The Compleat Traveller in Black

by John Brunner

  One would cease.

  Now for the final truth, the ineluctable … but the question must be aptly posed. Indeed, the traveller realized, it had better not be a question but a statement, a truth of comparable import. Within his head he framed it: “I have many names, but a single nature.”

  The weakening elemental understood, and on the glass appeared the characters of a poem by Shen-i-ya Eng-t’an Zwu, who sat for a thousand years beneath an elm while none could tell whether he lived or died, so perfectly was he attuned to the world around.

  Smoke

  fades into the air

  is no more seen

  The candle-dousing winds of ages seemed to sough in the chimney of the cottage.

  “Sir,” the woman ventured anxiously, “you should not bother so much with our trifling problem.”

  “Is it not in fact a great matter for you, lacking a lamp?” The traveller did not raise his head.

  The woman sighed. “Well, I must confess it is, sir. For the little one is yet too young to venture round our fields by touch, knowing the places where a hen may stray to roost or where a lamb may catch its fleece in thorns, and so dreadful is the cold once darkness falls that Yarn dare not set foot beyond the threshold lest his coughing make him tumble in a faint. … Yes, sir, it’s true: I’d set my heart on owning a good bright clear new lamp!”

  “As you wish,” said the traveller, not without sorrow, “so be it.”

  He blew out the flame. When he cleaned the glass and lit the lamp anew, it shed a pure and grateful yellow light.

  Wolpec was little, though wise; candles had sufficed to pen him. Fegrim was vast, and underlay a mountain. But the traveller had seen among the snag-toothed peaks of Kanish-Kulya how his volcano slumbered now beneath a cap of white, where once it had spluttered smoke a mile high. No ripples stirred the pool of Horimos; as for the river Metamorphia, no trace was left at all of anything whose nature had been changed by it. Housewives rinsed their laundry in the spring at Geirion, and the eldritch song that Jorkas had been used to sing was turned a lullaby with nonsense words to soothe asleep contented babes in wicker cradles. Yorbeth was gone – Litorgos – Tarambole … Even the names of the greatest ones: Tuprid and Caschalanva, Quorril and Lry – were one to speak them, folk would answer, “Who?”

  They had retreated to fret powerless among the stars, and sometimes hurl futile spears of flame across the night … at which sight lovers, hand in hand, would cry, “Look, there’s a star to wish on! Wish for early marriage and long happiness!” And kiss, and forget it in a moment.

  Except here, and that was very strange. Disquieting! It was indeed in Cleftor country as had been described: as though the black of night could filter through the walls and dull the fire. Flames here were sullen red, and their heat was muted. This was not true of the new lamp, but there were good grounds for that.

  It would be politic, the traveller reasoned, to behold the dawn.

  Therefore, dissolving one of the forces that curdled the light-beams of his staff, he picked his way silently across the hut’s floor, abandoning to Nelva the fleece he’d been allotted for a coverlet. Outside, the last hour of the night was oppressive with mephitic stench, as though every home in the valley had kept a fire ablaze nightlong against the mantle of blackness, and their smokes had come together in a foul miasma. Even the blade of light from his staff was foreshortened a pace or two ahead of his toes.

  The trade of lamp-maker hereabouts must indeed be a profitable pursuit.

  What this blackness was not was easy to define. It wasn’t smoke, although much of that now mingled in it. It wasn’t fog, clammy and opaque yet cleanly, being drops of water fine-divided. It wasn’t cloud, which is of the same substance if more rarefied. It was – well, it was an inversion of brightness.

  When dawn came, belatedly by the traveller’s calculation, it behaved, moreover, in a peculiar fashion. Rather than thinning and being dispelled, as night ought to be by the rising sun, it drew in on itself, laying the countryside bare yard by yard from below, as though one could make thick tar flow uphill. And uphill was its direction, out of the vale and towards the ragged pinnacles of Cleftor Heights. There, at some point almost beyond the range of vision, it gathered itself as it were into a ball, into a spiralling cone, into a wisp … and nothing.

  Yet it had left, over every inch of ground where it had lain, a brooding dismal aura of foreboding.

  Going by ordinary ways, he later came on children turned out of the house to play, who were listlessly tossing pebbles at a target scratched on a tree-bole, and seemingly cared little whether they hit it or not; at least, none among them was keeping score.

  “Who rules these lands?” the traveller inquired, and one among the children answered him.

  “I think they call him Garch, sir. Would you that I run home and ask my mother? She would know.”

  “Thank you; the name’s enough,” the traveller said.

  IV

  At the full moon Garch Thegn of Cleftor Heights adhered to certain customs that differed markedly from the common run of his daily business. One day before the plenilune he scarcely spoke, but locked himself away in private rooms to pore over thick tomes and crumbling scrolls; one day after, it was never sure – even to his chief counsellors and stewards, even to his sister Lady Scail – whether he would be fit to resume his normal court, in his great hall tiled with chrysoberyl slabs.

  Yet and withal his was a domain envied far and wide, for by all criteria it was improbable. Though most of it was rocky and its soil was thin, its kine were famed for their fatness and the richness of their milk. Though their roots were shallow, often planted in mere crevices, never a hedge but yielded nuts, or fruit to be preserved by boiling down in honey. Though it was unpopulous, with villages few and far between, its folk were tall and strong and raised healthy children; what was more, garments elsewhere reserved to the grandest ladies might here be seen gracing a farmer’s wife driving her trap to market, or her daughter on a high day bound for the wife-taking dance. Velvet and colored suede, satin and crimson plush, were donned as casually as homespun, and only at the very fringes of the Garch estates – as for example hard by Rotten Tor – did families lack for pewter spoons and china dishes to entertain the company at table.

  Paradoxically, with all this the folk of the district were misliked. It was said they were overly cunning; it was said that doing business with them was like trying to stand an eel on its tail. It was further hinted that it was best not to let one’s daughter marry thither, no matter how prosperous the man, for in a short while her only care for her family would be to take what advantage she could of them, and she’d have become like her neighbors, purse-mouthed, hard-eyed, and far too fond of coin.

  Despite such talk, however, visitors came frequently to Garch’s mansion, for purposes of trade. Notable among these, and arriving typically in the second quarter of the moon, were persons of a particular sort, who brought not conventional goods, but ideas, and treasures, and relics – it being at this specific time of the month that the thegn was readiest to receive them.

  Few, nonetheless, passed the fierce initial scrutiny of his counsellors; penalties for wasting the thegn’s time were severe, and all supplicants for audience must be grilled beforehand by these three. Each morning they assembled in an anteroom beside the great hall, with a scribe and a paymaster carrying a chest of coins, and confronted everyone who had come intending to trade. Often the business was quick and simple, concerning regular goods that might swiftly be bargained for, such as tapestry, or unguents, or fine handicrafts. Similarly, there were those who offered services, skill in carving or tailoring or cobblery, and were desirous to display the shield of warrant of their lord over their place of business; these were invariably permitted to undertake a trial venture for a small fixed fee – or, if they failed a first time, for no fee at all – then engaged on contract if their talents proved adequate. One of this class had, years ago, been Master Buldebrime, and now he suppli
ed the lamps and candles for the mansion, toiling monthly uphill from the town with a selection of his choicest products.

  In such cases the proceedings went slowly and involved advance interrogation, and it was the hardiest and most venturesome of the visitors who survived such preliminaries. A few aspirants, though, were invariably on hand.

  Garch’s trusted counsellors were three, as aforesaid. In a high-backed chair of horse-bones pinned with bronze and padded with bags of chicken-down, the old crone Roiga sat to the left. To the right sat Garch’s sister Scail, on lacquered ivory made soft with sheep-fleece. And in the center, scorning luxury, presided one-eyed Runch on a common counting-house stool. He wore green; Roiga, brown; the Lady Scail affected purple. All else in the room was sterile grey, even the table behind which they sat.

  “Admit the first,” said Runch in a barking voice, and alert servants ushered in a man who wore the garb of the Shebyas, itinerant traders whose ancestral home on the Isle of Sheb had long gone back to yellow jungle; no one was certain why, but enchantment was suspected. Doffing his cap, he placed on the table an object in a small pink sack.

  “Your honor, I bring a rare relic, from a city sunken in the depths of Lake Taxhling. Had I but gold to finance such an expedition, I’d hire divers-of whom there are as you are doubtless aware a plenitude in that region where they gather mussel pearls-and rake the bottom mud to haul up beyond a peradventure many other potent articles.” He coughed behind his hand and dropped his voice. “It would of course be superfluous to mention that knowledge of an extraordinary kind was available to the inhabitants of that city, which I’m sure you will concede it’s better not to name.”

  Runch looked over the relic, which was a corroded axe blade. He said, pushing it aside, “You cannot name the city because it isn’t there and never was; Taxhling was ever bordered by villages too small to deserve the epithet of town. Besides, all magic departed from it following an earthquake in the distant past. What you brought is part of the cargo of a boat capsized by a storm. Go away.”

  “But, your honor – your grace – your highness!” the man expostulated. The crone Roiga snapped bony fingers, and an attendant hurried him away.

  “Next,” she said in a voice like dry leaves rustling.

  A man entered who swept the floor with a blue cloak as he bowed. “I, sir and ladies,” he announced, “acquired a book at Pratchelberg. Lacking the skill to read the ancient language that it’s couched in, I thought to bring it to your thegn, as being the most renowned, the most expert, the most –”

  “Save your breath,” murmured the Lady Scail, having turned a mere half dozen of the pages. “This text’s corrupt – it looks as though the scribe was drunk – and anyway my brother has a better copy.”

  Protesting quite as loudly as his forerunner, the man in the blue cloak made a forced departure. To the music of his wails a third supplicant approached, offering a blue furry ball.

  “This unique article,” he declared, “speaks when it’s gently squeezed, crying out in a small shrill voice. By repute it grew on the branches of Yorbeth, and I laid out half my lifetime savings so that it might be brought to your thegn.”

  Roiga accepted it and listened to its cry. She said as she cast it contemptuously to the floor, “Hah! Yes, indeed, it does cry out – by forcing air through twin taut reeds! And do you know what it says? It says, The man who bought me is a fool!’ Now get you gone!”

  “Will they never learn?” murmured the Lady Scail as this man also was frog-marched away. She had taken a tiny pad of emery and was buffing her nails, that were painted the same color as her gown. “Who remains – anyone?”

  And there was a girl.

  Suddenly the mild air stung their skins to rawness, like an infinity of tiny insects. Scail laid by her emery-pad, Roiga closed her thin old hands for reassurance on the table’s solid edge, and Runch confirmed his balance on his stool. The newcomer stood before them in a broad hat and fur breeches and a black mail shirt that hung down to midthigh. For a long while there was utter silence.

  Then, at length, she laid on the table a small packet wrapped in parchment and bound with a white ribbon. She said, “Spice.”

  The three counsellors inhaled as one, and it was Roiga who eventually said, “Vantcheen?”

  “The best,” said the girl. She was very thin, as though a skeleton had been dressed again in its skin without the underlying fat and muscle, and her eyes burned like a black fire.

  “Then name your price!” cried Runch.

  “Ah, yes. A price.” The girl tapped one sharp front tooth with a nail even sharper. “Silver, then. Three ounces’ weight. Cast in the shape of a hammerhead.”

  The three counsellors tensed. Lady Scail said, “As to the shaft –?”

  The girl shook her head ever so slightly, and gave ever so slight a smile. She said, “I thank you for the offer, though I suspect your male companion might not” – at which Runch blanched and almost tumbled from his high stool. “But the shaft has already been – ah – ceded to me.”

  “Oh, but you’re so young!” Roiga exclaimed. “And yet so skilled!”

  “For that I would not claim the credit,” the girl murmured, and turned to leave.

  “Wait!” cried Lady Scail. “Do you not wish converse with my brother? It’s long since one was here who proved so adept!”

  “If the constellations are proper for our encounter, I shall meet the thegn,” the girl replied composedly, and took from the attendant scribe a draft to cover her pay, authorizing the mansion’s master smith to forge the silver hammerhead.

  There was a deep silence for some while following her departure. The handle of that hammer was of a discomfortable nature; it had to be gristly, and some, particularly men, would call it grisly.

  But to have purchased the best-quality vantcheen, and parted with mere silver in exchange …!

  Thus they were poised, very well pleased, to adjourn for the day, the only other supplicants for audience being of the common run – disputants over boundary fences, or prospective parents-in-law come to determine the proper size of a marriage portion – when there was a furious stamping and considerable shouting beyond the door, and at the head of a gaggle of stewards, secretaries and waiting-maids their master himself came blasting into the room.

  Rising to their feet, the three counsellors beheld with amazement his expression of blind rage.

  “I have been cheated and deceived!” roared Garch.

  By ordinary he was pretty much a fop, this lord of improbably rich estates, but now his long brown hair and beard were tousled, the laces hung down from his dark red shirt, and his fine worsted stockings slopped over the tops of his boots. To emphasize his outburst, he hammered on the table, and came near to scattering the spice.

  “Search me this mansion, every nook and cranny!” he shouted. “Moreover, all the lands about! And if it be not found within the hour, send to the deceiver Buldebrime and drag him here!”

  “If what be not found?” countered Scail, who as his sister might most freely of the three ask that simple necessary question without inflaming him to further rage.

  Garch mastered himself with vast effort, drew close, and whispered in her ear. By watching the change in her face, base attendants from whom he meant to keep the detailed truth deduced at once it was a matter of grave import. Some among the best-informed put two and two together, and when a moment later they received their orders – from Scail – to bring hither all the lamps and candles that could be found, concluded it would be politic to leave in search of service with some other lord. It was, after all, a mere day and a half short of the full moon.

  And many would have done so right away, had it not been for the dense dark outside … and, maybe, the unexpected smile that spread over Garch’s face when his sister pressed the new-bought spice into his hand.

  By contrast with the thegn, Master Buldebrime was in a high good humor. Walking through the back rooms of his home, that served as shop, factory and
warehouse, with his own personal bright-shining lamp in hand, he no more than cuffed any of his apprentices tonight, not once employing the tawse that hung at his belt.

  “Here are eleven candles almost the weight of twelve!” he barked at one child, charged with bearing finished work from the ranked pottery molds to be checked on the steelyard – but even she and the boy who had overfilled the molds escaped with mere openhanded slaps. Satisfied that they were dutifully trimming the surplus wax to be re-melted, he continued.

  “Not so lavish with that essence!” he growled at a boy engaged in adding perfumes, drop by drop, to a mix of oils for the most expensive lamps. “Don’t you know it comes from Alpraphand? Hah! I’ve half a mind to make you walk such a distance on this floor, to brand in your memory knowledge of how far that is! Still, that would take weeks, and I’ll neither feed nor clothe you less you’re working hard enough to pay me back!”

  Accordingly that apprentice too got off with a smacking.

  Persuaded at length that all was well below, as much as touched the making, storing and vending of his wares, he proceeded to the upper floor. This was partitioned into three large chambers. First he came into his own, luxurious, where stood a couch upholstered in deep warm bearhide and a little girl of ten or so was industriously polishing a pier-glass.

  To her, he said nothing; to himself he murmured that it was a pity she was destined for the eventual enjoyment of Lord Garch. Otherwise …

  But the woman from Rotten Tor, who had called here this evening with her daughter, had reminded him what a miasma of scandal had already attached itself to his business. There must never be any shred of proof to back it up! If there were, respectable folk would cease to apprentice their brats with him, who kept no wife nor even serving-maid. For that reason, the two other rooms on this story could be locked at night, and the keys remained always under his hand or pillow. One room for girls, the other for boys, they were in most regards identical, each containing heaps of rags soiled by long use and troughs into which at dawn and sunset he poured bucketsful of gruel for the apprentices to lap. Now and then he also accorded them scraps of bacon and the outer leaves of cabbages: experience having shown that without a morsel of meat and a nibble of greenstuff the children grew sickly – hence, unprofitable. He tolerated the extra expense, though he did begrudge it.