The Morphodite

by M. A. Foster

  A reply seemed proper, so Phaedrus said, “I am Phaedrus. I live here.”

  Salkim shook his head, as if to dear cobwebs away, and said, “You are the one they call Fedro, or Feydro?”

  Phaedrus nodded. “Probably the same.” Phaedrus had to admit that the visitor was impressive. A relatively young man, with clean hands and trimmed hair and beard, he set an elegant contrast to Phaedrus, who was clean and healthy, but more than a little ragged. He added, “What hospitality may we offer you?”

  Salkim chuckled. “Offer me? No, no, my man, it is I who offer you.”

  “How so?”

  “We are from the principality of Clisp. Marisol, in fact,” he added, for emphasis. “In a short and I trust not rude way, let me say that we have come along this empty and barbarous coast looking for you. In Marisol there is little talk of anything else. A place on the south coast in Far Zolotane where people get their heads screwed on right again. Again, to be short about it, Pompeo is and has been prince, and rules and reigns with the common good in mind, and seeks to heal the wounds the land and its people have sustained. To this end, he has done the usual things princes do, but my prince also understands that a peace of swords and guns is not complete without the peace of the heart, and the tales have it that this is only to be reliably found here, and so I was commissioned to come out, seek this ‘Fedro’ out, and invite him and his family and friends to come to Marisol, in Clisp, and thereby take up employment and assignment as Worthy Advisor to Pompeo IV.” It was a long speech, but he added, sagaciously, “It is not a bad thing, especially if you’ve been living close to the edge.”

  Phaedrus sat down abruptly on the sand, laughing so hard the tears came to his eyes. After a moment, he came back to his senses, and regained his feet, and, chuckling, explained to the mystified Salkim: “Your pardon. In the wild lands we have no manners. We have quite forgotten them. Listen: Here is not the place to make decisions, but here, I say, we here neither fear nor hate Clisp, nor its Prince, and we welcome his rule as an alternative to chaos and warlords and random bandits. A fine idea, that the west recovers. In fact, the sooner the better. But I have had little to do with it”

  Salkim was not visibly moved, and he continued, “No, to the contrary! There is much you have done here. We do not know what doctrines or orthodoxies you espouse, but however they are they seem to work.”

  Phaedrus said, seriously and intently, “You do not know how little I have done that I think you speak of. On the other hand, there has been too much, that others know little of indeed. But this is a simple place, and I and my friend, Meliosme, do not rule, nor reign. We maintain a holding where the peaceable are free to come and go, and gather their wits, after having their worlds turned upside down.”

  Salkim stroked his elegant chain. “I see. Then you claim no lordship.”

  “None.”

  “I would imagine that equally you acknowledge none?”

  “So far, that is an accurate representation.”

  “Hm. Well, now consider: This part of the mainland was always one of the worst places; most uncivilized, even in the times before. This area was most stringently watched and guarded against. Not against armies, or sorties, but against bandits and anarchists. And then the tales change. People began coming to the new world with no longer broken spirits, but ready to… do things, set things right. This is no mean accomplishment. But it affects the progress of another work—which is the consolidation of the west. We no longer have to watch this area, and so the Prince finds his task easy. He is grateful, but being a prince, he also wonders what sort of person could do this?”

  Phaedrus interjected, “I make no claim to ambition—least of all to rule.”

  “You have none?”

  “None. I do not wish to affect events. I wish solitude, obscurity, I desire only to… uncover who and what I am.”

  Salkim observed, “Many never answer that riddle, and many more never learn to ask the question, more’s the pity.”

  “You see far; I understand why you represent Pompeo IV.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Salkim inclined his head, a slight bow, and an acknowledgment. “And so, I am commissioned to find out what is here, in the wilds of Zolotane, and you cannot imagine what kinds of men have passed through my imagination.”

  “I can. I know that way well. I do not seek it now.”

  “…And I find someone who only wants to be left alone. Well, that won’t be completely possible, as I’m sure you understand, but that does put a different cast on things. We shall not have difficulties after all.”

  “I have none in mind.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “You may remain with us if you wish.”

  “For a little time.”

  “A little time. All are welcome; so long as they do not rob and murder.”

  “None of that. The people have come to us for peace and order, and we feel honor-bound to lead them to it, not more of what they have left behind.”

  Phaedrus said, “I fear you will learn little of use to princes; we are trying to let go of things, not gather them. Also, this is not the city. There are only a few comforts here, and one had to grow accustomed to them.”

  “No matter! I will endure it. And while I am here, I will try to persuade you to come with us, despite your modesty.”

  Phaedrus looked at the splendid Salkim sidelong. “How much of this ‘persuasion’ is to be words and discourse, and how much… another kind of speech, however politely dressed?”

  Salkim waved his arms airily. “All reasoning. Why refer to force when one can use it first and be done with arguments over ‘who shot Janno first?’ No, and no again. Understand me. I did not come to carry you off: you would then be worthless for the position offered, and also that would remove a valuable source of stability here on the southeast flank of Clisp.”

  They climbed up the steep bank fronting the now gentle waves of the ocean and laboriously reached the top, where Salkim saw the settlement spread out before him. Not impressive, not even a proper town, but a random collation of shanties, lean-tos, sheds made from scraps of broken ships that had been something else before that. Smoke from cooking fires rose in the air, and in the now-late afternoon, a soft golden light was falling slantwise out of the west. He looked again, and shook his head in disbelief.

  Someone volunteered to carry some food down to the sailors waiting on the beach, and a few gathered up things, seemingly without instruction or orders, and departed shyly to perform their errand.

  Dark fell, a meal was served, and Salkim was made to feel an honored guest. Meliosme observed, as they sat around a fire after eating, “You are the first visitor we have had bearing any sort of order from the civilized world.”

  Salkim nodded, “I am not surprised. True, there was little conflict in Clisp, but there were hard times, refugees, tense moments along the frontiers.” He breathed deeply. “We long chafed under the yoke of The Rectification. Clisp was settled not by The Changeless, but by those who fled from them. And So when things started falling apart on the mainland, we were slow to react. And with good reason, for many of our finest had gone to feed the ranks of the Troopers.” He looked bitter for a moment, and then brightened. “But we had no great war, at home. Everyone seemed to feel at one time that the will was gone out of it, and so there was a rising in Marisol, some scuffles, and suddenly it was over. But of course, we are just now starting to reach out.”

  Phaedrus asked, “Is it the intent of this new-resurgent land to unite the land again?”

  “No. At least, not for the moment. Some say we should, but I think they have not thought of the costs of such a venture. No, we do not fear difference.”

  Phaedrus said, “You spoke of persuasion… but you need to know that we are only holding this together here until those who have come can hold it themselves.”

  “I saw that. I understood. That is why I have said no more. I see that you are encouraging here what we hoped to save in Clisp—that people would
do for themselves, left alone. We prefer a prince, that all can see, but I can see your way too. Fine. But it seems a shame…”

  “No shame. I repay a debt, in the part that I can repay.”

  “Are you done?”

  “No… Meliosme tells me I will never be done, and so that is so; but I have neared the point where I can let go. We will do so.”

  “To say I wished you well would be an excess, nevertheless have it so.”

  “It is well that you say it. Thank you.”

  Salkim gathered himself to his feet. “Time to return.”

  Meliosme said, “You will not stay?”

  “No. This is tempting, but it is not for me. I have another life to follow. And of course, orders. We have other business along the coasts…” He trailed the words off mysteriously.

  Meliosme asked, “Marula?”

  “Farther.”

  She said, “The Pilontaries?”

  “So far. We want to make contacts with the outlying new regimes, to find out… Crule is an inland place with inland thinking, and they will be slow to realize, although they are trying to hold Marula.”

  “Can they hold it?”

  Salkim said thoughtfully, “They are destroying it in order to save it, if you can make sense out of that. It is already useless as a port. But we will go by there, and lob a few bombs onto them, and see if we can make it more difficult for them. Pompeo wants them kept defensive. Besides, there’s a rumor afoot about other things…”

  Phaedrus said, “Something from Tartary?”

  “By the gods, no. They are still fighting each other out there, and welcome them to it, bust hell loose! No, it’s from farther off: there’s talk from the innerlands that one of the ships is coming back.”

  Phaedrus felt an odd feeling, a presentiment. He asked, “Someone has… seen?”

  “Not so I hear it. No, we’ve not seen anything, although Pompeo has a crowd of technicians madly working on something that will work. No. This is from talk we’ve picked up, from traders, spies, refugees. They say the ship’s coming back, to pick up some people it left behind.”

  Phaedrus mused, “To pick them up… odd. I thought they’d never risk it.”

  “Odd to me, too. We heard there were offworlders here, spying and the like.”

  Phaedrus grimaced. “More than that. But their time is over, and we need not waste words or deeds on them. I would urge Pompeo to let them go.”

  Salkim agreed. “Such are my thoughts as well. But all the same, we’d like to keep an eye on things, although I don’t know what we’d do if they wanted to fight.”

  “Believe me. That is the last thing they want. Although they will undoubtedly have weapons if some hothead shoots at them.”

  Salkim chuckled. “Have no fears on that score! We probably don’t have anything strong enough to even reach them. Well, Good night to you all.”

  Meliosme said, “We can send someone…”

  “No matter. I can find the way. And have no fears from us.” He strode to the edge of the darkness, near the banks, and waved once at them, and then disappeared into the night. After a time, they heard some small sounds of a boat moving off the beach, strange calls over the water, and after that, a distant throbbing from the ship, and then all was quiet again for a time, until the bosels of the south coast began commenting on the events of the day, their calls echoing back and forth up and down the coast, and also from far inland.

  Pternam had been sleeping, and now he was awake. He had to stop for a minute and consider where he was… Corytinupol, was it, in the center of Crule the Swale, which was now calling itself Lisagor? Yes. Corytinupol. A dreadful back-country barrack-town, without beauty or flavor, peopled by fanatics, doctrine-quoting idiots and hairsplitters whose existence he had been mercifully shielded from in Symbarupol. Yes. They had been much on the move, first this place, then that one, sometimes uneasy guests who were not entirely sure they were not hostages.

  Before they had left Symbarupol, Arunda Palude had gotten contact with the ship that was coming for whomever it could salvage, but they had soon lost that contact, with the abandonment of the city to the barbarians. All over, all dignity lost, thrown away. He understood with an old skill at perception of the situation which had not left him, that his own situation had changed to something new and terrible: he was in fact completely dependent on the mercy or charity of these offworld spies, who either now ignored him (rightly so: Pternam now had no more influence than a sack of meal) or condescended to issue orders to him, none too politely. Avaria had vanished long ago, making his escape, trusting to his own wit rather than to the offworlders, who were now showing their true character, an immiscible blend of professional academic competence and the grimiest sort of treasonous espionage.

  Well, give them credit, he thought. They recklessly bartered offworld technology to the stem and unbending fanatics of Crule, to buy time, and this had in fact saved the situation from total disaster. Crule managed to survive, and to hold off further disintegration. In fact, they had even made gains, mostly eastward into Puropaigne, The Innerlands. What was left of Symbarupol they had recovered, but it wasn’t worth returning to. Nothing was in this world that he wanted to return to, unless he could personally wring Rael’s neck, which was doubtful, even if he could have found him, which the offworlders refused even to bother with.

  A squat, totally bald man thrust his head into Pternam’s cubicle and glanced about for a moment with a look of icy contempt. He growled, “Pternam? You awake?”

  “Yes. I heard some noise outside, I think.”

  “Right. Get your things. It’s time to go.”

  “We’re moving again?”

  “The last time. We’re the last pickup. We’ll have to walk it for a bit, out of town, you know; the elders don’t want their people contaminated by seeing a spaceship, even if it’s only an exploratory lighter.” This was the brutal and effective Cesar Kham, who had gradually taken control of the offworlders from the temporary leadership of Porfirio Charodei.

  Kham chuckled to himself. “They would just as soon shoot us as not, but in the final step, they’d rather be rid of us, as if being rid of us could stem what your own people set in motion here.”

  Pternam got up and began gathering a few things. “I don’t imagine I’ll need much.”

  “No.”

  “You are taking me with you?”

  “Are you worried we’d sell you to Crule? No chance. You’ve seen too much now. You have to go, like it or not. Leaving you here would upset things more than the revolution did. Without you, it’s just a bad dream for them… They’ll wake up in a year or so and find out the reality’s worse, but never mind that…”

  “You don’t think they can win here?”

  “No.” That was the way with Kham. Cutting, direct. No. No qualifiers, no modifiers. “No.” Kham explained, “I can’t fault their theology; they have that down pat; but there’s no future in the economics. They can’t hold Marula, and without it they have no access to the ocean. They have the center of the continent, but everyone can just sail around them—that’s the trouble with living on an island, however big it is. The lords of Tartary are encouraging that, of course.”

  “You foresee a two-continent world united against Crule?”

  “No. Nothing like that. You’re in for a long period of contending states and mini-states, but you’ll have more world trade. Crule itself isn’t worth the trouble. They’ll wither in time, and go out.”

  Pternam rubbed his eyes, and unsteadily walked to the door. The corridor outside was almost empty, now. Pternam mused, aloud, “I often wonder why you stuck with Symbarupol and Crule to the end.”

  “How so?”

  “I am certain from what I know of you that a state such as Clisp would be more to your liking.”

  “As a place to live and work? Of course! But then you have to understand also that however attractive it may be, it is of course terribly backward. I have a colleague who has made a life’s wo
rk of studying the principalities of the Renaissance on Old Earth; an expert, one may say, I think the best in his field. But you can bet you wouldn’t find him in fourteenth-century Florence, or anything like it. One is always a historian at a distance. Remember that. They would make short work of us in Clisp, you may be sure. In fact, that prince who is running things there openly has posted a reward for any one of us, unharmed… None have taken him up on it. All the people who have decided to go native here have already gone, and you may be certain they’ll stay that way.”

  “I heard some talk. Did you lose many people here?”

  “Some.” Kham did not elaborate on the single word, which led Pternam to believe that their losses had been severe. He imagined this was so, ironically enough, since the offworlders had not brought down Lisagor, but had supported it, in fact, they had been its strongest pillar. But all of that was gone, now, and hardly mattered.

  Kham conducted him outside, where the party was assembling, some afoot, some piling a few things onto draywagons, with the elders of Crule looking on from the sidelines, displaying no emotions. Pternam glanced around the windy darkness and asked, “What wagon do I go on?”

  Kham started off on some errand, and looked back, at Pternam’s question, and barked, “You walk. Get going.” It was rude, especially if one recalled Pternam’s former status, but again, now that did not matter greatly either.

  Pternam had gradually learned the habit of blanking his mind during the unpleasant parts; of fading out in doing mindlessly, and the dull routines were soon over. This was such an instance. He set out walking into the darkness and concentrated only on keeping up with the rest of the party. He did not look around, or try to see anything of what he was passing through. Only walking, and the dark. Soon the onlookers grew less, and then the lights of the town, and then the buildings, and they were in the open, out in the open and naked grasslands of Crule the Swale, trudging along a pale dirt road that arrowed off into the darkness.