by Jack Vance
“Naturally, I know nothing of the issues,” said Reith. “Why the wall around the island?”
“To daunt the Pnume, who infest Tschai like rats. The Wankh are not a companionable folk. In fact — look down yonder below the surface.”
Reith, peering into the water, saw gliding beside the ship at a depth of ten or fifteen feet a dark man-like shape, with a metal structure fixed across its mid-body, moving without motion of its own. The figure twisted, slanted away and vanished into the murk.
“An amphibious race, the Wankh, with electric jets for their underwater sport.”
Reith once more raised the scanscope. The Wankh towers, like the walls, were black glass. Round windows were disks blacker than black; balconies of frail twisted crystal became walkways to far structures. Reith spied movement: a pair of Wankh? Looking more closely he saw the creatures to be men — Wankhmen, beyond all doubt — with flour-white skins and black pelts close to somewhat flat scalps. Their faces seemed smooth, with still saturnine features; they wore what appeared to be one-piece black garments, with wide black leather belts, on which hung small implements, tools, instruments. As they moved into the building, they looked out at the Vargaz and for an instant Reith saw full into their faces. He jerked the scanscope from his eyes.
Anacho eyed him askance. “What is the trouble?”
“I saw two Wankhmen … Even you, weird mutated freak that you are, seem ordinary by comparison.”
Anacho gave a sardonic chuckle. “They are in fact not dissimilar to the typical sub-man.”
Reith made no argument; in the first place he could not define the exact quality he had seen behind the still white faces. He looked again, but the Wankhmen had disappeared. Dordolio had come out on deck and now stared in fascination at the scanscope. “What instrument is that?”
“An electronic optical device,” said Reith without emphasis.
“I’ve never seen its like.” He looked at Anacho. “Is it a Dirdir machine?”
Anacho made a quizzical dissent. “I think not.”
Dordolio gave Reith a puzzled glance. “Is it Chasch or Wankh?” He peered at the engraved escutcheon. “What writing is this?”
Anacho shrugged. “Nothing I can read.”
Dordolio asked Reith: “Can you read it?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Impelled by a sudden mischievous urge, Reith read:
Federal Space Agency
Tool and Instrument Division
Mark XI Photomultiplying Binocular Telescope
1x–1000x
Nonprojective, inoperable in total darkness.
BAF-1303-K-29023
Use Type D5 energy slug only. In poor light, engage color compensator switch. Do not look at sun or high-intensity illumination; if automatic light-gate fails, damage to the eyes may result.
Dordolio stared. “What language is that?”
“One of the many human dialects,” said Reith.
“But from what region? Men everywhere on Tschai, to my understanding, speak the same language.”
“Rather than embarrass you both,” said Reith, “I prefer to say nothing. Continue to think of me as an amnesiac.”
“Do you take us for fools?” growled Dordolio. “Are we children to have our questions answered with flippant evasions?”
“Sometimes,” said Anacho, speaking into the air, “it is the part of wisdom to maintain a myth. Too much knowledge can become a burden.”
Dordolio gnawed at his mustache. From the corner of his eye he glanced at the scanscope, then swung abruptly away.
Ahead three more islands had appeared, rising sharply from the sea, each with its wall and core of eccentric black buildings. A shadow lay on the horizon beyond: the mainland of Kachan.
During the afternoon the shadow took on density and detail, to become a hulk of mountains rising from the sea. The Vargaz coasted north, almost in the shadow of the mountains, with black dip-winged kites swooping around the masts, emitting mournful hoots and clashing their mandibles. Late in the afternoon the mountains fell away to reveal a land-locked bay. A nondescript town occupied the south shore; from a promontory to the north rose a Wankh fortress, like a growth of undisciplined black crystals. A spaceport occupied the flat land to the east, where a number of spaceships of various styles and sizes were visible.
Through the scanscope, Reith studied the landscape and the mountainside sloping down to the spacefield from the east. Interesting, mused Reith, interesting indeed.
The captain, coming past, identified the port as Ao Hidis, one of the important Wankh centers. “I had no intent of faring south so far, but since we’re here, I’ll try to sell my leathers and the Grenie woods; then I’ll take on Wankh chemicals for Cath. A word of warning for those of you who intend to roister ashore. There are two towns here: Ao Hidis proper, which is Man-town, and an unpronounceable sound which is Wankh-town. In Man-town are several kinds of people, including Lokhars, but mainly Blacks and Purples. They do not mingle; they recognize their own kind only. In the streets you may walk without fear, you may buy at any shop or booth with an open front. Do not enter any closed shop or tavern, either Black or Purple; you’ll likely not come out. There are no public brothels. If you buy from a Black booth, do not stop at a Purple booth with your goods; you will be resented and perhaps insulted, or, in certain cases, attacked. The opposite holds true. As for Wankh-town, there is nothing to do except stare at the Wankh, to which you are welcome, for they do not seem to object. All considered, a dull port, with little amusement ashore.”
The Vargaz eased alongside a wharf flying a small purple pennon. “I patronized Purple on my last visit,” the captain told Reith who had come up to the quarterdeck. “They gave good service at a fair price; I see no reason to change.”
The Vargaz was moored by Purple longshoremen: round-faced, round-headed men with a plum-colored cast to their complexion. From the neighboring Black dock Blacks looked on with aloof hostility. These were physiognomically similar to the Purples, but with gray skins oddly mottled with black.
“No one knows the cause,” remarked the captain, in regard to the color disparity. “The same mother may produce one Purple child and one Black. Some blame diet; others drugs; others hold that disease attacks a color-gland in the mother’s egg. But Black and Purple they are born; and each calls the other pariah. When Black and Purple breed, the union is sterile, or so it is said. The notion horrifies each race; they would as soon couple with night-hounds.”
“What of the Dirdirman?” asked Reith. “Is he likely to be molested?”
“Bah. The Wankh take no notice of such trivia. The Blue Chasch are known for sadistic malice. Dirdir stringencies are unpredictable. But in my experience the Wankh are the most indifferent and remote people of Tschai, and seldom trouble with men. Perhaps they do their evil in secret like Pnume; no one knows. The Wankhmen are a different sort, cold as ghouls, and it is not wise to cross them. Well then, we are docked. Are you going ashore? Remember my warnings; Ao Hidis is a harsh city. Ignore both Black and Purple; talk to no one; interfere with nothing. Last visit I lost a seaman who bought a shawl at a Black shop, then drank wine at a Purple booth. He staggered aboard the ship with foam coming from his nose.”
Anacho chose to remain aboard the Vargaz. Reith went ashore with Traz. Crossing the dock they found themselves on a wide street paved with slabs of mica-schist. To either side were houses built crudely of stone and timber, surrounded by rubbish. A few motor vehicles of a type Reith had not previously seen moved along the street; Reith assumed them to be Wankh manufacture.
Around the shore to the north rose the Wankh towers. In this direction also lay the spaceport.
There seemed to be no public conveyances; Reith and Traz set off on foot. The huts gave way to somewhat more pretentious dwellings, and then they came to a square surrounded on all sides by shops and booths. Half of the folk were Black, half Purple; neither took notice of the other. Blacks patronized Blacks; Purple shops and booths served Purples. Blac
ks and Purples jostled each other, without acknowledgment or apology. Detestation hung in the air like a reek.
Reith and Traz crossed the square, continued north along a road paved with concrete, and presently came to a fence of tall glass rods surrounding the spacefield. Reith halted, surveyed the lay of the land.
“I am not naturally a thief,” he told Traz. “But notice the little space-boat! I would gladly confiscate that from its present owner.”
“It is a Wankh boat,” Traz pointed out pessimistically. “You would not know how to control it.”
Reith nodded. “True. But if I had time — a week or so — I could learn. Spacecraft are necessarily similar.”
“Think of the practicalities!” Traz admonished him.
Reith concealed a grin. Traz occasionally reverted to the stern personality of Onmale, the near-vital emblem which Traz had worn at the time of their first meeting. Traz shook his head dubiously. “Are valuable vehicles left unattended, ready to fly off into the sky? Unlikely!”
“No one seems to be aboard the small ship,” argued Reith. “Even the freighters seem to be empty. Why should there be vigilance? Who would wish to steal them, except a person like myself?”
“Well then, what if you managed to enter the ship?” Traz demanded. “Before you could understand how to operate the machinery, you would be found and killed.”
“No question but what the project is risky,” agreed Reith.
They returned to the port, and the Vargaz, when once more they were aboard, seemed a haven of normalcy.
Cargo was discharged and loaded all during the night. In the morning with all passengers and crew members aboard, the Vargaz threw off moorings, hoisted sail and glided back out into the Draschade Ocean.
The Vargaz sailed north under the bleak Kachan coast. On the first day a dozen Wankh keeps appeared ahead, passed abeam and were left in the haze astern. On the second day the Vargaz passed in front of three great fjords. From the last of these a motor galley plunged forth, wake churning up astern. The captain immediately sent two men to man the blast-cannon. The galley cut through the swells to pass behind the cog; the captain instantly put about and brought the cannon to bear once more. The galley swung away and off to sea, with the jeers and hoots from the men aboard coming faintly across the water.
A week later Dragan, first of the Isles of Cloud, appeared on the port beam. On the following day the cog put into Wyness; here Palo Barba, his spouse, and his orange-haired daughters disembarked. Traz looked wistfully after them. Edwe turned and waved; then the family was lost to sight among the yellow silks and white linen cloaks of the dockside crowd.
Two days the cog lay at Wyness, unloading cargo, taking on stores and fitting new sails; then the lines were thrown off and the cog put to sea.
With a brisk wind from the west the Vargaz drove through the chop of the Parapan. A day passed and a night and another day, and the atmosphere aboard the Vargaz became suspenseful, with all hands looking east, trying to locate the loom of Charchan. Evening came; the sun sank into a sad welter of brown and gray and murky orange. The evening meal was a platter of dried fruit and pickled fish, which no one ate, preferring to stand by the rail. The night drew on; the wind lessened; one by one the passengers retired to their cabins. Reith remained on deck, musing upon the circumstances of his life. Time passed. From the quarterdeck came a grumble of orders; the main yard creaked down the mast and the Vargaz lost way. Reith went back to the rail. Through the dark glimmered a line of far lights: the coast of Cath.
Chapter VI
Dawn revealed a low-lying shore, black against the sepia sky. The mainsail was hoisted to the morning breeze; the Vargaz moved into the harbor of Vervodei.
The sun rose to reveal the face of the sleeping city. To the north tall flat-faced buildings overlooked the harbor, to the south were wharves and warehouses.
The Vargaz dropped anchor; the sails rattled down the mast. A pinnace rowed out with lines and the Vargaz was heaved stern-first against a dock. Port officials came aboard, consulted with the captain, exchanged salutes with Dordolio and departed. The voyage was at an end.
Reith bade the captain goodbye and with Traz and Anacho went ashore. As they stood on the dock Dordolio approached. He spoke in an off-hand voice. “I now take my leave of you, since I depart immediately for Settra.”
Wary and wondering as to Dordolio’s motives, Reith asked: “The Blue Jade Palace is at Settra?”
“Yes, of course.” Dordolio pulled at his mustache. “You need not concern yourself in this regard; I will convey all necessary news to the Blue Jade Lord.”
“Still, there is much that you do not know,” said Reith. “In fact, nearly everything.”
“Your information will be of no great consolation,” said Dordolio stiffly.
“Perhaps not. But surely he will be interested.”
Dordolio shook his head in sad exasperation. “Quixotic! You know nothing of the ceremonies! Do you expect simply to walk up to the Lord and blurt out your tale? Crassness. And your clothes: Unsuitable! Not to mention the marmoreal Dirdirman and the nomad lad.”
“We must trust to the courtesy and tolerance of the Blue Jade Lord,” said Reith.
“Bah,” muttered Dordolio. “You have no shame.” But still he delayed, frowning off up the street. He said, “You definitely plan to visit Settra then?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Accept my advice. Tonight stop at one of the local inns — the Dulvan yonder is adequate — then tomorrow or the next day visit a reputable haberdasher and put yourself into his hands. Then, suitably clothed, come to Settra. The Travellers’ Inn on the Oval will furnish you suitable accommodation. Under these circumstances, perhaps you will do me a service. I seem to have misplaced my funds, and I would be obliged to you for the loan of a hundred sequins to take me to Settra.”
“Certainly,” said Reith. “But let us all go to Settra together.”
Dordolio made a petulant gesture. “I am in haste. Your preparations will consume time.”
“Not at all,” said Reith. “We are ready at this moment. Lead the way.”
Dordolio scanned Reith from head to toe, in vast distaste. “The least I can do, for our mutual comfort, is to see you into respectable clothes. Come along then.” He set off along the esplanade toward the center of town. Reith, Traz and Anacho followed, Traz seething with indignation. “Why do we suffer his arrogance?”
“The Yao are a mercurial folk,” said Anacho. “Pointless to become disturbed.”
Away from the docks the city took on its own character. Wide, somewhat stark, streets ran between flat-faced buildings of glazed brick under steep roofs of brown tile. Everywhere a state of genteel dilapidation was evident. The activity of Coad was absent; the few folk abroad carried themselves with self-effacing reserve. Some wore complicated suits, white linen shirts, cravats tied in complex knots and bows. Others, apparently of lesser status, wore loose breeches of green or tan, jackets and blouses of various subdued colors.
Dordolio led the way to a large open-fronted shop, in which several dozen men and women sat sewing garments. Signalling to the three following him, Dordolio entered the shop. Reith, Anacho and Traz entered and waited while Dordolio spoke energetically to the bald old proprietor.
Dordolio came to confer with Reith. “I have described your needs; the clothier will fit you from his stock, at no large expense.”
Three pale young men appeared, wheeling racks of finished garments. The proprietor made swift selection, laid them before Reith, Traz and Anacho. “These I believe will suit the gentlemen. If they would care to change immediately, the dressing rooms are at hand.”
Reith inspected the garments critically. The cloth seemed a trifle coarse; the colors were somewhat raw. Reith glanced at Anacho, whose reflective smile reinforced his own assumptions. Reith said to Dordolio: “Your own clothes are the worse for wear. Why not try on this suit?”
Dordolio stood back with eyebrows raised high. “I a
m satisfied with what I wear.”
Reith put down the garments. “These are not suitable,” he told the clothier. “Show me your catalogue, or whatever you work from.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Reith, with Anacho watching gravely, looked through a hundred or so color sketches. He pointed to a conservatively cut suit of dark blue. “What of this?”
Dordolio made an impatient sound. “The garments a wealthy vegetable grower might wear to an intimate funeral.”
Reith indicated another costume. “What of this?”
“Even less appropriate: the lounge clothes of an elderly philosopher at his country estate.”
“Hm. Well then,” Reith told the clothier, “show me the clothes a somewhat younger philosopher of impeccable good taste would wear on a casual visit to the city.”
Dordolio gave a snort. He started to speak but thought better of it and turned away. The clothier gave orders to his assistants. Reith looked at Anacho with an appraising frown. “For this gentleman, the travelling costume of a high-caste dignitary.” And for Traz: “A young gentleman’s casual dress.”
New garments appeared, conspicuously different from those ordered out by Dordolio. The three changed; the clothier made small adjustments while Dordolio stood to the side, pulling at his mustache. At last he could no longer restrain a comment. “Handsome garments, of course. But are they appropriate? You will puzzle folk when your conduct belies your appearance.”
Anacho spoke scornfully: “Would you have us visit Settra dressed like bumpkins? The clothes you selected hardly carried a flattering association.”
“What does it matter?” cried Dordolio in a brassy voice. “A fugitive Dirdirman, a nomad boy, a mysterious nonesuch: is it not absurd to trick such folk out in noblemen’s costume?”
Reith laughed; Anacho fluttered his fingers; Traz turned Dordolio a glance of infinite disgust. Reith paid the account.
“Now then,” muttered Dordolio, “to the airport. Since you demand the best, we shall charter an air-car.”
