by Jack Vance
“I live by your commands.”
When they stepped forth, Frolitz and the troupe were already departing, with a rumble of wheels and jocular calls.
Etzwane and Finnerack slowly descended the Koronakhe Steps. The Schiafarilla had dropped below the Ushkadel; up had come Gorcula the Dragon-fish, with the twin orange eyes Alasen and Diandas blazing down at Durdane. Finnerack began to look back over his shoulder. Etzwane became infected by his restiveness. “Do you see someone?”
“No.”
Etzwane quickened his pace; they reached the pale expanses of Marmione Plaza; here they paused in the shadows beside the fountain. No one came behind. With somewhat more assurance they continued down Galias Avenue and presently arrived at Fontenay’s Inn, on the banks of the Jardeen River.
At the side of the common room Etzwane and Finnerack consumed a supper of stewed clams, bread and ale. Looking across the well-remembered room Etzwane was moved to reminiscence. He told of his adventures after fleeing Angwin Junction. He described the Roguskhoi raid on Bashon and the events subsequent; he spoke of his association with Ifness, the cold and competent Fellow of the Historical Institute. In this very room Etzwane had encountered the bewitching Jurjin, now, like Sajarano and Garstang, dead. “These events run black and yellow with mystery. I am fascinated and bewildered; I also fear a dreadful enlightenment.”
Finnerack pulled at his chin. “I share only little of your fascination, still I risk the full scope of this enlightenment.”
Etzwane felt a throb of frustration. “You now know the circumstances; what is your decision?”
Finnerack drank his ale and set the mug down with a thud: the most emphatic gesture Etzwane had yet seen him make. “I will join you and for this reason: the better to further my own ends.”
“Before we go further, what are these ends?”
“You already must know. In Garwiy and elsewhere through Shant rich men live in palaces. They gained their wealth by robbing me, and others like me, of our lives. They must make restitution. It will cost them dear but pay they shall, before I die.”
Etzwane said in a voice without accent: “Your goals are understandable. For the present they must be put aside, lest they interfere with larger matters.”
“The Roguskhoi are the imminent enemies,” said Finnerack. “We shall drive them back to Palasedra, and then wreak an equal justice upon the magnates.”
“I promise nothing so wide as this,” said Etzwane. “Fair restitution, yes. Cessation of abuses, yes. Revenge — no.”
“The past cannot be erased,” said Finnerack woodenly.
Etzwane pressed the matter no further. For better or worse, he must make do with Finnerack, at least for the present. The future? … If necessary, he would be merciless. He reached into his pocket. “I now give you the instrument I took from the Benevolence Garstang. This is how to encode a torc.” Etzwane demonstrated. “Mind! here is the critical operation! First you must press ‘Gray’ to disarm the self-destruction cell. ‘Red’ is ‘seek’; ‘Yellow’ is ‘kill’.”
Finnerack examined the box. “I am to keep this?”
“Until I require its return.”
Finnerack turned his twisted grin upon Etzwane. “What if I craved power? I need only set the code to your color, and press ‘Yellow’. Then Jerd Finnerack would be Anome.”
Etzwane shrugged. “I trust in your loyalty.” He saw no point in explaining that his torc carried, in the place of dexax, a warning vibrator.
Finnerack scowled down at the pulse-emitter. “By accepting this, I bind myself to your schemes.”
“This is the case.”
“For the moment,” said Finnerack, “our lives go in the same direction.”
Etzwane realized that he could expect nothing better. “The man I most distrust,” he said, “is the Chief Discriminator; he alone knew of my interest in Camp Three.”
“What of the balloon-way officials? They would also know, and perhaps they would act.”
“Unlikely,” said Etzwane. “The Discriminators must often make such inquiries in the course of routine. Why should the balloon-way distinguish Jerd Finnerack from any other? Only Aun Sharah could connect me with you. Tomorrow I will reduce his scope … Finally, here is Frolitz.”
Frolitz saw them at once, and came swaggering over to the table. “You have had a change of heart; my words are wisdom after all.”
“I want no more of Sershan Palace,” said Etzwane. “We think alike, in this regard.”
“Wise! And here comes the troupe, straggling in like dock coolies. Etzwane, to the stand.”
Etzwane automatically rose to the familiar command, then sank back into his chair. “My hands are stiff as sticks. I cannot play.”
“Come, come,” blustered Frolitz. “I know better. Oil your joints with the guizol; Cune will use tringolet; I will play khitan.”
“For a fact I have no heart for music,” said Etzwane. “Not tonight.”
Frolitz turned away in disgust. “Listen then! During this last month I have altered several passages; pay heed.”
Etzwane sat back. From the stand came the beloved sounds of instruments being tuned, then Frolitz’s instructions, one or two muttered replies. Frolitz gave a nod, a jerk of the elbow, and once again the familiar miracle: from chaos, music.
Chapter VII
Etzwane and Finnerack took breakfast at a café to the side of the Corporation Plaza. Finnerack had accepted funds from Etzwane and immediately had purchased new garments: black boots, a smart black cape with a stiff round collar in the ancient fashion. Etzwane wondered if Finnerack’s new appearance signified a change in his attitudes, or whether the appearance merely certified a previous condition … Etzwane brought his mind back to the exigencies of the present. “Today we have much to do. First: we visit Aun Sharah, whose office overlooks the square. He will be deep in thought; he will have evolved many plans and discarded them all, or so I hope. He will know of our presence in Garwiy; he probably knows that we sit here now at breakfast. He might even put a bold face on the matter, and come forth to meet us.”
They scanned the square but saw no sign of Aun Sharah.
Etzwane said, “Set your emitter to this code.” He recited the colors of Aun Sharah’s torc. “Touch ‘Gray’ first, never forget … Good. Now we are armed.”
They crossed the square, entered the Jurisdictionary, mounted the steps to the Offices of the Discriminators.
As before, Aun Sharah came forth to greet Etzwane. Today he wore a trim suit of dark ultramarine, with cloth shoes of the same color, and a star sapphire dangled from his left ear by a short silver chain. He spoke with easy cordiality. “I have been expecting you. This I would expect to be Jerd Finnerack.”
They entered Aun Sharah’s office. Etzwane asked, “How long have you been back?”
“Five days.” Aun Sharah reported the events of his journey; he had encountered every condition between sullen apathy and earnest effort.
“My experiences were much the same,” said Etzwane. “All is about as we expected. One episode in Canton Glaiy however puzzles me. When I arrived at Camp Three the superintendent, a certain Shirge Hillen, had anticipated my arrival and displayed considerable hostility. What could explain such behavior?”
Aun Sharah gazed reflectively across the square. “The inquiries I made at the balloon-way offices conceivably sent alarms all the way to Camp Three. They are defensive in regard to their labor policies.”
“There seems no other explanation,” said Etzwane, glancing at Finnerack, who maintained a stony silence. Etzwane leaned back in his seat. “The Anome feels that he must now undertake drastic changes. He can govern a peaceful Shant; the energies of a Shant at war exceed his control; some of his authority must be delegated. He feels that a man of your competence is wasted in a position as limited as this.”
Aun Sharah made a smiling gesture. “I am a limited man in a limited position; this is my niche; I have no soaring ambitions.”
Etzwane sho
ok his head. “Never underestimate yourself; be certain that the Anome does not.”
Rather curtly Aun Sharah asked, “What precisely do you plan?”
Etzwane reflected a moment. “I want you to administer the material resources of Shant: the metals, fibers, glass, wood. This is obviously a complicated business; and I would like you to take time — three or four days, even a week — to learn something about your new job.”
Aun Sharah raised his eyebrows into quizzical arches. “You want me to leave here?”
“Exactly correct. As of now you are no longer Chief Discriminator, but rather High Supervisor of Shant for Materials and Procurement. Go home, think about your new job. Study the cantons of Shant and their products, learn what substances are in short supply and which are not. Meanwhile, I’ll occupy your office; I have none of my own.”
Aun Sharah asked in delicate disbelief: “You want me to leave — now?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“But — my private files …”
“‘Private’? Affairs which do not pertain to the office of the Chief Discriminator?”
Aun Sharah’s smile became a trifle wild. “Personal effects, memoranda … All this seems so abrupt.”
“By necessity. Events are occurring abruptly; I have no time for formalities. Where is the roster of Discriminator personnel?”
“In yonder cupboard.”
“It includes your unofficial operatives?”
“Not all of them.”
“You have a subsidiary list?”
Aun Sharah hesitated, then reached into his pocket and brought forth a notebook. He looked into it, frowned, carefully tore out a page and placed it on the desk. Etzwane saw a list of a dozen names, each followed by a code symbol. “These persons do what?”
“They are informal specialists, so to speak. This man informs me on poisons, this on illicit indentures; this one and this one on affairs of the Aesthetes, where, surprisingly, hidden crimes sometimes occur. These three are receivers of stolen goods.”
“What of this person, for instance?”
“He is an ahulph owner; a tracker.”
“And this?”
“The same. All the others as well.”
“All own ahulphs?”
“My information is not so exact. Perhaps some obtain ahulphs by other means.”
“But all are trackers?”
“So I believe.”
“You have no other spies or trackers available for duty?”
“You have the entire roster,” said Aun Sharah shortly. “I’ll take a few personal adjuncts now.” He jerked open a cabinet in his desk and brought forth a gray ledger, a dart-gun, a decorative iron chain with an iron medallion, a few other oddments. Etzwane and Finnerack stood to the side watching. Finnerack spoke for the first time. “The ledger is a personal adjunct?”
“Yes. Confidential information.”
“Confidential from the Anome?”
“Unless he is interested in exploring my private life.”
Finnerack said no more.
Aun Sharah went to the door, where he paused. “The changes you are making: are they the Anome’s concepts or your own?”
“They stem from the new Anome. Sajarano of Sershan is dead.”
Aun Sharah gave a short laugh. “I hardly expected him to survive.”
“He died by means mysterious to me and to the new Anome as well,” said Etzwane evenly. “The Shant of today is a strange place.”
Aun Sharah became thoughtful. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. With a sudden jerk he turned away and departed the office.
Etzwane and Finnerack immediately set about exploring the cupboards and shelves. They examined the roster and puzzled over the cryptic marks which Aun Sharah had posted beside many of the names. They found large-scale maps for each canton of Shant and for the cities Garwiy, Maschein, Brassei, Ilwiy, Carbado, Whearn, Ferghaz, Oswiy. A set of indexes listed important men of each canton, with references to a master file and more of Aun Sharah’s symbols; there were likewise detailed studies of the Aesthetes of Garwiy, again with a variety of cryptic references.
“No great matter,” said Etzwane. “Aun Sharah’s notes will be obsolete in a year. They relate to Old Shant; we have no interest in secrets and scandals. In any event I want to reorganize the Discriminators.”
“How so?”
“They are now civil and cantonal police; they also gather information elsewhere in Shant. I want to detach this last function and establish a new Shant-wide agency, to provide the Anome detailed intelligence regarding all of Shant.”
“It is an interesting idea. I would be glad to control such an agency.”
Etzwane laughed to himself with a straight face. Finnerack was sometimes wonderfully transparent. “Our first problem is the identity of the man who followed us yesterday evening. I would like you to organize this matter, at least. Acquaint yourself with the Discriminators; call a meeting of the personnel. Stress that Aun Sharah is no longer Chief Discriminator; that all orders must now derive from me. As soon as possible I want to look over all the operatives, all the trackers official and unofficial. If I see the man, I will recognize him.”
Finnerack hesitated. “All very well, but how should I proceed?”
Etzwane considered a moment. To the side of Aun Sharah’s desk was a bank of buttons. Etzwane pressed the top button. At once a clerk entered the room, a man plump and anxious, no older than Etzwane himself.
Etzwane said: “The former Chief Discriminator is no longer in authority, by order of the Anome. Henceforth you will take orders only from me and from Jerd Finnerack, here beside me; do you understand?”
“I do.”
“What is your name?”
“I am Thiruble Archenway, with the status of Clerk Lieutenant.”
“This top button summons yourself. What of these other buttons?”
Archenway explained the function of each button, while Etzwane took notes. “I have several tasks to be accomplished at once,” said Etzwane. “First, I want you to introduce Jerd Finnerack throughout the office. He will be making certain arrangements. I want you then to summon three men to me here, by authority of the Anome, as quickly as is convenient. First: Ferulfio the Master Electrician. Second: the technist Doneis. Third: Mialambre:Octagon, Arbiter of Wale.”
“As quickly as possible.” Thiruble Archenway bowed to Finnerack. “Sir, please step this way …”
“One moment,” said Etzwane.
Archenway swung about. “Yes?”
“What are your ordinary duties?”
“Errands much like those you have just put to me. I customarily adjust the Chief Discriminator’s calendar, arrange appointments, screen mail, deliver messages.”
“I remind you that Aun Sharah is no longer associated with the Discriminators. I want absolutely no leakage of information, gossip, hints or implications leaving this office, through you or anyone else. Perhaps you had better circulate a bulletin to this effect.”
“I will do as you require.”
Ferulfio the Master Electrician was a man thin and pale, with quicksilver eyes. “Ferulfio,” said Etzwane, “by repute you are a man as silent as a fanshank and twice as discreet.”
“That I am.”
“You and I will now go to Sershan Palace; I will admit you to a room housing the former Anome’s radio system. You will transfer the equipment to this office, and arrange it along yonder wall.”
“As you say.”
Etzwane, disliking Aun Sharah’s desk, ordered it removed. He brought in two green leather divans, two chairs of purple-stained woad-wood upholstered in plum-colored leather; a long table upon which a pert and pretty girl file clerk, watching Etzwane sidelong, placed a bouquet of irutiane and amaryls.
Archenway came into the room. He looked this way and that. “Very pleasant; a nice change. You also need a new rug. Let me think …” He paced back and forth. “A floral, perhaps the Fourth Legend in violet and coral? Somewhat
too definite, too limiting; after all, you wish to establish your own moods. Better one of the Aubry Concentrics; which are frequently delightful. The connoisseurs think them ill-proportioned, but I find this very distortion quaint and amusing … Perhaps after all a Burazhesq would be best, in dark gray, thracide* umber.”
* Thracide: a sour intense carmine.
“I am agreeable,” said Etzwane. “Order in such a rug. We all should work in pleasant surroundings.”
“This is my precise philosophy!” declared Archenway, “and I am sorry to say that my own office leaves something to be desired. I could work more efficiently in a situation on the front elevation, somewhat larger and lighter than my present cubby-hole.”
“Are any such offices vacant?”
“Not at the moment,” admitted Archenway. “I can readily recommend changes. In fact, if you will allow me, I will at this instant prepare a schedule of long overdue adjustments.”
“In due course,” said Etzwane. “We can’t do everything at once.”
“I trust that you will keep the matter in mind,” said Archenway. “I am now half-stifled in gloom; the door strikes my leg every time someone opens it, and the colors, in spite of my best efforts, are stupid and depressing … Meanwhile, the technist Doneis awaits your convenience.”
Etzwane swung around in astonishment. “You keep Doneis waiting while you chatter of rugs and your inclinations in offices? You’ll be lucky to end up tonight with any office whatever.”
In consternation Archenway hurried from the room, to return with the tall bone-thin Doneis. Etzwane ushered the technist to a divan and seated himself opposite. “You have submitted no report,” said Etzwane. “I am anxious to learn what has been accomplished.”
Doneis refused to relax; he sat bolt upright on the divan. “I have submitted no report because we have achieved no reportable results. You need not remind me of the need for haste; I understand this from high to low. We do the best we can.”
“Do you have nothing whatever to tell me?” demanded Etzwane. “What are your problems? Do you need money? Additional personnel? Are there problems of morale? Do you lack authority?”