by Jack Vance
Barquan Blasdel did not call for a show of fists, since the accused had not yet spoken in their behalf.
Phyral Berwick, the Apprise Arbiter, hence convocation moderator, looked around the float. “Who cares to speak?”
“I.” Gian Recargo, Elder of the Tranque Bezzlers, came forward. “I was not an active conspirator. Initially I was of the orthodox view; then I changed my thinking. It is still changed. The so-called conspirators indeed have brought damage and loss of life to the floats. They grieve for this as much as anyone else. But the damage and the deaths are inevitable, because I have come to agree with Sklar Hast. King Kragen must be killed. So let us not revile these men who by dint of great ingenuity and daring almost killed King Kragen. They did as well as they were able to. Sklar Hast risked his own life to save the life of Semm Voiderveg. King Kragen killed the Intercessor.”
Barquan Blasdel leaped to his feet and ridiculed Gian Recargo’s defense of what he called the “blasphemous irresponsibility of the conspirators.” After spoke Archibel Verack, Quincunx Intercessor; then Parensic Mole, the Wyebolt Arbiter; then in succession other arbiters, intercessors, elders and guild-masters.
There was clearly no consensus. It seemed as if approximately a third of those present favored the most drastic penalties for the conspirators; another third, while regretting the destruction and death toll, regretted even more strongly the failure of the plot; while the final third were persons confused, indecisive, and fearful, who swayed first in one direction, then another.
Sklar Hast, advised by Gian Recargo, did not speak, and only watched and listened stonily as Barquan Blasdel and others heaped opprobrium upon him.
The afternoon drew on, and tempers began to grow short. Barquan Blasdel finally decided to bring matters to a head. In a voice deadly calm he again enumerated the sins of Sklar Hast and his fellows, then pitching his voice at a compelling level, called for a show of fists. “Peace and the Covenant! All who favor this, raise their fists! We must purge the evil that threatens us! And I say”—he leaned forward, looked menacingly across the float—“that if the convocation does not correctly vote death to the murderers, we right-thinkers and true-believers must organize ourselves into a disciplined group, to make sure that justice is done! The matter is this serious, this basic, this important! Crime may not go unpunished! We vacillated before—see where it took us! So I say to you, vote death to the murderers; or see justice sternly imposed by the mighty force of orthodox anger. So now: fists high against Sklar Hast and the
conspirators!”
Fists thrust into the air. An equal number stayed down, though many of these belonged to the confused and undecided. Now began the ominous mutter of argument that had preceded the bloodshed at the last convocation.
Sklar Hast jumped to his feet, strode to the rostrum. “Clearly we are divided. Some wish to serve King Kragen, others prefer not to do so. We are on the verge of a terrible experience, which by all means must be prevented. There is one simple way to do this. Other floats as fertile as these exist. I propose to depart these beloved Home Floats and make a new life elsewhere. I naturally will welcome all who wish to join me, though I urge this course upon no one. We will gain freedom. We will serve no King Kragen. Our life will be our own. Undoubtedly there will be initial deprivations, but we shall overcome them and build a life as pleasant as that of Home—perhaps more pleasant because there will be no tyrannical King Kragen. Who then wishes to sail away to a new home?”
A few hands raised, then others, and others still, to represent perhaps a third of those present. “This is more than I expected,” said Sklar Hast. “Go then to your floats, load your coracles with tools, pots, varnish, cordage—all your utile goods. Then return here, to Apprise Lagoon. We will await a propitious time to depart, when the sea-beast is known to be at Sciona, should we choose to sail east, or at Tranque, should we sail west. Needless to say, the direction and hour of departure must remain secret. There is no reason to explain why.” He cast an ironic glance toward Barquan Blasdel, who sat like a carved image. “It is a sad thing to leave an ancestral home, but it is worse to remain and submit to tyranny. The Firsts made this same decision, and it is clear that at least some of us still retain the ideals of our forefathers.”
Barquan Blasdel spoke without rising to his feet: a crass act. “Don’t talk of ideals—merely go. Go gladly. Go with all goodwill; we will not miss you. And never seek to return when the teeming rogues, unchided by the great king, devour your poor sponges, tear your nets, crush your coracles!”
Sklar Hast ignored him. “All then who will depart these sad Home Floats, we meet here in two days’ time. We will then secretly decide our hour of departure.
Barquan Blasdel laughed. “You need not fear our interference. Depart whenever you desire; indeed we will facilitate your going.”
Sklar Hast reflected a moment. “You will not inform King Kragen of our going?”
“No. Of course, he may learn of the fact through his own observation.”
“This will be our plan then. On the evening of the third day, when the wind blows fair to the west, we depart—provided, of course, that King Kragen cruises to the east.”
Chapter 9
Barquan Blasdel the Apprise Intercessor, his spouse and six daughters occupied a pad on the ocean to the north of the main Apprise float, somewhat isolated and apart. It was perhaps the choicest and most pleasant pad of the Apprise complex, situated where Blasdel could read the hoodwink towers of Apprise, of Quatrefoil and The Bandings to the east, of Granolt to the west. The pad was delightfully overgrown with a hundred different plants and vines, some yielding resinous pods, others capsules of fragrant sap, others crisp tendrils and shoots. Certain shrubs produced stains and pigment; a purple-leaved epiphyte yielded a rich-flavored pith. Other growths were entirely ornamental—a situation not too usual along the floats, where space was at a premium and every growing object weighed for its utility. Along the entire line of floats few pads could compare to that of Barquan Blasdel for beauty, variety of plantings, isolation, and calm.
In late afternoon of the second day after the convocation, Barquan Blasdel returned to his pad. He dropped the painter of his coracle over a stake of carved bone, gazed appreciatively into the west. The sun had just departed the sky, which now glowed with effulgent greens, blues, and, at the zenith, a purple of exquisite purity. The ocean, rippling to the first whispers of the evening breeze, reflected the sky. Blasdel felt surrounded, immersed in color …
He turned away, marched to his house, whistling between his teeth. In the lagoon were several hundred coracles, perhaps as many as six hundred, loaded with goods: the property of the most perverse and troublesome elements of the floats. On the morrow they would depart, and no more would be heard from them. Ever again. And Blasdel’s whistling became slow and thoughtful.
Although life seemingly flowed smoothly, he had sensed recently the awakening of an uneasiness, a dissatisfaction, which had made itself felt in a hundred different ways. Barquan Blasdel had not been quite so surprised by the attempt upon King Kragen’s life as he professed to be, though for a fact the attempt had approached success more nearly than he would have expected. A clever, unscrupulous fellow, that Sklar Hast. An obstreperous, recalcitrant, skeptical man of great energy, whom Barquan Blasdel was more than happy to have out of the way.
All was working out for the best. Indeed, indeed, indeed! The affair could not have resolved itself more smoothly if he had personally arranged the entire sequence of events! At one stroke all the grumblers, ne’er-do-wells, the covertly insolent, the obstinate hardheads—at one stroke all would disappear, never again to trouble easy and orthodox way of life!
Almost jauntily Barquan Blasdel ambled up the path to his residence: a group of five semidetached huts, screened by the garden from the main float, and so providing a maximum of privacy for Blasdel, his spouse, and six daughters. Blasdel halted. On a bench beside the door sat a man. Twilight murk concealed his face. Blasdel fro
wned, peered. Intruders upon his private pad were not welcome.
Blasdel marched forward. The man rose from bench and bowed; it was Phyral Berwick, the Apprise Arbiter. “Good evening,” said Berwick. “I trust I did not startle you.”
“By no means,” said Blasdel shortly. With rank equal to his own, Berwick could not be ignored, although after his extraordinary and equivocal conduct at the two convocations, Blasdel could not bring himself to display more than a minimum of formal courtesy. He said, “Unfortunately I was not expecting callers and can offer you no refreshment.”
“A circumstance of no moment,” declared Berwick. “I desire neither food nor drink.” He waved his hand around the pad. “You live on a pad of surpassing beauty, Barquan Blasdel. Many envy you.”
Blasdel shrugged. “My conduct is orthodox; I am armored against adverse opinion. But what urgency brings you here? I fear that I must be less than ceremonious; I am shortly clue at the hoodwink tower to participate in a coded all-float conference.”
Berwick made a gesture of polite acquiescence. “My business is of small moment. But I would not keep you standing out here in the dusk. Shall we enter?”
Blasdel grunted, opened the door, allowed Berwick to pass into the hut. From a cupboard he brought luminant fiber, which he set aglow and arranged in a holder. Turning a quick side glance toward Berwick, he said, “In all candor, I am somewhat surprised to see you. Apparently you were among the most vehement of those dissidents who planned to depart.”
“I may well have given that impression,” Berwick agreed. “But you must realize that declarations uttered in the heat of emotion are occasionally amended in the light of sober reason.”
Blasdel nodded curtly. “True enough. I suspect that many other of the ingrates will think twice before joining this harebrained expedition.” Though he hoped not.
“This is partly the reason for my presence here,” said Berwick. He looked around the room. “An interesting chamber. You own dozens of valuable artifacts. Where are the others of your family?”
“In the domestic area. This is my sanctum, my workroom, my place of meditation.”
“Indeed.” Berwick inspected the walls. “Indeed, indeed! I believe I notice certain relics of the forefathers!”
“True,” said Blasdel. “This small flat object is of the substance called ‘metal’ and is extremely hard. The best knife will not scratch it. The purpose of this particular object I cannot conjecture. It is an heirloom. These books are exact copies of the Memoria. Alas! I find much in them beyond my comprehension. There is nothing more of any great interest. On the shelf—my ceremonial headdresses; you have seen them before. Here is my telescope. It is old; the case is warped, the gum of the lenses has bulged and cracked. It was poor gum, to begin with, but I have little need for a better instrument. My possessions are few. Unlike many Intercessors and certain arbiters”—here he cast a meaningful eye at Phyral Berwick—“I do not choose to surround myself with sybaritic cushions and baskets of sweetmeats.”
Berwick laughed ruefully. “You have touched upon my weaknesses. Perhaps the fear of deprivation has occasioned second thoughts in me.”
“Ha, ha!” Blasdel became jovial. “I begin to understand. The scalawags who set off to wild new floats can expect nothing but hardship: wild fish, horny sponges, new varnish with little more body than water; in short they will be returning to the life of savages. They must expect to suffer the depredations of lesser kragen, who will swiftly gather. Perhaps in time … ” His voice dwindled; his face took on a thoughtful look.
“You were about to say?” prompted Phyral Berwick.
Blasdel gave a noncommittal laugh. “An amusing, far-fetched conceit crossed my mind. Perhaps in time one of these lesser kragen will vanquish the others
and drive them away. When this occurs, those who flee King Kragen will have a king of their own, who may eventually … ” Again his voice paused.
“Who may eventually rival King Kragen in force? The concept is not unreasonable—although King Kragen is already enormous from long feasting and shows no signs of halting his growth.”
An almost imperceptible tremor moved the floor of hut. Blasdel went to look out the door. “I thought I felt the arrival of a coracle.”
“Conceivably a gust of wind,” said Berwick. “Well, to my errand. As you have guessed, I did not come to examine your relicts or comment upon the comfort of your cottage. My business is this. More than two thousand folk are leaving the Home Floats, and I feel that no one, not even the most violently fanatic intercessor, would wish this group to meet King Kragen upon the ocean. King Kragen, as you are aware, becomes petulant, even wrathful, when he finds men trespassing upon his realm. Now he is more irascible than ever. Perhaps he fears the possibility of the second King Kragen, concerning which we speculated. Hence I came to inquire the whereabouts of King Kragen. In the evening the wind blows west, and the optimum location for King Kragen would be at Tranque or Thrasneck.”
Blasdel nodded sagely. “This, of course, is a question of fortuity and luck, and certainly the emigrants are putting their luck to the test. Should King Kragen chance to be waiting in the west tomorrow evening, and should he spy the flotilla, his wrath might well be excited, to the detriment of the expedition.”
“And where,” inquired Berwick, “was King Kragen at last notification?”
Barquan Blasdel knit his heavy black eyebrows. “I believe that I saw some winks to the effect that he had been observed cruising easterly below Adelvine toward Sumber. I might have well misread the flicker—I only noted the configuration from the corner of my eye—but such was my understanding.”
“Excellent,” declared Berwick. “This is good news. The emigrants should then be able to make their departure safely and without interference.”
“So we hope,” said Blasdel. “King Kragen, of course, is subject to unpredictable whims and quirks.”
Berwick made a confidential sign. “Sometimes—so it is rumored—he responds to signals transmitted in some mysterious manner by the intercessors. Tell me, Barquan Blasdel, is this the case? We are both notables and together share responsibility for the welfare of Apprise Float; is it true then that the intercessors communicate with King Kragen, as has been alleged?”
“Now, then, Arbiter Berwick,” said Blasdel, “‘this is hardly a pertinent question. Should I answer yes, then I would be divulging a craft secret. Should I answer no, then it would seem that we intercessors boast of nonexistent capabilities. So you must satisfy yourself with those hypotheses that seem the most profitable.”
“Fairly answered,” said Phyral Berwick. “However—and in the strictest confidence—I will report to you an amusing circumstance. As you know, at, both convocations, I more or less aligned myself with the party of Sklar Hast. I was subsequently accepted into their most intimate counsels. I can inform you with authority—but first, you will assure me of your silence? As under no circumstances would I betray Sklar Hast, or compromise the safety of the expedition.”
“Certainly, indeed; my lips are sealed as with fourteen-year-old varnish.”
“You will under no circumstances communicate, signal, hint, or imply any element of what I am about to confide, to any person or anything, the prohibition to include written messages, winks, or any other method of communication?”
Barquan Blasdel gave an uneasy, high-pitched laugh—almost a giggle. “Your charge upon me is not only legalistic—it is portentous in the extreme.”
“Do you agree to the provisions?”
“Certainly! I have already assured you of my reticence.”
“Well, then, I take you at your word. This is Sklar Hast’s amusing tactic: he has arranged that a group of influential intercessors shall accompany the group. If all goes well, the intercessors live. If not, like all the rest, they will be crushed in the mandibles of King Kragen.” And Phyral Berwick, standing back, watched Barquan Blasdel with an attentive gaze. “What do you make of that?”
Blasdel sto
od rigid, fingering his fringe of black beard. He darted a quick glance toward Berwick; “Which intercessors are to be kidnapped?”
“Aha!” said Berwick. “That, like your response to the question I put to you, is in the nature of a craft secret. I doubt if lesser men will be troubled, but if I were intercessor for Aumerge or Sumber or Quatrefoil or even Apprise, I believe that I might have cause for caution.”
Blasdel stared at Berwick with mingled suspicion and uneasiness. “Do you take this means to warn me? If so, I would thank you to speak less ambiguously. Personally I fear no such attack. Within a hundred feet are three stalwarts, testing my daughters for marriage. A loud call would bring instant help from the float, which is scarcely a stick’s throw beyond the garden.”
Berwick nodded sagely. “It seems then that you are quite secure.”
“Still, I must now hurry to the main float,” said Blasdel. “I am expected at the hoodwink tower for an all-float conference, and the evening grows no younger.”
Berwick bowed and stood aside. “You will naturally remember to reveal nothing of what I told you, to put forth no oblique warning, to hint nothing—in fact, to make no reference to the matter in any way whatever.”
Blasdel made an impatient gesture. “I will say nothing beyond my original intention, to the effect that the villain Sklar Hast obviously knows no moderation and that it behooves all notables and craft masters to guard themselves against some form of final vengeance.”
Berwick frowned. “I hardly think you need go quite so far. Perhaps you could phrase it somewhat differently. In this wise: Sklar Hast and his sturdy band take their leave in the morning; now is the last chance for persons so inclined to cast in their lot with the group; however, you hope that all intercessors will remain at their posts.”
“Pah!” cried Barquan Blasdel indignantly. “That conveys no sense of imminence! I will say Sklar Hast is desperate; should he decide to take hostages, his diseased mind would select intercessors as the most appropriate persons!”