by Jack Vance
“The Wankh pay well?”
“Like everyone else, as little as possible. But we are forced to concede. If labor costs rose, they would take slaves, or train Blacks and Purples, one or the other. We would then lose employment and perhaps our freedom as well. So we strive without too much complaint, and seek more profitable employment elsewhere once we are skilled.”
“It is highly likely,” said Reith, “that the Yao Helsse, in the gray and green suit, will ask what we discussed. He may even offer you money.”
Zarfo bit off a chunk of sausage. “I shall naturally tell all, if I am paid enough.”
“In that case,” said Reith, “our conversation must deal in pleasantries, profitless to both of us.”
Zarfo chewed thoughtfully. “How much profit had you in mind?”
“I don’t care to specify, since you would only ask Helsse for more, or try to extract the same from both of us.”
Zarfo sighed dismally. “You have a sorry opinion of the Lokhar. Our word is our bond; once we strike a bargain we do not deviate.”
The haggling continued on a more or less cordial level until for the sum of twenty sequins Zarfo agreed to guard the privacy of the conversation as fiercely as he might the hiding place of his money, and the sum was paid over.
“Back to the Wankh message for a moment,” said Reith. “There were references to a ‘leader.’ Were there hints or clues by which to identify him?”
Zarfo pursed his lips. “A wolf-tone indicating high-level gentry; another honorific brevet which might signify something like ‘a person of the excellent sort’ or ‘in your own image,’ ‘of your sort.’ It is very difficult. A Wankh reading the ideogram would understand a chime, which then would stimulate a visual image complete in essential details. The Wankh would be furnished a mental image of the person, but for someone like myself there are only crude outlines. I can tell no more.”
“You work in Settra?”
“Alas. A man of my years and impoverished: isn’t it a pity?
But I near my goal, and then back to Smargash, in Lokhara, for a bit of meadow, a young wife, a comfortable chair by the hearth.”
“You worked in the space shops at Ao Hidis?”
“Yes, indeed; I transferred from the tool works to the space shops, where I repaired and installed air purifiers.”
“Lokhar mechanics must be very skillful, then.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Certain mechanics specialize upon the installation of, say, controls and instruments?”
“Naturally. Complex trades, both.”
“Have such mechanics immigrated to Settra?”
Zarfo gave Reith a calculating glance. “How much is the information worth to you?”
“Control your avarice,” said Reith. “No more money today. Another sausage, if you like.”
“Later, perhaps. Now as to the mechanics: in Smargash are dozens, hundreds, retired after lifetimes of toil.”
“Could they be tempted to join in a dangerous venture?”
“No doubt, if the danger were scant and the profit high. What do you propose?”
Reith threw caution to the winds. “Assume that someone wished to confiscate a Wankh spaceship and fly it to an unspecified destination: how many specialists would be required, and how much would it cost to hire them?”
Zarfo, to Reith’s relief, did not stare in bewilderment or shock. He gnawed for a moment at the last of the sausage. Then, after a belch, he said, “I believe that you are asking if I consider the exploit feasible. It has often been discussed in a jocular manner, and for a fact the ships are not stringently guarded. The project is feasible. But why should you want a spaceship? ,I do not care to visit the Dirdir on Sibol or test the infinity of the universe.”
“I can’t discuss the destination.”
“Well then, how much money do you offer?”
“My plans have not progressed to that stage. What do you consider a suitable fee?”
“To risk life and freedom? I would not stir for less than fifty thousand sequins.”
Reith rose to his feet. “You have your fifty sequins; I have my information. I trust you to keep my secret.”
Zarfo sat sprawled back in his chair. “Now then, not so fast. After all I am old and my life is not worth so much after all. Thirty thousand? Twenty? Ten?”
“The figure starts to become practical. How much of a crew will we need?”
“Four or five more, possibly six. You envision a long voyage?”
“As soon as we are in space, I will reveal our destination. Ten thousand sequins is only a preliminary payment. Those who go with me will return with wealth beyond their dreams.”
Zarfo rose to his feet. “When do you propose to leave?”
“As soon as possible. Another matter: Settra is overrun with spies; it’s important that we attract no attention.”
Zarfo gave a hoarse laugh. “So this morning you approach me in a vast carriage, worth thousands of sequins. A man watches us even now.”
“I’ve been noticing him. But he seems too obvious to be a spy. Well, then, where shall we meet, and when?”
“Upon the stroke of midmorning tomorrow, at the stall of Upas the spice merchant in the Cercade. Be certain you are not followed ... That fellow yonder I believe to be an assassin, from the style of his garments.”
The man at this moment approached their table. “You are Adam Reith?”
“Yes.”
“I regret to say that the Security Assassination Company has accepted a contract made out in your name: the Death of the Twelve Touches. I will now administer the first inoculation. Will you be so good as to bare your arm? I will merely prick you with this splint.”
Reith backed away. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Depart!” Zarfo Detwiler told the assassin. “This man is worth ten thousand sequins to me alive; dead, nothing.”
The assassin ignored Zarfo. To Reith he said, “Please do not make an undignified display. The process then becomes protracted and painful for us all. So then-”
Zarfo roared: “Stand away; have I not warned you?” He snatched up a chair and struck the assassin to the ground. Zarfo was not yet satisfied. He picked up the splint, jabbed it into the back of the man’s thigh, through the rust-ocher corduroy of his trousers. “Halt!” wailed the assassin. “That is Inoculation Number One!”
Zarfo seized a handful of splints from the splayed-open wallet. “And here,” he roared, “are numbers Two to Twelve!” And with a foot on the man’s neck he thrust the handful into the twitching buttocks. “There you are, you knave! Do you want the next episode, Numbers Thirteen to Twenty-four?”
“No, no, let me be; I am a dead man now!”
“If not, you’re a cheat as well as an assassin!”
Passersby had halted to watch. A portly woman in pink silk rushed forward. “You hairy black villain, what are you doing to that poor assassin? He is only a workman at his trade!”
Zarfo picked up the assassin’s work sheet, looked down the list. “Hm. It appears that your husband is next on his list.”
The woman looked with startled eyes after the assassin now tottering off down the street.
“Time we were leaving,” said Reith.
They walked through back alleys to a small shed, screened from the street by a lattice of woven withe. “It is the neighborhood corpsehouse,” said Zarfo. “No one will bother us here.”
Reith entered, looked gingerly around the black benches on one of which lay the hulk of a small animal.
“Now then,” said Zarfo, “who is your enemy?”
“I suspect a certain Dordolio,” said Reith. “I can’t be sure.”
Zarfo scrutinized the work sheet. “Well, we shall see. ‘Adam Reith, the Travelers’ Inn-Contract Number Two-three-o-five, Style Eighteen; prepaid.’ Dated today, surcharged ‘Rush.’ Prepaid, eh? Well then, let us try a ruse. Back to my cottage.”
He took Reith to one of the brick towers, entered by an a
rched doorway. On a table rested a telephone. Zarfo lifted the instrument with cautious fingers. “Connect me with the Security Assassination Company.”
A grave voice spoke. “We are here to serve your needs.”
“I refer to Contract Number Two-three-o-five,” said Zarfo, “relating to a certain Adam Reith. I can’t find the estimate and I wish to pay the charges.”
“A moment, my lord.”
The voice presently returned. “The contract was prepaid, my lord; and was scheduled for execution this morning.”
“Prepaid? Impossible. I did not prepay. What is the name on the receipt?”
“The name is Helsse Izam. I’m sure there is no mistake, sir.”
“Perhaps not. I’ll discuss the matter with the person involved.”
“Thank you, sir, for your custom.”
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
REITH RETURNED TO the Travelers’ Inn, and with a certain trepidation, entered the foyer where he found Traz. “What has occurred, if anything?”
Traz, the most lucid and decisive of individuals, was less deft when it came to communicating a mood. “The Yao-Helsse, is that his name? became silent after you left the carriage. Perhaps he found us strange company. He told us that tonight we would dine with the Blue Jade Lord, that he would come early to instruct us in decorum. Then he drove off in the carriage.”
A perplexing sequence of events, reflected Reith. An interesting point: the contract had specified Twelve Touches. If his death were urgently required, a knife, a bullet, an energy bolt would serve the purpose. But the first of twelve injections? A device to stimulate haste?
“Many things are happening,” he told Traz. “Events I don’t pretend to understand.”
“The sooner we leave Settra the better,” gloomed Traz.
“Agreed.”
Anacho the Dirdirman appeared, freshly barbered and splendid in a new high-collared black jacket, pale blue trousers, scarlet ankle-high slippers with modish upturned toes. Reith took the two to a secluded alcove and described the events of the day. “So now we need only money, which I hope to extract from Cizante tonight.”
The hours of the afternoon passed slowly. At last Helsse appeared, wearing a modish suit of canary yellow velvet. He gave polite greetings to the group. “You are enjoying your visit to Cath?”
“Indeed yes,” said Reith. “I have never felt so relaxed.”
Helsse maintained his aplomb. “Excellent. Now, in regard to this evening, Lord Cizante suspects that you and your friends might find a formal dinner somewhat tedious. He recommends rather a casual and unstructured tiffin, at a time to suit your convenience: now, if you so desire.”
“We are ready,” said Reith. “But, to anticipate any misunderstanding, please remember that we insist upon a dignified reception. We do not intend to slink into the palace by a back entrance.”
Helsse made an easy gesture. “For a casual occasion, casual protocol. That’s our rule.”
“I will be specific,” said Reith. “Our ‘place’ demands that we use the front entrance. If Lord Cizante objects, then he must meet us elsewhere: perhaps at the tavern around the Oval.”
Helsse uttered an incredulous laugh. “He would as soon don a buffoon’s cap and cut capers in Merrymaker’s Round!” He shook his head dolefully. “To avoid difficulties we will use the front entrance; after all what difference does it make?”
Reith laughed. “Especially since Cizante has ordered us brought in by the scullery and will assume that this is how we entered ... Well, it’s a fair compromise. Let’s go.”
The trip to Blue Jade Palace was made in a sleek black landau. At Helsse’s instructions it drove up to the formal portal. Helsse alighted, and with a thoughtful glance along the façade of the palace, conducted the three outlanders through the main portal and into the great foyer. He muttered a few words to a footman, then ushered the three up a flight of shallow stairs, into a small green and gold salon overlooking the courtyard.
Lord Cizante was nowhere to be seen.
“Please be seated,” said Helsse affably. “Lord Cizante will be with you shortly.” He gave a jerk of the head and departed the chamber.
Several minutes passed, then Lord Cizante appeared. He wore a long white gown, white slippers, a black skullcap. His face was petulant and brooding; he looked from face to face. “Which is the man to whom I spoke before?”
Helsse muttered in his ear; he turned to face Reith. “I see. Well then, make yourself easy. Helsse, you have ordered a suitable refreshment?”
“Indeed, your Excellency.”
A footman rolled in a buffet and offered trays of sweet wafers, saltbarks, cubes of spiced meat, decanters of wine, flagons of essence. Reith accepted wine; Traz a goblet of syrup. Anacho took green essences; Lord Cizante selected a stick of incense and walked back and forth, jerking it through the air. “I have negative news for you,” he said abruptly. “I have decided to withdraw all proffers and undertakings. In short, you may expect no boon.”
Reith sipped the wine and gave himself time to think. “You are honoring Dordolio’s claim?”
“I cannot elaborate upon the matter. The statement may be interpreted in its most general sense.”
“I have no claim upon you,” said Reith. “I came here yesterday only to convey the news of your daughter.”
Lord Cizante held the incense stick under his nostrils. “The circumstances no longer interest me.”
Anacho emitted a somewhat startling caw of laughter. “Understandable! To acknowledge them would force you to honor your pledge!”
“Not at all,” said Lord Cizante. “I spoke only for the attention of Blue Jade personnel.”
“Ha ha! Who will believe that, now that you have hired assassins against my friend?”
Lord Cizante held the incense still and poised. “Assassins? What of this?”
“Your aide”-Reith indicated Helsse--”took out a Type Eighteen contract against me. I intend to warn Dordolio; your penury carries a vicious sting.”
Lord Cizante turned a frowning glance upon Helsse. “What of this?”
Helsse stood with black eyebrows fretfully raised. “I endeavored only to fulfill my function.”
“Misplaced zeal! Would you make Blue Jade a laughing stock? If this sordid tale gains circulation...” His voice suddenly trailed off. Helsse gave a shrug, and poured himself a goblet of wine.
Reith rose to his feet. “Our business appears to be at an end.”
“A moment,” said Lord Cizante curtly. “Let me consider ... You realize that this so-called assassination is a mare’s-nest?”
Reith slowly shook his head. “You have blown hot and cold too often; I am totally skeptical.”
Lord Cizante swung on his heel. The incense stick fell to the rug, where it began to smolder. Reith picked it up, placed it on the tray. “Why do you do that?” asked Helsse in sardonic wonder.
“You must supply your own answer.”
Lord Cizante strode back into the room. He gestured to Helsse, took him into the corner, muttered a moment, and once again departed.
Helsse turned to Reith. “Lord Cizante has empowered me to pay over to you a sum of ten thousand sequins on condition that you depart Cath instantly, returning to Kotan by the first cog out of Vervodei.”
“Lord Cizante’s impertinence is amazing,” said Reith.
Anacho asked casually, “How high will he go?”
“He specified no precise sum,” Helsse admitted. “He is interested only in your departure, which he will facilitate in every detail.”
“A million sequins, then,” said Anacho. “If we must acquiesce to this undignified scheme, we might as well sell ourselves dear.”
“Much too dear,” said Helsse. “Twenty thousand sequins is more reasonable.”
“Not reasonable enough,” said Reith. “We need more, much more.”
Helsse surveyed the three in silence. He said at last: “To avoid wasting time I will announce the maximum sum
Lord Cizante cares to pay. It is fifty thousand sequins, which I personally consider generous, and transportation to Vervodei.”
“We accept,” said Reith. “Needless to say, you must cancel the contract with the Security Company.”
Helsse smiled a small tremulous smile. “I have already received my instructions in this regard. And when will you depart Settra?”
“In a day or so.”
With fifty strips of purple-celled sequins, the three left Blue Jade Palace, and climbed into the waiting black landau. Helsse did not accompany them.
The landau wheeled east through the cinnamon dusk, under luminants which as yet cast no illumination. Off in the parks, palaces and town houses showed clusters of blurred lights, and in one great garden a fete was in progress.
The landau rumbled across a carved wooden bridge hung with lanterns, to enter a district of crowded timber buildings, with tearooms and cafes jutting over the street. They passed through an area of bleak half-deserted tenements, and at last came into the Oval.
Reith descended from the landau. Traz sprang past and threw himself on a dark silent figure. At the glint of metal Reith ducked to the ground, but failed to escape a violent purple-white flash. A hot blow pounded his head; he lay half-stunned, while Traz struggled with the assailant. Anacho stepped forward, pointed his sting. Out sprang the thin shaft, piercing the man’s shoulder. The gun clattered to the cobbles.
Reith picked himself up, stood weaving. The side of his head smarted as if by a scald; the smell of ozone and burnt hair filled his nostrils. He tottered over to where Traz held the hooded figure in an armlock while Anacho removed his wallet and dagger. The man wore a half-hood; Reith raised it, revealing, to his astonishment, the face of the Yearning Refluxive to whom he had spoken the night before.
People here and there about the Oval, at first cautious of the struggle, now started to approach. There came the shrill hoot of the patrol whistle. The Refluxive struggled to free himself. “Release me; they’ll make me a terrible example!”