Night Lamp

by Jack Vance

  The councillors listened without comment, and finally told Skirl that they had heard enough. Jaro was then asked for a similar account of himself. He described the course of his own life, and stated that he had only recently learned the facts of his parentage. As he spoke the councillors appeared to lose interest. They muttered to each other, consulted notebooks and shifted in their seats. Jaro stopped talking in mid-sentence and went back to his chair. No one seemed to notice. He told Maihac: “It is your turn next.”

  “I think that they have heard enough,” said Maihac. “They are now dealing with the problem of lunch.”

  “I don’t understand this system,” Jaro growled.

  “That is beside the point. They follow the patterns of tradition, and we must follow behind them.”

  “But they have asked nothing about Asrubal!”

  “They know all they need to know, which is that Morlock has asked that Asrubal be committed to the Adjudicators. At noon they will return this finding and troop off to lunch. That is the way things are done.”

  “I see.”

  At noon the councillors rose. The chief councillor intoned, “Asrubal, of Urd House, being accused of heinous offense, is remanded to the judgment of the adjudicators, who will certify who must suffer the penalties: the accused or the accusers.”

  Jaro turned to Maihac. “What do they mean by that?”

  “In our case it is probably hollow talk. By traditional Roum justice, if charges were brought and the accused was found guiltless, then the penalties were inflicted upon the accusers, to teach them not to bear false witness. But it won’t happen to us—not with Gaing watching from the Pharsang.”

  “Still, the idea is rather unsettling.”

  “Yes,” said Maihac. “At Romarth this is true of many things.”

  Ardrian joined the three off-worlders. “That is all for the moment. The adjudicators will sit later today. Meanwhile, I will be pleased if you will join me for lunch. In fact, in the interests both of your convenience and the hospitality which is owed to you, I invite you to take up residence at Carleone.”

  “Thank you,” said Maihac. “I think that I can answer for the others. We will be happy to accept the invitation.”

  “Very well,” said Ardrian. “So it shall be.”

  3

  The five adjudicators met during the afternoon—not at the Colloquary but in the grand hall of Asrubal’s palace Varcial, in order that Asrubal should be provided convenient access to the proceedings. The adjudicators sat at the back of a long table, upon which Seishanee had arranged bottles, jugs, trays of pastries, salt fish, candied bird livers and the like, to fortify the law-givers against the rigors of their work. They were men of disparate physiognomy: tall, short, lean, plump, but all displayed the attitudes of high rashudo. The chief adjudicator, known as the Magister, was the oldest of the group, and presented the most distinctive appearance. He sat hunched forward, sharp elbows splayed to either side. A few strands of white hair lay across his scalp; his long ears, drooping eyelids and long thin nose gave him the look of a tired owl. He gazed about the chamber; satisfied that all was in order, he struck a gong and called out: “The Panel of Adjudicators is now in session. Absolute propriety must be observed. Let the prisoner appear!”

  A pair of regulators brought out Asrubal and seated him in a massive chair beside the wall.

  The Magister again spoke. “This is a court of high justice. Balance and equity prevail. In these precincts neither birth, house, faction or rashudo are recognized. Adjudication is exact. Often we arrive at a verdict before evidence is presented. Emotional demonstrations will not be tolerated. We will now begin. Justiciar Morlock, lay your case before the panel.”

  Morlock, using a flat voice, described the crimes of which Asrubal was accused. Asrubal listened without change of expression, staring at Morlock with round black eyes.

  Morlock completed his preliminary statement and Jaro was called to testify. Morlock, the adjudicators and Barwang, Asrubal’s counsel, all put questions, many bearing upon the case at hand, others whose relevance seemed far afield. The Magister enforced no discipline, so that Jaro often was asked two or three questions at once. He marvelled at the informality of the proceedings, even though the adjudicators themselves were sedate and dignified. Perhaps in their vanity they thought to ordain justice with only a fraction of their attention: if such were the case, it was the most consummate arrogance of all. As Jaro told what he knew, they made comments to each other and occasionally interrupted to ask new questions. Jaro carefully restrained his impatience and answered every question in full detail. At times the adjudicators looked to Asrubal as if inviting comment; Asrubal in response sometimes showed a thin smile; occasionally he burst out in sudden wild interjections: “Nonsense, all nonsense, do you hear?” And, “Stuff and bumbleyap!” And, “He is a har and a scorpion; throw him out!”

  Asrubal was represented by his kinsman, Barwang of Urd, a florid gentleman of middle age, fluent of tongue, with large dog-brown eyes, flowing locks of brown hair, a silken mustache, a small paunch which, along with rather large hips, he tried to hide under a loose cape of green and black velvet. He carried himself with a swaggering nonchalance which Jaro found annoying. Barwang wandered restlessly about the hall, occasionally pausing to listen, sometimes leaning over Asrubal to impart a confidential insight, sometimes leaving the hall, to return, listen a moment, then cry out, “Your Dignities! Asrubal and I both have had enough of this sorry farrago! It is an imposition upon my kinsman! Call off this persecution and let us have no more of it.”

  The adjudicators heard him with grave attention. At last one of them said, “Barwang’s remarks have reminded me that it is time to adjourn. The Grandees of Urd have demanded a quick end to the trial, and after all we must not keep Asrubal locked up longer than necessary. We shall meet again one week from today.”

  The three off-worlders returned to the palace Carleone, where they were shown to their separate apartments. They bathed and were dressed in elegant evening garments by Seishanee servants.

  The three gathered in the small parlor and were presently joined by Ardrian, who exercised his artistry in the creation of refreshing tonics. For an hour the group discussed the events of the day. Jaro said that the processes of Roum justice left him baffled.

  Ardrian explained: “It is really quite simple. The Panel of Adjudicators sit relaxed. They observe, absorb and assimilate. A melange of information enters their minds, where it is sorted out on a subconscious level until all falls into place and a sure verdict is found.”

  Skirl asked, “Why did they recess court for a week?”

  “Sometimes the adjudicators are a bit capricious. Perhaps they were tired or bored, or perhaps they like to think of themselves as manifestations of natural forces, moving at a relentless rhythm. In any event, you will have a week of free time to explore the beauties of Romarth and its exciting society. Remember, it is dangerous to venture into abandoned palaces alone, since the white houseghouls are unpredictable and often will spring out upon you without warning. Even with an escort, you are not entirely safe.” He rose to his feet. “Now we will go into the dining room. Tonight you will meet some of my friends and kinsmen. They will not know how properly to comport themselves. Deal with them patiently and if they behave in a style which seems peculiar, show no surprise.”

  “I will be cautious,” said Jaro. “I can’t speak for Skirl, of course. She is a Clam Muffin, and doesn’t associate with everyone. Perhaps you should warn your kinsmen.”

  Ardrian looked at Skirl doubtfully. “She appears quite serene at this moment. In fact, she does not fit the usual concept of an off-worlder.”

  “Nevertheless, she is real and very much alive.”

  “Extremely alive,” said Skirl.

  The evening passed without untoward incident. The Roum seemed curious as to how life was lived among the outer worlds.

  “Everywhere it is different,” said Maihac. “The IPCC maintains a uniformity
of basic law, so that a traveler will never be flogged for blowing his nose in public. Still, there is enough variety to make travel interesting.”

  “A pity it is so expensive,” said a young woman.

  Jaro said, “If Asrubal of Urd were not such a thief, you might have enough money to travel in style.”

  Broy, a cavalier of the House of Carraw, said stiffly, “Your remarks are tantamount to slander. Asrubal is a grandee of high rashudo. It is not fitting that an off-worlder should use such language!”

  “Sorry,” said Jaro. “I did not intend to offend you.”

  There was silence around the table. At last Broy gave a stiff nod. “I am not offended; that is another impertinence! I merely indicate to you the need for keeping a respectful tongue in your head.”

  “I shall do my best,” said Jaro meekly. He noticed that both Maihac and Ardrian were smiling quietly. Skirl looked from Jaro to Broy in scorn and disbelief, but managed to hold her tongue. The occasion proceeded, but no longer as informally as before.

  Later Ardrian told Jaro and Skirl, “You behaved correctly, exactly as I wished. Broy of Carraw is a sultry young popinjay. He also has connections among the Urd clan, and thought to strike a grandiose posture at your expense. You need not be concerned; it means nothing.”

  “I was not concerned,” said Jaro. “I was more amused than otherwise. He is no threat to me.”

  “Don’t be too sure! He has an uncertain temper and he is an expert swordsman.”

  “I’ll do my best not to provoke him.”

  On the following day Jaro and Skirl were taken to view the abandoned palace Somar, seat of the long-extinct Soumarjian Sept. They were escorted by a pair of Ramy cavaliers and two others of Immir House. In awe Jaro and Skirl moved through the silence of the dim halls. In a library Skirl paused to examine the books which crowded the shelves. They were ponderous and thick, with covers of carved board and pages alternating text and hand-wrought illumination.

  Roblay of Immir, who seemed to take a special interest in Skirl, stayed with her while the others went on into the grand salon. He explained the books. “At one time everyone kept a personal record in books of this sort. Each of these books tells the story of someone’s life. The books are more than diaries; they are works of artful beauty, mingled with passages of poetry and intimate revelation, which the chronicler could note without embarrassment, since only after death might anyone look in his book. Picture pages were created in loving detail, using the most delightful harmonies of color, sometimes striking, sometimes subdued and misty. The costumes of course are archaic, but if you read the text, the folk in the pictures come to life, and march through the pages in their glories and defeats. The drawing, as you can see, is fluid and flexible, and matches the personality of the chronicler. Sometimes the pictures are innocent, as if seen through the eyes of a child; sometimes they are quietly passionate. It is often said that the books express the chronicler’s wish to live forever. The folk believed, perhaps seriously, that they imparted the essence of themselves into their books, and that the books by some means would clasp time and make it a static thing, so that the person who created the book would forever be alive, half dreaming his way back and forth through the pages he had created so lovingly.” Roblay grimaced. “I must say that we treat the books with reverence, when sometimes we visit one or another of the old palaces.”

  “And how old are the books?”

  “The fashion came into vogue about three thousand years ago and continued for a thousand years or more. Suddenly, the fashion died out, and now no one would think of dedicating so much toil to a book.”

  “It is better than dedicating your life to nothing.”

  “Yes,” said Roblay thoughtfully. “I am sure you are right.” He took the book from Skirl and idly turned through the pages, pausing from time to time to study one of the exquisite decorations. “They were folk much like ourselves, of course, but it is amusing to see the quaint old costumes and try to feel the flow of their lives. They were a happier folk, or so it seems. Today there is weariness abroad. Romarth is decaying and can never be what it once was.” He put the book back on the shelf “I seldom look at these books. They put me in a dreary mood and afterward I gloom for days on end.”

  “Too bad,” said Skirl. “If I were you, I would go out and explore the real worlds of the Reach, and perhaps find a congenial occupation.”

  Roblay smiled wistfully. “That means I might be forced to labor incessantly for food and shelter.”

  “It might turn out like that.”

  “At Romarth I neither toil nor labor. I live in a palace and dine very nicely. The contrast is hard to ignore.”

  Skirl laughed. “You live a sheltered life, like an oyster secure in its shell.”

  Roblay raised his eyebrows. “You would not say so if you knew me better! I have fought four duels and twice I have gone out to hunt houseghouls. I am a captain of the Dragoons, but enough of me! Let us talk of you. For instance, and a very important question: Are you bonded to anyone?”

  Skirl looked at him sidelong. “I am not sure that I understand you,”—though she did very well. Roblay was gallant and charming, and there was no harm in a bit of flirtation. In essence, so she explained to herself, she was studying the sociology of the Roum cavaliers.

  “What I mean is this.” For an instant Roblay touched her shoulder. “Are you free to make decisions, without accountability?”

  “Of course! I direct my own affairs.”

  Roblay smiled. “You are an off-worlder; still you exercise a most curious appeal which I hardly know how to describe.”

  “I am exotic,” said Skirl. “I reek with the tantalizing mystery of the unknown.” The two smiled at each other. Roblay started to respond, but stopped short and jerked his head around to stare at the bookcases. Skirl thought to hear a furtive sound. She looked over her shoulder and around the room, at the same time drawing the handgun which Maihac insisted that she carry. There was nothing to be seen. In a husky half-whisper she asked, “What was that?”

  Roblay, still staring this way and that, said, “Sometimes there are secret passages behind the walls—perhaps here as well, although Somar is supposed to be a safe house. Nothing is ever certain, of course. The houseghouls like to spy; then, if the mood is on them, they reach out for someone who has not noticed them. They are unnerving beasts. Come; let us join the others.”

  On the following day Jaro and Maihac were summoned to the Colloquary to consult with Morlock and a pair of councillors, which, according to Ardrian, meant that the adjudicators were taking the charges against Asrubal seriously. Skirl, at loose ends, went out to wander the boulevards of Romarth. She finally came to rest at a café on the edge of Gamboye Plaza. Here she was joined by Roblay of Immir. “I saw you sitting alone,” he told her. “I decided to join you and continue our conversation, which was interrupted by a creak in the woodwork.”

  “It was more than a creak,” said Skirl. “It was a houseghoul, deciding whether we’d be good to eat.”

  Roblay gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “So it might have been—though I don’t like to think of it. We have always felt secure in Somar, since it is well into the near neighborhood.”

  “Why don’t you exterminate the creatures once and for all? If this were Gallingale, there would be no houseghouls in our basements.”

  “We have set out on these expeditions a hundred times. When we venture into the crypts, we become vulnerable and they play awful tricks upon us, so that we become too sickened to proceed.”

  “Something else which puzzles me is the Foundance. Tell me: how does it function?”

  Roblay gave an uncomfortable grimace. “It is something no one wishes to talk about; in fact, it is off the edge of polite conversation, and in very poor taste to so much as notice the place.”

  “I don’t mind a bit of vulgarity. Can we visit it and see for ourselves what goes on?”

  Roblay seemed surprised. He looked toward the green-domed struct
ure beside the river. “I have never thought to do so. I suppose there is nothing to stop us; the entrance ramp gives directly upon the Esplanade, for convenience.”

  “What sort of convenience? Tell me. You have hinted of what you know and I am curious.”

  “Very well. To start, I should say that one of every two hundred Seishanee is a sport; as he grows, he becomes something other than the usual Seishanee, and is known as a grichkin. He is ugly and squat, with a bald head, pointed on top, a long nose hanging over a little mouth and a trifle of chin. Most important of all, he is intelligent enough to think, to execute complex orders and to supervise the ordinary Seishanee. Every household employs grichkins as major-domos. The grichkins, so I believe, control the processes in the Foundance without interference from the Roum, who want nothing to do with the place. The grichkins take care of all the unpleasant household details. When a Seishanee servant reaches a certain age, he becomes careless and slothful; his skin turns yellow and his hair falls out; meanwhile, he becomes fat as a grape. In the early hours, when none of the Roum are abroad, the grichkins take the used Seishanee to the Foundance and slide him into the corpse bin, where he is processed and mixed into the slurry. When a Roum dies, we pretend that he is transported to a wonderful city among the clouds. This is the fable we tell our children when they ask what has happened to a relative who is suddenly gone. The truth is that the grichkins carry the corpse to the Foundance and slide him into the bin, and he joins the slurry.” Roblay laughed without humor. “So now you know as much as I do. If you wanted to inspect the processes at close hand, no one would stop you and the way is open, but you would not like what you saw.”