by Jack Vance
“Come!” hissed Helsse. “We must not be discovered; we would lose all ‘place’.”
They proceeded back to the Oval and across to the Travellers’ Inn. In the arcade before the entrance they paused. “The evening was interesting,” said Reith. “I learned a great deal.”
“I wish I could say the same,” said Helsse. “What did you take from the dead man?”
Reith displayed the pouch, which contained a handful of sequins. He brought forth the clip of papers, and the two examined it in the light streaming out of the inn, to find rows of a peculiar writing: a series of rectangles, variously shaded and marked.
Helsse looked at Reith. “Do you recognize this script?”
“No.”
Helsse gave a short sharp bark of laughter. “It is Wankh.”
“Hm. What would be the significance of this?”
“Simply more mystery. Settra is a hive of intrigue. Spies are everywhere.”
“And spy devices? Microphones? Eye-cells?”
“It is safe to assume as much.”
“Then it would be safe to assume that the Refluxives’ hall is monitored … Perhaps I was too free with advice.”
“If the dead man were the monitor your words are now lost. But allow me to take custody of the notes. I will have them translated; there is a colony of Lokhars nearby and some have a smattering of Wankh.”
“We will go together,” said Reith. “Will tomorrow suit you?”
“Well enough,” said Helsse glumly. He looked off across the Oval. “Finally then: what must I tell Lord Cizante as to the boon?”
“I don’t know,” said Reith. “I’ll have an answer tomorrow.”
“The situation may be clarified even sooner,” said Helsse. “Here is Dordolio.”
Reith swung around, to find Dordolio striding toward him, followed by two suave cavaliers. Dordolio was clearly in a fury. He halted a yard in front of Reith and, thrusting forth his head, blurted: “With your vicious tricks, you have ruined me! Have you no shame?” He took off his hat, hurled it into Reith’s face. Reith stepped aside, the hat went wheeling off into the Oval.
Dordolio shook his finger in Reith’s face; Reith backed away a step. “Your death is assured,” bellowed Dordolio. “But not by the honor of my sword! Low-caste assassins will drown you in cattle excrement! Twenty pariahs will drub your corpse! A cur will drag your head along the street by the tongue!”
Reith managed a painful grin. “Cizante will arrange the same for you, at my request. It’s as good a boon as any.”
“Cizante, bah! A wicked parvenu, a moping invert. Blue Jade shall be nothing; the fall of that palace will culminate the ‘round’!”
Helsse came slightly forward. “Before you enlarge upon your remarkable assertions, be advised that I represent the House of Blue Jade, and that I will be impelled to report to his Excellency Lord Cizante the substance of your comments.”
“Do not bore me with triviality!” stormed Dordolio. He furiously motioned to Reith. “Fetch my hat, or tomorrow expect the first of the Twelve Touches!”
“A small concession,” said Reith, “if it ensures your departure.” He picked up Dordolio’s hat, shook it once or twice, handed it to him. “Your hat, which you threw across the square.” He stepped around Dordolio, entered the foyer of the inn. Dordolio gave a somewhat subdued caw of laughter, slapped his hat against his thigh, and signaling his comrades walked away.
In the foyer of the inn Reith asked Helsse, “What are the ‘Twelve Touches’?”
“At intervals — perhaps a day, perhaps two days — an assassin will tap the victim with a twig. The twelfth touch is fatal; the man dies. By accumulated poison, by a single final dose, or by morbid suggestion, only the Assassin’s Guild knows. And now I must return to Blue Jade. Lord Cizante will be interested in my report.”
“What do you intend to tell him?”
Helsse only laughed. “You, the most secretive of men, asking me that! Still, Cizante will hear that you have agreed to accept a boon, that you probably will soon be departing Cath —”
“I said nothing of this!”
“It will still be an element of my report.”
Chapter VIII
Reith awoke to wan sunlight shining through the heavy amber panes of the windows. He lay on the unfamiliar couch, collecting the threads of his existence. It was difficult not to feel a profound gloom. Cath, where he had hoped to find flexibility, enlightenment and perhaps cooperation, was hardly less harsh an environment than the Aman Steppe. It was obvious folly to dream of building a space-boat in Settra.
Reith sat up on the couch. He had known horror, grief, disillusionment, but there had been corresponding moments of triumph and hope, even a few spasmodic instants of joy. If he were to die tomorrow — or in twelve days after twelve ‘touches’ — he had already lived a miraculous life. Very well then, he would put his destiny to the test. Helsse had predicted his departure from Cath; Helsse had read the future, or Reith’s own personality, more accurately than Reith himself.
Breakfasting with Traz and Anacho he described his adventures of the previous evening. Anacho found the circumstances perturbing. “This is an insane society, constrained by punctilio as a rotten egg is held by its shell. Whatever your aims — and sometimes I think that you are the most flamboyant lunatic of all — they will not be achieved here.”
“I agree.”
“Well then,” said Traz, “what next?”
“What I plan is dangerous, perhaps rash folly. But I see no other alternative. I intend to ask Cizante for money; this we shall share. Then I think it best that we separate. You, Traz, might do worse than to return to Wyness, and there make a life for yourself. Perhaps Anacho will do the same. Neither of you can profit by coming with me; in fact, I guarantee the reverse.”
Anacho looked off across the square. “Until now you have managed to survive, if precariously. I find myself curious as to what you hope to achieve. With your permission, I will join your expedition, which I suspect is by no means as desperate as you make it out to be.”
“I intend to confiscate a Wankh spaceship from the Ao Hidis spaceport, or elsewhere, if it seems more convenient.”
Anacho threw his hands in the air. “I feared no less.” He proceeded to state a hundred objections which Reith did not trouble to contradict. “All very true; I will end my days in a Wankh dungeon or a night-hound’s belly; still this is what I intend to attempt. I strongly urge that you and Traz make your way to the Isles of Cloud and live as best you may.”
“Bah,” snorted Anacho. “Why won’t you attempt some reasonable exploit, like exterminating the Pnume, or teaching the Chasch to sing?”
“I have other ambitions.”
“Yes, yes, your far-away planet, the home of man. I am tempted to help you, if only to demonstrate your lunacy.”
“As for me,” said Traz, “I would like to see this far world. I know it exists, because I saw the space-boat in which Adam Reith arrived.”
Anacho inspected the youth with eyebrows raised. “You have not mentioned this previously.”
“You never asked.”
“How might such an absurdity enter my mind?”
“A person who calls facts absurdities will often be surprised,” said Traz.
“But at least he has organized the cosmic relationship into categories, which sets him apart from animals and sub-men.”
Reith intervened. “Come now; let’s put our energies to work, since you both seem bent on suicide. Today we seek information. And here is Helsse, bringing us important news, or so it appears from his aspect.”
Helsse approached and gave a polite greeting. “Last night, as you may imagine, I had much to report to Lord Cizante. He urges that you make some reasonable request, which he will be glad to fulfill. He recommends that we destroy the papers taken from the spy and I am inclined to agree. If you acquiesce, Lord Cizante may grant further concessions.”
“Of what nature?”
“
He does not specify, but I suspect he has in mind a certain slackening of protocol in regard to your presence in Blue Jade Palace.”
“I am more interested in the documents than in Lord Cizante. If he wants to see me he can come here to the inn.”
Helsse gave a brittle chuckle. “Your response is no surprise. If you are ready I will conduct you to South Ebron where we will find a Lokhar.”
“There are no Yao scholars who read the Wankh language?”
“Such facility would seem pointless expertise.”
“Until someone wanted a document translated.”
Helsse gave an indifferent twitch. “At this play of the ‘round’, Utilitarianism is an alien philosophy. Lord Cizante, for instance, would find your arguments not only incomprehensible but disgusting.”
“We shall never argue the matter,” said Reith equably.
Helsse had come in an extremely elegant equipage: a blue carriage with six scarlet wheels and a profusion of golden festoons. The interior was like a luxurious drawing room, with gray-green wainscoting, a pale gray carpet, an arched ceiling covered with green silk. The chairs were deeply upholstered; to the side, under windows of pale green glass, a buffet offered trays of sweetmeats. Helsse ushered his guests into the car with the utmost politeness; today he wore a suit of pale green and gray, as if to blend himself into the decor of the carriage.
When all were seated he touched a button to close the door and retract the steps. Reith observed, “Lord Cizante, while deriding utilitarianism as a doctrine, apparently does not flout its applications.”
“You refer to the door-closing mechanism? He is not aware that it exists. Someone is always at hand to touch the button for him. Like others of his class he touches objects only in play or pleasure. You find this odd? No matter. You must accept the Yao gentry as you find them.”
“Evidently you do not regard yourself as a member of the Yao gentry.”
Helsse laughed. “More tactful might be the conjecture that I enjoy what I am doing.” He spoke into a mesh. “To the South Ebron Mercade.”
The carriage eased into motion. Helsse poured goblets of syrup and proffered sweetmeats. “You are about to visit our commercial district: the source of our wealth in fact, though it is considered vulgar to discuss it.”
“Strange,” mused Anacho. “Dirdir, at the highest level, are never so hoity-toity.”
“They are a different race,” said Helsse. “Superior? I am not convinced. The Wankh would never agree, should they trouble to examine the concept.”
Anacho gave a contemptuous shrug but said no more.
The carriage rolled through a market area: the Mercade, then into a district of small dwellings, in a wonderful diversity of style. At a cluster of squat brick towers the carriage halted. Helsse pointed to a nearby garden where sat a dozen men of spectacular appearance. They wore white shirts and trousers, their hair, long and abundant, was also white; in striking contrast to the lusterless black of their skins. “Lokhars,” said Helsse. “Migrating mechanics from the highlands north of Lake Falas in Central Kachan. That is not their natural coloration; they bleach their hair and dye their skin. Some say the Wankh enforced the custom upon them thousands of years ago to differentiate them from Wankhmen, who of course are white-skinned and black-haired. In any event, they come and go, working where they gain the highest return, for they are a remarkably avaricious folk. Some, after laboring in the Wankh shops, have migrated north to Cath; a few of these know a chime or two of Wankh-talk and occasionally can puzzle out the sense of Wankh documents. Notice the old man yonder playing with the child; he is reckoned as adept in Wankh as any. He will demand a large sum for his efforts, and in order to forestall even more exorbitant demands in the future I must haggle with him. If you will be good enough to wait I will go to make the arrangements.”
“A moment,” said Reith. “At a conscious level I am convinced of your integrity, but I can’t control my instinctive suspicions. Let us make the arrangements together.”
“As you wish,” said Helsse graciously. “I will send the chauffeur for the man.” He spoke into the mesh.
Anacho murmured, “If the arrangements were already made, the qualms of a trusting person might easily be drugged.”
Helsse nodded judiciously. “I believe I can assuage your anxieties.”
A moment later the old man sauntered up to the carriage.
“Inside, if you please,” said Helsse.
The old man poked his white-maned face through the door. “My time is valuable; what do you want of me?”
“A matter for your profit.”
“Profit, eh? I can at least listen.” He entered the carriage, and seated himself with a comfortable grunt. The air took on the odor of a spicy slightly rancid pomade. Helsse stood in front of him. With a side-glance toward Reith he said, “Our arrangement is canceled. Do not heed my instructions.”
“‘Arrangement’? ‘Instructions’? What are you talking about? You must mistake me for another. I am Zarfo Detwiler.”
Helsse made an easy gesture. “It’s all one. We want you to translate a Wankh document for us, the guide to a treasure hoard. Translate correctly, you shall share the booty.”
“No no, none of that.” Zarfo Detwiler waved a black finger. “I’ll share the booty with pleasure; additionally I want a hundred sequins, and no recriminations if I fail to satisfy you.”
“No recriminations, agreed. But a hundred sequins for possibly nothing? Ridiculous. Here: five sequins and eat your fill of the expensive sweetmeats.”
“That last I’ll do anyway; am I not your invited guest?” Zarfo Detwiler popped a handful of dainties into his mouth. “You must think me a moon-calf to offer but five sequins. Only three persons in Settra can so much as tell you which side of a Wankh ideogram is up. I alone can read meaning, by virtue of thirty toilsome years in the Ao Hidis machine shops.”
The haggling proceeded; Zarfo Detwiler eventually agreed to fifty sequins and a tenth share of the assumptive spoils. Helsse signaled Reith who produced the documents.
Zarfo Detwiler took the papers, squinted, frowned, ran his fingers through his white mane. He looked up and spoke somewhat ponderously: “I will instruct you in Wankh communication at no charge. The Wankh are a peculiar folk, totally unique. Their brain works in pulses. They see in pulses and think in pulses. Their speech comes in a pulse, a chime of many vibrations which carries all the meaning of a sentence. Each ideogram is equivalent to a chime, which is to say, a whole unit of meaning. For this reason, to read Wankh is as much a matter of divination as logic; one must enunciate an entire meaning with each ideogram. Even the Wankhmen are not always accurate. Now this matter you have here — let me see. This first chime — hm. Notice this comb? It usually signifies an equivalence, an identity. A square of this texture shading off to the right sometimes means ‘truth’ or ‘verified perception’ or ‘situation’ or perhaps ‘present condition of the cosmos’. These marks — I don’t know. This bit of shading — I think it’s a person talking. Since it’s at the bottom, the base tone in the chord, it would seem that — yes, this trifle here indicates positive volition. These marks — hm. Yes, these are organizers, which specify the order and emphasis of the other elements. I can’t understand them; I can only guess at the total sense. Something like ‘I wish to report that conditions are identical or unchanged’ or ‘A person is anxious to specify that the cosmos is stable’. Something of the sort. Are you sure that this is information regarding treasure?”
“It was sold to us on this basis.”
“Hm.” Zarfo pulled at his long black nose. “Let me see. This second symbol: notice this shading and this bit of an angle? One is ‘vision’; the other is ‘negation’. I can’t read the organizers, but it might mean ‘blindness’ or ‘invisibility’ …”
Zarfo continued his lucubrations, poring over each ideogram, occasionally tracing out a fragment of meaning, more often confessing failure, and becoming ever more restive. “You have been gulled,
” he said at last. “I’m certain there is no mention of money or treasure. I believe this is no more than a commercial report. It seems to say, as close as I can fathom: ‘I wish to state that conditions are the same.’ Something about peculiar wishes, or hopes, or volitions. ‘I will presently see the dominant man, the leader of our group.’ Something unknown. ‘The leader is not helpful’, or perhaps ‘stays aloof’. ‘The leader slowly changes, or metamorphoses, to the enemy.’ Or perhaps, ‘The leader slowly changes to become like the enemy.’ Change of some sort — I can’t understand. ‘I request more money.’ Something about arrival of a newcomer or stranger ‘of utmost importance’. That’s about all.”
Reith thought to sense an almost imperceptible relaxation in Helsse’s manner.
“No great illumination,” said Helsse briskly. “Well, you have done your best. Here is your twenty sequins.”
“‘Twenty sequins’!” roared Zarfo Detwiler. “The price agreed was fifty! How can I buy my bit of meadowland if I am constantly cheated?”
“Oh very well, if you choose to be niggardly.”
“Niggardly indeed. Next time read the message yourself.”
“I could do as well, for all the help you’ve given us.”
“You were duped. That is no guide to treasure.”
“Apparently not. Well then, good day to you.”
Reith followed Zarfo from the carriage. He looked back in at Helsse. “I’ll remain here, for a word or two with this gentleman.”
Helsse was not pleased. “We must discuss another matter. It is necessary that the Blue Jade Lord receives information.”
“This afternoon I will have a definite answer for you.”
Helsse gave a curt nod. “As you wish.”
The carriage departed, leaving Reith and the Lokhar standing in the street. Reith said, “Is there a tavern nearby? Perhaps we can chat over a bottle.”
