The Anome

by Jack Vance

  Etzwane’s nervousness made careful thinking difficult. He clenched the mug, and forcing his thoughts into a channel, sorted out his options.

  He carried a gun. He could step forward, press it into the Anome’s back, and utter appropriate orders. The plan had a single overwhelming disadvantage: conspicuity. If the act were noticed, as it must be, the Discriminators would be summoned.

  He could wait until the Anome departed and follow; but the Anome in his present condition of uncertainty might well notice and lead him into a trap. Etzwane told himself that he must not relinquish the initiative.

  The Anome, if he recognized the ‘anonymous adventurer’, might be persuaded to follow Etzwane; more likely he would summon the Discriminators.

  Etzwane heaved a fateful sigh. He reached into the pocket of his cape and secured an item of the equipment Ifness had left with him. He clinked a florin down on the table to pay for the broth; scraping his chair back, he rose to his feet; then, with an exclamation, he stumbled forward to place his hand upon the Faceless Man’s neck. “Sir, my apologies!” declared Etzwane. “What a disgrace! This wet napkin has fallen upon your neck!”

  “No matter, no matter.”

  “Allow me to help you.”

  The Anome jerked away. “You are clumsy; what do you mean daubing my neck in such a fashion?”

  “Again, my apologies! I will replace your coat if it is stained.”

  “No, no, no. Just be off with you, I can take care of myself.”

  “Very well, sir, as you wish. I must explain that this cursed chair engaged my leg and threw me forward. I’m sure the matter came as a great shock!”

  “Yes, quite so. But the episode is finished; please say no more.”

  “Your indulgence one more moment; I must adjust my shoe. May I sit here no more than an instant?”

  “As you will.” The Anome turned away in his chair. Etzwane, dealing with his shoe, watched him carefully.

  A moment passed. The Anome glanced about. “You are still here?”

  “Yes. What is your name?”

  The Anome blinked. “I am Sajarano of Sershan.”

  “Do you know me?”

  “No.”

  “Look at me!”

  Sajarano turned his head. His face was calm and even.

  “Rise to your feet,” said Etzwane. “Come with me.”

  Sajarano’s face showed no emotion. Etzwane led him from the café.

  “Walk faster,” said Etzwane. They passed under the Pomegranate Portal into Serven Airo Way. Etzwane now clasped Sajarano’s arm. Sajarano blinked. “I am tired.”

  “You will rest shortly. Who is the ‘anonymous adventurer’?”

  “He is a man from the east; he is at the center of a seditious cabal.”

  “Who are the others of this cabal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you not order soldiers against the Roguskhoi?”

  Sajarano for ten seconds made no reply. Then he mumbled: “I don’t know.” His voice had begun to slur; he moved with an unsteady gait. Etzwane supported him and took him along the way as fast as possible, until near the Gate of the Seasons the Faceless Man could walk no more.

  Etzwane conveyed him to a bench and waited until an empty fiacre came by, which he halted. “My friend has had a drop too much; we must take him home before his wife finds out.”

  “It happens to the best of us. Into the back with him. Can you manage?”

  “Very well. Drive out the Avenue of the Thasarene Directors.”

  Chapter XIV

  Etzwane undressed the Faceless Man to his undergarments and laid him on the couch across from Jurjin. The Faceless Man was not physically impressive. From the garments Etzwane removed an activating box like that carried by Garstang, an energy gun of complex design, a small case which Etzwane presumed to be a radio transceiver, a metal tube of unknown function; Etzwane thought it might be the all-torc destroyer he had hypothesized.

  He brought forth Ifness’ tools and ranged them carefully in a row. With intense concentration he removed Sajarano’s torc as he had seen Ifness do. To his intense puzzlement the torc contained a full complement of dexax. The echo circuits were apparently operative. Etzwane stared in amazement. What could be the reason for this? A terrible presentiment struck him; had he captured the wrong man?

  If not: why should the Faceless Man wear an armed torc?

  The solution rose into his mind: a reason so simple and full of relief that he laughed outright. Like everyone else Sajarano of Sershan had assumed his torc at puberty. When, through circumstances shrouded and secret, he had become the Anome, he knew no method to alter the situation, except to alter the color coding, as protection against his Benevolences.

  Etzwane slipped off his own torc. He restored the explosive to its slot, reconnected the circuits. He placed this around Sajarano’s neck and locked it in place.

  An unpleasant task awaited him. He went out to the shed and threw open the door. The rat, if such it were, scuttled under a pile of sacks. It had, so Etzwane noted, been feeding upon Garstang’s body. In revulsion Etzwane brought forth Ifness’ gun and sent a spear of pale fire at the sacks. They disappeared in a gust of vile-smelling smoke, and with them the creature who had taken refuge below.

  Etzwane picked up a spade and, digging a shallow grave, buried Garstang.

  When he returned into the house, all was as before. He bathed, changed his clothes, then sat and waited, his mood a strange mixture of exultation and loneliness.

  Jurjin awoke first. She seemed tired; her face sagged and her skin showed an unhealthy color. Sitting up on the couch, she looked at Etzwane with undisguised bitterness.

  “How long will you keep me here?”

  “Not long now.”

  She peered across the room. “Who is that man?”

  “Do you know him?”

  Jurjin shrugged, a brave attempt at debonair defiance.

  “His name is Sajarano of Sershan,” said Etzwane. “He is the Faceless Man.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “You shall see … Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  Etzwane thought a moment or two. Then he unlocked the cord which bound her. She stood up, free of her bonds. Etzwane faced her.

  “Do not leave this house. If you do, I will take your head. The Anome is here and cannot help you. You must now obey me as formerly you did the Anome. You must not obey him. Do you understand?”

  “I understand well enough … But I am confused. Who are you?”

  “I am Gastel Etzwane, a musician. So I was, so I hope to be again.”

  Hours passed. Jurjin wandered about the house, watching Etzwane with wonder, defiance and female spite.

  Toward evening Sajarano recovered his senses. He became alert very quickly and sat up on the couch. For half a minute he appraised Etzwane and Jurjin. He spoke in the coldest of voices. “Suppose you explain why you have brought me here.”

  “Because the Roguskhoi must be attacked; because you refused to act.”

  “This is solemn and deliberate policy,” said Sajarano. “I am a man of peace; I refuse to bring the horrors of war to Shant.”

  “Worry no longer; the Roguskhoi have done the job for you.”

  Etzwane pointed to Sajarano’s old torc. “You are wearing an active torc. It carries its full complement of dexax. I carry the detonator. You now must answer to me, and your Benevolence as well.”

  Jurjin, standing across the room, went to sit on the couch. “I obey the Anome.”

  Sajarano asked, “What of Garstang?”

  “Garstang is dead.”

  Sajarano’s hand went up to his new torc, after the manner of the folk of Shant. “What do you propose to do?”

  “The Roguskhoi must be destroyed.”

  Sajarano spoke in a quiet voice: “You do not know what you are saying. In Shant we enjoy peace and good fortune; we must maintain it. Why risk chaos and militarism for the sake of a few barbarians?”
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br />   “Peace and good fortune are not the natural bounties of nature,” said Etzwane. “If you believe this, I will send you to Caraz, where you can learn for yourself.”

  “You cannot wish to bring turmoil to Shant,” cried Sajarano, in a suddenly brassy voice.

  “I wish to repel a clear and present danger. Will you obey my orders? If you refuse, I will kill you this moment.”

  Sajarano sank back in his chair. He seemed apathetic, and watched Etzwane sidelong, in which pose his small nose and mouth seemed curiously immature. “I will obey.”

  Jurjin was restless; her face twitched and jerked in grimaces which under other circumstances might have been amusing and endearing. She rose to her feet, went to the table.

  Etzwane asked, “The Discriminators are now searching for the ‘anonymous adventurer’?”

  “Yes.”

  “They have orders to kill him?”

  “If necessary.”

  Etzwane gave him the transceiver. “How do you use this?”

  Jurjin came forward as if interested. From behind her back flashed a glass knife. Etzwane, watching from the corner of his eye, knocked her sprawling back on the couch. Sajarano struggled up, kicked Etzwane, grappled him around the neck. Etzwane lunged ahead. The line around Sajarano’s neck snapped taut, to snatch him flailing back to the couch.

  “Your promises seem to mean little,” Etzwane observed in a mild voice. “I was hoping that I might trust you both.”

  “Why should we not fight for what we believe?” demanded Jurjin.

  “I promised to obey you,” said Sajarano. “I said nothing about not trying to kill you when opportunity offered.”

  Etzwane grinned, a dour sardonic grin. “In that case I order you not to try to kill or injure me in any way. Will you obey?”

  Sajarano sighed in vast unease. “Yes … What else can I say?”

  Etzwane looked at Jurjin. “What about you?”

  “I promise nothing,” she declared haughtily.

  Etzwane seized her arm and pulled her toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” she cried. “What are you doing?”

  “I am taking you to the back yard to kill you,” said Etzwane.

  “No, no, no!” she cried. “Please do not … I promise to obey you!”

  “And will you seek to harm me?”

  “No!”

  Etzwane released her; she ran back to the couch.

  Etzwane returned to Sajarano. “Explain the function of this transceiver.”

  “I press the white button,” said Sajarano in a calm voice. “It transmits to the relays I designate on this dial. I speak; the orders are broadcast from the relay station.”

  “Call the Discriminators, order them no longer to molest the ‘anonymous adventurer’. State that Gastel Etzwane must be given respectful and instant obedience, no less than you would expect for yourself.”

  Sajarano did so, in a flat voice. He looked up at Etzwane. “What else do you require of me?”

  Etzwane, standing across the room, looked from one face to the other, from Jurjin of Xhiallinen to the Faceless Man. Both, he knew, would play him false as soon as opportunity offered. Dead, they would be no threat to him. Jurjin’s eyes widened, as if she read his thoughts … It might be for the best. Still, if he killed the Faceless Man, who would govern Shant? Who would organize the military apparatus necessary to his goals? The Faceless Man must live; in which case he could see no reason to kill Jurjin of Xhiallinen.

  The two watched him intently, trying to divine the direction of his thoughts. Etzwane said in a fateful voice: “You are free to go. Do not leave the Ushkadel.”

  He untied the cord from Sajarano’s neck. “A warning: if I am killed, if I disappear, you’ll both lose your heads.”

  With neither ceremony nor overmuch dignity the two departed the cottage. At the gate Jurjin looked over her shoulder; in the dark Etzwane could see only the glimmer of her face. Uneasily he sensed that Ifness would have handled the situation differently, that at some essential juncture his affairs had gone wrong.

  He loaded Ifness’ black case with such weapons and instruments he did not dare leave behind and departed the cottage.

  At the Old Pagane he dined on the best the house offered, amused by his twinges of instinctive parsimony. Money had become the least of his concerns.

  He sauntered along the riverbank to Fontenay’s, where he found Frolitz and the troupe drinking beer. Frolitz hailed Etzwane in angry reproof mixed with relief. “What have you been up to? We’ve been persecuted by the Discriminators! They say you kidnaped an Aesthete girl.”

  “All nonsense,” said Etzwane. “A ridiculous mistake. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Clearly you don’t care to enlighten us,” said Frolitz. “Well, no matter: to work. I have a sore lip; tonight I’ll use the khitan; Etzwane will play wood-horn. We’ll start with that Morningshore trifle Birds in the Surf … ”