by Jack Vance
Etzwane studied the photographs. “He travels around Shant, at least to some extent. Balloon-way clerks might recognize his picture.”
“But would they give us information? Or would they consult the Discriminators?”
“The publishers of Frivolity no doubt could put a name to him, but I suppose the same objection applies.”
“Precisely; questions arouse suspicion. Before informing a pair of strangers they would first notify the principal.”
Etzwane pointed to the collar of the Faceless Man’s jacket. “Notice this brooch: silver and amethyst in a clever design. The artificers of such objects occupy Neroi Square, to the west of Corporation Plaza. The maker would be certain to recognize his work. When we put forth the story that we had found the jewel, he might supply the name of the person to whom he had sold it.”
“Excellent,” said Ifness. “We will try this plan.”
Neroi Square occupied the heart of the Old City. The paving — three-foot tiles of murky lavender glass — was worn and irregular; the fountain at the center dated from the reign of the first Caspar Pandamon. A two-story arcade of translucent black glass surrounded the square, each column displaying the emblem of a mercantile family extinct two thousand years. The old offices had been converted into workshops for Garwiy’s jewelers and metal-crafters. Each worked jealously alone, with his sons and nephews for apprentices, barely deigning to recognize the existence of his fellows. The work of each shop reflected the temperament of the shop-elder; some were known for their opals, agates, moonstones; others carved tourmaline or beryl; others created miniatures with microscopic slivers of cinnabar, lapis, turquoise, jade. Fashions and whimsicalities were only grudgingly heeded; special orders were accepted without enthusiasm. No piece carried seal or sigil; each craftsman deemed his work instantly recognizable.
The shop of Zafonce Agabil was currently in the mode; his designs were thought quaint and endearing. Into the shop of Zafonce Agabil went Ifness and Etzwane. Upon the counter Ifness tossed a section cut from his photograph of the Faceless Man. “Someone lost such a brooch at my house; did you make it? If so can you supply me the name of its owner, that I may return it?”
The clerk, one of the four Agabil sons, examined the photograph with a contemptuous twist of the mouth. “None of our work, certainly.”
“Whose might it be?”
“I could not say.”
At the shop of Lucinetto, Ifness encountered a similar response, but additionally: “It is somewhat old-fashioned work, and might well be an heirloom. The cabochon is cut with an overly shallow dome, as one might use a garnet. Not our work; never, never, could we so shame a stone.”
From shop to shop went Ifness and Etzwane.
At Meretrice’s the latest of the lineage examined the photograph. “Yes, this is one of our pieces, in the style of the Siume Dynasty. Notice the vitality of the cabochon? It comes of a secret contour, known only to us. It was lost? A pity. I do not recall the purchaser; it was crafted five years or more ago.”
“I think I know the owner,” said Ifness. “He came as a friend of one of my guests and I do not recall his name.” He displayed a photograph of the Faceless Man.
Meretrice glanced at it. “Yes! That is Sajarano of Sershan Palace: something of a recluse. I am surprised he came to your banquet.”
Chapter XIII
The palace Sershan, an intricate confection of clear and colored glass, faced southeast across Garwiy. Ifness and Etzwane examined the premises from a discreet distance. They saw no activity on the loggia, nor in that area of the garden accessible to view. The Office of Archives had yielded information of no great interest. The Sershan lineage went back to middling antiquity. Prince Varo Sershan of Wild Rose had supported Viana Paizifume; a certain Almank Sershan had raided the south coast of Caraz, returning with a vast fortune in silver corpse effigies. Sajarano was last in the direct lineage. A spouse had died twenty years before without issue; he had never taken another. He still controlled the hereditary Wild Rose estates and was a keen agriculturist. Heir presumptive was a cousin, Cambarise of Sershan.
“One possible tactic is to go to the door and ask to speak to his Excellency Sajarano,” said Ifness. “Such an approach, with the virtue of utter simplicity, has much to recommend it … A pity,” he said in musing afterthought, “that my mind always discovers hazards and contingencies … What if he expects us? By no means impossible. Meretrice might have become suspicious. The clerk at the Office of Archives seemed overly alert.”
“I suspect he would call Discriminators the instant we appeared,” said Etzwane. “Were I Sajarano I would be a worried man.”
Ifness said, “In this same vein, were I Sajarano, I would not keep to my palace. I would dress inconspicuously and wander the city. I believe that we are wasting our time here. We should go where the Faceless Man is likely to go.”
During the late afternoon the cafés of Corporation Plaza became crowded with folk making rendezvous; at the largest of these cafés, Ifness and Etzwane seated themselves and ordered wine and biscuits.
The folk of Garwiy passed back and forth, all in greater or lesser degree imbued with the peculiar Garwiy verve and volatility.
They saw nothing of Sajarano.
The suns rolled behind the Ushkadel; shadows filled the plaza. “Time we were returning,” said Ifness. “Jurjin will be rousing herself; we should be on hand.”
Jurjin had already regained consciousness. Frantically, by every resource known to her, she had been trying to free herself from the cord which connected her waist to the couch. Her gown was disheveled where she had tried to slip the loop over her hips. The wood of the couch was scarred where she had sought to fray the cord. The knots, sealed by a means known only to Ifness, now engrossed her to such an extent that she failed to notice the arrival of Ifness and Etzwane. She looked up with the face of a trapped animal. “How long will you keep me here? I am miserable; what right have you to do such a thing to me?”
Ifness made a gesture of boredom. He loosened the cord from the couch, allowed her once more the freedom of the house.
Etzwane prepared a meal of soup, bread and dried meat, which at first she haughtily declined, then ate with good appetite.
She became more cheerful. “You two are the strangest men on Durdane. Look at you! Glum as crakes! Of course! You are ashamed of the acts you have perpetrated upon me!”
Ifness ignored her; Etzwane merely gave a sour chuckle.
“What are your plans?” she demanded. “Must I stay here forever?”
“Possibly,” said Ifness. “I suspect however that circumstances may change in a day or two.”
“And in the meantime? What of my friends? They are worried sick, of this I am sure. And must I wear this same gown day in and day out? You treat me like a beast.”
“Patience,” murmured Ifness. “Presently I will give you a drug and send you back to sleep.”
“I do not want to sleep. I consider you the epitome of boorishness. And you —” she turned her attention upon Etzwane “— have you no gallantry? You sit grinning like a dogfish. Why do you not force the old man to release me?”
“So that you could report us to the Faceless Man?”
“It would be my duty. Should I be punished on this account?”
“You should not have become a Benevolence were you not willing to assume the risks.”
“But I had no choice! One day I was told my destiny and from that time my life was not my own.”
“You could have refused to serve. Do you enjoy taking men’s heads away from them?”
“Bah,” she said, “you refuse to speak on a sensible level … What is wrong with you?” This to Ifness, who had jerked around in his chair, to sit listening.
Etzwane listened as well, but the night was quiet. “What do you hear?” he asked.
Ifness jumped to his feet. He went to the doorway and looked out into the dark. Etzwane rose as well. Still he could hear no sound. Ifness spoke in an incompr
ehensible language, then listened once more.
Jurjin took advantage of the distraction to coil the cord in her hand. She lunged for Ifness, hoping to push him aside and win her freedom. Etzwane, waiting for just such a move, caught her and carried her kicking and yelling to the couch. Ifness brought over his drug; the girl became quiet. Ifness tied the end of the rope to the couch, and this time taught Etzwane the secret of the lock. “The knot itself is a meaningless tangle of loops and turns …” Ifness spoke in haste. “Come here to the table. I must teach you what I know of the torcs. Quickly now, quickly!”
“What is the trouble?”
Ifness looked toward the door. He spoke in a dreary voice: “I have been recalled. I am in deep disgrace. At the least I will be expelled from the Institute.”
“How do you know all this?” demanded Etzwane.
“A signal has reached me. My time on Durdane is ended.”
Etzwane stared with a slack jaw. “What of the Faceless Man? What shall I do?”
“Your best. It is tragic that I must go. Attend me. I will leave you my tools, my weapons, my drugs. You must listen carefully, as I can explain only once. First: the torcs. Watch how to open one safely.” He demonstrated on a torc he had brought from Gargamet Meadow. “And here is how to lock it. Watch; I will reactivate the girl’s torc. The dexax fits in here; this is the detonator. The echo circuit is broken; notice this loose connection … Demonstrate what I have told you … Good … This is my only weapon; it shoots a needle of energy. The camera I must keep.”
Etzwane listened with foreboding. He had not realized his dependence on the detestable Ifness. “Why must you leave?”
“Because I must! Be wary of the Faceless Man and his Benevolence here. Their conduct is aberrant, in an almost imperceptible degree.”
A soft sound reached Etzwane’s ears. Ifness heard it as well and turned his head; otherwise he made no move.
A polite rap-tap-tap sounded at the door. Ifness walked across the room, drew the latch. In the darkness stood two shapes. The first came a little forward; Etzwane saw a man of medium stature with a pale complexion, the blackest of hair and eyebrows. He seemed to smile, a placid, grim smile; his eyes glittered in the light. The second man was a vague shape in the gloom.
Ifness spoke in a language strange to Etzwane; the black-haired man replied curtly. Ifness spoke again; the stranger as before replied with a few dry syllables.
Ifness turned back into the cottage. He took his soft black case; without a glance, word or gesture toward Etzwane, he stepped out into the night. The door closed.
A minute later Etzwane heard the soft sound. It faded into a sigh and was gone.
Etzwane poured himself a glass of wine, and sat at the table. Jurjin of Xhiallinen lay in a coma on the couch.
Etzwane rose to his feet and explored the cottage. In the cabinet he found a wallet containing several thousand florins. In a wardrobe were garments: at need, they would fit Etzwane.
He went back to sit at the table. He thought of Frolitz, of the old days which in retrospect seemed so carefree. No more, never again. By now the ‘anonymous adventurer’ must be identified with Gastel Etzwane.
He decided he did not wish to remain in the cottage. He slipped into Ifness’ gray cape and a gray hat. Into his pocket he tucked the energy gun and Garstang’s box. After a moment’s deliberation he included the drug of stupefaction which Ifness had demonstrated to him: suppose he should meet Sajarano of Sershan on this autumn evening?
Etzwane turned down the lights. The cottage was dark except for the colored loom of Garwiy through the window. Jurjin lay quiet; he could not hear her breathing. Etzwane walked softly from the cottage.
For hours he wandered the avenues of Garwiy, pausing by cafés to examine the patrons, stepping into taverns to scan the faces in the room. He dared not approach Fontenay’s. At midnight he ate a meat bun and a cake of cheese at a late-hour booth.
Mist had come drifting in from the Green Ocean. It flew in wafts and tendrils among the spires, blurring the colored lights, bringing a damp scent to the air. Few folk were abroad. Wrapping himself in the cloak, Etzwane returned to the cottage.
At the gate he halted. The dark cottage seemed to wait for him. Behind, in a shed, festered Garstang’s body.
Etzwane listened. Silence, darkness. He walked through the garden and paused by the door. A slight sound? He strained his ears … Another sound: a dry scraping. Etzwane flung open the door, sidled into the room, gun in hand. He turned up the lights. No changes were evident. The back door creaked. Etzwane ran from the front door, circled the cottage. He saw nothing. The door of the shed appeared to be ajar. Etzwane stopped short, hair bristling at the nape of his neck. Slowly he approached; jumping forward, he slammed the door and threw the latch. Then he wheeled and sprang nervously aside, in case the open door were a ploy to distract him.
No sound. Etzwane could not bring himself to investigate the shed. He went into the house. Jurjin lay in her coma. She had moved or been moved; an arm hung down to the floor.
Etzwane bolted the doors and drew the blinds. The cord binding Jurjin to the couch had been disturbed. The wooden frame of the couch had been abraded, rasped. Etzwane bent over Jurjin, examined her with care. He raised her eyelid. The eyeball was rolled back. Etzwane jerked around, looked over his shoulder.
The room was empty, save for the ghosts of dead conversations.
Etzwane brewed tea and went to sit in a chair … Time passed. Constellations rose and fell; Etzwane dozed. He awoke cold and stiff to find the light of dawn seeping through the shutters.
The cottage was quiet and dismal. Etzwane prepared himself a meal and planned his day. First he must examine the shed.
Jurjin awoke. She had nothing to say. He fed her and allowed her a visit to the bathroom. She returned in a dull and despondent mood, without defiance or vivacity. She stood in the center of the room flexing her arms, which apparently were cramped. Presently she asked, “Where is the old man?”
“He is gone about his affairs.”
“What may they be?”
“You’ll learn in due course.”
“What a strange pair you are!”
“I find you much stranger than myself,” said Etzwane. “By contrast I am starkly simple.”
“But still you preach sedition.”
“By no means. The Roguskhoi killed my mother, and my sister as well. I say that they must be destroyed, to save all of Shant. This is not sedition. It is ordinary rationality.”
“You should leave such decisions to the Anome.”
“He refuses to act; hence I must force him.”
“The old man’s mother was likewise killed?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Why is he so zealous to break the laws?”
“From sheer philanthropy.”
“What? That man? He is cold as the Nimmir wind.”
“Yes, in certain ways he is strange. Now I must drug you once more.”
Jurjin made an airy gesture. “You need not bother. I will agree not to leave the cottage.”
Etzwane gave a cynical laugh. “Please be good enough to lie upon the couch.”
Jurjin approached him, smiling up into his face. “Let us be friends instead. Kiss me.”
“Hmmf. At this time in the morning?”
“Would you like to?”
Etzwane dourly shook his head. “No.”
“Am I so ill-favored? Old and wrinkled?”
“No. But if you could press the yellow button and take my head, you would do so. The idea does not compel my affection … Please make haste.”
Jurjin thoughtfully went to the couch. She lay supine while Etzwane applied the drug, and soon she slept. Etzwane locked the cord to a decorative ceiling bracket.
He went out to inspect the shed. The door was bolted as before. He walked around. Nothing larger than a rat could have found its way in or out.
Etzwane flung wide the door; daylight revealed garden tools, h
ousehold clutter, Garstang’s body where he had dragged it. The face and chest were fearfully torn. Etzwane stood in the doorway looking for the creature which had done the damage. He did not dare enter, for fear the rat, if such it were, might dart forth and bite him … He closed and bolted the door.
Wearing the gray cloak, Etzwane sauntered glumly into Garwiy. He went directly to the Corporation Plaza. The Faceless Man might be walking the halls of Sershan Palace. He might be resting in solitude at his Wild Rose estate. He might have gone off to the far corners of Shant to punish malefactors … Etzwane thought otherwise. If he were the Faceless Man, he would stay in Garwiy, in contact with the Discriminators, and sooner or later he must cross the Corporation Plaza.
Etzwane stood a moment or two under the old Clockmakers’ Gate. A misty chilly morning today, the suns eclipsing each other as they sidled across the sky. Etzwane went to a nearby café and took an inconspicuous table. He ordered broth and sat sipping.
The folk of Garwiy passed across the plaza. Near the Office of Petitions three Discriminators came together and stood talking. Etzwane watched them with interest. What if they all came at him together? He could never kill them all with the metal box: there would be insufficient time. The Faceless Man must carry another weapon, thought Etzwane: a device which would explode any torc at which it was pointed … Into the café came a man in a suit of gray and purple. His forehead was broad and pallid; the small nose, the pursed down-curving mouth were undistinguished, but the eyes, which looked off to the side, were luminous and thoughtful. He signaled to the waiter for a mug of soup; a motion peremptory but polite, in the fashion of the Aesthetes.
When the broth was served, he glanced sidewise toward Etzwane, who took care to have his own mug raised before his face; but for an unsettling instant he met the gaze of the Faceless Man.
The Faceless Man frowned slightly and looked away, as if resenting a stranger’s attention.