The Languages of Pao

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The Languages of Pao Page 2

by Jack Vance


  Sigil Paniche blinked. “What is the source of your information?”

  “Must I divest myself of every secret?” inquired Aiello, curling his lip.

  “No, no,” exclaimed Paniche. “Your allegations, however, seem mistaken. Our policy is absolute neutrality.”

  “Unless you can profit by double-dealing.”

  Sigil Paniche drew himself erect. “Supremacy, I am official representative of Mercantil on Pao. Your statements to me, therefore, must be regarded as formal insults.”

  Aiello appeared to be faintly surprised. “Insult a Mercantil? Preposterous!”

  Sigil Paniche’s skin burnt vermilion.

  Bustamonte whispered in Aiello’s ear. Aiello shrugged, turned back to the Mercantil. His voice was cool, his words carefully measured. “For the reasons I have stated, I declare that the Mercantil contract has not been fulfilled. The merchandise will not perform its function. We will not pay.”

  Sigil Paniche affirmed, “The delivered articles meet the contractual specifications!” By his lights nothing more need be said.

  “But they are useless to our need, a fact known on Mercantil.”

  Sigil Paniche’s eyes gleamed. “No doubt Your Supremacy has considered the long-range effects of such a decision.”

  Bustamonte could not restrain a retort. “Better had the Mercantil consider the long-range effect of double-dealing.”

  Aiello made a small gesture of annoyance, and Bustamonte sat back.

  Sigil Paniche looked over his shoulder to his two subordinates; they exchanged emphatic whispers. Then Paniche asked, “May I inquire as to what ‘long-range effects’ the Ayudor alluded?”

  Aiello nodded. “I direct your attention to the gentleman at your left hand.”

  All eyes swung to the stranger in brown and gray. “Who is this man?” Sigil Paniche asked sharply. “I do not recognize his clothes.”

  Aiello was served a bowl of green syrup by one of the black and gold-clad maidens. Bustamonte dutifully sampled a spoonful. Aiello drew the bowl close to him, sipped. “This is Lord Palafox. He is here to offer us advice.” He sipped once more from the bowl, pushed it aside. The maiden quickly removed it.

  Sigil Paniche surveyed the stranger with cold hostility. His aides muttered to each other. Bustamonte sat slumped into his seat, as if disassociating himself from whatever understanding existed between Aiello and the stranger.

  “After all,” said Aiello, “if we can not rely upon Mercantil for protection, we must seek elsewhere.”

  Sigil Paniche once more turned to whisper with his counselors. There was a hushed argument; Paniche snapped his fingers in emphasis, the counselors bowed and became silent. Paniche turned back to Aiello. “Your Supremacy naturally will act as he thinks best. I must point out that the products of Mercantil are surpassed nowhere.”

  Aiello glanced at the man in brown and gray. “I am not disposed to dispute this point. Lord Palafox might have something to say.”

  Palafox, however, shook his head.

  Paniche motioned to one of his subordinates, who advanced reluctantly. “Allow me to display one of our new developments.” The counselor handed him a case, from which Paniche withdrew a pair of small transparent hemispheres.

  The neutraloid bodyguards, at the sight of the case, had leapt in front of Aiello with their refrax shields; Sigil Paniche grimaced painfully. “No need for alarm — there is no danger here.”

  He displayed the hemispheres to Aiello, then placed them over his eyes. “Our new optidynes! They function either as microscope or telescope! The enormous range of their power is controlled by the ocular muscles and the eyelids. Truly marvellous! For instance —” he turned, looked out the window of the pavilion “— I see quartz crystals in the stones of the sea-wall. A gray chit stands under that far funella bush.” He turned his gaze to his sleeve. “I see the threads, the fibers of the threads, the laminae of the fibers.”

  He looked at Bustamonte. “I note the pores of the Ayudor’s estimable nose. I observe several hairs in his nostril.” He glanced at the Medallion, carefully avoiding the solecism of staring at Aiello. “The brave lad is excited. I count his pulse: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, eleven, twelve, thirteen … He holds a tiny object between his fingers, no larger than a pill.” He turned, inspected the man in gray. “I see …” he stared; then with a sudden gesture, removed the optidynes from his eyes.

  “What did you see?” Bustamonte inquired.

  Sigil Paniche studied the tall man in perturbation and awe. “I saw his sign. The tattoo of a Breakness wizard!”

  The words seemed to arouse Bustamonte. He glared in accusation at Aiello, gave Palafox a look of loathing, then glowered down at the carved ivory of the table.

  “You are correct,” said Aiello. “This is Lord Palafox, Dominie of Breakness Institute.”

  Sigil Paniche bowed his head frigidly. “Will your Supremacy allow me a question?”

  “Ask what you will.”

  “What does Lord Palafox do here on Pao?”

  Aiello said blandly, “He came at my behest. I need expert advice. Certain of my confidants —” he glanced rather contemptuously toward Bustamonte “— feel that we can buy Mercantil co-operation. He believes that for a price you will betray the Brumbos of Batmarsh in the same way you have already betrayed us.”

  Sigil Paniche said in a brittle voice, “We deal in all types of merchandise. We can be engaged for special research.”

  Aiello twisted his pink mouth into a sneer of repugnance. “I would rather deal with Lord Palafox.”

  Paniche could hardly contain his anger. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I would not have your syndics think that their treachery goes unnoticed.”

  Sigil Paniche made a great effort. “I urge you to reconsider. In no way have we cheated you. We delivered exactly what was ordered. Mercantil has served you well in the past — we hope to serve you in the future. If you deal with Breakness, think what the bargain entails!”

  “I have made no bargains with Lord Palafox,” said Aiello, with a swift glance toward the man in brown and gray.

  “Ah, but you will — and, if I may speak openly …” He waited.

  “Speak,” said Aiello.

  “… to your eventual dismay.” He became emboldened. “Never forget, Supremacy, that they build no weapons on Breakness. They make no application of their science.” He looked to Palafox. “Is this not true?”

  “Not altogether,” replied Palafox. “A Dominie of the Institute is never without his weapons.”

  “And Breakness manufactures weapons for export?” Paniche persisted.

  “No,” answered Palafox with a slight smile. “It is well-known that we manufacture only knowledge and men.”

  Sigil Paniche turned to Aiello. “Only weapons can guard you against the fury of the Brumbos. Why not examine, at least, some of our new products?”

  “This can do no harm,” Bustamonte urged. “And perhaps we will not require Palafox after all.”

  Aiello turned him a peevish glance, but Sigil Paniche already was displaying a globe-shaped projector with a hand grip. “This is one of our most ingenious developments.”

  The Medallion Beran, watching in absorption, felt a sudden quiver, a pang of indescribable alarm. Why? How? What? He half-raised in his seat, then, turning his head, met Bustamonte’s eyes. They were bright with meaning. Beran’s mind filled with dread. He must leave the pavilion, he must go! But he could not move from his seat. He bowed his head, waited.

  Paniche was directing his tool toward the pink marble dome. “Observe, if you will.” The top half of the room went black, as if concealed by a black shutter, as if snatched from existence. “The device seeks out, attracts and absorbs energy of the visual phase,” explained the Mercantil. “It is invaluable for the confusion of an adversary.”

  Beran turned his head, looked helplessly toward Bustamonte.

  “Now notice!” cried Sigil Paniche. “I turn this kno
b here …” He turned the knob; the room was blotted out entirely.

  Bustamonte’s cough was the only sound to be heard.

  Then there was a hiss of surprise, a rustle of movement, a choking sound.

  Light returned to the pavilion. A great horrified gasp sounded; all eyes went to the Panarch. He lay back into his pink silk divan. His leg jerked up, kicked, set dishes and flagons on the table rattling.

  “Help, doctor!” cried Bustamonte. “To the Panarch!”

  Aiello’s fists beat a spasmodic tattoo on the tabletop; his eyes went dim, his head fell forward in the complete lassitude of death.

  The doctors gingerly examined Aiello, a gross hulk with arms and legs sprawled in four directions. Beran, the new Panarch, Deified Breath of the Paonese, Tyrant-Absolute of Eight Continents, Ocean-Master, Suzerain of the System and Acknowledged Leader of the Universe (among his other honorary titles), sat fidgeting, evidencing neither comprehension nor grief. The Mercantil stood in a taut group, muttering to each other; Palafox, who had not moved from his seat at the table, watched with completely impassive features.

  Bustamonte, now Ayudor-Senior, lost no time in asserting the authority which, as regent for the new Panarch, he might be expected to employ. He waved his hand; a squad of Mamarone leapt to stations surrounding the pavilion.

  “None will leave,” declared Bustamonte, “until these tragic circumstances are clarified.” He turned to the doctors. “Have you determined the cause of death?”

  The first of the three doctors bowed. “The Panarch succumbed to poison. It was administered by a sting-missile, thrust into the left side of his throat. The poison …” He consulted the dials, the shadow-graphs and color-wheels of an analyzer into which his colleagues had inserted samples of Aiello’s body-fluids. “The poison appears to be a mepothanax derivative, extin most probably.”

  “In that case,” spoke Bustamonte, and his gaze swung from the huddle of Mercantil traders to the grave Lord Palafox, “the crime was committed by someone in this room.”

  Sigil Paniche diffidently approached the corpse. “Allow me to examine this sting.”

  The chief doctor indicated a metal plate. Here rested the black sting with its small white bulb.

  Sigil Paniche’s face was strained. “This object is that which I glimpsed in the hand of the Medallion, no more than a few moments ago.”

  Bustamonte succumbed to rage. His jowls went pink, his eyes swam with fire. “This accusation from you — a Mercantil swindler! — is a horror of impertinence, an epic of cruelty! You accuse the lad of killing his father?”

  Beran began to whimper; his head wobbled from side to side. “Quiet,” hissed Bustamonte. “The nature of the deed is clear!”

  “No, no,” protested Sigil Paniche, and all the Mercantil stood blanched and helpless.

  “There is no room for doubt,” Bustamonte stated inexorably. “You came to Pergolai aware that your duplicity had been discovered. You were resolved to evade the penalties.”

  “This is nonsense!” cried the Mercantil. “How could we plan so idiotic an act?”

  Bustamonte ignored the protest. In a voice of thunder he continued. “The Panarch would not be mollified. You hid yourself in darkness, you killed the great leader of the Paonese!”

  “No, no!”

  “But you will derive no benefit from the crime! I, Bustamonte, am even less placable than Aiello! As my first act I pronounce judgment upon you.”

  Bustamonte held up his arm, palm outward, fingers clenched over thumb — the traditional death-signal of the Paonese. He called to the commander of the Mamarone. “Subaqueate these creatures!” He glanced into the sky; the sun was low. “Make haste, before sundown!”

  Hurriedly, for a Paonese superstition forbade killing during the hours of darkness, the Mamarone carried the traders to a cliff overlooking an arm of the sea. Their feet were thrust into ballasted tubes, they were flung out through the air. They struck the water, sank, and the surface was calm as before.

  Twenty minutes later, by order of Bustamonte, the body of Aiello was brought forth. Without ceremony it was weighted and cast after the Mercantil. Once again the sea showed a quick white blossom of foam; once again it rolled quiet and blue.

  Chapter III

  The sun hovered at the rim of the sea. Bustamonte, Ayudor-Senior of Pao, walked with nervously energetic steps along the terrace.

  Lord Palafox sat nearby. At each end of the terrace stood a Mamarone, fire-sting aimed steadily at Palafox, to thwart any possible act of violence.

  Bustamonte stopped short in front of Palafox. “My decision was wise — I have no doubt of it!”

  “What decision is this?”

  “In connection with the Mercantil.”

  Palafox considered. “You may now find trade relations difficult.”

  “Pah! What do they care for the lives of three men so long as there is profit to be obtained?”

  “Very little, doubtless.”

  “These men were cheats and swindlers. They deserved no more than they received.”

  “In addition,” Palafox pointed out, “the crime has been followed by an appropriate penalty, with no lack of equilibrium to disturb the public.”

  “Justice has been done,” said Bustamonte stiffly.

  Palafox nodded. “The function of justice, after all, is to dissuade any who might wish to perform a like misdeed. The execution constitutes such a dissuasion.”

  Bustamonte swung on his heel, paced up and down the terrace. “It is true that I acted partly from considerations of expediency.”

  Palafox said nothing.

  “In all candor,” said Bustamonte, “I admit that the evidence points to another hand in the affair, and the major element of the difficulty remains, like the bulk of an iceberg.”

  “What difficulty is this?”

  “How shall I deal with young Beran?”

  Palafox stroked his lean chin. “The question must be considered in its proper perspective.”

  “I fail to understand you.”

  “We must ask ourselves, did Beran actually kill the Panarch?”

  Protruding his lips, bulging his eyes, Bustamonte contrived to become a grotesque hybrid of ape and frog. “Undoubtedly!”

  “Why should he do so?”

  Bustamonte shrugged. “Aiello had no love for Beran. It is doubtful if the child were actually fathered by Aiello.”

  “Indeed?” mused Lord Palafox. “And who might be the father?”

  Bustamonte shrugged once more. “The Divine Petraia was not altogether fastidious in her indiscretions, but we will never know the truth, since a year ago Aiello ordained her subaqueation. Beran was grief-stricken, and here might be the source of the crime.”

  “Surely you do not take me for a fool?” Palafox asked, smiling a peculiar fixed smile.

  Bustamonte looked at him in startlement. “Eh? What’s this?”

  “The execution of this deed was precise. The child appeared to be acting under hypnotic compulsion. His hand was guided by another brain.”

  “You feel so?” Bustamonte frowned. “Who might such ‘another’ be?”

  “Why not the Ayudor-Senior?”

  Bustamonte halted in his pacing, then laughed shortly. “This is fantasy indeed! What of yourself?”

  “I gain nothing from Aiello’s death,” said Palafox. “He asked me here to a specific purpose. Now he is dead, and your own policy faces a different direction. There is no further need for me.”

  Bustamonte held up his hand. “Not so fast. Today is not yesterday. The Mercantil, as you suggest, may prove hard to deal with. Perhaps you will serve me as you might have served Aiello.”

  Palafox rose to his feet. The sun was settling past the far horizon into the sea; it swam orange and distorted in the thick air. A breeze tinkled among glass bells and drew sad flute-sounds from an aeolian harp; feathery cycads sighed and rustled.

  The sun flattened, halved, quartered.

  “Watch now!” said Palafo
x. “Watch for the green flash!”

  The last fiery bar of red sank below the horizon; then came a flickering shaft of pure green, changing to blue, and the sunlight was gone.

  The two men were silent, watching the afterglow. Bustamonte spoke in a heavy voice, “Beran must die. The fact of patricide is clear.”

  “You over-react to the situation,” observed Palafox mildly. “Your remedies are worse than the ailment.”

  “I act as I think necessary,” snapped Bustamonte.

  “I will relieve you of the child,” said Palafox. “He may return with me to Breakness.”

  Bustamonte inspected Palafox with simulated surprise. “What will you do with young Beran? The idea is ridiculous. I am prepared to offer you a draft of females to augment your prestige, or for whatever peculiar purpose you require these female herds.”

  “Our purposes are hardly peculiar.”

  “Well,” Bustamonte shrugged, “we will discuss this later. But now I give orders in regard to Beran.”

  Palafox looked away into the dusk, smiling. “You fear that Beran will become a weapon against you. You want no possible challenge.”

  Bustamonte’s round face twisted into a cunning leer. “It would be banal to deny it.”

  Palafox stared into the sky. “You need not fear him. He would remember nothing.”

  “What is your interest in this child?” demanded Bustamonte.

  “Consider it a whim.”

  Bustamonte was curt. “I must disoblige you.”

  “I make a better friend than enemy,” Palafox said softly.

  Bustamonte stopped short in his tracks. He nodded, suddenly amiable. “Perhaps I will reconsider. After all, the child can hardly cause trouble … Come along, I will take you to Beran; we will observe his reaction to the idea.”

  Bustamonte marched off, rocking on his short legs. Smiling faintly, Palafox followed.

  At the portal, Bustamonte muttered briefly to the captain of the Mamarone. Palafox, coming after, paused beside the tall black neutraloid, let Bustamonte proceed out of earshot. He spoke, tilting his head to look up into the harsh face.

 

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