by Jack Vance
Xanten settled himself upon the seat, composed his garments, set the power-wagon in motion, and guided it toward the camp.
A hundred black-cloaked men, tall and lean as ferrets, watched his approach. A dozen sprang forward and whipping arrows to bows, aimed them at his heart. Xanten turned them a glance of supercilious inquiry, drove the wagon up to the hetman’s tent, halted. He rose to his feet. “Hetman,” he called. “Are you awake?”
The hetman parted the canvas which closed off his tent, peered out, and after a moment came forth. Like the others he wore a garment of limp black cloth, swathing head and body alike. His face thrust through a square opening: narrow blue eyes, a grotesquely long nose, a chin long, skewed and sharp.
Xanten gave him a curt nod. “Observe this.” He jerked his thumb toward the Mek in the back of the wagon. The hetman flicked aside his eyes, studied the Mek a tenth-second, and returned to a scrutiny of Xanten. “His kind have revolted against the gentlemen,” said Xanten. “In fact they massacre all the men of Earth. Hence we of Castle Hagedorn make this offer to the Nomads. Come to Castle Hagedorn. We will feed, clothe and arm you. We will train you to discipline and the arts of formal warfare. We will provide the most expert leadership within our power. We will then annihilate the Meks, expunge them from Earth. After the campaign, we will train you to technical skills, and you may pursue profitable and interesting careers in the service of the castles.”
The hetman made no reply for a moment. Then his weathered face split into a ferocious grin. He spoke in a voice which Xanten found surprisingly well-modulated. “So your beasts have finally risen up to rend you! A pity they forebore so long! Well, it is all one to us. You are both alien folk and sooner or later your bones must bleach together.”
Xanten pretended incomprehension. “If I understand you aright, you assert that in the face of alien assault, all men must fight a common battle; and then, after the victory, cooperate still to their mutual advantage. Am I correct?”
The hetman’s grin never wavered. “You are not men. Only we of Earth soil and Earth water are men. You and your weird slaves are strangers together. We wish you success in your mutual slaughter.”
“Well, then,” declared Xanten, “I heard you aright after all. Appeals to your loyalty are ineffectual, so much is clear. What of self-interest, then? The Meks, failing to expunge the gentlefolk of the castles, will turn upon the Nomads and kill them as if they were so many ants.”
“If they attack us, we will war on them,” said the hetman. “Otherwise let them do as they will.”
Xanten glanced thoughtfully at the sky. “We might be willing, even now, to accept a contingent of Nomads into the service of Castle Hagedorn, this to form a cadre from which a larger, more versatile, group may be formed.”
From the side, another Nomad called in an offensively jeering voice, “You will sew a sac on our backs where you can pour your syrup, hey?”
Xanten replied in an even voice, “The syrup is highly nutritious and supplies all bodily needs.”
“Why then do you not consume it yourself?”
Xanten disdained reply.
The hetman spoke. “If you wish to supply us weapons, we will take them, and use them against whomever threatens us. But do not expect us to defend you. If you fear for your lives, desert your castles and become Nomads.”
“Fear for our lives?” exclaimed Xanten. “What nonsense! Never! Castle Hagedorn is impregnable, as is Janeil, and most of the other castles as well.”
The hetman shook his head. “Any time we choose we could take Hagedorn, and kill all you popinjays in your sleep.”
“What!” cried Xanten in outrage. “Are you serious?”
“Certainly. On a black night we would send a man aloft on a great kite and drop him down on the parapets. He would lower a line, haul up ladders and in fifteen minutes the castle is taken.”
Xanten pulled at his chin. “Ingenious, but impractical. The Birds would detect such a kite. Or the wind would fail at a critical moment … All this is beside the point. The Meks fly no kites. They plan to make a display against Janeil and Hagedorn, then, in their frustration, go forth and hunt Nomads.”
The hetman moved back a step. “What then? We have survived similar attempts by the men of Hagedorn. Cowards all. Hand to hand, with equal weapons, we would make you eat the dirt like the dogs you are.”
Xanten raised his eyebrows in elegant disdain. “I fear that you forget yourself. You address a clan chief of Castle Hagedorn. Only fatigue and boredom restrain me from punishing you with this whip.”
“Bah,” said the hetman. He crooked a finger to one of his archers. “Spit this insolent lordling.”
The archer discharged his arrow, but Xanten, who had been expecting some such act, fired his energy gun, destroying arrow, bow, and the archer’s hands. He said, “I see I must teach you common respect for your betters; so it means the whip after all.” Seizing the hetman by the scalp, he coiled the whip smartly once, twice, thrice around the narrow shoulders. “Let this suffice. I cannot compel you to fight, but at least I can demand decent respect.” He leaped to the ground, and seizing the hetman, pitched him into the back of the wagon alongside the Mek. Then, backing the power-wagon around, he departed the camp without so much as a glance over his shoulder, the thwart of the seat protecting his back from arrows.
The hetman scrambled erect, drew his dagger. Xanten turned his head slightly. “Take care! Or I will tie you to the wagon and you shall run behind in the dust.”
The hetman hesitated, made a spitting sound between his teeth, drew back. He looked down at his blade, turned it over, and sheathed it with a grunt. “Where do you take me?”
Xanten halted the wagon. “No farther. I merely wished to leave your camp with dignity, without dodging and ducking a hail of arrows. You may alight. I take it you still refuse to bring your men into the service of Castle Hagedorn?”
The hetman once more made the spitting sound between his teeth. “When the Meks have destroyed the castles, we shall destroy the Meks, and Earth will be cleared of star-things.”
“You are a gang of intractable savages. Very well, alight, return to your encampment. Reflect well before you again show disrespect to a Castle Hagedorn clan chief.”
“Bah,” muttered the hetman. Leaping down from the wagon, he stalked back down the track toward his camp.
2
About noon Xanten came to Far Valley, at the edge of the Hagedorn lands. Nearby was a village of Expiationists: malcontents and neurasthenics in the opinion of castle gentlefolk, and a curious group by any standards. A few had held enviable rank; certain others were savants of recognized erudition; but others yet were persons of neither dignity nor reputation, subscribing to the most bizarre and extreme of philosophies. All now performed toil no different from that relegated to the Peasants, and all seemed to take a perverse satisfaction in what — by castle standards — was filth, poverty and degradation.
As might be expected, their creed was by no means homogeneous. Some might better have been described as ‘nonconformists’ or ‘disassociationists’; another group were ‘passive expiationists’, and others still, a minority, argued for a dynamic program.
Between castle and village was little intercourse. Occasionally the Expiationists bartered fruit or polished wood for tools, nails, medicaments; or the gentlefolk might make up a party to watch the Expiationists at their dancing and singing. Xanten had visited the village on many such occasions and had been attracted by the artless charm and informality of the folk at their play. Now, passing near the village, Xanten turned aside to follow a lane which wound between tall blackberry hedges and out upon a little common where goats and cattle grazed. Xanten halted the wagon in the shade and saw that the syrup sac was full. He looked back at his captive. “What of you? If you need syrup, pour yourself full. But no, you have no sac. What then do you feed upon? Mud? Unsavory fare. I fear none here is rank enough for your taste. Ingest syrup or munch grass, as you will; only d
o not stray overfar from the wagon, for I watch with an intent eye.”
The Mek, sitting hunched in a corner, gave no signal that it comprehended, nor did it move to take advantage of Xanten’s offer.
Xanten went to a watering trough and, holding his hands under the trickle which issued from a lead pipe, rinsed his face, then drank a swallow or two from his cupped hand.
Turning, he found that a dozen folk of the village had approached. One he knew well, a man who might have become Godalming, or even Aure, had he not become infected with expiationism.
Xanten performed a polite salute. “A.G. Philidor: it is I, Xanten.”
“Xanten, of course. But here I am A.G. Philidor no longer, merely Philidor.”
Xanten bowed. “My apologies; I have neglected the full rigor of your informality.”
“Spare me your wit,” said Philidor. “Why do you bring us a shorn Mek? For adoption, perhaps?” This last alluded to the gentlefolk practice of bringing over-tally babies to the village.
“Now who flaunts his wit? But you have not heard the news?”
“News arrives here last of all. The Nomads are better informed.”
“Prepare yourself for surprise. The Meks have revolted against the castles. Halcyon and Delora are demolished, and all killed; perhaps others by this time.”
Philidor shook his head. “I am not surprised.”
“Well then, are you not concerned?”
Philidor considered. “To this extent. Our own plans, never very feasible, become more farfetched than ever.”
“It appears to me,” said Xanten, “that you face grave and immediate danger. The Meks surely intend to wipe out every vestige of humanity. You will not escape.”
Philidor shrugged. “Conceivably the danger exists … We will take counsel and decide what to do.”
“I can put forward a proposal which you may find attractive,” said Xanten. “Our first concern, of course, is to suppress the revolt. There are at least a dozen Expiationist communities, with an aggregate population of two or three thousand — perhaps more. I propose that we recruit and train a corps of highly disciplined troops, supplied from the Castle Hagedorn armory, led by Hagedorn’s most expert military theoreticians.”
Philidor stared at him incredulously. “You expect us, the Expiationists, to become your soldiers?”
“Why not?” asked Xanten ingenuously. “Your life is at stake no less than ours.”
“No one dies more than once.”
Xanten in his turn evinced shock. “What? Can this be a former gentleman of Hagedorn speaking? Is this the face a man of pride and courage turns to danger? Is this the lesson of history? Of course not! I need not instruct you in this; you are as knowledgeable as I.”
Philidor nodded. “I know that the history of man is not his technical triumphs, his kills, his victories. It is a composite, a mosaic of a trillion pieces, the account of each man’s accommodation with his conscience. This is the true history of the race.”
Xanten made an airy gesture. “A.G. Philidor, you over-simplify grievously. Do you consider me obtuse? There are many kinds of history. They interact. You emphasize morality. But the ultimate basis of morality is survival. What promotes survival is good, what induces mortifaction is bad.”
“Well spoken!” declared Philidor. “But let me propound a parable. May a nation of a million beings destroy a creature who otherwise will infect all with a fatal disease? Yes, you will say. Once more: ten starving beasts hunt you, that they may eat. Will you kill them to save your life? Yes, you will say again, though here you destroy more than you save. Once more: a man inhabits a hut in a lonely valley. A hundred spaceships descend from the sky and attempt to destroy him. May he destroy these ships in self-defense, even though he is one and they are a hundred thousand? Perhaps you say yes. What then if a whole world, a whole race of beings, pits itself against this single man? May he kill all? What if the attackers are as human as himself? What if he were the creature of the first instance, who otherwise will infect a world with disease? You see, there is no area where a simple touchstone avails. We have searched and found none. Hence, at the risk of sinning against Survival, we — I, at least; I can only speak for myself — have chosen a morality which at least allows me calm. I kill — nothing. I destroy — nothing.”
“Bah,” said Xanten contemptuously. “If a Mek platoon entered this valley and began to kill your children, you would not defend them?”
Philidor compressed his lips, turned away. Another man spoke. “Philidor has defined morality. But who is absolutely moral? Philidor, or I, or you, might desert his morality in such a case.”
Philidor said, “Look about you. Is there anyone here you recognize?”
Xanten scanned the group. Nearby stood a girl of extraordinary beauty. She wore a white smock and in the dark hair curling to her shoulders she wore a red flower. Xanten nodded. “I see the maiden O.Z. Garr wished to introduce into his ménage at the castle.”
“Exactly,” said Philidor. “Do you recall the circumstances?”
“Very well indeed,” said Xanten. “There was vigorous objection from the Council of Notables — if for no other reason than the threat to our laws of population control. O.Z. Garr attempted to sidestep the law in this fashion. ‘I keep Phanes,’ he said. ‘At times I maintain as many as six, or even eight, and no one utters a word of protest. I will call this girl Phane and keep her among the rest.’ I and others protested. There was almost a duel over this matter. O.Z. Garr was forced to relinquish the girl. She was given into my custody and I conveyed her to Far Valley.”
Philidor nodded. “All this is correct. Well — we attempted to dissuade Garr. He refused to be dissuaded, and threatened us with his hunting force of perhaps thirty Meks. We stood aside. Are we moral? Are we strong or weak?”
“Sometimes it is better,” said Xanten, “to ignore morality. Even though O.Z. Garr is a gentleman and you are but Expiationists … Likewise in the case of the Meks. They are destroying the castles, and all the men of Earth. If morality means supine acceptance, then morality must be abandoned!”
Philidor gave a sour chuckle. “What a remarkable situation! The Meks are here, likewise Peasants and Birds and Phanes, all altered, transported and enslaved for human pleasure. Indeed, it is this fact that occasions our guilt, for which we must expiate, and now you want us to compound this guilt!”
“It is a mistake to brood overmuch about the past,” said Xanten. “Still, if you wish to preserve your option to brood, I suggest that you fight Meks now, or at the very least take refuge in the castle.”
“Not I,” said Philidor. “Perhaps others may choose to do so.”
“You will wait to be killed?”
“No. I and no doubt others will take refuge in the remote mountains.”
Xanten clambered back aboard the power-wagon. “If you change your mind, come to Castle Hagedorn.”
He departed.
The road continued along the valley, wound up a hillside, crossed a ridge. Far ahead, silhouetted against the sky, stood Castle Hagedorn.
IV
1
Xanten reported to the council.
“The spaceships cannot be used. The Meks have rendered them inoperative. Any plan to solicit assistance from the Home Worlds is pointless.”
“This is sorry news,” said Hagedorn with a grimace. “Well then, so much for that.”
Xanten continued. “Returning by power-wagon I encountered a tribe of Nomads. I summoned the hetman and explained to him the advantages of serving Castle Hagedorn. The Nomads, I fear, lack both grace and docility. The hetman gave so surly a response that I departed in disgust.
“At Far Valley I visited the Expiationist village and made a similar proposal, but with no great success. They are as idealistic as the Nomads are churlish. Both are of a fugitive tendency. The Expiationists spoke of taking refuge in the mountains. The Nomads presumably will retreat into the steppes.”
Beaudry snorted. “How will flight help
them? Perhaps they gain a few years — but eventually the Meks will find every last one of them; such is their methodicity.”
“In the meantime,” O.Z. Garr declared peevishly, “we might have organized them into an efficient combat corps, to the benefit of all. Well then, let them perish; we are secure.”
“Secure, yes,” said Hagedorn gloomily. “But what when the power fails? When the lifts break down? When air circulation cuts off so that we either stifle or freeze? What then?”
O.Z. Garr gave his head a grim shake. “We must steel ourselves to undignified expedients, with as good grace as possible. But the machinery of the castle is sound, and I expect small deterioration or failure for conceivably five or ten years. By that time anything may occur.”
Claghorn, who had been leaning indolently back in his seat, spoke at last: “This essentially is a passive program. Like the defection of the Nomads and Expiationists, it looks very little beyond the immediate moment.”
O.Z. Garr spoke in a voice carefully polite. “Claghorn is well aware that I yield to none in courteous candor, as well as optimism and directness: in short the reverse of passivity. But I refuse to dignify a stupid little inconvenience by extending it serious attention. How can he label this procedure passivity? Does the worthy and honorable head of the Claghorns have a proposal which more effectively maintains our status, our standards, our self-respect?”
Claghorn nodded slowly, with a faint half-smile which O.Z. Garr found odiously complacent. “There is a simple and effective method by which the Meks might be defeated.”
“Well, then!” cried Hagedorn. “Why hesitate? Let us hear it!”