City of the Chasch

by Jack Vance

  “Where was it bound?”

  “Probably Pera, or maybe to Jalkh on the Lesmatic Sea. Most likely Pera. North-South caravans trade between Jalkh and Mazuun. EastWest caravans move between Pera and Coad.”

  “These are cities where men live?”

  Traz shrugged. “Hardly cities. Settled places. But I know little, only what I have heard the magicians say. Are you hungry? I am. Let us eat.”

  On a fallen log they sat and ate chunks of caked porridge and drank from leather flasks of beer. Traz pointed to a low weed on which grew small white globules. “We’ll never starve so long as pilgrim plant grows ... And see yonder black clumps? That is watak. The roots store a gallon of sap. If you drink nothing but watak you become deaf, but for short periods there is no harm.”

  Reith opened his survival pack: “I can draw water from the ground with this sheet of film, or convert sea-water with this purifier ... These are food pills, enough for a month .... This is an energy cell ... A medical kit ... Knife, compass, scanscope ... . Transcom ...” Reith examined the transcom with a sudden thrill of interest.

  “What is that device?” asked Traz.

  “Half of a communication system. There was another in Paul Waunder’s pack, which went with the space-boat. I can broadcast a signal which will bring an automatic response from the other set and give the other set’s location.” Reith pushed the Find button. A compass arrow swung to the northwest; a counter flashed a white 6.2 and a red 2. “The other set-and presumably the space-boat-is 6.2 times 10 to the second, or 620 miles northwest.”

  “That would be in the country of the Blue Chasch. We knew that already.”

  Reith looked off to the northwest, ruminating. “We don’t want to go south into the marshes, or back into the forest. What lies to the east, beyond the steppes?”

  “I don’t know. I think the Draschade Ocean. It is far away.”

  “Is that where the caravans come from?”

  “Coad is on a gulf which connects to the Draschade. Between is all of Aman Steppe, the Emblem Men and other tribes as well: the Kite-fighters, the Mad Axes, the Berl Totems, the Yellow Blacks and others beyond my knowledge.”

  Reith considered. His space-boat had been taken by the Blue Chasch into the northwest. Northwest therefore seemed the most reasonable direction in which to fare.

  Traz sat dozing, chin on his chest. Wearing Onmale he had demonstrated a bleak unrelenting nature; now, with the soul of the emblem lifted from his own, he had become forlorn and wistful, though still far more reserved than Reith thought natural.

  Reith’s own eyelids were drooping with fatigue: the sunlight was warm; the spot seemed secure ... What if the berl should return? Reith forced himself to wakefulness. While Traz slept he repacked his gear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TRAZ AWOKE. HE turned Reith a sheepish look and rose quickly to his feet.

  Reith arose; they set forth: by some unspoken understanding into the northwest. The time was middle morning, the sun a tarnished brass disc in the slate sky. The air was pleasantly cool, and for the first time since his arrival on Tschai Reith felt a lifting of the spirits. His body was mended, he had recovered his equipment, he knew the general location of the scout-boat: immeasurable improvement over his previous situation.

  They trudged steadily across the steppe. The forest became a dark blur behind them: elsewhere the horizons were empty. After their midday meal they slept for a period; then, awakening in the late afternoon, they went on into the northwest.

  The sun dropped into a bank of low clouds, casting an embroidery of dull copper over the top. There was no shelter on the open steppe; with nothing better to do they walked on.

  The right was quiet and still; far to the east they heard the wailing of night-hounds but were not molested.

  The following day they finished the food and water from the packs which Traz had supplied and began to subsist on the pods of pilgrim plant and sap from watak roots: the first bland, the second acrid.

  On the morning of the third day they saw a fleck of white drifting across the western sky. Traz flung himself flat behind a low shrub and motioned Reith to do likewise. “Dirdir! They hunt!”

  Reith brought forth his scanscope, sighted on the object. With elbows on the ground he zoomed the magnification to fifty diameters, when air vibration began to confuse the image. He saw a long flat boat-like hull, riding the air on rakish cusps and odd half-crescents: an aesthetic style, apparently, rather than utilitarian design. Crouched on the hull were four pale shapes, unidentifiable as Dirdir or Dirdirmen. The flyer traveled a course roughly parallel to their own, passing several miles to the west. Reith wondered at Traz’s tension. He asked, “What do they hunt?”

  “Men.”

  “For sport?”

  “For sport. For food, as well. They eat man-meat.”

  “I’d like to have that flyer,” mused Reith. He rose to his feet, ignoring Traz’s frantic protests. But the Dirdir flyer disappeared into the north. Traz relaxed, but searched the sky. “Sometimes they fly high and look down until they spot a lone warrior. Then they drop like perriaults, to noose the man, or engage him with electric swords.”

  They walked on, always north and west. Toward sunset Traz once again became uneasy, for reasons Reith could not discern, though there was a particularly eerie quality to the landscape. The sun, obscured by a mist, was small and dim and cast a light as wan as lymph over the vastness of the steppe. There was nothing to be seen save their own long shadows behind them, but as Traz walked he looked this way and that, pausing at times to search the way they had come. Reith finally asked, “What are you looking for?”

  “Something is following us.”

  “Oh?” Reith turned to look back across the steppe. “How do you know?”

  “It is a feeling I have.”

  “What would it be?”

  “Pnumekin, who travel unseen. Or it might be nighthounds.”

  “Pnumekin: they are men, are they not?”

  “Men in a sense. They are the spies, the couriers of the Pnume. Some say that tunnels run beneath the steppe, with secret entrance traps, perhaps under that very bush!”

  Reith examined the bush toward which Traz had directed his attention, but it seemed ordinary enough. “Would they harm us?”

  “Not unless the Pnume wanted us dead. Who knows what the Pnume want? ... More likely the night-hounds are out early.”

  Reith brought forth his scanscope. He searched the steppe, but discovered nothing.

  “Tonight,” said Traz, “we had best build a fire.”

  The sun sank in a sad display of purple and mauve and brown. Traz and Reith collected a pile of brush and set a fire.

  Traz’s instinct had been accurate. As dusk deepened to dark a soft wailing sounded to the east, to be answered by a cry to the north and another to the south. Traz cocked his catapult. “They’re not afraid of fire,” he told Reith. “But they avoid the light, from cleverness ... Some say they are a kind of animal Pnume.”

  The night-hounds surrounded them, moving just beyond range of the firelight, showing as dark shapes, with an occasional flash of lambent white eye-discs.

  Traz kept his catapult ready. Reith brought forth his gun and his energy cell. The first fired tiny explosive needles, and was accurate to a distance of fifty yards. The cell was a multiple-purpose device. At one end a crystal emitted either a beam or a flood of light at the touch of a switch. A socket allowed the recharging of the scanscope and the transcom. At the other end a trigger released a gush of raw energy, but seriously depleted the energy available for future use, and Reith regarded the energy cell as an emergency weapon only.

  With night-hounds circling the fire he kept both weapons ready, determined not to waste a charge unless it was absolutely necessary. A shape came close; Traz fired his catapult. The bolt struck home; the black shape bounded high, giving a contralto call of woe.

  Traz re-cocked the catapult, and put more brush on the fire. The shapes moved u
neasily, then began to run in circles.

  Traz said gloomily, “Soon they will lunge. We are as good as dead. A troop of six men can hold off night-hounds; five men are almost always killed.”

  Reith reluctantly took up his energy-cell. He waited. Closer, in from the shadows danced and spun the night-hounds. Reith aimed, pulled the trigger, turned the beam halfway around the circle. The surviving night-hounds screamed in horror. Reith stepped around the fire to complete the job, but the night-hounds were gone and presently could be heard grieving in the distance.

  Traz and Reith took turns sleeping. Each thought he kept sharp lookout, but in the morning, when they went to look for corpses, all had been dragged away. “Crafty creatures!” said Traz in a marveling voice. “Some say they talk to the Pnume, and report all the events of the steppe.”

  “What then? Do the Pnume act on the information?”

  Traz shrugged doubtfully. “When something terrible happens it is safe to assume that the Pnume have been at work.”

  Reith looked all around, wondering where Pnume or Pnumekin, or even night-hounds, could hide. In all directions lay the open steppe, dim in the sepia dawn gloom.

  For breakfast they ate pilgrim pod and drank watak sap. Then once more they began their march northwest.

  Late in the afternoon they saw ahead an extensive tumble of gray rubble which Traz identified as a ruined city, where safety from the night-hounds could be had at the risk of encountering bandits, Green Chasch or Phung. At Reith’s question, Traz described these latter: a weird solitary species similar to the Pnume, only larger and characterized by an insane craft which made them terrible even to the Green Chasch.

  As they approached the ruins Traz told gloomy tales of the Phung and their macabre habits. “Still, the ruins may be empty. We must approach with caution.”

  “Who built these old cities?” asked Reith.

  Traz shrugged. “No one knows. Perhaps the Old Chasch; perhaps the Blue Chasch. Perhaps the Gray Men, though no one really believes this.”

  Reith sorted over what he knew of the Tschai races and their human associates. There were Dirdir and Dirdirmen; Old Chasch, Green Chasch, Blue Chasch and Chaschmen; Pnume and the human-derived Pnumekin; the yellow marsh-men, the various tribes of nomads, the fabulous “Golds,” and now the “Gray Men.”

  “There are Wankh and Wankhmen as well,” said Traz. “On the other side of Tschai.”

  “What brought all these races to Tschai?” Reith asked-a rhetorical question, for he knew that Traz would have no answer; and Traz gave only a shrug in reply.

  They came to mounds of silted-over rubble, slabs of tip-tilted concrete, shards of glass: the outskirts of the city.

  Traz stopped short, listened, craned his neck uneasily, brought his catapult to the ready. Reith, looking about, could see nothing threatening; slowly they moved on, into the heart of the ruins. The old structures, once lofty halls and grand palaces, were toppled, decayed, with only a few white pillars, posts, pedestals lifting into the dark Tschai sky. Between were platforms and piazzas of wind-scoured stone and concrete.

  In the central plaza a fountain bubbled up from an underground spring or aquifer. Traz approached with great circumspection. “How can there fail to be Phung?” he muttered. “Even now—” and he scrutinized the tumbled masonry around the plaza with great care. Reith tasted the water, then drank. Traz, however, hung back. “A Phung has been here.”

  Reith could see no evidence of the fact. “How do you know?”

  Traz gave a half-diffident shrug, reluctant to expatiate upon a matter so obvious. His attention was diverted to another more urgent matter; he looked apprehensively around the sky, sensing something below the threshold of Reith’s perceptions. Suddenly he pointed. “The Dirdir boat!” They took shelter under an overhanging slab of concrete; a moment later the flyer skimmed so close above that they could hear the swish of air from the repulsors.

  The flyer swung in a great circle, returned to hover over the plaza at a height of two hundred yards.

  “Strange,” whispered Traz. “It’s almost as if they know we’re here.”

  “They may be searching the ground with an infrared screen,” whispered Reith. “On Earth we can track a man by the warmth of his footprints.”

  The flyer floated off to the west, then gathered speed and disappeared. Traz and Reith went back out upon the plaza. Reith drank more water, relishing the cold clarity after three days of watak sap. Traz preferred to hunt the large roach-like insects which lived among the rubble. These he skinned with a quick jerk of the fingers and ate with relish. Reith was not sufficiently hungry to join him.

  The sun sank behind broken columns and shattered arches; a peach-colored haze hung over the steppe which Traz thought to be a portent of changing weather. For fear of rain, Reith wished to take shelter under a slab, but Traz would not hear of it. “The Phung! They would sniff us out!” He selected a pedestal rising thirty feet above a crumbled staircase as a secure place to pass the night. Reith looked glumly at a bank of clouds coming up from the south but made no further protest. The two carried up armloads of twigs and fronds for a bed.

  The sun sank; the ancient city became dim. Into the plaza wandered a man, reeling with fatigue. He rushed to the fountain and drank greedily.

  Reith brought out his scanscope. The man was tall, slender, with long legs and arms, a long sallow head quite bald, round eyes, a small button nose, minute ears. He wore the tatters of a once-elegant garment of pink and blue and black; on his head was an extravagant confection of pink puffs and black ribbons. “Dirdirman,” whispered Traz, and bringing forth his catapult, took aim.

  “Wait!” protested Reith. “What do you do?”

  “Kill him, of course.”

  “He is not harming us! Why not give the poor devil his life?”

  “He only lacks the opportunity,” grumbled Traz, but he put aside the catapult. The Dirdirman, turning away from the fountain, looked carefully around the plaza.

  “He seems to be lost,” muttered Reith. “I wonder if the Dirdir boat was seeking him. Could he be a fugitive?”

  Traz shrugged. “Perhaps; who knows?”

  The Dirdirman came wearily across the plaza and took shelter only a few yards from the foot of the pedestal, where he wrapped himself in his tattered garments and bedded himself down. Traz grumbled under his breath and lay back into the twigs and seemed to go instantly to sleep. Reith looked out across the old city and mused upon his extraordinary destiny ... Az appeared in the east, glowing pale pink through the haze to send a strange light along the ancient avenues. The vista was one of eerie fascination: a scene unreal, the stuff of strange dreams. Now Braz lifted into the sky; the broken columns and toppled structures cast double shadows. One particular shape at the end of an avenue resembled a brooding statue. Reith wondered why he had not noticed it previously. It was a gaunt-man-shaped figure seven or eight feet tall, legs somewhat apart, head bowed as if in intense concentration, one hand under the chin, the other behind the back. The head was covered by a soft hat with a drooping brim; a cloak hung from the shoulders; the legs seemed encased in boots. Reith looked more intently. A statue? Why did it not move?

  Reith brought forth his scanscope. The creature’s visage was in dark shadow; but, adjusting focus, zoom and gain, Reith was able to glimpse a long, gaunt countenance. The gnarled halfhuman, half-insect features were set in a frozen grimace; as Reith watched, the mouth-parts worked slowly, moving in and out ... The creature moved, taking a single long stealthy step forward, again freezing into position. It held a long arm aloft in a minatory gesture, for no purpose comprehensible to Reith. Traz had awakened; he followed Reith’s gaze. “Phung!”

  The creature whirled about as if it had heard the sound and danced two great strides to the side.

  “They are insane,” whispered Traz. “Mad demons.”

  The Dirdirman was not yet aware of the Phung. He fretfully moved his cloak, trying to make himself comfortable. The Phung made a
gesture of gleeful surprise, and gave three bounds which took him to a spot only six feet from the Dirdirman, who still fidgeted with his cloak. The Phung stood looking down, again nonmoving. It stooped, picked up several small bits of gravel. Holding its long arm over the Dirdirman, it dropped one of the pebbles.

  The Dirdirman gave a fretful jerk, but, still not seeing the Phung, settled himself again. Reith winced and called out: “Hey!„

  Traz hissed in consternation. The effect upon the Phung was comical. It gave a great leap back, turned to stare toward the pedestal, arms outspread in extravagant surprise. The Dirdirman, on his knees, discovered the Phung, and could not move for horror.

  “Why did you do that?” cried Traz. “It would have been content with the Dirdirman.”

  “Shoot it with your catapult,” Reith told him.

  “Bolts won’t touch it, swords won’t cut it.”

  “Shoot at its head.”

  Traz gave a despairing sound, but bringing forth his catapult, he aimed and snapped the release. The bolt sped toward the pallid face. At the last second, the head jerked aside, the bolt clashed against a stone buttress.

  The Phung picked up a chunk of rock, swung back its long arm, hurled the rock with tremendous force. Traz and Reith fell flat; the stone splintered behind them. Reith wasted no further time and aimed his gun at the creature. He touched the button; there was a click, a hiss; the needle struck into the Phung’s thorax, exploded. The Phung leapt into the air, uttered a croak of dismay and came down in a heap.

  Traz clutched Reith’s shoulder. “Kill the Dirdirman, quick! Before he flees.”

  Reith descended from the pedestal. The Dirdirman snatched forth his sword; apparently the only weapon he carried. Reith put his gun in his belt, held up his hand. “Put up your sword; we have no reason to fight.”

  The Dirdirman, puzzled, moved back a step. “Why did you kill the Phung?”

  “It was about to kill you; why else?”

  “But we are strangers! And you”—the Dirdirman peered through the gloom—”are sub-men. Do you think to kill me yourself? If so—”