by Jack Vance
Frolitz threw wide his arms in a gesture of vindication. “From his own mouth you have heard the words.”
Dystar nodded gravely. “You have cause for concern.” He turned to Etzwane. “At Maschein I spoke to you and your friend who sits yonder. Immediately thereafter I received the Anome’s command to journey here to Fontenay’s Inn. Are these events related?”
Frolitz looked accusingly at Etzwane. “Dystar too? Must every musician in Shant go forth against the savages before you are appeased? We strike them with our tringolets, pelt them with guizols … The scheme is inept.” Signaling his troupe he stalked back to the stand.
“Frolitz’s remarks are irrelevant,” said Etzwane. “I am indeed involved against the Roguskhoi, but on this basis —” He explained his situation in the same terms he had used with Finnerack. “I need support from the wisest persons of Shant, and for this reason I requested that you come here.”
Dystar seemed mildly amused rather than startled or awed. “So then: I am here.”
A figure loomed over the table. Etzwane looked up into the bleak visage of Mialambre:Octagon. “I am puzzled by your policies,” stated Mialambre. “You ask that I meet you at a tavern to discuss matters of policy; I find you drinking liquors and consorting with the tavern musicians. Is the whole affair a hoax?”
“By no means,” said Etzwane. “This is Dystar, an eminent druithine, and like yourself a man of wisdom. Dystar, before you stands Mialambre:Octagon, no musician, but a jurist and a philosopher, whose assistance I have also solicited.”
Mialambre seated himself somewhat stiffly. Etzwane glanced from one to the other: Dystar detached and self-contained, an observer rather than a participant; Mialambre astute, exacting, a person relating each fact of existence to every other fact by a system based on the ethos of Wale. The two, thought Etzwane, had nothing in common but integrity; each would find the other incomprehensible; yet if one became Anome he would rule the other. Which? Either? … Etzwane, looking over his shoulder, beckoned to Finnerack, who had been standing somewhat aloofly by the wall.
Finnerack had changed to a somber garment of black twill, tight at wrists and ankles. Without change of expression he came to the table. “Here,” said Etzwane, “for all his gloom is a man of probity and competence. His name is Jerd Finnerack; he tends to energetic action. We are a disparate group, but our problems run on several levels, and require disparate talents.”
“This is all very well, or so I suppose,” said Mialambre. “Still, I find the situation irregular and our surroundings incongruous. You deal with all of Shant rather more informally than the elders control the business of our village.”
“Why not?” asked Etzwane. “The government of Shant has been and is a single man, the Anome; what could be less formal than this? The government travels with the Anome; if he sat here tonight, here would be the government.”
“The system is flexible,” Mialambre agreed. “How it functions in times of stress remains to be seen.”
“The system depends upon the men who direct it,” said Etzwane, “which is to say ourselves. Much work lays before us. I will tell you what so far has been done: we have mobilized militias in sixty-two cantons.”
“Those not now overrun,” remarked Finnerack.
“The technists of Garwiy contrive weapons; the folk of Shant at last realize that the Roguskhoi must and will be defeated. On the other side of the coin, the organization to coordinate so much effort simply does not exist. Shant is a sprawling beast with sixty-two arms and no head. The beast is helpless; it struggles and thrashes in sixty-two directions, but is no match for the ahulph which gnaws at its belly.”
On the stand Frolitz had taken the troupe into a muted nocturne which he played only when he felt out of sorts.
Mialambre said: “Our deficiencies are real. Two thousand years has brought many changes. Viana Paizifume fought the Palasedrans with a brave, even ferocious, army. They wore no torcs; discipline must have been a severe problem. Even so, they dealt the Palasedrans terrible blows.”
“They were men in those days,” said Finnerack. “They lived like men, they fought like men and if necessary died like men. They pursued no ‘flexible tactics’.”
Mialambre nodded in dour agreement. “We shall not find their like in the Shant of today.”
“Yet,” mused Etzwane, “they were only men, no more and no less than ourselves.”
“Not true,” insisted Mialambre. “The men of old were harsh and willful, responsible to no one but themselves. They were therefore self-reliant, and here is the ‘more’. The folk today are allowed no such exercises; they trust the justice of the Anome rather than the effect of their own force. They are obedient and lawful: here the olden folk were ‘less’. So we have lost and so we have gained.”
“The gains have no meaning,” said Finnerack, “if Roguskhoi destroy Shant.”
“This will not come to pass,” Etzwane declared. “Our militias must and will strike them back!”
Finnerack uttered his harsh laugh. “How can the militia do this? Can children fight ogres? A single man inhabits Shant: the Anome. He cannot do the fighting; he must order his children forth to battle. The children are fearful; they rely on the single man and the result is preordained. Defeat! disaster! death!”
There was silence except for the slow sad music of the nocturne.
“I suspect that you overstate your case,” said Mialambre in a cautious voice. “Surely Shant cannot be totally bereft of warriors; somewhere live brave men to protect their homes, to assault and conquer.”
“I met a few,” said Finnerack. “Like me they worked at Camp Three. They had no fear of pain, death or the Faceless Man; what could he do worse than what they knew? Here were warriors! Men without fear of the torc! These men were free; can you believe this? Give me a militia of such brave free men and I will conquer the Roguskhoi!”
“Unfortunately,” said Etzwane, “Camp Three is no more. We can hardly torment men until they lose their fear of death.”
“Is there no better way to set a man free?” cried Finnerack in a rough voice. “This instant I can tell you a better way!”
Mialambre was puzzled; Dystar wondered; only Etzwane knew Finnerack’s meaning. Beyond question he referred to his torc, which he must regard as the instrument of his suffering.
The group sat quietly, brooding over Finnerack’s words. Presently in a voice of idle reflection Etzwane asked: “Suppose the torcs were taken from all your necks: what then?”
Finnerack’s face was stony; he deigned no reply.
Dystar said: “Without my torc I would be mad with joy.”
Mialambre seemed astounded both by the concept and by Dystar’s response. “How can this be? The torc is your representation, the signal of your responsibility to society.”
“I recognize no such responsibility,” said Dystar. “Responsibility is the debt of people who take. I do not take, I give. Thereafter my responsibility is gone.”
“Not so,” exclaimed Mialambre. “This is an egotistical fallacy! Every man alive owes a vast debt to millions — to the folk around him who provide a human ambience, to the dead heroes who gave him his thoughts, his language, his music; to the technists who built the space-ships which brought him to Durdane. The past is a precious tapestry; each man is a new thread in the continuing weave; a thread by itself is without meaning or worth.”
Dystar gave generous acquiescence. “What you say is truth. I am at fault. Nonetheless, my torc is unwelcome; it coerces me to the life I would prefer to live by my own free will.”
“Suppose you were Anome,” asked Etzwane. “What would be your policy in this regard?”
“There would be no more torcs. People would live without fear, in freedom.”
“‘Freedom’?” cried Mialambre in unaccustomed fervor. “I am as free as is possible! I act as I please, within the lawful scope. Thieves and murderers lack freedom; they may not rob and kill. The honest man’s torc is his protection against such ‘freedom’.”
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Dystar again conceded the jurist his argument. “Still, I was born without a torc. When the Sanhredin guildmaster clamped my neck, a weight came upon my spirit which has never departed.”
“The weight is real,” said Mialambre. “What is the alternative? Illegality and defiance. How would our laws be enforced? Through a coercive corps? Spies? Prisons? Tortures? Hypnotism? Drugs? Men without restraint are ahulphs. I declare that the flaw is not the torc; it resides in the human disposition which makes the torc necessary.”
Finnerack said, “The correctness of your remarks rests upon an assumption.”
“Which is?”
“You assume the altruism and good judgment of the Anome.”
“True!” declared Mialambre. “For two thousand years we have had this general condition.”
“The magnates will agree to this. At Camp Three we thought the reverse; and we are correct, not you. What man of justice could allow a Camp Three to exist?”
Mialambre was not daunted. “Camp Three was a carbuncle upon the private parts; filth under the rug. No system lacks its flaw. The Anome enforces only canton law; he makes no law of his own. The customs of Canton Glaiy are insensitive; perhaps this is why Camp Three was located in Glaiy. Were I Anome, would I enforce new laws upon Glaiy? A dilemma for every thoughtful man.”
Etzwane said, “The argument is beside the point; at least temporarily. The Roguskhoi are about to destroy us. There will be no more torcs, no more Anome, no more men, unless we fight with effectiveness. Our performance to date has not been good.”
“The Anome is the single free man of Shant,” said Finnerack. “As a free man I too would fight; an army of free men could defeat the Roguskhoi.”
Mialambre said, “The idea is unrealistic, in more ways than one. In the first place, the unclamped children are years from manhood.”
“Why wait?” demanded Finnerack. “We need only unclamp our warriors.”
Mialambre laughed quietly. “It is not possible. Fortunately so. We would have suffered the Hundred Years War for nothing. The torcs have kept the peace. The compulsion of the torc is best; I cite you the chaos of Caraz.”
“Even though manhood is lost?” demanded Finnerack. “Do you envision an infinite future of halcyon peace? The pendulum must swing. The torcs must be unclamped.”
Dystar asked, “How is this to be done?”
Finnerack jerked his thumb toward Etzwane. “An Earthman taught him the sleight. He is a free man; he can do as he likes.”
“Gastel Etzwane,” said Dystar, “take then this torc from my neck.”
The decision came to Etzwane’s mind by an indirect and emotional process. “I will remove your torcs. You shall be free men like myself. Finnerack will control an army of brave free men. No further children will be clamped by torcs — if only for this reason: the torc makers now supply radios to the new militia.”
Mialambre said despondently: “For better or worse, Shant enters a new time of convulsion.”
“For better or worse,” said Etzwane, “the convulsion is upon us. The force of the Anome is waning; he can no longer control the spasms. Mialambre and Dystar, you must work together. Mialambre, with such staff as you elect, you shall range Shant and correct the worst flaws: the Camp Threes, the Temple Bashons, the indenture brokers, the indenture system itself. You cannot avoid conflict and controversy; these are unavoidable. Dystar, only a great musician could do what I now require of you. Alone, or with such folk as you select, you must range Shant, to tell folk by word and by the force of music of the common heritage, the unity which must come to us, unless the Roguskhoi drive us all out into the Beljamar. The details of these operations — to correct and to unify, to bring justice and common purpose — must be yours to calculate. Now, let us go up to my chambers, where you shall all become free men like myself.”
Chapter IX
Days passed. Etzwane engaged a suite on the fourth level of the Roseale Hrindiana, on the east side of Corporation Plaza, three minutes walk from the Jurisdictionary. Finnerack moved in with him, but two days later took a somewhat less luxurious suite in the Pagane Towers across the plaza. The pleasures of wealth held no fascination for Finnerack; his meals were spare and simple; he drank no wines or spirits; his wardrobe consisted of four relatively plain garments, each unrelieved black. Frolitz had unceremoniously taken his troupe up into Purple Fan; Mialambre:Octagon had assembled a staff of consultants, though he had not yet overcome all his misgivings in regard to the changes he would be working upon Shant.
Etzwane argued: “Our goal is not uniformity; we quell only those institutions which victimize the helpless: grotesque theologies, indenture, the old-houses of Cape. Where once the Anome enforced law, in the new times he becomes a source of recourse.”
“If torcs are no longer used, the Anome’s function changes of necessity,” Mialambre noted in a dry voice. “The future is unreadable.”
Dystar had gone off by himself, with words to no one.
Mialambre:Octagon or Dystar the druithine? Either could fulfill the office of Anome; both were deficient in the other’s strength … Etzwane wished that he could make a quick decision and unburden himself; he had no taste for authority.
Meanwhile Finnerack reorganized the Discriminators with brutal zest. The comfortable old routines were shattered; out went the timeservers, including Thiruble Archenway; departments and bureaus were consolidated. The new Intelligence Agency was Finnerack’s special interest, a situation which sometimes caused Etzwane misgivings. Consulting with Finnerack in his office, Etzwane studied the spare form, the corded face, the down drooping mouth, the bright blue eyes, and wondered as to the future. Finnerack now wore no torc; Etzwane’s authority extended only so far as Finnerack chose to acknowledge it.
Dashan of Szandales came into the office with a tray of refreshments. Finnerack, suddenly remembering one of his arrangements, put a question to her: “The men I required — they are here?”
“They are here.” Dashan’s voice was terse. She disliked Finnerack and considered herself under Etzwane’s authority alone.
Finnerack, unconcerned with inconsequentialities, gave her a brisk order. “Have them marshaled into the back office; we’ll be there in five minutes.”
Dashan flounced from the room. Etzwane watched her go with a sad half-smile. Finnerack would be a hard man to control. To urge him to greater delicacy was time wasted. Etzwane asked: “What men are these?”
“They are the last of the men on the roster. You have seen all the rest.”
Etzwane had almost forgotten Aun Sharah, who in his present post was reassuringly far from the sources of power.
The two went to the back office. Here waited fourteen men: the trackers and spies on Aun Sharah’s informal roster. Etzwane walked from man to man, trying to remember the exact contours of the face he had glimpsed through the window of the diligence: a hard straight nose, a square chin, wide flinty eyes.
In front of him stood such a man. Etzwane said, “Your name, if you please?”
“I am Ian Carle.”
To the others Etzwane said, “Thank you; I require nothing more.” To Carle he said, “Come, if you please, to my office.”
He led the way, with Carle and Finnerack walking behind. Finnerack slid shut the door. Etzwane motioned Carle to a divan; Carle silently obeyed.
Etzwane asked, “Have you ever been in this office before?”
Carle stared Etzwane eye to eye for five seconds. He said, “I have.”
Etzwane said, “I want to learn something of your previous work. My authority to ask questions comes directly from the Anome; I can show you the warrant, should you require assurance. Your own conduct is not in question.”
Ian Carle gave an unemotional sign of assent.
“A short time ago,” said Etzwane, “you were instructed to meet the balloon Aramaad at Garwiy Depot, there identify a certain man — myself as a matter of fact — and follow him to his destination. Is this true?”
Car
le paused only two seconds. “This is true.”
“Who gave you these instructions?”
Carle spoke in an even voice, “The then Chief Discriminator Aun Sharah.”
“Did he provide background or reason for your assignment?”
“None. This was not his habit.”
“What were your exact instructions?”
“I was to follow the designated man, observe whomever he met; were I to see the tall white-haired man of uncertain age I was to abandon Gastel Etzwane and follow the white-haired man. I was naturally to gather all supplementary information of interest.”
“What was your report?”
“I informed him that the subject, obviously suspicious, had no difficulty picking me out, and attempted to make physical contact with me, which I avoided.”
“What other instructions did Aun Sharah then give you?”
“He told me to station myself near Sershan Palace, to be at all times discreet, to ignore the previous subject, but to watch for the tall white-haired man.”
Etzwane flung himself down on the divan and glanced at Finnerack, who stood with arms clasped behind his back, eyes boring into the face of Ian Carle. Etzwane felt puzzlement. The information had been supplied; Aun Sharah’s activities had been illuminated. What did Finnerack see or sense that he, Etzwane, had missed?
Etzwane asked, “What other report did you make to Aun Sharah?”
“I made no other reports. When I came with my information, Aun Sharah was no longer Chief Discriminator.”
“Information?” Etzwane frowned. “What information did you bring on this occasion?”
“It was general in nature. I witnessed a gray-haired man of middle size leave Sershan Palace, whom I conceived might be the person in question. I followed him to Fontenay’s Inn, where I identified him as Frolitz, a musician. I returned up Galias Avenue, passing you and this gentleman near the fountain. As I turned into Middle Way, I encountered a tall white-haired man walking eastward. He hailed a diligence and asked to be taken to the Splendor of Gebractya. I followed as rapidly as possible, but I did not find him.”