the pinched expression of nose and mouth. Nowhere did the eyes look directly ahead; always they bore off somewhat to right or left. In both sets of photographs the Anome appeared humorless, determined, introspective and pitiless.
Etzwane studied the pictures, until the face was stamped into his consciousness. He returned the pictures to Ifness.
Jurjin, sitting on the couch, feigned boredom. Ifness handed her the photographs. “Who is this man?”
Jurjin’s eyelids descended the merest twitch; she said in a voice, rather too casual, “I haven’t a notion.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
Jurjin frowned and licked her lips. “I see many people; I couldn’t begin to remember them all.”
Ifness asked, “If you knew this man’s identity, would you tell us?”
Jurjin laughed. “Of course not.”
Ifness nodded and went to the wall cabinet. Jurjin watched him, her mouth sagging in dismay. Ifness asked over his shoulder, “Are you hungry or thirsty?”
“No.”
“Do you care to visit the bathroom?”
“No.”
“You had best consider carefully,” said Ifness. “It now becomes necessary that I apply the hypnotic tincture. You will not move for twelve hours, which, added to the twelve hours you have already occupied the couch, might cause an embarrassment.”
“Very well,” said Jurjin in a cold voice. “Be so good as to release me; I would like to wash my face and hands.”
“Of course.” Ifness untied the cord; Jurjin marched to the door Ifness indicated. Ifness spoke to Etzwane, “Stand below the bathroom window.”
A moment after Etzwane arrived at his post the window eased cautiously ajar and Jurjin looked out. At the sight of Etzwane she scowled and closed the window once more.
Jurjin returned slowly to the living room. “I do not care to be drugged,” she told Ifness in a flippant voice. “Dreadful dreams afflict me.”
“Indeed! What do you dream about?”
“I don’t remember. Frightening things. I become very sick.”
Ifness was unmoved. “I will dose you more heavily.”
“No, no! You want to ask me about the pictures! I’ll help you any way I know!” Her bravado had disappeared; her face had melted; it was tender, beseeching. Etzwane wondered how she looked with her finger on the yellow button.
Ifness asked, “Are you concealing information regarding the pictures?”
“Suppose I were? Would you expect disloyalty of me?”
“No,” said Ifness. “I use the drug and remove your options. Please return to the couch.”
“You will make me sick. I will fight you; I will kick and scream and bite.”
“Not for long,” said Ifness.
The sobbing girl lay on the couch. Etzwane, panting, sat on her knees, and pressed down on her arms. Ifness applied the solution to her neck. Almost at once her writhing halted.
Ifness asked, “What do you know of the man in the photograph?”
Jurjin lay in a coma.
Etzwane said in a hushed voice, “You dosed her too heavily.”
“No,” said Ifness. “An overdose has no such effect.”
“Then what happened to her?”
“I am mystified. First Garstang chooses an absurd method of suicide, now this.”
“Do you think she knows the Faceless Man?”
“No. But she knows the man in the photographs. The Aesthetes, after all, are not strangers to each other.” Ifness studied the photographs. “Of course, he might be the green-grocer … I neglected to mention that a picture of the ‘anonymous adventurer’ is posted in the Corporation Plaza, with information requested by the Discriminators.”
“Hmf. So now I am proscribed.”
“Until we remonstrate with the Faceless Man.”
“He will be on his guard, with both Benevolences missing.”
“So I would imagine. The identity of his adversaries must puzzle him greatly.”
“Jurjin mentioned Palasedran spies.”
“Similar theories may occur to the Faceless Man.” Ifness studied the photographs. “Notice his torc. Observe the colors. What do they signify?”
“The purple-green is Garwiy. Double dark green is a person without trade or craft: a land-holder, an industrialist, a foreign trader, an Aesthete.”
Ifness nodded placidly. “No new information. The torc will certainly not respond to an echo pulse. No doubt we could walk about the Ushkadel asking questions, but I fear that we would soon be approached by the Discriminators.”
