by Jack Vance
Anacho finally threw down the tools in boredom and disgust. “I have done what I can. The raft will fly, but not far.”
“How far, in your opinion?” asked Reith, aware that Ylin Ylan had turned to listen. “To Cath?”
Anacho flapped up his hands, fluttering his fingers in an unknowable Dirdir gesticulation. “To Cath, by your projected route: impossible. The engine is falling to dust.”
Ylin Ylan looked away, studied her clenched hands.
“Flying south, we might reach Coad on the Dwan Zher,” Anacho went on, “and there take passage across the Draschade. Such a route is longer and slower — but conceivably we will arrive in Cath.”
“It seems that we have no choice,” said Reith.
Chapter II
For a period they followed the southward course of the vast Nabiga River, travelling only a few feet above the surface, where the repulsion plates suffered the least strain. The Nabiga swept off to the west, demarcating the Dead Steppe from the Aman Steppe, and the raft continued south across an inhospitable region of dim forests, bogs and morasses; and a day later returned to the steppe. On one occasion they saw a caravan in the distance: a line of high-wheeled carts and trundling house-wagons; another time they came upon a band of nomads wearing red feather fetishes on their shoulders, who bounded frantically across the steppe to intercept them, and were only gradually outdistanced.
Late in the afternoon they painfully climbed above a huddle of brown and black hills. The raft jerked and yawed; the black case emitted ominous rasping sounds. Reith flew low, sometimes brushing through the tops of black tree-ferns. Sliding across the ridge the raft blundered at head-height through an encampment of capering creatures in voluminous white robes, apparently men. They dodged and fell to the ground, then screaming in outrage fired muskets after the raft, the erratic course of which presented a shifting target.
All night they flew over dense forest, and morning revealed more of the same: a black, green, and brown carpet cloaking the Aman Steppe to the limit of vision, though Traz declared the steppe ended at the hills, that below them now was the Great Daduz Forest. Anacho condescendingly took issue, and displaying a chart tapped various topographic indications with his long white finger to prove his point.
Traz’s square face became stubborn and sullen. “This is Great Daduz Forest; twice when I carried Onmale among the Emblems*, I led the tribe here for herbs and dyes.”
* The Emblems: nomads setting great store by small fetishes of metal, wood and stone, each with a name, history, and personality. The warrior wearing a particular emblem becomes imbued with its essence, and in effect becomes the emblem. Traz carried Onmale, the paramount emblem of the tribe, and so was the ritual chief.
Anacho put away the chart. “It is all one,” he remarked. “Steppe or forest, it must be traversed.” At a sound from the engine he looked critically aft. “I believe that we will reach the outskirts of Coad, not a mile further, and when we raise the housing we shall find only a heap of rust.”
“But we will reach Coad?” Ylin Ylan asked in a colorless voice.
“So I believe. Only two hundred miles remain.”
Ylin Ylan seemed momentarily cheerful. “How different than before,” she said. “When I came to Coad a captive of the priestesses!” The thought seemed to depress her and once more she became pensive.
Night approached. Coad still lay a hundred miles distant. The forest had thinned to a stand of immense black and gold trees, with intervening areas of turf, on which grazed squat six-legged beasts, bristling with bony tusks and horns. Landing for the night was hardly feasible and Reith did not care to arrive at Coad until morning, in which opinion Anacho concurred. They halted the motion of the raft, tied to the top of a tree and hovered on the repulsors through the night.
After the evening meal the Flower of Cath went to her cabin behind the saloon; Traz, after studying the sky and listening to the sounds of beasts below, wrapped himself in his robe and stretched out on one of the settees.
Reith leaned against the rail watching the pink moon Az reach the zenith just as the blue moon Braz rose behind the foliage of a far tall tree.
Anacho came to join him. “So then, what are your thoughts as to the morrow?”
“I know nothing of Coad. I suppose we inquire as to transportation across the Draschade.”
“You still intend to accompany the woman to Cath?”
“Certainly,” said Reith, mildly surprised.
Anacho hissed through his teeth. “You need only put the Cathwoman on a ship; you need not go yourself.”
“True. But I don’t care to remain in Coad.”
“Why not? It is a city which even Dirdirmen visit from time to time. If you have money anything is for sale in Coad.”
“A spaceship?”
“Hardly … It seems that you persist in your obsession.”
Reith laughed. “Call it whatever you like.”
“I admit to perplexity,” Anacho went on. “The likeliest explanation, and one which I urge you to accept, is that you are amnesiac, and have subconsciously fabricated a fable to account for your own existence. Which of course you fervently believe to be true.”
“Reasonable,” Reith agreed.
“One or two odd circumstances remain,” Anacho continued thoughtfully. “The remarkable devices you carry: your electronic telescope, your energy-weapon, other oddments. I cannot identify the workmanship, though it is equivalent to that of good Dirdir equipment. I suppose it to be home-planet Wankh; am I correct?”
“As an amnesiac, how would I know?”
Anacho gave a wry chuckle. “And you still intend to go to Cath?”
“Of course. What about you?”
Anacho shrugged. “One place is as good as another, from my point of view. But I doubt if you realize what awaits you in Cath.”
“I know nothing of Cath,” said Reith, “other than what I have heard. The people are apparently civilized.”
Anacho gave a patronizing shrug. “They are Yao: a fervent race addicted to ritual and extravaganza, prone to excesses of temperament. You may find the intricacies of Cath society difficult to cope with.”
Reith frowned. “I hope it won’t be necessary. The girl has vouched for her father’s gratitude, which should simplify matters.”
“Formally the gratitude will exist. I am sure of this.”
“‘Formally’? Not actually?”
“The fact that you and the girl have formed an erotic accommodation is of course a complication.”
Reith smiled sourly. “The ‘erotic accommodation’ has long since run its course.” He looked back toward the deck-house. “Frankly, I don’t understand the girl. She actually seems disturbed by the prospect of returning home.”
Anacho peered through the dark. “Are you so naïve? Clearly she dreads the moment when she must sponsor the three of us before the society of Cath. She would be overjoyed if you sent her home alone.”
Reith gave a bitter laugh. “At Pera she sang a different tune. She begged that we return to Cath.”
“Then the possibility was remote. Now she must deal with reality.”
“But this is absurdity! Traz is as he is. You are a Dirdirman, for which you are not to blame —”
“No difficulties in either of these cases,” stated the Dirdirman with an elegant flourish of the fingers. “Our roles are immutable. Your case is different; and it might be best for all if you sent the girl home on a cog.”
Reith stood looking out over the sea of moonlit treetops. The opinion, assuming its validity, was far from lucid, and also presented a dilemma. To avoid Cath was to relinquish his best possibility of building a space-boat. The only alternative then would be to steal a spaceship, from the Dirdir, or Wankh, or, least appealing of all, from the Blue Chasch: all in all, a nerve-tingling prospect. Reith asked, “Why should I be less acceptable than you or Traz? Because of the ‘erotic accommodation’?”
“Naturally not. The Yao concern themselves with
systematics rather than deeds. I am surprised to find you so undiscerning.”
“Blame it upon my amnesia,” said Reith.
Anacho shrugged. “In the first place — possibly due to your ‘amnesia’ — you have no quality, no role, no place in the Cath ‘round’. As a nondescript, you constitute a distraction, a zizyl-beast in a ballroom. Secondly, and more poignant, is your point of view, which is not fashionable in contemporary Cath.”
“By this you mean my ‘obsession’?”
“Unfortunately,” said Anacho, “it is similar to an hysteria which distinguished a previous cycle of the ‘round’. A hundred and fifty years* ago, a coterie of Dirdirmen were expelled from the academies at Eliasir and Anismna for the crime of promulgating fantasy. They brought their espousements to Cath, and stimulated a tendentious vogue: the Society of Yearning Refluxives, or the ‘cult’. The articles of faith defied established fact. It was asserted that all men, Dirdirmen and sub-men alike, were immigrants from a far planet in the constellation Clari: a paradise where the hopes of humanity have been realized. Enthusiasm for the ‘cult’ galvanized Cath; a radio transmitter was constructed and signals were projected toward Clari. Somewhere, the activity was resented; someone launched torpedoes which devastated Settra and Ballisidre. The Dirdir are commonly held responsible, but this is absurd; why should they trouble themselves? I assure you that they are much too distant, too uninterested.
* The Tschai year: approximately seven-fifths the terrestrial year.
“Regardless of agency, the deed was done. Settra and Ballisidre were laid low, the ‘cult’ was discredited; the Dirdirmen were expelled; the ‘round’ swung back to orthodoxy. Now even to mention the ‘cult’ is considered vulgarity, and so we arrive at your case. Clearly you have encountered and assimilated ‘cult’ dogma; it now manifests itself in your attitudes, your acts, your goals. You seem unable to distinguish fact from fancy. To speak bluntly, you are so disoriented in this regard as to suggest psychic disorder.”
Reith closed his mouth on a wild laugh; it would only reinforce Anacho’s doubts as to his sanity. A dozen remarks rose to his tongue; he restrained them all. At last he said, “All else aside, I appreciate your candor.”
“Not at all,” said the Dirdirman serenely. “I imagine that I have clarified the nature of the girl’s apprehension.”
“Yes,” said Reith. “Like yourself she considers me a lunatic.”
The Dirdirman blinked up at the pink moon Az. “So long as she was outside the ‘round’, at Pera and elsewhere, she made sympathetic allowances. But now return to Cath is imminent …” He said no more, and presently went to his couch in the saloon.
Reith went to the forward pulpit under the great bow lantern. A cool draught of air fanned his face; the raft drifted idly about the treetop. From the ground came a furtive crackle of footsteps. Reith listened; they halted, then resumed and diminished off under the trees. Reith looked up into the sky where pink Az, blue Braz careened. He looked back at the deck-house where slept his comrades: a boy of the Emblem nomads, a clown-faced man evolved toward a race of gaunt aliens; a beautiful girl of the Yao, who thought him mad. Below sounded a new pad of footsteps. Perhaps he was mad indeed …
By morning Reith had recovered his equanimity, and was even able to find grotesque humor in the situation. No good reason to change his plans suggested itself, and the sky-raft limped south as before. The forest dwindled to scrub, and gave way to isolated plantings and cattle-runs, field huts, lookout towers against the approach of nomads, an occasional rutted road. The raft displayed an ever more aggravated instability, with an annoying tendency for the stern to sag. At midmorning a range of low hills loomed ahead, and the raft refused to climb the few hundred feet necessary to clear the ridge. By the sheerest luck a cleft appeared through which the raft wabbled with ten feet to spare.
Ahead lay the Dwan Zher and Coad: a compact town with a look of settled antiquity. The houses were built of weathered timber, with enormous high-peaked roofs and a multitude of skew gables, eccentric ridges, dormers, tall chimneys. A dozen ships rode to moorings; as many more were docked across from a row of factors’ offices. At the north of town was the caravan terminus, beside a large compound surrounded by hostelries, taverns, warehouses. The compound seemed a convenient spot to set down the raft; Reith doubted if it could have held itself in the air another ten miles.
The raft dropped stern first; the repulsors gave a labored whine and went silent with a meaningful finality. “That’s that,” said Reith. “I’m glad we’ve arrived.”
The group took up their meager luggage, alighted and left the raft where it had landed.
At the edge of the compound Anacho made inquiries of a dung-merchant and received directions to the Grand Continental, the best of the town’s hostelries.
Coad was a busy town. Along the crooked streets, in and out of the ale-colored sunlight, moved men and women of many casts and colors: Yellow Islanders and Black Islanders, Horasin bark-merchants muffled in gray robes; Caucasoids such as Traz from the Aman Steppe; Dirdirmen and Dirdirmen hybrids; dwarfish Sieps from the eastern slopes of the Ojzanalai who played music in the streets; a few flat-faced white men from the far south of Kislovan. The natives, or Tans, were an affable fox-faced people, with wide polished cheekbones, pointed chins, russet or dark brown hair cut in a ledge across the ears and foreheads. Their usual garments were knee-length breeches, embroidered vest, a round black pie-plate hat. Palanquins were numerous, carried by short gnarled men with oddly long noses and stringy black hair: apparently a race to themselves; Reith saw them in no other occupation. Later he learned them to be natives of Grenie at the head of the Dwan Zher.
On a balcony Reith thought he glimpsed a Dirdir, but he could not be certain. Once Traz grabbed his elbow and pointed to a pair of thin men in loose black trousers, black capes with tall collars all but enveloping their faces, soft cylindrical black hats with wide brims: caricatures of mystery and intrigue. “Pnumekin!” hissed Traz in something between shock and outrage. “Look at them! They walk among other men without a look aside, and their minds full of strange thinking!”
They arrived at the hostelry, a rambling edifice of three stories, with a café on the front verandah, a restaurant in a great tall covered arbor to the rear and balconies overlooking the street. A clerk at a wicket took their money, distributed fanciful keys of black iron as large as their hands and instructed them to their rooms.
“We have traveled a great dusty distance,” said Anacho. “We require baths, with good quality unguents, fresh linen, and then we will dine.”
“It shall be as you order.”
An hour later, clean and refreshed, the four met in the downstairs lobby. Here they were accosted by a black-haired black-eyed man with a pinched melancholy face. He spoke in a gentle voice. “You are newly arrived at Coad?”
Anacho, instantly suspicious, drew himself back. “Not altogether. We are well-known and have no needs.”
“I represent the Slave-taker’s Guild, and this is my fair appraisal of your group. The girl is valuable, the boy less so. Dirdirmen are generally considered worthless except in clerical or administrative servitude, for which we have no demand. You would be rated a winkle-gatherer or a nut-huller, of no great value. This man, whatever he is, appears capable of toil, and would sell for the standard rate. Considering all, your insurance will be ten sequins a week.”
“Insurance against what?” demanded Reith.
“Against being taken and sold,” murmured the agent. “There is a heavy demand for competent workers. But for ten sequins a week,” he declared triumphantly, “you may walk the streets of Coad night and day, secure as though the demon Harasthy rode your shoulders! Should you be sequestered by an unauthorized dealer the Guild will instantly order your free release.”
Reith stood back, half-amused, half-disgusted. Anacho spoke in his most nasal voice: “Show me your credentials.”
“‘Credentials’?” asked the man, his chin sagging.
“Show us a document, a blazon, a patent. What? You have none? Do you take us for fools? Be off with you!”
The man walked somberly away. Reith asked, “Was he in truth a fraud?”
“One never knows, but the line must be drawn somewhere. Let us eat; I have a good appetite after weeks of steamed pulses and pilgrim plant.”
They took seats in the dining room: actually a vast airy arbor with a glass ceiling admitting a pale ivory light. Black vines climbed the walls; in the corners were purple and pale-blue ferns. The day was mild; the end of the room opened to a view of the Dwan Zher and a wind-curled bank of cumulus at the horizon.
The room was half-full; perhaps two dozen people dined from platters and bowls of black wood and red earthenware, talking in low voices, watching the folk at other tables with covert curiosity. Traz looked uneasily here and there, eyebrows raised in disapproval of so much luxury: undoubtedly his first encounter with what must seem a set of faddish and over-complicated niceties, reflected Reith.
He noticed Ylin Ylan staring across the room, as if astonished by what she saw. Almost immediately she averted her eyes, as if uncomfortable or embarrassed. Reith followed her gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He thought better of inquiring the cause of her perturbation, not wishing to risk a cool stare. And Reith grinned uncomfortably. What a situation: almost as if she were cultivating an active dislike for him! Perfectly comprehensible, of course, if Anacho’s explanation were correct. His puzzlement regarding the girl’s agitation was now resolved by the sardonic Dirdirman.
“Observe the fellow at the far table,” murmured Anacho. “He in the green and purple coat.”
Turning his head, Reith saw a handsome young bravo with carefully arranged hair and a rich mustache of a startling gold. He wore elegant garments, somewhat rumpled and well-used: a jacket of soft leather strips, dyed alternately green and purple, breeches of pleated yellow cloth, buckled at knee and ankle with brooches in the shape of fantastic insects. A square cap of soft fur, fringed with two-inch pendants of gold beads, slanted across his head; an extravagant garde-nez of gold filigree clung to the ridge of his nose. Anacho muttered, “Watch him now. He will notice us, he will see the girl.”