by Jack Vance
Jubal performed a crisp bow. “As you suggest.” But he addressed her already retreating back, so he discovered when he raised his head. Summoning his dignity, he followed her out upon the terrace, across the drive to a small black power-carriage. She stepped up into the compartment; Jubal entered and sat beside her. She stiffened, then gave a shrug of resignation. Jubal saw that she had intended him to ride with the chauffeur. Jubal managed a wintry smile. Ambition had suddenly crystallized into resolution. He would pursue a career; by sheer personal force he would excel, and command the attention of whomever he chose: perhaps even this stunning creature who now rode beside him.
The carriage proceeded by a complicated route through the wooded hills, beside mossy walls and tall hedges of fairy-spangle. The air carried an odor of dank growth: moir, tree violet, heliotrope: a redolence somehow to be associated with ancient wealth and long habitation. At a tall old mansion overgrown with vines, the carriage halted; the portal opened; a brown-haired girl ran out. She approached the carriage and started to enter. At the sight of Jubal she paused. “Oh, do we have company? Who is this?”
Mieltrude looked at Jubal as if seeing him for the first time. “A courier of some kind, I would think. He carries a message to my father.” She said to Jubal: “You might more properly ride with the chauffeur.”
“Quite wrong,” said Jubal. “It is proper that I ride where I am.”
The brown-haired girl climbed into the carriage. “Tush, it’s not important.”
Mieltrude said fretfully: “This is a formal occasion, and I think he’s a Glint.”
“I am a Glint and of high caste,” said Jubal. “Your concern has absolutely no basis.” He called to the chauffeur: “Proceed!”
The two girls turned him wondering glances, then both shrugged and thereafter ignored him. The carriage rolled away, down-slope, toward the center of the city. The girls made inconsequential conversation reflecting upon events and persons remote from Jubal’s knowledge. The brown-haired girl’s name was Sune; she was remarkably pretty, thought Jubal, with a personality much warmer and more volatile than Mieltrude’s. He found her face fascinating, with curls low over her forehead, long eyes, wide cheekbones, flat cheeks slanting to a pointed chin. A susceptible man, reflected Jubal, might find this face maddening, with all its mutable expressions. She could not ignore Jubal quite as ostentatiously as did Mieltrude, and gave him an occasional quick sidelong glance which seemed to imply that, Glint or not, he was not offending her by his presence.
They spoke of a certain ‘Ramus’ with whom both were acquainted, and of a fête they planned to attend.
Mieltrude showed little interest in the event and laughed when Sune reproached her. “After all,” said Mieltrude, “there may be no celebration whatever. We can’t be certain of these things.”
“Of course there will be a celebration!” declared Sune. “Ramus has made the arrangements himself!”
“But he might not be urged. The process is not automatic.”
In disquietude Sune peered into Mieltrude’s face. “Do you know definitely how events will go?”
“I have heard my father speak. Quorce and Mneiodes will not certify.”
Jubal became aware that frivolity had vanished. Mieltrude seemed to be playing a cat-and-mouse game with Sune.
“Angeluke and your father remain; we need only a single acclamation.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Then why do you cast doubts? Surely your father will acclaim?”
“So I would suppose. Why else would he put me in such a peculiar situation?”
“Then we need not fear,” said Sune confidently.
Mieltrude looked out the window, her glance passing Jubal as if he were air.
Sune presently spoke in a low voice: “There are many hateful things abroad… You know that, don’t you?”
“Our world is as we have made it.”
“It is cramped and dull,” said Sune positively. “It needs remaking. Ramus speaks often to this effect.”
“Maske is far from perfect: agreed.”
“So Ramus must be acclaimed!”
The carriage, entering Travan Square, was forced to halt by reason of a multitude of folk streaming toward the Parloury.13 The driver spoke through the voice-pass: “Shall I press on, Lady Mieltrude? There may be delay.”
Mieltrude uttered a quiet expletive and looked across Travan Square. “We’d better walk,” she told Sune, “if we’re to meet my father.”
Jubal jumped to the ground and gallantly prepared to assist Mieltrude and Sune. They looked at him with raised eyebrows, as if he had performed an odd antic, then, descending from the carriage by the opposite door, the two set off across Travan Square toward the Parloury. The crowd impeded progress; Mieltrude and Sune moved this way and that, trying to make haste. Jubal followed, a half-smile frozen on his face.
Arriving at the Parloury, the two girls went to a side entrance marked with the five iron emblems of the Servants: a squat fer, a Dohobay slange, a gryphon, a four-finned fish, a winged two-headed snake: tokens respectively of the Mneiodes, Ymph, Quorce, Angeluke, and Hever ilks. Two guards in black and purple uniforms saluted Mieltrude and Sune, but stepping forward crossed ceremonial maces to bar Jubal. “Let him through,” said Mieltrude. “He’s a courier with a message for my father.”
The guards drew back their maces; Jubal was admitted. Mieltrude and Sune hurried along a passage, with Jubal trotting behind in what he felt must be a ridiculous fashion. They entered a salon illuminated by a green glass cupola and carpeted in dark green plush. A dozen men and women in formal robes stood by a white marble sideboard taking refreshment. Mieltrude scanned the group then spoke to an elderly man, who responded with an inclination of the head and a gesture. Mieltrude signaled to Jubal. “Give me the letter; I will take it to him. He has gone to our private box.”
“Impossible,” said Jubal. “You may or may not be reliable.”
Sune laughed; Mieltrude looked at her with a careful absence of expression and Sune stopped laughing.
Mieltrude said to Jubal: “Come along, then. We still may catch him.”
She hurried off along a passage, halted at a door, urged Jubal to haste with an imperious jerk of the head that set her pale hair flying. She touched a lock; the door slid back and all three passed through, into a wood-paneled booth at the front of a vast chamber, now crowded to capacity with the magnates of Thaery. Conversations, muffled laughs, subdued ejaculations created a musical murmur. Scents enriched the air: attars from Wellas, polished wood, cloth and leather, the exhalations of three thousand magnates and their ladies; their snuffs and pastes and pastilles and sachets.
A pale slender man in robes of black and white stood on the rostrum, not fifty feet away. Mieltrude signaled but he failed to notice. Mieltrude beckoned to Jubal. “There stands His Excellency. If the matter is critically urgent, take your message to him yonder. Otherwise you must wait until after the ceremony.”
Jubal found himself in a delicate position. Vaidro had counseled him to crafty maneuvers; Nai the Hever was now preoccupied and certainly unable to discuss Jubal’s future in that mood of relaxed and constructive concentration which would produce optimum results. Jubal said thoughtfully: “I will wait.”
He looked around the box and seated himself on a long couch of purple cushions.
Mieltrude spoke to Sune in a mutter of hushed amazement. Both turned to look at Jubal, and Sune’s barely suppressed amusement exasperated Mieltrude; she flung herself down upon the couch and sat in tight-lipped silence.
From a gong high in the cupola came a shimmering mellow reverberation. Four men came out upon the rostrum and seated themselves at four ebony desks, identified by iron emblems: a gryphon, a fer, a fish, and a flying two-headed snake. The animate murmur of the chamber became an almost palpable hush.
The Parloury Nunciant stepped upon the rostrum and flinging wide his arms rendered a declamation: “Magnates of Thaery! We have suffered a loss! One o
f our great leaders is gone. His wisdom guided us across the years; his generosity was a balm and a blessing; he is sorely mourned by all the folk of Thaery.
The Grand Unctator of the Natural Rite will conduct the eulogy and guide his monic spire toward the Lambent Nescience. Revered Unctator, we hear you!”
The Grand Unctator stepped out on a balcony above the rostrum. In one hand he carried a crystal orb to represent the cosmos, in the other a lavender lulade blossom signalizing the fragility of life.
The ritual proceeded the stipulated twenty-three minutes, the Unctator calling out the challenges and the audience singing the rebuttals and finally uttering that aspirate ascending call signifying the lift of the deceased into the Diffusion14. The Unctator, doffing his white and black mitre, then spoke the Seven Words. With orb and lulade blossom he departed the balcony.
The Nunciant returned to the rostrum and continued his declamation. “I speak again of the Ymph ilk! The lulade blossoms are fresh on the grave; the mourning knots are not yet unbound; still they will not renounce their famous program of Servantry. Again they dedicate their noblest and best! Who is this nominee? He is a man of caste and substance. He understands the lot of a Servant: the lonely burdens, the unrequited toil, the hours of soul-searching, prayer and creative vision; he does not shrink back.
“I refer of course to Ramus Ymph. He now comes to state his aspirations to the four surviving Servants; they are obliged to weigh his fortitude, zeal and vision.” The Nunciant paused in his declamation.
Stepping forward, he held up a solemn finger. “We rightly reserve infallibility to the Tendrils of the Ineffable Mist! A single act of urging therefore is sufficient to seat Ramus Ymph upon the seat of the Fifth Servant. Should the four Servants agree that Ramus Ymph somehow falls short, perhaps in trivial degree, then Ramus Ymph may not be seated, and the Four must urge another Ymph whom they deem more suitable.
“The Servants sit at their deliberations. At this very instant they weigh and ponder. Shall Ramus Ymph become the Fifth Servant? Or will they sadly insist upon another even more excellent? Approach, Ramus Ymph! Present yourself, make known your concepts and hear the decision!”
From the central adit under the boxes came three men in traditional vestments. They paced forward, using the interrupted half-step step, half-step step of immemorial custom. At the rostrum the gentlemen to right and left halted to stand in rigid postures of awe and respect. The third, Ramus Ymph, strode deliberately up on the rostrum. He turned and for a hushed minute gazed across the auditorium: a striking figure, tall, resolute, magnificently handsome. His garments were impeccable, tending perhaps toward fashion rather than tradition. Dark yellow pantaloons fitted without a crease into black boots encased in silver filigree.
To his plum red waistcoat was affixed the iron slange of the Ymphs; he wore no other culbrass. The black cutaway cape, tightly molded to his shoulders, flared loose at the hips. A tall black dath15 enhanced his already noble stature. Under the brim a fringe of dark curls framed a broad forehead; proud nostrils accented a high-bridged nose. The black eyes were wide and glossy; the full mouth drooped at the corners. He stood less than fifty feet from Jubal, who studied him in fascination. Remarkable circumstance!
The chamber was still; no sound, scuffle of foot, cough or murmur disturbed the silence. Jubal leaned back into the cushions of the couch. Mieltrude and Sune stared raptly at Ramus Ymph, though with different expressions. The Servants sat behind their desks blank as stones: eyes unfocused, emotions indeterminate.
Ramus Ymph turned to face the Servants. His two sponsors spoke in unison: “We are Ymph ilk; our caste is high. Here is Ramus Ymph, our first and best. We require that he be urged into Servantry.”
“The request is noted,” said Nai the Hever, now the Senior Servant. “Ramus Ymph, we recognize your presence!”
The sponsors spoke on in unison: “He will now state his doctrines. Let the examination proceed.” Turning smartly on their heels, they marched to places left and right of the podium.
Nai the Hever, slender and silver-haired with silver-gray eyes and a thin ironic mouth, spoke: “We thank the Ymph ilk for their sacrifices—first Rohad tragically dead, now the notable Ramus. Let it be known that our examination may not be easy or casual. The problems of Thaery weigh on our minds; they must be solved correctly. I therefore invite the nominee to submit his views.”
“Venerable Servants!” spoke Ramus Ymph. “I am anxious to apply my energies to these problems.
Admittedly they are real and urgent. I hereby dedicate myself to their dissolution! The weal of Thaery hangs in the balance!”
Ambish the Quorce, newest of the Servants, a large grave man, ponderous of jowl and abdomen, made the response. “We are Servants; we are likewise nobles of Wysrod and not figments of pedantic abstraction.
We are aware of each other; we know how each other’s lives have gone, what causes we have advocated, what deeds we have done. Certain folk have suggested bold and unprecedented methods—I might substitute the words ‘brash’ and ‘irresponsible’—to alter the conditions of today. What is your opinion of this?”
Mieltrude sighed and made a quick fluttering gesture. “What a hateful despot is Ambish! Always he reminds me of a shoad sitting on a glacier.”
Sune spoke more fervently: “Lynaica has described his personal habits: he is incredible! Each day follows an unalterable routine, to the second. He enforces impossible schedules upon Lynaica, all in the name of Regularity!”
“I doubt if he will endorse Ramus,” said Mieltrude in a wry voice.
“I find him altogether unpleasant,” Sune declared. “Still—what does it matter? Your father will endorse.”
“If he intends the marriage, and why should he not?”
Sune gave her mouth a queer crooked twist. “Listen: Ramus speaks!”
“The future is an enigma,” said Ramus Ymph. “The road across the future is strewn with obstacles; there are many dangerous detours. How shall we avoid them? We must use the best techniques at hand. Let me explain myself in this manner: if a person is coping with Problem A, and he finds that Solution B produces no effect, then he must consider Solutions C, D and E.”
“What if Solutions C, D and E, in dissolving Problem A, produce Problems F, G and H, to an even sharper detriment?” asked Ambish.
“It becomes our duty,” said Ramus Ymph, “to consider possibilities and to calculate their risks.”
“I will be blunt,” said Ambish the Quorce. “You are not considered a patient man. The next Servant must not be automatically attracted by unconventional concepts simply because of their novelty. Our foremost problem, as I see it, is the continuity of tradition. Suppose we accept into our group a man who favors transformation and quick change? He has great power. He can be expected to survive the rest of us. With his power of single endorsement he might change the philosophical posture of the Five. For this reason I prefer a man older than yourself, of demonstrable discretion. I cannot urge your service, though you must not construe this as personal antipathy.”
Ramus Ymph bowed rigidly. Mieltrude said with a faint smile: “For a fact Ramus has a volatile temperament. Ambish is not citing imaginary bugbears.”
Sune said breathlessly: “Now, if ever, he must be calm. Oh Ramus, behave yourself!”
Ramus Ymph was calmness personified. “I regret that you fail to discern in me that prudence to which you attach so much weight. Naturally, I disagree with your assessment.”
Mieltrude chuckled. “He won’t win endorsement by claiming prudence; who will believe him?”
Sune leaned back into the couch. “Ramus is sometimes not altogether realistic.”
Ramus Ymph, turning away from Ambish the Quorce, addressed himself to the remaining three Servants.
“I had hoped for unanimous urging; I am sorry that this is not to be. The fact remains that these are strange times. We all know that change is on the way: the pressure hangs in the air and dampens our spirits, the more so because
everyone resolutely ignores the matter. I say, let us bring the subject into the open, where it can be discussed and reckoned with. Is the prospect really so frightening? Not when sensitive, judicious, and high-caste men accept responsibility. I am willing to dedicate my abilities, such as they are—” Ramus Ymph made a gesture of deprecation “—to the weal.”
“He is wrong to talk like that,” Mieltrude observed. “He is really tactless and brash. Aren’t those the words Ambish used?”
“Bombastic old Ambish! The others are not so obdurate.”
Jubal at last felt impelled to speak. “Ramus Ymph will never be a Servant. I can assure you of this.”
The two girls glanced at him, dark brown curls and smooth blonde silk swinging around in unison. Sune could not restrain a scornful snort; Mieltrude smiled stonily and turned her gaze back to the rostrum. She made a gesture of dismissal. “Expect no urging of an Ymph by a Mneiodes. They are good haters.”
Myrus the Mneiodes, an old man, thin and small, withered and sallow, was third in precedence. He spoke in a husky voice. “The idea of ‘change’ has occurred to many people; therefore we must be ready to accept ‘change’ as an accomplished fact. This seems to be your position: sheer nonsense, of course. Lust and envy obsess many of us; do we therefore legitimize these impulses? Our ancient creed is correct.
Rather than submitting to change we must divert the influences which conduce in such a direction.”
Ramus Ymph listened with patient good humor. “The remarks of the sagacious Servant are persuasive, even though they fail to correspond with reality. The change to which I refer is not merely a whim or a fad, and its causes are not fanciful. I refer to our excessive population. The countryside is overworked; its beauty is becoming spoiled and stale. Change is upon us; who knows where it will take us if not controlled? Here is the key-word: ‘control’! We must ride ‘change’ rough-shod and control it to our own advantage.”
The sallow complexion of Myrus the Mneiodes had become darker as Ramus Ymph spoke, and eventually achieved the color of damp clay. “We must control ‘change’, to be sure! We must curb the indecent fecundity of the lower orders. What is intrinsically glorious about change? Nothing. You ask us to veer from our dear old avenues to go bumping and lurching across the wilderness. Why? Your purposes are over-intricate and too subtle for my comprehension. I will not compel you to Service.”