Emphyrio

by Jack Vance

  Poor innocent Amiante! thought Ghyl. He had trusted the magic of words: a sentence on one of his ancient bits of paper.

  But presently, as the night wore on, Ghyl became doubtful. Recalling Amiante’s actions of the last few days, Ghyl began to wonder if, after all, Amiante had not done what he felt he had to do, in full cognizance of his risks.

  Poor foolish brave Amiante, thought Ghyl.

  Amiante was brought home a week and a half later. He had lost weight. He seemed dazed and listless. He came into the shop, and at once went to a bench and sat down as if his legs were too weak to support him. “Father!” said Ghyl huskily. “Are you well?”

  Amiante gave a slow heavy nod. “Yes. As well as can be expected.”

  “What—did they do?”

  Amiante drew a deep breath. “I don’t know.” He turned to look at his screen, tentatively picked up a chisel in fingers which seemed suddenly blunt and clumsy. “I don’t even know why they took me away.”

  “For printing placards!”

  “Ah yes. Now I recall. I read something to them; what was it?”

  “This!” cried Ghyl, trying to keep the heartbreak from his voice. “The Great Charter! Do you not remember?”

  Amiante picked it up without great interest; turned it this way and that, returned it to Ghyl. “I seem to be tired. I cannot read.”

  Ghyl took his arm. “Come along upstairs, and lie down. I’ll fix supper and we’ll talk together.”

  “I am not very hungry.”

  Jaunty footsteps sounded along the sidewalk. There was a rap at the door and Nion Bohart, wearing a tall green cap with a pointed bill, a green suit, black and yellow boots, stepped into the shop. At the sight of Amiante he stopped short, then came slowly forward, shaking his head dolefully. “Rehabilitation, eh? I was afraid of that.” And he looked down at Amiante as if he were an object of wax. “They showed little restraint I must say.”

  Ghyl slowly straightened himself, turned to face Nion. “You are the cause of all this.”

  Nion Bohart stiffened in indignation. “Come now! Let’s have no abuse! I wrote neither the regulations nor the Great Charter! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Nothing wrong,” echoed Amiante in a small clear voice.

  Ghyl gave a small skeptical snort. “Well then, what is it you want?”

  “I came to discuss the election.”

  “There is nothing to discuss. I am not interested.”

  Amiante’s mouth moved as if once again he were repeating what he had heard.

  Nion Bohart threw his cap to a bench. “Now look here, Ghyl, you’re distressed, justifiably. But put the blame where it belongs.”

  “And where is that?”

  Nion Bohart shrugged. “Hard to say.” He glanced through the window, made a quick movement as if to depart the room. “More visitors,” he muttered.

  Into his shop came four men. Only Schute Cobol was known to Ghyl.

  Schute Cobol nodded curtly to Ghyl, turned a quick flash of a glance toward Nion Bohart, gave Amiante a grim inspection. “Well then, as a rehabilitate you are entitled to special counsel. This is Zurik Cobol. He will help provide you a healthy new basis of existence.”

  Zurik Cobol, a small round man with a round bald head, gave a small nod and stared at Amiante intently.

  Nion Bohart, as Schute Cobol spoke, had been unobtrusively edging toward the door; but now a sign from a man standing behind Schute Cobol—a tall man in black, with a keen haughty face, wearing a great black much-beribboned hat, compelled Nion Bohart to remain.

  Schute Cobol turned from Amiante toward Ghyl. “Now then, I must inform you that your charge is high. Expert opinion has defined your conduct as verging upon felonious.”

  “Indeed?” asked Ghyl, a harsh, acid flavor rising in his throat. “Why is this?”

  “First: your candidacy is clearly a malicious prank, an attempt to demean the city. Such an attitude is irreverent and intolerable.

  “Secondly, you are attempting obfuscation of the welfare rolls by naming yourself with the name of a legendary and non-existent man.

  “Thirdly, by associating yourself with this legend of rebellion against established order, you implicitly advocate chaoticism.

  “Fourthly, you have consorted with noncuperatives—”

  Nion Bohart swaggered forward. “And what, may I ask, is irregulationary about consorting with noncups?”

  Schute Cobol spared him a glance. “Noncuperatives are beyond welfare regulations, hence irregulationary, though not actively proscribed. The candidacy of ‘Emphyrio’ is undoubtedly a noncuperative conception.

  “Fifthly, you are the son and associate of a man twice admonished for duplicating. We cannot prove collusion, but surely you were aware of what was transpiring. You made no report of the crime. Purposeful failure to report a crime is a felony.

  “In none of these five instances is your delinquency definite enough to be brought home to you; in this regard you are a subtle young man.” (At this, Nion Bohart turned Ghyl a look of searching new appraisal.) “Still, be assured that you deceive no one, that you will be subjected to careful observation. This gentleman—” he indicated the man in black “—is Chief Executive Investigator of Brueben Precinct, a very important person. His interest has been attracted, and from your point of view this is not a propitious circumstance.”

  “Indeed not,” said the official in a light pleasant voice. He pointed to Nion. “This would be one of the accomplices?”

  “It is Nion Bohart, a notorious ne’er do well,” said Schute Cobol. “I have his dossier at hand. It is not appetizing.”

  The official made a negligent gesture. “He is warned. We need not proceed further.”

  The welfare agents departed, with the exception of Zurik Cobol, who took Amiante out into the sunlight of the square, seated him on a bench, and spoke earnestly to him.

  Nion Bohart looked at Ghyl. “Phew! What a hornet’s nest!”

  Ghyl went to sit down at his work-bench. “Have I done something terribly wrong? I can’t decide…”

  Nion, finding nothing more to interest him, went to the door. “Election tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to vote!”

  Chapter X

  There were five candidates for the office of Mayor. The incumbent received a plurality of the votes and was returned to his sinecure. ‘Emphyrio’ was a surprisingly strong third with approximately ten percent of all votes cast—enough to disturb the Welfare Agency anew.

  Schute Cobol came to the shop and demanded all of Amiante’s private papers. Amiante, sitting at his work-bench, working listlessly at his screen, looked up with a peculiar light in his eyes. Schute Cobol came a stride closer; Amiante, to Ghyl’s astonishment, sprang erect and struck Schute Cobol with a mallet. Schute Cobol fell to the ground; Amiante would have struck again, had not Ghyl taken away the mallet. Schute Cobol, moaning and holding his head, tottered from the shop and out into the golden afternoon light.

  Amiante said to Ghyl in a voice Ghyl would never have recognized, “Take the papers. They are yours. Keep them safe.” He went into the square and sat upon a bench.

  Ghyl hid the portfolio under the roof-tiles. An hour later welfare agents came to take Amiante away.

  When he returned after four days, he was bland, easy, indifferent. A month later he fell into a dull mood and slumped into a chair. Ghyl watched him anxiously.

  Amiante dozed. When Ghyl brought him a bowl of gruel for his lunch, Amiante was dead.

  Ghyl was alone in the old shop. It was full of Amiante’s presence; his tools, his patterns, his mild voice. Ghyl could hardly see for eyes full of grief. What now? Should he continue to work as a wood-carver? Go noncup and live the life of a vagabond? Perhaps he should emigrate to Luschein or Salula? He brought Amiante’s portfolio down from the roof, went through the papers which Amiante had handled so lovingly. He puzzled through the ancient charter, shook his head sadly at the idealistic vision of the city’s founders. He re
-read the Emphyrio fragment, from which he drew courage. “Emphyrio strove and suffered for truth. I shall do likewise! If only I can find the strength within myself! This is what Amiante would want!”

  He removed the fragment and the charter from the portfolio and hid them separately; the portfolio he put in the accustomed place.

  He went back to stand in the workshop. The building was quiet, except for strange little noises he had never before noticed: creaks of the ancient timbers, a flutter of wind in the tiles. Afternoon came; a flood of mellow light poured in through the amber windows. How often had Ghyl sat in this light, with his father at his own bench across the room!

  Ghyl fought the tears back from his eyes. He must use his strength, he must develop, gain knowledge. There was no single focus for the great dissatisfaction he felt. The Welfare Agency worked, by and large, for the benefit of the recipients. The guilds enforced the standards of excellence by which Ambroy survived in relative ease and security. The lords extracted their 1.18 percent from the economy, but the amount hardly seemed excessive.

  What then was wrong? Where was truth? What course would Emphyrio have taken? In desperation, to ease his need for activity, Ghyl seized up chisels, and going to Amiante’s bench worked on his great perdura panel: the Winged Being plucking fruit from the Tree of Life. He worked with feverish energy; chips and scrapings covered the floor. Schute Cobol passed outside the shop, rapped, opened the door, peered within. He said nothing. Ghyl said nothing. The two looked into each other’s eyes. Schute Cobol nodded slowly, departed.

  Time passed: a year, two years. Ghyl saw none of his old friends. For recreation he took long hikes in the country, often sleeping the night under a hedge. Living by himself he became a different person: a young man of average height, with hard shoulders, taut muscles. His features were blunt but hard and compressed; there were ridges of muscle around his mouth. He wore his hair cropped short, his garments were plain and devoid of ornamentation.

  One day in early summer he finished a screen and by way of relaxation walked south through Brueben and Hoge, into Cato, and by chance passed Keecher’s Inn. Obeying a random impulse, he went in, ordered a mug of ale, a plate of steamed whelks. All was precisely as he remembered, though the scale seemed smaller and the decorations not quite so splendid. Girls from the bench looked him over, approached; Ghyl sent them away, and sat watching the folk come and go… A face he knew: Floriel! Ghyl called out; Floriel turned and, seeing Ghyl, evinced astonishment. “What in the world do you do here?”

  “Nothing unusual.” Ghyl indicated his ale, his plate. “I eat, I drink.”

  Floriel cautiously pulled up a chair. “I must say I’m surprised…I heard that after your father’s death you had—well, become quiet, distant. Even a recluse. A real voucher-grabber for work.”

  Ghyl laughed—the first time in how long? Years, it seemed. It was good to laugh again. Perhaps the ale was responsible. Perhaps a sudden yearning for companionship. “I’ve been pretty much alone. What of you? You’ve changed since I saw you last.” And indeed Floriel had become, not a new person, but an augmented version of his previous self. He was as handsome as ever, as debonair, with added control, craft, alertness. He said, with a trace of complacence, “I’ve changed a bit, I suppose. At heart the same Floriel, of course.”

  “You’re still in Metal-benders?”

  Floriel gave Ghyl a glance of injured surprise. “Of course not. Haven’t you heard? I’ve gone noncup. You’re sitting with a man outside organized society. Aren’t you ashamed?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard.” Ghyl looked Floriel up and down, noting the signs of prosperity. “How do you live? You don’t seem to be deprived. Where do you get your vouchers?”

  “Oh, I manage, one way or another. I fell into a little cottage up the river, a lovely place. I rent this out over the weekends, and do a fair business. And, to be candid, sometimes I bring up girls for men on a bit of a tear. Nothing absolutely criminal, you understand. One way or another I make out. And you?”

  “Still carving screens.”

  “Ah then, you’ll continue in the trade?”

  “I don’t know…Remember how we used to talk of travel?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve never forgotten.”

  “Nor I.” Ghyl leaned forward, gazing down into his ale. “Life here is futility. We’ll live and die, and realize no glimmer of truth. There’s something terribly wrong here in Ambroy. Do you realize this?”

  Floriel looked at him askance. “Still the same old Ghyl! You haven’t changed a bit!”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You always were idealistic. Do you think I care a whit for truth or knowledge? No. But I’ll travel, and in style too. In fact—” Floriel looked right and left “—you remember Nion Bohart, of course.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I see him often. He and I have some grand ideas. The only way to get is to take—from those who have: the lords.”

  “You mean: kidnaping?”

  “Why not? I don’t consider it wrong. They take from us; we must redress the balance and take from them.”

  “One difficulty: if you are caught, you’ll be expelled into Bauredel. What good is wealth to a man an inch thick?”

  “Ha ha! We won’t be caught!”

  Ghyl shrugged. “Go ahead, with my blessings. I don’t mind. The lords can stand to lose a few vouchers. They extract enough from us.”

  “That’s the way to talk!”

  “Has Nion gone noncup?”

  “Certainly. He’s been quietly noncup for years.”

  “I always suspected as much.”

  Floriel ordered more ale. “To Emphyrio! What a marvelous put-on, that election! So many folk in a dither, welfare agents out looking here and there, simply wonderful!”

  Ghyl put down his mug with a grimace. Floriel rattled on, unheeding. “I’ve had good times as a noncup, I tell you! I recommend it! You live by your wits, true, but there’s no bowing and scraping to welfare agent and Guild Delegate.”

  “So long as you don’t get caught.”

  Floriel nodded owlishly. “One must be discreet, of course. But it’s not too hard. You’d be astounded by the opportunities! Cut the twig! Go noncup!”

  Ghyl smiled. “I’ve thought of it, many times. But—I don’t know how I’d make a living.”

  “There are hundreds of chances for clever men. Nion chartered a river barge, let it be known that indiscreet behavior was quite all right, and earned three thousand vouchers over one weekend! There’s the way to operate!”

  “I suppose so. I don’t have the golden touch.”

  “I’ll be glad to show you the ropes. Why don’t you come up to my cottage for a few days? It’s right on the river, not far from County Pavilion. We’ll do nothing—just lounge about, eat, drink, talk. Do you have a girl friend?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I might be able to fix you up. I’m living with a girl myself; in fact, I think you know her: Sonjaly Rathe.”

  Ghyl nodded with a grim smile. “I remember her.”

  “Well, then what do you say?”

  “It sounds pleasant. I’d like to visit your cottage.”

  “Good! Let’s say—next weekend. An opportune time, just right for the County Ball!”

  “Very well. Do I need new clothes?”

  “Of course not! We’re very casual. The County Ball is costume, of course, so buy some sort of whack-up and a domino. Otherwise—just a swim-suit.”

  “How do I find the place?”

  “Ride Overtrend to Grigglesby Corners. Walk back two hundred steps, go out a plank bridge to the blue cottage with the yellow sun-strike.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Er—should I ask along an extra girl?”

  Ghyl considered a moment. “No,” he said at last. “I think not.”

  “Oh come,” teased Floriel. “Surely you’re not puritanical!”

  “No. But I don’t want to become involved in anything. I
know myself. I can’t stop halfway.”

  “Don’t stop halfway! Why be a coward?”

  “Oh, very well. Do as you like.”

  Chapter XI

  The ride along the Insse was pleasant. The Overtrend cars slid on magnetic cushions without jar or sound; through the windows the Insse reflected back the sunlight. From time to time thickets of willow or horsewhistle intervened, or banks of sponge-tree or black-web. To the other side were pastures where biloa birds grazed.

  Ghyl sat back, lost in reverie. It was time, he thought, to broaden his life, to take in more territory. Perhaps here was the reason he had so readily accepted Floriel’s invitation. Schute Cobol would certainly disapprove. A fig for Schute Cobol. If only it were easier to travel, to achieve some measure of financial independence…

  The car halted at Grigglesby Corners; Ghyl alighted, received his bag from the ejector. What a pleasant spot! he thought. Enormous sad-apple trees towered above the brown buildings of the little depot and store, the yellow-green foliage streaming in the smoky sunlight, filling the air with a pleasant acrid scent.

  Ghyl walked back along the riverbank on a cushion of old leaves. Along the other shore a dark-haired girl in a white frock lazily paddled a skiff; she saw him watching; she smiled and waved her hand; then the current eased her around a bend and into a dark little inlet, away from sight. It was as if never, never, had a girl in a white dress floated along the sunlit river…Ghyl shook his head, grinned at his own vagaries.

  He continued along the bank, and presently came to a trestle leading through the reeds to a pale blue cottage under a water-cherry tree.

  Ghyl walked out along the precarious planks, to a porch overlooking the river. Here sat Floriel in white shorts, and a cool pretty blonde girl whom Ghyl saw to be Sonjaly Rathe. She nodded, smiled with simulated enthusiasm; Floriel jumped to his feet. “So you’ve arrived! Good to see you. Bring your bag on in; I’ll show you where to chuck your gear.”

  Ghyl was assigned a small chamber overlooking the river with yellow-brown ripples of light coursing across the ceiling. He changed to loose light clothes and went out to the porch. Floriel thrust a goblet of punch into his hand, indicated a sling chair. “Now, simply relax! Laze! Something you recipients never know how to do. Always striving, cringing when the delegate points his dirty fingernail at a flaw! Not for me!”