by Jack Vance
“Suppose I were to make you a true man once more — how would you pay me?”
The eyes glowed, muscles rippled under the black skin. The neutraloid replied in the strange soft voice of its kind: “How would I pay you? By smashing you, by crushing your skull. I am more than a man, more than four men — why should I want the return of weakness?”
“Ah,” marveled Palafox. “You are not prone to weakness?”
“Yes,” sighed the neutraloid, “indeed I have a flaw.” He showed his teeth in a ghastly grin. “I take an unnatural joy in killing; I prefer nothing to the strangling of small pale men.”
Palafox turned away, entered the pavilion.
The door closed behind him. He looked over his shoulder. The captain stood glaring through the transparent panel. Palafox looked to the other entrances; Mamarone stood at vigilance everywhere.
Bustamonte sat in one of Aiello’s black foam chairs. He had flung a black cloak over his shoulders, the Utter Black of a Panarch.
“I marvel at you men of Breakness,” said Bustamonte. “Your daring is remarkable! So casually do you put yourselves into desperate danger!”
Palafox shook his head gravely. “We are not so rash as we seem. No dominie walks abroad without means to protect himself.”
“Do you refer to your reputed wizardry?”
Palafox shook his head. “We are not magicians. But we have surprising weapons at our command.”
Bustamonte surveyed the brown and gray costume which afforded no scope for concealment. “Whatever your weapons, they are not now in evidence.”
“I hope not.”
Bustamonte drew the black cloak over his knees. “Let us put ambiguity aside.”
“Gladly.”
“I control Pao. Therefore I call myself Panarch. What do you say to that?”
“I say that you have performed an exercise in practical logic. If you now bring Beran to me, the two of us will depart and leave you to the responsibilities of your office.”
Bustamonte shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Impossible? Not at all.”
“Impossible for my purposes. Pao is ruled by continuity and tradition. Public emotion demands Beran’s accession. He must die, before news of Aiello’s death reaches the world.”
Palafox thoughtfully fingered the black mark of his mustache. “In that case it is already too late.”
Bustamonte froze. “What do you say?”
“Have you listened to the broadcast from Eiljanre? The announcer is speaking at this moment.”
“How do you know?” demanded Bustamonte.
Palafox indicated the sound-control in the arm of Bustamonte’s chair. “There is the means to prove me wrong.”
Bustamonte thrust down the knob. A voice issued from the wall, thick with synthetic emotion. “Pao, grieve! All Pao, mourn! The great Aiello, our noble Panarch is gone! Dole, dole, dole! Bewildered we search the sad sky, and our hope, our only sustention in this tragic hour is Beran, the brave new Panarch! Only let his reign prove as static and glorious as that of great Aiello!”
Bustamonte swung upon Palafox like a small black bull. “How did the news get abroad?”
Palafox replied with easy carelessness. “I myself released it.”
Bustamonte’s eyes glittered. “When did you do this? You have been under constant surveillance.”
“We Breakness dominie,” said Palafox, “are not without subterfuge.”
The voice from the wall droned on. “Acting under the orders of Panarch Beran, the Mamarone have efficiently subaqueated the responsible criminals. Ayudor Bustamonte is serving Beran with wholehearted loyalty, and will help maintain equilibrium.”
Bustamonte’s fury seethed to the surface. “Do you think you can thwart me by such a trick?” He signaled the Mamarone. “You wished to join Beran. So you shall — in life and, at tomorrow’s first light, in death.”
The guards were at Palafox’s back. “Search this man!” cried Bustamonte. “Inspect him with care!”
The guards subjected Palafox to a most minute scrutiny. Every stitch of his clothes was examined; he was patted and prodded with complete lack of regard for dignity.
Nothing was discovered; no tool, weapon or instrument of any kind. Bustamonte watched the search in unashamed fascination, and seemed disappointed at the negative result.
“How is this?” he asked scornfully. “You, a Wizard of Breakness Institute! Where are the devices, the infallible implements, the mysterious energetics?”
Palafox, who had submitted to the search without emotion, replied in a pleasant voice, “Alas, Bustamonte, I am not at liberty to answer your questions.”
Bustamonte laughed coarsely. He motioned to the guard. “Take him to confinement.”
The neutraloids seized Palafox’s arms.
“One final word,” said Palafox, “for you will not see me again on Pao.”
Bustamonte agreed. “Of this I am sure.”
“I came at Aiello’s wish to negotiate a contract.”
“A dastardly mission!” Bustamonte exclaimed.
“Rather an exchange of surpluses to satisfy each of our needs,” said Palafox. “My wisdom for your population. It is a sensible offer.”
“I have no time for abstruseness.” Bustamonte motioned to the guards. They urged Palafox toward the door.
“Allow me my say,” spoke Palafox gently. The guards paid him no heed. Palafox made a small twitch; the neutraloids cried out and sprang away from him.
“What’s this?” cried Bustamonte, jumping to his feet.
“He burns! He radiates fire!”
Palafox spoke in his quiet voice, “As I say, we will not meet again on Pao. But you will need me, and Aiello’s bargain will seem very reasonable. And then you must come to Breakness.” He bowed to Bustamonte, turned to the guards. “Come, now we will go.”
Chapter IV
Beran sat with his chin on the window sill, looking out into the night. The surf phosphoresced on the beach, the stars hung in great frosty clots. Nothing else could be seen.
The room was high in the tower; it seemed very dreary and bleak. The walls were bare fiber; the window was heavy cleax; the door fitted into the aperture without a seam. Beran knew the room for what it was — a confinement chamber.
A faint sound came from below, the husky grunting of a neutraloid’s laugh. Beran was sure that they were laughing at him, at the miserable finale to his existence. Tears rose to his eyes but in the fashion of Paonese children he made no other show of emotion.
There was a sound at the door. The lock whirred, the door slid back. In the opening stood two neutraloids and, between them, Lord Palafox.
Beran came hopefully forward — but the attitudes of the three halted him. The neutraloids shoved Palafox forward. The door whirred shut. Beran stood in the center of the room, crestfallen and dejected.
Palafox glanced around the room, seeming instantly to appraise every detail. He put his ear to the door, listened, then took three long elastic strides to the window. He looked out. Nothing to be seen, only stars and surf. He touched his tongue to a key area on the inside of his cheek; an infinitesimal voice, that of the Eiljanre announcer, spoke inside his inner ear. The voice was excited. “Word has reached us from Ayudor Bustamonte on Pergolai: serious events! In the treacherous attack upon Panarch Aiello, the Medallion was likewise injured, and his survival is not at all likely! The most expert doctors of Pao are in constant attendance. Ayudor Bustamonte asks that all join to project a wave of hope for the stricken Medallion!”
Palafox extinguished the sound with a second touch of his tongue; he turned to Beran, motioned. Beran came a step or two closer. Palafox bent to his ear, whispered, “We’re in danger. Whatever we say is heard. Don’t talk. Just watch me — and move quickly when I give the signal!”
Beran nodded. Palafox made a second inspection of the room, rather more slowly than before. As he went about his survey, a section of the door became transparent; an eye peered t
hrough.
In sudden annoyance Palafox raised his hand, then restrained himself. After a moment the eye disappeared, the wall became once more opaque.
Palafox sprang to the window; he pointed his forefinger. A needle of incandescence darted forth, cut a hissing slot through the cleax. The window fell loose, and before Palafox could catch it, disappeared into the darkness.
Palafox whispered, “Over here now! Quick!” Beran hesitated. “Quick!” whispered Palafox. “Do you want to live? Up on my back, quick!”
From below came the thud of feet, voices growing louder.
A moment later the door slid back; three Mamarone stood in the doorway. They stopped, stared all around, then ran to the open window.
The captain turned. “Below, to the grounds! It’s deep water for all if they have escaped!”
When they searched the gardens they found no trace of Palafox or Beran. Standing in the starlight, darker than the darkness, they argued in their soft voices, and presently reached a decision. Their voices ceased; they themselves slid away through the night.
Chapter V
Any collocation of persons, no matter how numerous, how scant, how even their homogeneity, how firmly they profess common doctrine, will presently reveal themselves to consist of smaller groups espousing variant versions of the common creed; and these sub-groups will manifest sub-sub-groups, and so to the final limit of the single individual, and even in this single person conflicting tendencies will express themselves.
— Adam Ostwald: Human Society
The Paonese, in spite of their fifteen billion, comprised as undifferentiated a group as could be found in the human universe. Nevertheless, to the Paonese the traits in common were taken for granted and only the distinctions, minuscule though they were, attracted attention.
In this fashion the people of Minamand — and especially those in the capital city of Eiljanre — were held to be urbane and frivolous. Hivand, flattest and most featureless of the continents, exemplified bucolic naïveté. The people of Nonamand, the bleak continent to the south, bore the reputation of dour thrift and fortitude; while the inhabitants of Vidamand, who grew grapes and fruits, and bottled almost all the wine of Pao, were considered large-hearted and expansive.
For many years, Bustamonte had maintained a staff of secret informants, stationed through the eight continents. Early in the morning, walking the airy gallery of the Pergolai lodge, he was beset by worry. Events were not proceeding at their optimum. Only three of the eight continents seemed to be accepting him as de facto Panarch. These were Vidamand, Minamand and Dronamand. From Aimand, Shraimand, Nonamand, Hivand and Impland, his agents reported a growing tide of recalcitrance.
There was no suggestion of active rebellion, no parades or public meetings. Paonese dissatisfaction expressed itself in surliness, a work-slowdown throughout the public services, dwindling cooperation with the civil service. It was a situation which in the past had led to a breakdown of the economy and a change of dynasty.
Bustamonte cracked his knuckles nervously as he considered his position. At the moment he was committed to a course of action. The Medallion must die, and likewise the Breakness Wizard.
Daylight had come; now they could properly be executed.
He descended to the main floor, signaled to one of the Mamarone. “Summon Captain Mornune.”
Several minutes passed. The neutraloid returned.
“Where is Mornune?” demanded Bustamonte.
“Captain Mornune and two of the platoon have departed Pergolai.”
Bustamonte wheeled around, dumbfounded. “Departed Pergolai?”
“This is my information.”
Bustamonte glared at the guard, then looked toward the tower. “Come along!” He charged for the lift; the two were whisked high. Bustamonte marched down the corridor, to the confinement chamber. He peered through the spy-hole, looked all around the room. Then he furiously slid aside the door, crossed to the open window.
“It is all clear now,” he ranted. “Beran is gone. The dominie is gone. Both are fled to Eiljanre. There will be trouble.”
He went to the window, stood looking out into the distance. Finally he turned. “Your name is Andrade?”
“Hessenden Andrade.”
“You are now Captain Andrade, in the place of Mornune.”
“Very well.”
“We return to Eiljanre. Make the necessary arrangements.”
Bustamonte descended to the terrace, seated himself with a glass of brandy. Palafox clearly intended Beran to become Panarch. The Paonese loved a young Panarch and demanded the smooth progression of the dynasty; anything else disturbed their need for timeless continuity. Beran need only appear at Eiljanre, to be led triumphantly to the Great Palace, and arrayed in Utter Black.
Bustamonte took a great gulp of brandy. Well then, he had failed. Aiello was dead. Bustamonte could never demonstrate that Beran’s hand had placed the fatal sting. Indeed, had not three Mercantil traders been executed for the very crime?
What to do? Actually, he had no choice. He could only proceed to Eiljanre and hope to establish himself as Ayudor-Senior, regent for Beran. Unless guided too firmly by Palafox, Beran would probably overlook his imprisonment; and if Palafox were intransigent, there were ways of dealing with him.
Bustamonte rose to his feet. Back to Eiljanre, there to eat humble-pie; he had spent many years playing sycophant to Aiello, and the experience would stand him in good stead.
In the hours and days that followed, Bustamonte encountered three surprises of increasing magnitude.
The first was the discovery that neither Palafox nor Beran had arrived at Eiljanre, nor did they appear elsewhere on Pao. Bustamonte, at first cautious and tentative, began to breathe easier. Had the pair met with some unforeseen disaster? Had Palafox kidnapped the Medallion for reasons of his own?
The doubt was unsettling. Until he was assured of Beran’s death he could not properly enjoy the perquisites of the Panarch’s office. Likewise, the doubt had infected the vast Paonese masses. Daily their recalcitrance increased; Bustamonte’s informers reported that everywhere he was known as Bustamonte Bereglo. ‘Bereglo’ was a word typically Paonese, applied to an unskillful slaughter-house worker, or a creature which worries and gnaws its victim.
Bustamonte seethed inwardly, but comforted himself with outward rectitude, hoping either that the population would accept him as Panarch or that Beran would appear to give the lie to rumors, and submit to a more definite assassination.
Then came the second unsettling shock.
The Mercantil Ambassador delivered Bustamonte a statement which first excoriated the Paonese government for the summary execution of the three trade attachés, broke off all trade relations until indemnification was paid, and set forth the required indemnification — a sum which seemed ridiculously large to a Paonese ruler, who every day in the course of his duties might ordain death for a hundred thousand persons.
Bustamonte had been hoping to negotiate a new armament contract. As he had advised Aiello, he offered a premium for sole rights to the most advanced weapons. The note from the Mercantil Ambassador destroyed all hope of a new agreement.
The third shock was the most devastating of all, and indeed reduced the first two to the proportion of incidents.
The Brumbo Clan of Batmarsh, elevated to primacy over a score of restless competitors, needed a glory-earning coup to cement its position. Eban Buzbek, Hetman of the Brumbos, therefore gathered a hundred ships, loaded them with warriors and set forth against the great world of Pao.
Perhaps he had only intended a foray: a landing, a vast orgiastic assault, a quick garnering of booty, and departure — but passing the outer ring of monitors he met only token resistance, and landing on Vidamand, the most disaffected continent, none at all. This was success of the wildest description!
Eban Buzbek took his ten thousand men to Donaspara, first city of Shraimand; and there was no one to dispute him. Six days after he landed on Pao he entered Ei
ljanre. The populace watched him and his glory-flushed army with sullen eyes; none made any resistance, even when their property was taken and their women violated. Warfare — even hit-and-run guerilla tactics — was not in the Paonese character. They had relied on the Mamarone for protection, but Bustamonte had prudently departed the capital; there had been confusion and disorganization, and the Mamarone, although completely fearless, lacked initiative and were never called into action.
In any event only a small percentage of the population was touched by the Batch conquest; the others thought their deep slow thoughts and the rhythm of Paonese life proceeded much as before.
Chapter VI
Beran, Medallion and son of Panarch Aiello, had lived his life under the most uneventful circumstances. With his diet carefully prescribed and scheduled, he never had known hunger and so had never enjoyed food. His play was supervised by a corps of trained gymnasts and was considered ‘exercise’; consequently he had no inclination for games. His person was tended and groomed, every obstacle and danger was whisked from his path; he had never faced a challenge, and had never known triumph.
Sitting on Palafox’s shoulders, stepping out through the window into the night, Beran felt as if he were living a nightmare. A sudden weightlessness — they were falling! His stomach contracted, the breath rose in his throat. He squirmed and cried out in fear. Falling, falling, falling; when would they strike?
“Quiet,” said Palafox shortly.
Beran’s eyes focused. He blinked. A lighted window moved past his vision. It passed below; they were not falling; they were rising! They were above the tower, above the pavilion! Up into the night they drifted, light as bubbles, up above the tower, up into the star-bright sky. Presently, Beran convinced himself that he was not dreaming; it was therefore through the magic of the Breakness wizard that they wafted through the middle-air, light as thistle-down. As his wonder grew, his fear lessened, and he peered into Palafox’s face. “Where are we going?”