Wyst: Alastor 1716

by Jack Vance

  His hopes were immediately realized: the ledge was thickly encrusted with percebs and Jantiff filled the buckets in short order.

  Returning to the shore he built a fire, at which he warmed himself while he shelled and cleaned the percebs.

  The sun had hardly reached the zenith when Jantiff made his delivery to the Old Groar. Fariske was somewhat puzzled by Jantiff’s expedition. “When you worked for me, you used as much time to gather two buckets, and they were not even shelled.”

  “The conditions are not at all comparable,” said Jantiff. “Incidentally, I notice that the shed is cluttered with broken furniture and rubbish. For three ozols I will order the confusion and carry the junk to the rubbish dump.”

  By dint of furious argument, Fariske reduced Jantiff’s price to two ozols, and Jantiff set to work. From the discards Jantiff reserved two old chairs, a three-legged table, a pair of torn mattresses, a number of pots, canisters and dented pans. The ownership of these items, in fact, had been his prime goal, and he suspected that Fariske would have put an inordinate value upon the items had he requested them directly. With considerable satisfaction Jantiff calculated the yield of his day’s employment: six ozols and the furnishing of his hut.

  On the following day, Jantiff went early to work. He gathered, shelled and cleaned seven buckets of percebs. After delivering the stipulated quota to Fariske, he took the remaining percebs to the Cimmery, where he found no difficulty in selling them to Madame Tchaga for three ozols.

  Madame Tchaga was notable for her verbosity. Lacking any better company, she served Jantiff a bowl of turnip soup and described the vexations inherent in trying to gratify the tastes of a fickle and unappreciative clientele.

  Jantiff agreed that her frustrations verged upon the insupportable. He went on to remark that the prosperity of an inn often depended upon its cheerful ambience. Possibly a profusion of floral designs upon the Cimmery’s façade and a depicted procession of jolly townsfolk on a long panel, perhaps to be hung over the door, might enhance the rather bleak atmosphere of the establishment.

  Madame Tchaga dismissed the idea out of hand. “All very well to talk about designs and depictions, but who in Baled is capable of such cleverness?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am gifted with such talent,” said Jantiff. “Possibly I might find time to do certain work along these lines.”

  During the next hour and a half Jantiff discovered that Madame Tchaga, as a shrewd and relentless negotiator, far surpassed even Fariske. Jantiff, however, maintained a detached and casual attitude, and eventually won a contract on essentially his own terms, and Madame Tchaga even advanced five ozols for the purchase of supplies.

  Jantiff went immediately to the general store where be bought paint of various colors and several brushes. Returning to the street he noticed a plump heavy-faced man in fawn-colored garments approaching at a leisurely splay-footed gait. “Eubanq! Just the person I want to see!” called Jantiff in a jovial voice. “We now return to our original plan!”

  Eubanq halted and stood in apparent perplexity. “What plan is this?”

  “Don’t you remember? For a hundred ozols—an exorbitant sum, incidentally—you are to convey me to Uncibal spaceport in time for me to board the Sereniac.”

  Eubanq gave a slow thoughtful nod. “The hundred ozols naturally are to be paid in advance: You understand this?”

  “I foresee no difficulty,” said Jantiff confidently. “I have on hand something over thirty ozols. My arrangement with Madame Tchaga will net another twenty-two ozols, and I regularly earn six or seven owls a day.”

  “I am pleased to hear of your prosperity,” said. Eubanq courteously. “What is your secret?”

  “No secret whatever! You could have done the same! I simply wallow around the ocean until I have gathered seven buckets of percebs, which I clean and shell and deliver to the Cimmery and the Old Groar. Might you need a bucket or two for your own use?”

  Eubanq laughed. “My taste is amply satisfied at the Old Groar. You might make your proposal to Grand Knight Shubart. He is back in residence with a houseful of guests. He’ll certainly require a supply of percebs.”

  “A good idea! So then it’s all clear for the Serenaic!”

  Eubanq smiled his somewhat distant smile and went his way. Jantiff paused to consider a moment. The sooner he earned a hundred ozols the better. The Grand Knight’s ozols were as good as any, so why not hazard a try?

  Jantiff left off his paints in Fariske’s shed, then set out along the northern shore of Lulace Sound to the Grand Knight’s manor. Approaching Lulace he sensed bustle and activity where before there had been somnolence. Keeping a wary eye open for Booch, Jantiff went to the service entrance at the back of the building. A scullion fetched the chief cook, who made no difficulty about placing a continuing order for two buckets every third day, at two ozols the bucket; double Jantiff’s usual price, for a period of twenty-four days. “The Grand Knight entertains important guests until the Centenary at Uncibal,” explained the cook. “Thereafter, all will return to normal.”

  “You can rely upon me to satisfy your needs,” said Jantiff.

  In a mood almost buoyant, Jantiff returned up the road to Balad. The hundred ozols were well within his, reach; he could confidently look forward to a comfortable passage home… He heard the whir of driven wheels and jumped to the side of the road. The vehicle, guided by Booch, approached and passed. Booch’s expression was rapt and glazed, his ropy lips drawn back in a foolish grin.

  Jantiff returned to the road and watched the vehicle recede toward Balad. Where would Booch be going in such a fervor of anticipation? Jantiff proceeded thoughtfully into town. He went directly to the telephone and once again called the Alastor Centrality of Uncibal.

  Upon the screen appeared the face of Aleida Gluster. Her cheeks, once plump and pink, sagged; Jantiff thought that she seemed worried and even unwell. He spoke apologetically. “Once again it’s Jantiff Ravensroke, and I fear that I’m a great nuisance.”

  “Not at all,” said Aleida Cluster. “It is my duty to serve you. Are you still at Balad?”

  “Yes, and temporarily at least all seems to be going well. But I must speak to the cursar. Has he returned to Uncibal?”

  “No,” said Aleida in a tense voice. “He has not yet returned. It is most remarkable.”

  Jantiff could not restrain a peevish ejaculation. “My business is absolutely vital!”

  “I understand as much from our previous encounters,” said Aleida tartly. “I cannot produce him by sheer effort of will. I wish I could.”

  “I suppose that you’ve tried the Waunisse office again?”

  “Of course. He has not been seen.”

  “Perhaps you should notify the Connatic.”

  “I have already done so.”

  “In that case there is nothing to do but wait,” said Jantiff reluctantly. “A message to the Old Groar Tavern will reach me.”

  “This is understood.”

  Jantiff went out to stand in the wide main street. The weather had changed. Clouds hung heavy and full, like great black udders; huge raindrops struck into the sandy dust Jantiff hunched his shoulders and hurried to the Old Groar. With a confident step he entered the common-room, seated himself at a table, and signaled Voris for a mug of ale.

  Fariske, glancing through the kitchen door, saw Jantiff, and approached in a portentous manner. “Jantiff, I am vexed with you.”

  Jantiff looked up in wonder. “What have I done?”

  “You are supplying percebs to the Cimmery. This is not conceivably a benefit to me.”

  “It is neither a benefit—nor a hindrance. Her patrons eat percebs like your own. If I failed to supply them, someone else would do so.”

  “Using my buckets, my pry-bars, my forceps?”

  Jantiff contrived a negligent laugh. “Really, a trivial matter. The equipment is not damaged. I reserve all the best coronels for the Old Groar. No matter what fault your patrons may find, they will always s
ay: Fariske’s percebs, at least, are superior to those at the Cimmery.’ So why do you complain?”

  “Because I had hoped for your loyalty!”

  “That you have, naturally.”

  “Then why do I hear that you are about to paint that ramshackle old place, so that it presents an impression of sanitary conditions?”

  “I will do the same for the Old Groar, if you will pay my wage.”

  Fariske heaved a sigh. “So that is how the wind blows. How much does Madame pay?”

  “The exact amount is confidential. I will make a general statement to the effect that forty ozols is quite a decent sum.”

  Fariske jerked around in astonishment. “Forty ozols? From old Tchaga, who carries every dinket she has ever owned strapped to the inside of her legs?”

  “Remember,” said Jantiff, “I am an expert at the craft!”

  “How can I remember something you never told me?”

  “You gave me hardly enough time to clear my throat, much less describe my talents to you.”

  “Bah!” muttered Fariske. “Forty ozols is an outrageous sum, just for a bit of daubing.”

  “How would you like a series, of ten decorative plaques to hang on your walls, at five owls each? Or for six owls I will use silver-gilt accentuations. It will put the Cimmery to shame.”

  Fariske made a cautious counter-proposal and the discussion proceeded. Meanwhile Booch came into the tavern with a number of burly young men: farmhands, fishermen, laborers and the like. They seated themselves, commanded ale and discussed their affairs in boisterous voices. Jantiff could not evade their conversation: “—with my four’ wurgles through the Sych—”

  “—out to Wamish Water; that’s where the creatures collect!”

  “Careful, Booch! Remember the yellows!”

  “No fear: I’ll get none in my mouth!”

  At last Jantiff complained to Fariske. “What are those people shouting about?”

  “They’re off for a bit of witch chasing. Booch is famously keen.”

  “Witch-chasing? To what end?”

  Fariske considered the group over his shoulder. “Herchelman farms his acres like a priest growing haw; last year someone stole a bushel of wattledabs, and now he punishes the witches. Maw ate-witch-tainted food; he underwent the cure and now he carries a great club when he goes on a hunt. Sittle is bored; he’ll do anything novel. Dusselbeck is proud of his wurgles and likes to put them to work. Booch specializes in witch kits; he chases them down and forces his. body upon them. Pargo’s case is absolutely simple; he enjoys witch killing.”

  Jantiff darted a lambent glance toward the witch chasers, who, had just commanded additional ale from the sweating Voris. “It seems a vulgar and brutal recreation.”

  “Quite so,” said Fariske. “I never relished the sport. The witches were fleet; I continually blundered into bogs and thickets. The witches enjoy the game as much as the chasers.”

  “I find this hard to believe.”

  Fariske turned up the palms of his hands. “Why else do they frequent our woods? Why do they steal wattledabs? Why do they startle our nights with witchfires and apparitions?”

  “Nevertheless, witch chasing seems an ugly recreation.”

  Fariske gave a snort of rebuttal. “They are a perverse folk; I for one cannot understand their habits. Still, I agree that the chases should be conducted with decorum. Booch’s conduct is vulgar; I am surprised that he has not come down with the yellows. You know how the disease is cured? Booch, for his risks, must be considered intrepid.”

  Jantiff, finding the topic oppressive, tilted his mug but found it dry. He signaled, but Voris was busy with the witch chasers. “If we are entirely agreed upon the decorative panels and their cost—”

  “I will pay twenty ozols, no more, for the ten compositions, and I insist upon a minimum of four colors, with small touches of silver-gilt.”

  Jantiff squared around as if to depart. “I can waste no more time. With works of aesthetic quality one does not niggle over an ozol or two.”

  “The concept works in a double direction, like an apothecary’s tremblant. Remember: it is you, not I who will experience the joys of artistic creation. This is no small consideration, or so I am told.”

  Jantiff refuted the remark and eventually the two reached agreement Fariske served Jantiff a pint of old Dankwort and the two parted on good terms.

  Jantiff returned to his but with Dwan low in the west and the pale light slanting over his shoulder down Dessimo Beach. The clouds had scattered to blasts of wind from the south which had now abated to random gusts of no great force. The Moaning Ocean, still churned in angry recollection, and pounded itself to spume on the offshore rocks: Jantiff was grateful that he need collect no more percebs this day. Passing the forest, he halted to listen to the far hooting of wurgles, a mournful throbbing sound which sent tingles of ancient dread along Jantiff’s back. More faintly came whoops and ululations from the throats of, men. Hateful sounds, thought Jantiff. He walked more-quickly along the beach, shoulders hunched, head low.

  The outcry of the wurgles waxed and waned, then suddenly grew loud. Jantiff stopped short and stared in apprehension toward the Sych. He glimpsed movement under the trees, and a moment later discerned a pair of human figures scurrying through the shadows. Jantiff stirred his numb limbs and proceeded on his way. A frightful outcry sounded suddenly loud: the wailing of wurgles, gasps of human horror and pain. Jantiff stood frozen, his face wrenched into a contorted grimace. Then, crying out wordlessly, he ran toward the sound, pausing only to pick up a stout branch to serve as a cudgel.

  A brook, issuing from the Sych, widened into a pond. The wurgles bounded back and forth across the brook and splashed into the pond, the better to tear at the woman who had mired herself in the mud. Jantiff ran screaming around the pond, to halt at the edge of the mire. Two wurgles hanging on the woman’s shoulders had borne her down to press her head into the water. One gnawed at her scalp; the other rent the nape of her neck. Blood swirled out to darken the pond; the woman made spasmodic motion and died. Jantiff backed slowly away, sick with disgust and fury. He turned and lurched away toward the road. The wurgles keened again; Jantiff swung around with ready cudgel, hoping for attack, but the wurgles had flushed forth the second member of the pair. From the Sych ran a girl with contorted features and streaming brown-blond hair; Jantiff instantly recognized the girl-witch he had met at the roadmender’s shed. Four wurgles bounded in pursuit, massive heads out-thrust to display gleaming fangs. The girl saw Jantiff and stopped short in dismay; the wurgles lunged and she fell to her knees. But Jantiff was already beside her. He swung his cudgel, to break the back of the foremost wurgle; it, slumped and lay kinked on the trail, bending and unbending in agonized jerks. Jantiff struck the second wurgle on the head; it somersaulted and lay still. The two survivors backing away, set up a desolate outcry. Jantiff chased them but they leapt smartly away.

  Jantiff returned to the girl, who knelt gasping for breath. From the Sych came the calls of the witch chasers, ever more distinct; already different voices and different cries could be detected.

  Jantiff spoke to the witch-girl. “Listen carefully! Do you hear me?”

  The girl lifted a face bloated with despair; she gave no other sign.

  “Up! To your feet,” cried Jantiff urgently. “The chasers are coming; you’ve got to bide.” He seized her arm and hauled her erect. The third wurgle suddenly darted close; Jantiff was ready with his cudgel and struck hard. The animal ran screaming in a circle, snapping at its own mouse-colored hind quarters. Jantiff struck again and again in hysterical energy until the creature dropped. He stood panting’ a moment, listening. The chasers had become confused; Jantiff could hear them calling to each other. He thrust the dead wurgle into the brook, then did the same with the other two bodies. The current swung them away, and they drifted toward the sea.

  Jantiff turned back to the witch-girl. “Come, quickly now! Remember me? We met in the forest, Now, th
is way, at a run!”

  Jantiff tugged her into a trot; they ran beside the brook, across the road, over the shore stones to the water’s edge. The girl stopped short; by main force Jantiff pulled her out into the surf and led her stumbling and tottering for fifty yards parallel to the shore. For a moment they rested, Jantiff anxiously watching the edge of the forest, the girl staring numbly down at the surging water. Jantiff lifted her into his arms and staggered up the beach to his hut. Kicking open his makeshift door he carried her to one of his rickety chairs. “Sit here until I come back,” said Jantiff. “I think—I hope—you’ll be safe. But don’t show yourself, and don’t make any noise!” This last, so Jantiff reflected, as he went back along the beach, was possibly an unnecessary warning; she had uttered no sound from the moment he had seen her.

  Jantiff went back to where the brook crossed the path. From the Sych came three men, the first two led by leashed wurgles. The third man was Booch.

  The wurgles, sniffing out the witch-girl’s track, paused where she had fallen, then strained toward the sea.

  Booch caught sight of Jantiff. “Hallo, you, whatever your name! Where are the witches we chased through the Sych?”

  “I saw but one,” said Jantiff, contriving a meek and eager voice. “I heard the wurgles as I came from town. She crossed the path and led them yonder.” He pointed toward the sea, in which direction the wurgles already strained.

  “What did she look like?” rasped Booch.

  “I barely saw her, but she seemed young and agile: a witch kit, for sure!”

  “Quick then!” cried Booch. “She’s the one I’ve ranged the forest to find!”

  The wurgles followed the trail to the water’s edge where they halted and made fretful outcries. Booch looked up and down the beach, then out to sea. He pointed. “Look! There’s something out there: a body!”