by Jack Vance
Ghyl recalled the exactions imposed upon evil Lord Bodbozzle. Rudel and Marelvie had gained financial independence—but it had only been a puppet-play. Was there no other way?
One amazing day toward the end of summer Ghyl and Floriel lay on Dunkum’s Heights sucking grass stems and talking largely of the future. “What, really, do you think you’ll do?” asked Ghyl.
“First of all,” said Floriel, cradling his girlishly delicate face in his hands, “I’ll hoard vouchers: dozens. Then I’ll learn to gamble, like the noncups do. I’ll learn all the best ways to win and then one day I’ll gamble and earn hundreds and hundreds of vouchers. Thousands even. Then I’ll turn them in for a space-yacht and fly away! away! away! Out past Mirabilis!”
Ghyl nodded reflectively. “That would be one way.”
“Or,” Floriel went on, “I might save a lord’s daughter from danger. Then I’d marry her and be a lord myself.”
Ghyl shook his head. “That’s never done. They’re much too proud. They just have friends among the underfolk. Mistresses, they’re called.”
Floriel turned to look south, across the brown and gray crumble of Brueben to the towers of Vashmont. “Why should they be proud? They are only ordinary people who happen to be lords.”
“A different kind of people,” said Ghyl. “Although I’ve heard that when they walk the streets without Garrion no one notices them as lords.”
“They’re proud because they are rich,” declared Floriel. “I’ll earn wealth too, and I’ll be proud and they’ll be eager to marry me, just to count my vouchers. Think of it! Blue vouchers, orange vouchers, green vouchers! Bundles and boxes of all colors!”
“You’ll need them all,” observed Ghyl. “Space-yachts cost a great deal: a half-million vouchers, I suppose. A million for the really good ones: the Lixons or the Hexanders with the promenade deck. Just pretend! Fancy that we’re out in space, with Mirabilis behind, heading for some wonderful strange planet. We dine in the main saloon, on turbot and roast bloorcock and the best Gade wine—and then we go along the promenade to the after-dome and eat our ices in the dark, with the Mirabilis stars behind and the Giant’s Scimitar above and the galaxy to the side.”
Floriel heaved a deep sigh. “If I can’t buy a space-yacht—I’ll steal one. I don’t think it’s wrong,” he told Ghyl earnestly, for Ghyl wore a dubious expression. “I’d steal only from the lords, who can well afford to lose. Think of the bales of vouchers they receive and never spend!”
Ghyl was not sure that this was the case, but did not care to argue.
Floriel rose to his knees. “Let’s go over to the space-port! We can look at yachts and pick one out!”
“Now?”
“Of course! Why not?”
“But it’s so far.”
“We’ll use Overtrend.”
“My father doesn’t like to give vouchers to the lords.”
“Overtrend doesn’t cost much. To Godero, no more than fifteen checks.”
Ghyl shrugged. “Very well.”
They went down from the bluff by the familiar train, but instead of turning south, skirted the municipal tanneries to the Veige No. 2 West Overtrend kiosk. They descended by escalator to the on ramp, boarded a capsule. Each in turn punched the ‘Space-port’ symbol and held his under-age card to a sensor plate. The capsule accelerated, rushed east, decelerated, opened; the boys stepped forth upon the up-escalator, which presently discharged them into the space-port depot: a cavernous place, echoing to every footfall. The boys slunk over to the side and took stock of the situation, conversing in low voices. For all the comings and goings, the atmosphere of suppressed excitement, the depot was a cheerless place, with walls of dust-brown tile, a great dim vault of a roof.
Ghyl and Floriel decided to watch the passengers boarding the excursion ships. They approached the embarkation wicket, tried to pass through the field gate but a guard waved them back. “Observation deck through the arch; passengers only on the field!” But he turned away to answer a question and Floriel, suddenly bold, seized Ghyl’s arm, and they slipped quickly past.
Amazed and delighted at their own audacity, they hurried to the shadow of an overhanging buttress where they crouched to take stock of the situation. A sound from the sky startled them: a sudden high-pitched roar from a Leamas Line excursion ship, settling like a great portly duck on its suppressors. The roar became a whine as the force-field reacted with the ground, then passed beyond audibility. The ship touched ground; the hyper-audible sound returned into sensible range, then sighed away to silence, and the ship was at rest firm against the soil of Halma. The ports opened; the passengers slowly filed forth, vouchers spent, heads bowed, ambitions sated.
Floriel gave a sudden gasp of excitement. He pointed. “The ports are open! Do you know, if we went through the crowd right now we could go aboard and hide? Then when the ship was in space we’d come out! They’d never send us back! We’d see Damar at least and maybe Morgan as well.”
Ghyl shook his head. “We wouldn’t see anything. They’d lock us in a little room and give us bread and water. They’d charge our fathers for the passage—thousands of vouchers! My father couldn’t pay. I don’t know what he’d do.”
“My mother wouldn’t pay,” said Floriel. “She’d beat me as well. But I don’t care. We’d have traveled space!”
“They’d list us for inclination,” said Ghyl.
Floriel made a gesture of scornful defiance. “What’s the difference? We could toe the line in the future—until another opportunity like this came along.”
“It’s no opportunity,” said Ghyl. “Not really. In the first place they’d catch us in the act and pitch us out. We’d do ourselves no good whatever. Anyway, who wants to travel in an old excursion ship? I want a space-yacht. Let’s see if we can get out on the south field.”
The space-yachts were ranked in a line along the far end of the field, with an access avenue running in front of them. To reach this avenue meant crossing an open area where they would be in plain view of anyone who cared to look down either from the observation deck or the control tower. Ghyl and Floriel, huddling beside the wall, discussed the situation, weighing pros and cons. “Come,” said Floriel. “Let’s just make a run for it.”
“We’d do better just walking,” said Ghyl. “We wouldn’t look so much like thieves. Which we’re not, of course. Then, if we were caught, we could say truthfully that we meant no harm. If they saw us running, they’d be sure that we were up to mischief.”
“Very well,” grumbled Floriel. “Let’s go then.”
Feeling naked and exposed they crossed the open area, and gained the comparative shelter of the access avenue without challenge. And now, near at hand, were the fascinating space-yachts; the first, a hundred-foot Dameron CoCo 14, jutting its prow almost over their heads.
They peered cautiously down the avenue, which was the way the lords came when they wished to embark upon their yachts. All seemed placid, the marvellous yachts crouched on rolling gear and nose-blocks as if dozing.
No Garrion were in sight, nor any lords, nor any mechanics—these latter generally men from Luschein on South Continent. Floriel’s daring, drawn more from an active mind and a high-strung temperament than any real courage, began to peter out. He became timid and fretful, while Ghyl, who would never have come so far on his own, was obliged to supply staying-power for both.
“Do you think we should go any farther?” Floriel asked in a husky whisper.
“We’ve come this far,” said Ghyl. “We’re doing no harm. I don’t think anyone would mind. Not even a lord.”
“What would they do if they caught us? Send us to rehabilitation?”
Ghyl laughed nervously. “Of course not. If anyone asks, we’ll say we’re just looking at the yachts, which is the truth.”
“Yes,” said Floriel, dubiously. “I suppose so.”
“Come along then,” said Ghyl.
They started south along the avenue. After the Dameron was a Wodze Bl
ue, and next beside it a slightly smaller, more lavish, Wodze Scarlet; then a huge Gallypool Irwanforth; then a Hatz Marauder, then a Sparling Starchaser in a splendid hull of gold and silver: yacht after yacht, each more wonderful than the last. Once or twice the boys walked up under the hulls, to touch the glossy skins which had known so much distance, to examine the port-of-call blazons.
Halfway along the avenue they came upon a yacht which had been lowered off its nose-block, apparently to facilitate repair, and the boys walked furtively close. “Look!” whispered Ghyl. “You can see just a bit of the main saloon. Isn’t she absolutely wonderful?”
Floriel acknowledged as much. “It’s a Lixon Triplange. They all have those heavy cowls around the forward ports.” He walked up under the hull to examine the port-of-call blazons. “This one’s been everywhere. Triptolemus…Jeng… Sanreale… Someday, when I read I’ll know them all.”
“Yes, I want to read too,” said Ghyl. “My father knows a great deal about reading; he can teach me.” He stared at Floriel, who was making urgent gestures. “What’s the matter?”
“Garrion!” hissed Floriel. “Hide, back of the stanchion!”
With alacrity Ghyl joined Floriel behind the prow support. They stood scarcely breathing. Floriel whispered desperately, “They can’t do anything to us, even if they catch us. They’re just servants; they don’t have a right to give us orders, or chase us, or anything. Not unless we’re doing damage.”
“I suppose not,” said Ghyl. “Let’s hide anyway.”
“Certainly.”
The Garrion came past, moving with the rolling purposeful step characteristic of the race. He wore livery of light green and gray, with gold rosettes, a cap of green-gray leather.
Floriel, who took pride in his knowledgeability, hazarded a guess regarding the Garrion’s patron: “Green and gray…might be Verth the Chaluz. Or Herman the Chaluz. Chaluz lords use the gold rosette, you know: it means power.”
Ghyl did not know, but he nodded acquiescence. They waited until the Garrion entered the terminal and was gone from sight. Cautiously the boys came out from behind the stanchion. They looked left and right, then proceeded along the line of yachts. “Look!” breathed Floriel. “The Deme—the gold and black one! The port is open!”
The two boys halted, stared at the fascinating gap. “That’s where the Garrion came from,” said Ghyl. “He’ll be back.”
“Not right away. We could climb the ramp and look inside. No one would ever know.”
Ghyl gave a grimace. “I’ve already been reprimanded for trespass.”
“This isn’t trespass! Anyway, what’s the harm? If anyone asked what we were doing, we’d say we were just looking.”
“There’s sure to be someone aboard,” said Ghyl dubiously.
Floriel thought not. “The Garrion is probably fixing something, or cleaning. He’s gone to get supplies and he’ll be away ever so long! Let’s take a quick look inside!”
Ghyl gauged the distance to the terminal: a good five minutes walk. Floriel tugged at his arm. “Come along; as if we were lordlets! One peek inside, to see how the lords live!”
Ghyl thought of Helfred Cobol; he thought of his father. His throat felt dry. Already he and Floriel had dared more than was proper… Still, the Garrion was in the terminal, and what could be the harm in looking through the entrance? Ghyl said, “If we just go to the door…”
Floriel now became reluctant; evidently he had been counting on Ghyl to veto so mad a proposal. “Do you really think we should?”
Ghyl made a signal for caution and went quietly toward the space-yacht. Floriel followed.
At the foot of the ramp they stopped to listen. There was no sound from within. Visible only was the inside of the air-lock and, beyond, a tantalizing glimpse of carved wood, scarlet cloth, a rack of glass and metal implements: luxury almost too splendid to be real. Drawn by fascinated curiosity, almost against their wills, certainly against their better judgment, the boys gingerly ascended the ramp, furtive as cats in a strange house. They peered in through the port, to hear a murmur of machinery, nothing else.
Now they backed away to look toward the terminal. The Garrion had not come forth. Hearts thumping in their throats the boys stepped into the air-lock, peered into the main saloon.
They let out their breath slowly in delight and wonder. The saloon was perhaps thirty feet long and sixteen feet wide. The walls were paneled in gray-green sako-wood and tapestry cloth; the floor was covered with a thick purple rug. At the forward end of the saloon four steps rose to a control platform. Aft, an arch opened upon an observation deck under a transparent dome.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” breathed Floriel. “Do you think we’ll ever have a space-yacht? One as fine as this?”
“I don’t know,” said Ghyl somberly. “I hope so… Yes. Some day I will have one…Now we had best go.”
Floriel whispered, “Think! If we knew astrogation, we could take the space-yacht right now—up and away from Ambroy! We’d own it, all to ourselves!”
The idea was tantalizing but preposterous. Ghyl was now more than ready to leave, but to his dismay Floriel skipped recklessly across the saloon, up the steps to the control platform. Ghyl called to him in an anxious voice, “Don’t touch anything! Don’t move a single lever!”
“Come now. Do you take me for a fool?”
Ghyl looked longingly back at the entrance port. “We’d best be going!”
“Oh but you must come up here, you can’t imagine how grand it is!”
“Don’t touch anything!” Ghyl warned him. “You’ll cause trouble!” He came a couple steps forward. “Let’s go!”
“As soon as—” Floriel’s voice became a startled stammer.
Following the direction of his gaze, Ghyl saw a girl standing by the aft companionway. She wore a rich suit of rose velvet, a square soft flat cap of the same material with a pair of scarlet ribbons hanging past her shoulders. She was dark-haired; her face was piquant, mobile, bright with vitality, but at this moment she looked from one ragamuffin to the other in outrage. Ghyl stared back in fascination. Surely this was the same small lady the puppet-master had pointed out at the puppet show? She was very pretty, he thought, with the same fascinating hint of Difference: that peculiar quality which distinguished lords from men.
Floriel, arousing from his petrifaction, began to slink down from the control deck. The girl came a few steps forward. A Garrion followed her into the saloon. Floriel froze back against a bulkhead. He stuttered, “We meant no harm, we only wanted to look—”
The girl studied him gravely, then turned to inspect Ghyl. Her mouth drooped in disgust. She looked back at the Garrion. “Give them a beating; throw them away.”
The Garrion seized Floriel, who chattered and howled. Ghyl might have retreated and escaped, but he chose to remain, for a reason not at all clear to him: certainly his presence was no help to Floriel.
The Garrion dealt Floriel a series of disinterested blows. Floriel yelped and writhed in dramatic fashion. The girl gave a curt nod. “Enough; the other.”
Sobbing and panting Floriel fled past Ghyl, and down the ramp. Ghyl stood his ground against the Garrion, trying to control his shrinking flesh as the creature loomed over him. The Garrion’s hands were cool and rough; the touch sent an odd chill along Ghyl’s nerves. He hardly felt the blows, which were carefully measured. His attention was fixed on the girl who watched the beating critically. Ghyl wondered how someone so delicate and pretty could be so unfeeling. Were all the lords so cruel?
The girl saw Ghyl’s gaze and perhaps sensed the import. She frowned. “Beat this one more severely; he is insolent!”
Ghyl received a few additional blows and then was shoved roughly from the ship.
Floriel stood a fearful fifty yards down the avenue. Ghyl picked himself up from the ground where he had fallen. He looked back up the ramp. There was nothing to see. He turned away and joined Floriel; wordlessly they trudged back along the avenue.
They gained the interior of the depot without attracting attention. Mindful of his father’s antipathy toward the Overtrend, Ghyl insisted on walking home: a matter of four miles.
Along the way Floriel burst out in a spasm of fury. “What abominable people the lords! Did you sense the girl’s glee? She treated us as if we were muck! As if we stank! And my mother is second cousin to the Mayor! I will have my own back some day! Hear me, for I am resolved!”
Ghyl heaved a mournful sigh. “She certainly could have used us more kindly. Still—she also might have used us worse. Far worse.”
Floriel gazed at him in amazement, hair tousled, face distorted. “Eh? What’s all this? She ordered us beaten! While she watched, smirking!”
“She could have had our names. What if she had given us to the welfare agents?”
Floriel lowered his head. The two boys trudged on into Brueben. The setting sun, entering a band of ale-colored haze, cast amber light in their faces.
Chapter V
Autumn came to Ambroy, then winter: a season of chilling rains and mists, which started a black and lavender lichen growing over the ruins, to lend the old city a dismal grandeur it lacked in the dry season. Amiante completed a fine screen which was judged ‘Acme’ and which also received a Guild Citation of Excellence, with which he was quietly pleased.
He also received a visit from a Guide Leaper of the Temple, a sharp-featured young man wearing a scarlet jacket, a tall black hat, brown breeches tight around heavy legs, knotted with muscle after a lifetime of leaping. He came to remonstrate in regard to Ghyl’s carefree life. “Why does he not participate in Soul Endowment? What of his Basic Saltations? He knows neither Rite nor Rote nor Doxology; nor Leaps nor Bounds! Finuka requires more than this!”
Amiante listened politely, but continued to work with his chisel. He spoke in a mild voice, “The lad is hardly old enough to think. If he has a mind to devotion, he’ll know fast enough; then he’ll more than make up for any lack.”
The Leaper became excited. “A fallacy! Children are best trained young. Witness myself! When I was an infant, I crawled upon a patterned rug! The first words I spoke were the Apotheosis and the Simulations. This is best! Train the child young! As he stands now he is a spiritual vacuum, susceptible to any strange cult! Best to fill his soul with the way of Finuka!”