by Jack Vance
Glawen looked down toward the land below. “Is that the Plain of Standing Stones?”
“Not yet.” Wrinch pointed to the east. “Here comes Sigil. The Shadowmen believe that if Sigil eclipses Ninka, on that instant the universe will come to an end. That isn’t a bad bet, since Sigil orbits well out past Ninka.”
Time passed. Glawen sat forward on the edge of the seat. Wrinch finally said: “We are now over the Plain of Standing Stones. See those lights off to the left? That’s the camp of the Western Tribe. In a minute you should see the lights of Moonway. There are three hotels. The Moonway is the best. Do you have reservations?”
“No.”
“The Moonway naturally tends to fill up first. Still it’s worth a try. Now you can see the lights."
"What about you? Will you be stopping over?”
“My schedule won’t allow it. I'll cut up to Yellow Blossom, then continue around."
“Maybe I'll see you back in Tanjaree.”
“I hope so. You know where to find me.”
The carrier slanted down toward Moonway. Wrinch pointed out Moonway Hotel. “It's the big place at the center. The colored lights are on entertainers’ wagons; there are always three or four troupes parked at Moonway. They cavort and do mad tricks and amuse the hotel guests, so they are tolerated.”
The carrier landed. As soon as Wrinch opened the cupola door, Glawen took his travel bag and jumped to the ground. “Thank you, and goodbye.”
“Goodbye and good luck.”
III.
Glawen half-walked half-ran toward the Moonway Hotel: a massive structure of concrete and glass, more or less regular after the architectural canons of Nion which rejected flat surfaces and hard edges, and accepted verticality only because, in its absence, the building would fall down. To right and left extended two-story residential wings, with a garden terrace surmounting the main structure, where patrons of the hotel dined under festoons of dim green and blue fairy-lights. Not far from the hotel entrance three of the nomad wagons had been stationed, each as gaudy and garish as any Glawen had seen in Tanjaree. To the side vagabonds sat at their ease, drinking pold beer from tall misshapen crocks, while iron pots hanging on tripods bubbled over fires. At the sight of Glawen, a number of urchins ran out to join him. Mistaking Glawen’s accelerated pace as a desire for exercise, they called out: “We'll race you, sir, for some money! See? All of us carry money! We will run you a fine race!”
“No thanks,” said Glawen. “No race today. “
“We’ll run backwards! How can you lose? Are you a fast runner, sir?”
“I'm very slow. You must race with your fathers, or grandmothers."
“Ha, ha! No chance; if we won, they would beat us!"
"Too bad," panted Glawen.
“We will race with each other. Give us money for a prize! We will carry your burden!” The largest tried to snatch away Glawen’s travel bag. Glawen held the bag high. “I need no help. Go play elsewhere.”
The urchins ignored his instructions. They surrounded him, running backwards just in front, plucking at his sleeves, hooting and jeering. “Coward! Do you fear to race?”
“He runs like a fat old lady.” “He has long thin toes; that's why he wears funny shoes.” "Oh, he's a strange one!”
From one of the tables a large bewhiskered man jumped to his feet and came forward. “Leave off, you vermin! Can't you see the gentleman is not amused!” He addressed Glawen. “Sorry for the annoyance, sir! Children have no manners nowadays! Still, they are easily pleased; if you toss them a few coins they would never call you 'skink' or 'tight-gut' again!”
“I don't mind at all,” said Glawen. “Excuse me; I am in a hurry." He continued toward the hotel. The vagabond shrugged, kicked the children out of his way and returned to his beer.
Entering the Moonway, Glawen found himself in a spacious lobby with a high ceiling. A sleek young clerk, apparently an off-worlder, presided over the registration desk. He took note of Glawen’s scuffed travel bag with raised eyebrows and a fastidious droop to his mouth. His voice, however, was impeccably correct: “I am sorry, sir, but unless you have a reservation, I cannot offer you accommodation. We are booked solid. I suggest that you try either the Magic Jade, or the Maudley, though I believe that they are also full."
“I'll see about accommodation later,” said Glawen. “My first need is for information.” He placed a sol on the counter, the clerk pretended not to notice. “Perhaps you can help me.”
“I will do my best, sir.”
“Do you keep records of incoming telephone calls, specifically, a call from Tanjaree which would have arrived early this morning?”
“We keep no such records, sir; they would serve no purpose.”
Glawen grimaced. "Were you on duty at about twenty-eight o'clock this morning?“
“No, sir. I came on duty at ten o'clock this afternoon."
“Who was on duty then?”
“That would be Mr. Stensel, sir.”
“I would like a few words with him, and at once. The matter is rather urgent.”
The clerk went to his telephone, spoke a few soft words, listened and turned back to Glawen. “Mr. Stensel is just finishing his supper. If you will go to the couch yonder, to the side of the clock, Mr. Stensel will join you almost immediately.”
“Thank you." Glawen went to the designated couch and seated himself.
The lobby was a cheerful airy place, despite the ponderous construction of the walls. Rugs, striped black, white, red, blue and green, covered the floor; the ceiling, thirty feet above, had been decorated with motifs of the Shadowmen: patterns of barbaric extravagance and passion, somehow kept under restraint. A panel suspended over the registration desk displayed colored disks representing the moons currently in the sky. They appeared low to the left of the panel, rose to the height of their arc and curved down to disappear off to the right.
Three minutes passed. A plump little man, balding and brisk, dressed only slightly less formally than the clerk on duty, approached. “I am Mr. Stensel. I understand that you have a question or two?”
“So I do. Sit down, if you please.”
Mr. Stensel seated himself on the couch. “Now then: how may I help you, sir?”
“You were on duty this morning at twenty-eight o'clock?"
“That is correct, sir it is my regular shift."
“Do you remember a telephone call from Tanjaree at about this time?”
“Hm.” Mr. Stensel appeared to cogitate. “This is the kind of detail that quickly becomes lost."
Glawen gave him two sols, and Mr. Stensel smiled.
“Strange how money lubricates the memory. Yes; I remember the call; indeed, I recognized the caller, since he telephones often. It was Mr. Melvish Keebles."
"Right. To whom did he speak?”
To one of our long-term guests, Mr. Adrian Moncurio the archaeologist. You may have heard of him, since he is quite well known.”
“You did not overhear the conversation?”
"No, sir. That is not proper conduct, under any circumstances. Another gentleman asked me the same questions only a trifle more than an hour ago, and I told him the same.”
Glawen’s heart sank. “Did this other gentleman give his name?”
“No, sir.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was nicely dressed, of good appearance, and exceedingly pleasant, so I thought.”
Glawen brought out another two sols. “You have been most helpful. Where can I find Mr. Moncurio?”
“He occupies Suite A, which opens onto the front veranda. Leave the lobby, turn to the right. Suite A is at the end. You may or may not find Mr. Moncurio on the premises, since he keeps odd hours, and sometimes goes out to explore among the Stones when the moons are favorable. He is highly skilled in such matters, and can judge the moons to a nicely. Otherwise, he would long ago have been killed.”
“Are the moons right hour?”
Mr. Stensel looked toward th
e panel. “As to that, I can't say, since I have never studied the subject."
“Thank you.” Glawen left the lobby, turned to the right and ran to the end of the veranda, where he found Suite A. Glimmers of light seeped past the window-blinds. Glawen took heart; it appeared that someone was at home. He pressed the bell button.
A minute passed, while Glawen’s tension mounted. From within came the sound of slow movement. The door slid aside; in the opening stood a dark-hatred full-figured woman of no great stature. Despite the incursions of middle age, she still commanded elements of youthful charm. Her thick hair was cut short and square around her head in a style prompted either by high fashion or by stark practicality. She examined Glawen with bright black eyes. "Yes, sir?”
“Is Mr. Moncurio in?” Glawen was annoyed to hear the anxious catch in his voice.
The woman shook her head and Glawen’s heart sank once again. “He's out in the field, doing his archaeology.” She stepped to the doorway, looked right and left down the verandah, then turned back to Glawen. “I can't understand his popularity. Suddenly, everyone must see Professor Moncurio, and no one will wait."
“Where can I find him? It is very important!”
“He is out in the Stones somewhere. The moons for a change are good. I suspect he's off down Row Fourteen. Are you another archaeologist?"
“No. Is there anyone who could help me find him?”
The woman gave a sad laugh. “Not I, for sure, with my poor legs. But he won’t go far, since he must be back before Shan goes down, which is less than two hours.”
The woman pointed toward a pale blue moon. "When Shan sets, the Shadowmen will come in a rush, looking for throats to cut."
“Where is Row Fourteen?”
“Simple! Go down Column Five, which is the aisle yonder, count fourteen rows. Then turn to the left and go three or four columns, and Adrian should be nearby. If not, don’t go looking for him! The stones are confusing in the moonlight; you might easily lose your way. The pold is already black with spilled blood.”
“Thanks, I'll be careful.” Glawen started away. The woman called after him: “Watch for the others; remind them of the time!”
Glawen approached the Standing Stones. They loomed above him, twenty feet or so tall, massive in the moonlight. He entered Column Five; to either side the ranks receded and finally disappeared into the blur of mingled moonlight and darkness.
Glawen went at a half-run down Column Five, counting rows. At Row Eight he stopped to listen. The only sound was the flux of blood in his own ears. He continued: a shadow moving among the other shadows. At Row Twelve he stopped again, straining to hear sounds which might guide him.
Had his senses deceived him? Had he heard a voice? If so, it had been soft and diffident, as if wanting to make itself known, yet fearful of being overheard. Odd!
Glawen hurried aside into Row Twelve and ran on long stealthy steps past three ranks of stones, to Column Eight. He stopped again to listen. Silence! An ominous sign. If a friend had come out to join Moncurio, there would be conversation, or so it would seem. He set off down the column. Almost at once the call came again, as low-pitched and wary as before. The stones muffled sound; Glawen could not fix on the direction of the voice, or its distance; still it did not seem far.
Glawen went along the row to Column Nine, and turned to the right. Two more rows would bring him to Fourteen. He must not lose himself among the stones! Step by step he went forward. There were presences near, baleful and alert. Something came running through the dark to pounce on his back; he swung around. Nothing was there. His nerves had fooled him. He stood staring in all directions, listening for another call, or noise: anything he could fix upon.
It came: from near at hand a sudden laugh, an unpleasant roar, mocking and triumphant. Then came a babble of voices, a thud of sinister import; after a few breathless instants — a cry of awful fury.
Glawen put aside caution and ran toward the sounds. After a few feet, he halted to orient himself. He heard hurrying footsteps; looking along the column he saw a human shape. It approached at a peculiar lurching gait. Suddenly, with a sobbing gasp of frustration, it stopped short, bent low, made a hurled adjustment; then, free of its former restraint, ran forward and collided full into Glawen. Nine of the nineteen moons illuminated a stricken face. Glawen cried in amazement: “Wayness!”
She stared up, first in shock, then in incredulous joy. "Glawen! I can't believe that it's you!" She turned, looked over her shoulder. “Baro is back there: he's a murderer! He dropped Moncurio into a tomb and left him for the Shadowmen. He caught me and said I was more interesting alive than dead and started to undress me. I hit him with a spade and he fell down. I tried to run away but I could not run fast with my trousers down around my ankles.” She darted another glance over her shoulder. “We had best go to the hotel for help! Baro is a devil!”
From between the stones a shape darker than the shadows moved forward into the light of the moons. Glawen recognized the man he had glimpsed in Crippet Alley and at the Cansaspara café.
Wayness gave a soft cry of distress. “It’s too late.”
The man came slowly forward. He halted ten feet away. Some trick of posture or perhaps his supercilious grin stirred recollections in Glawen’s mind and he knew the man’s identity. “It's Benjamie the spy! Benjamie the traitor!"
Benjamie laughed. “Of course! And you are the noble and pure Glawen Clattuc. I sent your father to Shattorak! I suppose you are annoyed with me.”
“Very much so.”
Benjamie came a step closer. Glawen wondered what he was carrying behind his back. “So here we are," said Benjamie, “You and I, and now we shall see who is the better man: nice good Glawen or bad Benn Barr! And pretty Wayness will rejoice with whomever is alive at the end!"
Glawen somberly considered Benjamie, who stood an inch taller than himself and was heavier by twenty pounds.” Benjamie was quick and light footed; his confidence was superb.
Glawen told Wayness: "Run back to the hotel. As soon as you're well away, I'll get clear of this fellow and join you."
“But Glawen! What if — ” She could not bring herself to finish.
“If you hurry, there should be time to help Moncurio before Shan goes down. As for Benjamie, I will do what needs to be done."
Benjamie gave a contemptuous laugh. “Stay here!” he told Wayness. “If you run I'll catch you.” He strode forward. Glawen saw that he was carrying a short-handled spade. “This won't take long.” He feinted, then swung the spade so that it should slash Glawen’s neck. Glawen jumped aside and pressed his back against a tall Standing Stone. Benjamie jabbed with the spade; Glawen again jerked aside; the spade rang against the stone. Glawen seized the handle; the two wrestled for possession: twisting one way, then the other, Glawen saw that Benjamie was preparing a surprise. He first wrenched and hauled with the shovel in order to set Glawen up in an exposed stance. Glawen obliged, prompting the surprise: a sudden kick to the groin. Glawen twisted his hips and slipped the kick. Grasping the foot he instantly thrust hard, to send Benjamie hopping backward. Glawen wrested away the spade, struck it down hard on Benjamie’s shoulder, and Benjamie hissed in pain. He charged like a bull, grappled Glawen, bore him back so that Glawen’s head cracked against the Standing Stone. Glawen felt sick and dazed. Benjamie drove his fist into Glawen’s cheek; Glawen struck Benjamie’s belly; it was like hitting a board.
For a few moments there was confusion: a tangle of grunting bodies, flailing arms, contorted faces. Pain and fear were forgotten; each thought only of the other’s destruction. Benjamie attempted another kick Glawen caught the leg, pulled, twisted; there was a snap and Benjamie fell over backward, his ankle broken. He raised himself slowly on his hands and toes, then lunged, and caught Glawen off-balance. Benjamie worked himself behind Glawen; thrust his forearm against Glawen’s throat. Grinning in jubilation Benjamie constricted his muscles so that Glawen’s eyes bulged and his chest pumped in vain for air.
&n
bsp; Glawen reached back his right hand, caught Benjamie’s hair and pulled back with all of his waning strength. Benjamie made fretful noises and tried to shake the hand loose. For an instant he allowed his arm muscles to slacken. Glawen drew his head far back and askew. With his left, hand Glawen jabbed at Benjamie’s throat, at the site of a sensitive nerve. Benjamie’s grip relaxed. Glawen broke loose; gasping, he turned and with all his strength drove his knuckles into Benjamie’s larynx. He felt the crushing of cartilaginous structures; croaking and wheezing, Benjamie fell over backwards, to sit slumped against a Standing Stone, to stare at Glawen with dull bewildered eyes.
Glawen, still panting, picked up the spade. He spoke to Benjamie: “Think of Shattorak.”
Benjamie slumped back against the stone. Glawen saw that he was only half-conscious.
Wayness came forward. She watched Benjamie in fascinated horror. “Is he dead?”
“Not at the moment; he's probably in a state of shock."
“Will he survive?”
"I don’t think so. If I did, I'd break his head with the spade. Perhaps I should do it anyway.”
Wayness clutched his arm. "No, Glawen, don’t!” Then she said: "No, I don’t mean that. He can't be allowed to live."
“He's dying. In any case he can't walk, and the Shadowmen will be here before long. Where is Moncurio?”
“Back here.” Wayness led the way to an excavation, covered over with a slab of stone. “He is below the stone. It's very heavy.”
Prying with the spade and exerting all his strength, Glawen managed to slide the stone back a few inches. He called down: ”Moncurio?"
“I'm down here! Get me out! I thought you were Shadowmen.”
"Not yet."
With Wayness assisting, Glawen thrust back the stone, inch by inch, until Moncurio was able to wriggle through the gap. “Ah, air! Space! Freedom! What a wonderful feeling! I thought that I was done for!” Moncurio paused to brush dirt from his clothes. In the moonlight Glawen saw a tall robust man of late maturity, only a trifle soft in the midriff. His thick silver-gray hair matched his brisk mustache. A wide brow a nose long and straight, a well-shaped chin lent dignity to his face; his eyes, however, under drooping eyelids were large, dark and moist: the eyes of a spaniel.
