by Jack Vance
“The same,” said Zamp.
The slave-dealer shook his head in displeasure. “I can sell no tickets to such a despondent affair. Here at Garken we prefer frivolity, merriment, even a bit of ribaldry, if done in good taste. I think that I will exchange these vouchers for their value in iron.”
Gassoon raised his eyes to the sky. Zamp said suavely: “The vouchers are similar to your certified paper; they must be redeemed at the bank.”
The slave-dealer started to expostulate, but the magistrate said: “This is reasonable enough. Who would risk the consequences of fraud for a paltry few groats of iron?”
“Undoubtedly no one,” replied the slave-dealer, “but redemption day at the bank is six months away!”
“What!” cried Gassoon in wrath. “Those bits of stamped paper paid in at the gangplank window cannot be redeemed for six months?”
“Owing to the special circumstances,” said the magistrate, “I will request the bank official to redeem both the certified paper and those vouchers issued on behalf of this vessel tomorrow morning. You need not fear for your iron; at Garken we are rigidly meticulous. We dare not be otherwise.”
The magistrate and the slave-dealer departed. Zamp and Gassoon looked at each other. Zamp said: “Our recourse is clear and obvious.”
Gassoon for once agreed with Zamp. He summoned the boatswain: “Bullocks to the capstans. Sheet home all sails, then throw off the hawsers. We depart Garken instantly.”
Chapter XIII
The winds blew cool and steady out of the south; stars were revealed, then obscured by moving wisps of cloud. By a near-clairvoyant feel for the loom of the low banks, the crew of Miraldra’s Enchantment navigated the brimming river.
At midnight the winds failed. The bullocks worked two capstans, while Garth Ashgale and his troupe, bitterly protesting, thrust at the bars of the third, and the vessel continued to thrust north.
At dawn wind once more filled the sails and the stern-wheel was lifted from the water. Halfway through the morning six horsemen came pounding from the south along the east bank of the river, to shout and wave their arms toward the ship. Gassoon prudently hugged the west bank and pretended to ignore the gesticulations. The horsemen at last became discouraged and turned disconsolately back toward the south. Zamp, watching through the spy-glass, thought to recognize the portly shape of the slave-dealer, although a cowl shadowed his features.
“We are well clear of Garken,” Zamp told Gassoon. “The natives of the place are petty and humorless; they would stop at nothing to gain an advantage.”
“Nevertheless,” growled Gassoon, “my reputation for integrity, which I have jealously guarded, has now been tarnished.”
“Not necessarily,” said Zamp. “The Garken bank may decide to treat our tickets as valid tokens of exchange, in which case no one is the loser.”
Late the following day the ship approached Massacre Bend, regarding which the River Index had nothing whatever to say. Gassoon wanted to play a performance or two in order to repair his finances; Zamp suspected that riders from Garken might have preceded the ship to Massacre Bend, with possibly unpleasant consequences; and the two conducted a lively discussion.
The argument was rendered moot as Massacre Bend came into view: a town dilapidated and deserted. Gassoon took his vessel close by the broken docks and examined the ruins through his spyglass. He saw only what might have been furtive movement in the shadows. Massacre Bend was clearly not a propitious location at which to stage a performance, and Miraldra’s Enchantment sailed on.
The countryside had become a vast prairie. The Vissel River sprawled across the land like a gigantic sentient organism, soft and sluggish. Miraldra’s Enchantment moved like a boat in a quiet dream, under the softest of sunny blue skies. On several occasions nomad bands showed themselves, to stare silently, or sometimes to ride along the shore hallooing and howling and waving their hats.
The River Index no longer offered pertinent information, although the chart tentatively located several towns: Prairie View, Idanthus, Port Venable and Castle Banoury. Gassoon insisted upon a halt at Prairie View, despite Zamp’s apprehension in regard to envoys from Garken. The town was little more than a dock, a warehouse and a huddle of farmsteads; nevertheless, Macbeth was played before an appreciative audience and Gassoon took great satisfaction with the admission receipts, so much so that he wished to lay over several days. Zamp, however, interposed his veto, citing the press of time.
On the day after leaving Prairie View a band of nomads appeared on the bank, watched a few moments, then galloped upstream with an air of purpose which Zamp considered sinister. Gassoon, engrossed in a discussion of poetry with Damsel Blanche-Aster, scoffed aside Zamp’s forebodings. Two hours later Miraldra’s Enchantment, rounding a bend in the river, encountered a fleet of a dozen coracles manned by these same nomads, armed with bows and arrows, axes and grappling hooks.
Zamp, far from being reassured by Gassoon’s confidence, had put the ship’s company on the alert, and now defense procedures were instantly effectuated. Arrow guards were raised to protect the helmsman and the drive-capstans, at which the bullocks already were harnessed. On the foredeck Zamp aimed the howitzer of cemented glass fiber and applied a match to the fuse; the howitzer belched a charge of pebbles at the coracles, destroying three. Ashgale and his troupe were posted around the gunwales with orders to dislodge whatever grapples were flung aboard. The crew meanwhile manned the port and starboard catapults, to fling bags of volatile oil out among the coracles. Wads of burning waste then ignited the oil-slick, to create an almost explosive curtain of fire. The would-be assailants screamed in despair, dived into the river and swam ashore. Zamp reloaded the howitzer and discharged it at the three coracles still floating, and almost as soon as it had started the attack was repelled.
Gassoon grudgingly acknowledged the efficacy of Zamp’s measures, but wondered if Zamp had not been precipitate. “Conceivably they could have been warned off by an announcement or a display of some sort. I deplore taking lives in so wanton a fashion.”
“On the other hand,” Zamp pointed out, “there will be just so many fewer bloodthirsty ruffians to attack us on our return trip.”
Gassoon muttered under his breath and stalked off to his office.
An hour later a dead calm fell over the prairie. Clouds boiled down from the north, where the Mandaman Mountains now cast a vague loom. Lightning thrashed at the passive land right and left, then came a pelt of cold rain. Five minutes later the storm fled off to all directions as if a great fist had struck down upon it. The sky opened and gentle breezes blew Miraldra’s Enchantment upstream.
In late afternoon a small town appeared on the eastern shore. Checking the chart, Zamp declared the town to be Idanthus. In the absence of information, Zamp would have proceeded discreetly past, but Gassoon insisted on halting for the night, not only to stage a performance and thus benefit the exchequer, but also to be spared the danger of anchoring overnight in midstream.
Against these arguments Zamp could pose only a mood of generalized uneasiness which Gassoon derided. Miraldra’s Enchantment eased off sheets and slid sidewise across the current against the Idanthus dock.
A crowd of Idanthans immediately appeared: a sturdy folk with ruddy complexions, blonde hair, and candid open countenances. The children especially were charming and threw flowers up on the deck of the vessel.
When Gassoon stepped forth to introduce himself and his ship, the Idanthans greeted him with enthusiasm; Miraldra’s Enchantment, so they declared, was the first showboat they had ever seen; indeed, vessels of any sort were infrequent.
Zamp’s misgivings were disarmed by the cordiality of the welcome, and it seemed as if the entire population of the town attended the evening’s performance, paying in cold honest iron, to Gassoon’s satisfaction.
The drama was warmly received, to such an extent that after the final curtain Gassoon was prompted to step out on the stage. “Thank you for your enthusiasm; it is mos
t gratifying. I truly believe that you, the perceptive citizens of this fair town, have fully comprehended what we sought to convey.”
Smilingly Gassoon held up his hand to the shouts from the audience of “Again! Again!”
“Tonight we are tired and must rest, but if there are folk of the town who have missed tonight’s presentation, I see no reason why we should not stage another performance tomorrow morning, before, regretfully, we take our departure from this delightful community!”
At last the audience departed the ship, and Gassoon gratefully counted the proceeds of the evening into his strongbox.
In the morning it seemed as if the town had succumbed to a mood of festival. Children had woven ropes of flax-whisk and bobadil blossoms with which they festooned the vessel: round about, bow to stern, port and starboard; and they wound so much foliage into the stern-wheel that Zamp became concerned that navigation might be impeded.
Gassoon, wearing a festive jacket of maroon welt-cloth over his usual black trousers, exclaimed to Zamp: “At last, what I had almost despaired to find: a truly enthusiastic and whole-hearted community. I laugh to recall your dire forebodings!”
“No doubt,” said Zamp. “Time presses; let us get the performance over and done with.”
An elder of the town approached Gassoon. “Naturally I cannot control the management of your affairs, but last night we spent iron accumulated across several years. We have no more; still —”
Zamp said smoothly: “You may pay in fresh produce and fodder for our beasts.”
The elder scratched his head. “We lack fodder, and as for garden stuffs, would you want to pull the food from the throats of your friends? Let the performance begin! We will worry about prices and profits some other time. Is it after all so important? We are planning a great feast in your honor three days from now. All will provide their best; all will eat and drink their fill. We are ordering in six tuns of mead, shillicks and pechavies to be roasted, loads of sweetmeats: the event will transcend all others in the history of Idanthus!”
Zamp remarked: “Such affairs are expensive; how will you pay if you have spent all your iron?”
“One or another means will surely be found. We consider forthright generosity the prime virtue; at Idanthus no one shirks or holds back what he has. It is mean and niggling for a person to hoard a great store of iron when his friend lacks, or cannot make payment!” For a moment the elder’s eyes flashed and he seemed almost indignant.
“A noble sentiment,” Gassoon remarked thoughtfully.
“In the meantime — on with the performance! Let us enjoy each instant of our all too fugitive lives!”
“Very well,” said Zamp. “One last performance, then we must be on our way, as we have important business elsewhere!”
The elder expressed shock and dismay. “Surely you would not leave us on the eve of the great feast!”
“We have no choice,” said Zamp. “Our business is urgent.”
“Yes,” said Gassoon, “urgent indeed. Very very urgent.”
“This news will sadden everyone,” said the elder. “We had looked forward to enjoying your entire repertory, rather than just the rather melancholy affair of last night.”
“That is the only piece we know,” said Zamp. “We are presenting it again today. The curtain is ready to rise; please be seated.”
Again: Macbeth, a production perhaps overly grim for such a merry occasion, especially since Zamp had excised certain of those spectacles introduced for the very purpose of enlivening the drama. The applause of the Idanthans, while hearty and unstinted, lacked the feverish enthusiasm of the night before. At the final curtain Gassoon came forth on the stage.
“We are sorry but now we must leave. Our visit has been all too brief, still —”
From the audience came shouts: “Don’t go, don’t go!” “You must stay and entertain us always!” “Another performance; play us another piece from your vast repertory!”
Gassoon smiled and held up his hands to quell the cries. “All this is most flattering, but we must depart. Will you be so good as to remove the garlands and flower ropes so that our vessel may proceed?”
“The garlands are known as ‘Strands of Love’,” said the elder. “No one would dare to break them.”
Zamp came forth on the stage. “We are overwhelmed by your enthusiasm and generosity, and have no choice but to submit. We now present another performance: the majestic tragedy Macbeth.”
“Macbeth again?” demanded the elder rather querulously.
“There are immense depths of meaning to the drama,” said Zamp. “The work is an inexhaustible treasure!”
Again Macbeth, and Zamp on this occasion excised the singing and wailing which gave the witch scenes their pungency, and all the soliloquies were delivered twice. Several members of the audience, with affairs elsewhere, decided to depart, only to find that the gangplank had been drawn up so that they were compelled to remain.
At the end of the drama, Zamp appeared on the stage. “We cannot let ourselves be outdone in liberality or effusiveness! Do not stir from your seats; we intend to present our performance again, at no cost. So now: to Act 1, Scene 1. Please attend the sublimity of the language, and also the profundity of the sentiments!”
Macbeth was now played with the witches in ordinary costumes, and sitting in chairs like tired charwomen; soliloquies were repeated twice, and the orchestral accompaniment was reduced to the music of one belphorn, a thunder-machine and brattle-drums. The curtain dropping on the last scene drew back immediately upon Act 1, Scene 1, and the three witches on the heath. The audience seemed somewhat restless, and many rose from their seats to stand in the aisles, so that Zamp, pausing in one of his soliloquies, came to the front of the stage.
“Friends!” called Zamp. “Please attend our performance! We are giving our best, and we intend to do so without cessation.”
“Be so good as to lower the gangplank!” called the elder. “I have business ashore!”
“We can only remain at Idanthus so long as you give us your enthusiastic attention,” Zamp said, “so please resume your seat.”
“Play something else! We have had enough of this portentous drama.”
“We play only Macbeth; this is all we know.”
“In that case you must leave Idanthus,” exclaimed the elder with sudden energy, “and take Macbeth with you!”
Fifty miles north of Idanthus the Vissel entered a region of rocky hills and green meadows, shadowed under Doric elms, black sentinel syrax, gray-green and silver tremblants: a landscape as soft and delightful as lost Arcadia, but eerily quiet so that even the wind disappeared and the river flowed like syrup. Gassoon ordered the stern-wheel into operation; the bullocks, Garth Ashgale and his artists were all pressed into service, and the vessel continued up the brimming river. Zamp sat on the quarter-deck sipping wine, dividing his attention between the landscape and Garth Ashgale thrusting at the capstan.
Where a tall dark forest came down to the river stood a town of blue and red painted timber, which Zamp assumed to be Port Venable. In the absence of wind and with night close at hand Gassoon decided to dock and stage a performance in the hope of earning iron. Zamp made another uneasy protestation. “We know nothing in regard to these folk; and we have had one or two experiences along the way to teach us caution.”
Gassoon inspected the town through his spy-glass. “I see nothing alarming. The folk appear of normal stature and show neither fangs, tails nor horns. Your character, Apollon Zamp, is marred by a certain paltriness of spirit, a diffused universal distrust which I truly deplore.”
Zamp was at a loss for response, and Gassoon stalked off to instruct the quartermaster. Miraldra’s Enchantment veered across the river and eased against the dock of the town.
A grave and somber gathering came forth to listen to Gassoon’s announcement: “This is the wonderful showboat Miraldra’s Enchantment, and we are prepared to present for your enjoyment that classic of mediæval Earth Macbeth. B
ut first I must inquire as to your local regulations and how they apply to us: for instance, do you charge a dock fee?”
A spokesman from the folk of Port Venable, as the town was known, assured Gassoon that no extraordinary regulations prevailed. “However, it is considered polite practice to distribute complimentary tickets to the town officials and their families.”
Gassoon pulled at his long chin. “And how many are these town officials?”
“About thirty.”
“And how many persons are included in the average family?”
“As we reckon kinship, the family group normally includes about eleven or twelve persons.”
“Interesting!” said Gassoon. “The folk of Port Venable evidently enjoy close and cordial family relationships.”
“We do indeed.”
Gassoon, surveying the town, estimated its total population to be approximately four hundred. “We will make a concession even more generous,” he said in a grand voice. “Our admission fee is ordinarily one groat; tonight, rather than distribute complimentary tickets, we will reduce this price by half, in order that everyone of Port Venable may profit, rich and poor alike.”
“This is good to hear!” declared the Port Venable citizen. “Such expansive good will is rarely encountered nowadays!”
Gassoon immediately put the tickets on sale and Zamp repaired to a dockside tavern. Here he learned that Bottomless Lake lay still a hundred miles north across a robber-infested wilderness.
“The region is home for all the outcasts of Soyvanesse,” stated his informant. “The worst of all is Baron Banoury, who inhabits a castle at the Mandaman Gate. For a ship like yours he will demand an enormous toll: two hundred groats at least. If you refuse to pay, he will drop rocks upon your vessel as you pass through the chasm.”
Zamp blew out his cheeks in dismay. “This is a consistent policy?”
“As consistent as the flow of beer, from vat, through mug and gut, to trough.”