Jack Vance - Gaean Reach 01 Page 3

  “That’s the effect produced, certainly. At best: magnificence. At worst: a kind of strident peevishness.”

  “Which, in fact, expresses the Uldra temperament.”

  Elvo Glissam looked across the room toward the two Uldras. Schaine studied him from the corner of her eye. She liked him, so she decided; he seemed gentle and humorous and subtle in his perceptions. Additionally, he was nice to look at, with his soft blond hair and pleasantly regular features. He stood perhaps an inch taller than the average; he appeared athletic, in an easy loose-limbed fashion… He turned to find her eyes on him and responded with a self-conscious smile. Schaine said rather hurriedly: “You’re not a native to Szintarre?”

  “I’m from Jennet on Diamantha. A dreary city on an unexciting world. My father publishes a pharmaceutical journal; right now I’d probably be writing an article on the latest foot powders if my grandfather hadn’t given me a lottery ticket for my birthday.”

  “The ticket paid off?”

  “A hundred thousand SLU*.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  Elvo Glissam made a casual, or perhaps modest, gesture. “Nothing remarkable. I paid off the family debts, bought my sister a Cloud-hopper and put the rest out at interest. So here I am, living on a modest but adequate income.”

  “And what do you do besides just live?”

  “Well, I’ve got two or three things going on. I work for SEE, as you know, and I’m putting together a collection of Uldra war songs. They’re natural musicians and produce the most wonderful songs which don’t get half the attention they deserve.”

  “I grew up with those songs,” said Schaine. “In fact, I could sing a few blood-curdlers right now, if I were in the right mood.”

  “Some other time.”

  Schaine laughed. “I’m seldom anxious to burn my enemies, one by one, ‘with six thousand fires and six thousand pangs’.”

  “The Gray Prince, incidentally, is supposed to be here tonight.”

  “The Gray Prince—isn’t he the Uldra messiah, or rabble-rouser, or some such special agent?”

  “So I’m told. He advocates what he calls ‘Pan-Uldra’—an association of the Retent tribes, which then will absorb the Treaty tribes and ultimately eject the land-barons from Uaia. Over here he’s sponsored by the Redemptionists, which means almost everyone in Szintarre.”

  “Including yourself?”

  “Well—I don’t like to admit it to the daughter of a land-baron.”

  Schaine sighed. “I don’t really mind. I’m going back to live at Morningswake, and I’ve determined not to quarrel with my father.”

  “Aren’t you putting yourself in a very awkward position? I feel in you a certain awareness of justice and fair play—”

  “In other words, am I a Redemptionist? I hardly know what to say. Morningswake is my home, so I’ve been brought up to believe. But what if I really didn’t have any right to be there, would I still want to keep it? To be candid, I’m glad that my opinion carries absolutely no weight, so that I can enjoy going home without suffering pangs of conscience.”

  Elvo Glissam laughed. “At least you’re honest. If I were you I might feel the same way. Kelse is your brother? Who is the grim dark-haired fellow with the stomach-ache?”

  “That’s Gerd Jemasze of Suaniset, the domain next east to ours. He’s always been lofty and saturnine, ever since I can remember.”

  “I think someone said—probably Valtrina—that an erjin attacked Kelse.”

  “Yes, it was absolutely horrible, and erjins terrify me to this day. I can’t believe those great beasts are tame.”

  “There are many different kinds of human beings; maybe there are different kinds of erjins.”

  “Perhaps…When I see those great maws and awful arms, I think of poor little Kelse, all chewed and ripped.”

  “It’s a miracle he’s alive.”

  “He’d be dead except for an Uldra boy we called Muffin, who came with a gun and blew the erjin’s head off. Poor Kelse. Poor Muffin, for that matter.”

  “What happened to Muffin?”

  “It’s a long sordid story. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  For a moment the two stood in silence. Elvo Glissam said: “Let’s go out on the terrace and look over the sea—where you’ll be flying tomorrow.”

  Schaine thought this was a pleasant idea, and they walked out into the warm night. Through the campander fronds the lights of Olanje were scattered in a long irregular crescent; overhead hung the stars of the Gaean Reach, many seeming to shimmer with an extra significance for the populated worlds surrounding.*

  Elvo Glissam said: “An hour ago you were not even a name, and now Schaine Madduc is you, and I’ll be sorry to see you leave. Are you sure you prefer Uaia to Olanje?”

  “I can hardly wait to get home.”

  “Isn’t it bleak and drab and depressing?”

  “Of course not! Where have you heard such nonsense? Uaia is magnificent! The sky is so wide, the horizons are so far, that mountains, valleys, forests and lakes are lost in the landscape. Everything swims in light and air; I can’t describe the effect except to say that Uaia does something to your soul. I’ve missed Morningswake terribly these last five years.”

  “You make Uaia sound interesting.”

  “Oh, it’s interesting, but it’s not a soft place. Uaia is often cruel—more often than not. If you saw the wild erjins destroying our cattle, you might not be so pro-erjin.”

  “See? You completely misunderstand me! I’m not pro-erjin! I’m anti-slavery, and erjins are slaves.”

  “Not the wild erjins! Better if they were.”

  Elvo Glissam gave an indifferent shrug. “I’ve never seen a wild erjin, and I’m not likely to have the opportunity. They’re quite extinct in Szintarre.”

  “Come out to Morningswake; you’ll see wild erjins, as many as you like.”

  Elvo Glissam said rather wistfully: “I’d accept the invitation if I thought you were serious.”

  Schaine hesitated barely an instant, although her invitation had been intended in general rather than specific terms. “Yes, I’m serious.”

  “What of Kelse? What of your father?”

  “Why should they mind? Guests are always welcome at Morningswake.”

  Elvo Glissam reflected a moment. “When do you leave?”

  “First thing in the morning. We fly with Gerd Jemasze to Galigong, at the edge of the Retent; there my father meets us. Tomorrow at sunset we’ll be at Morningswake.”

  “Your brother might consider me forward.”

  “Of course not! Why should he?”

  “Very well then. I’ll be more than happy to accept. In fact I’m tremendously excited.” Elvo Glissam straightened up from the balustrade. “In which case I’ll now have to leave this party, to pack some clothes and change some arrangements. And I’ll meet you at your hotel early tomorrow morning.”

  Schaine held out her hand. “Goodby till then.”

  Elvo Glissam bent his head and kissed her fingers. “Good night.” He turned and walked away. Schaine watched him go with a half-smile on her face and a soft warm pressure in her throat.

  She followed Elvo inside and wandered from room to room until, in that chamber which Valtrina called the kachemba, after the sacred places of the Uldras, she found Kelse and Gerd Jemasze debating the authenticity of Valtrina’s antique fetishes.

  Kelse picked up a blasphemy mask*and raised it to his face. “I can smell gabbhout smoke, and there’s a smear of what looks like dilf by the nostril holes.”

  Schaine chuckled. “I wonder how many masks in how many kachembas look like you two.”

  “No doubt several of both,” said Gerd. “Our Faz aren’t as docile as your Aos. Last year on the Kaneel Broads I looked into a kachemba. Sure enough, they built it to represent Suaniset.”

  “What about masks?”

  “Just two: me and my father. My father’s mask wore a red cap. Mission accomplished.”

  Two
years before a letter from Kelse had apprised Schaine of the murder of Palo Jemasze, Gerd’s father, through the instrumentality of an Uldra sky-shark.

  “The tutelar in this case flying a sky-shark,” Kelse observed.

  Jemasze gave a curt nod. “Once or twice a week I take up my Dacy and go hunting. No luck, so far.”

  Schaine decided to change the subject. “Kelse, I’ve invited Elvo Glissam to Morningswake.”

  “Elvo Glissam? The SEE advocate?”

  “Yes. He’s never seen a wild erjin. I told him we’d find one for him. Do you mind?”

  “Why should I mind? He seems decent enough.”

  The three returned to the main salon. Glancing across the room Schaine noticed a tall young Uldra in the robes of an Alouan chieftain, though the robes, rather than red or rose or pink, were unrelieved gray. He was a man remarkably handsome, with a skin blue as the sea and hair bleached glistening white. Schaine stared in shock and wonder, then turned wide-eyed to Kelse. “What is he doing here?”

  “That’s the Gray Prince,” said Kelse. “He’s seen everywhere around Olanje.”

  “But how—why—”

  “In some fashion,” said Kelse, “he was encouraged to become the savior of his race.”

  Gerd Jemasze gave a snort of sardonic amusement, and Schaine became furiously angry with both. Gerd was innately a boor; Kelse had become as crabbed and obstinate as her father…She took command of herself. Kelse, after all, had suffered the loss of a leg and an arm. Her own loss—if ‘loss’ were the appropriate word—was trivial in comparison…The Gray Prince, swinging his gaze around the room, saw Schaine. He tilted his head forward, then jerked it back in a motion of glad surprise. He strode across the room to stand in front of Schaine.

  Kelse said in a bored voice, “Hello, Muffin. What brings you here?”

  The Gray Prince, throwing up his head, laughed. “‘Muffin’ no more! I must reckon with my public image.” A trace of Uldra accent gave his voice a gay and urgent quality. “To the friends of my childhood I am ‘Jorjol’, or if you insist upon formality: ‘Prince Jorjol’.”

  “I hardly think we’ll insist upon formality,” said Kelse. “You probably remember Gerd Jemasze from Suaniset.”

  “I remember him most distinctly.” Jorjol took Schaine’s hand, bent his head and kissed it. “You can still call me ‘Muffin’ if you like but—” he looked around the room; his gaze, slipping past Kelse and Gerd, relegated them to the background “—I’d prefer not here. Where have you been? Has it been five years?”

  “Quite five years.”

  “It seems forever. So much has changed.”

  “You seem to have done very well for yourself. You’re the talk of Olanje, so I understand—although I wasn’t aware that the Gray Prince was Muffin.”

  “Yes, Muffin has come a vast distance, and I intend to go as far again—even at the risk of inconveniencing my old friends.” His glance now included Kelse and Gerd; then he turned back to Schaine. “And what will you do now?”

  “I’m returning to Morningswake tomorrow. We meet Father in Galigong and fly home from there.”

  “As an ‘intransigent’?”

  “What’s an ‘intransigent’?”

  Kelse said in a bored voice: “The opposite of ‘Redemptionist’, or so I suppose.”

  Schaine said: “I’m going as myself, nothing more, and I intend to quarrel with no one.”

  “You might find it more difficult than you think.”

  Schaine smilingly shook her head. “Father and I can accommodate to each other. He’s neither cruel nor unreasonable, as you well know.”

  “He’s a force of nature! Storms, lightning, torrents—they’re not cruel or unreasonable either, but they cannot be defeated by kindness and rationality.”

  Schaine laughed sadly. “And you intend to defeat my poor father?”

  “I must. I am a Redemptionist. I intend to win back for my people the lands they lost to the violence of your people.”

  Gerd looked up toward the ceiling and turned half away. Kelse said: “Speaking of my father, I had a letter from him today: a most curious letter. He mentions you as well. Listen. ‘You might be seeing that scamp Jorjol. If so, try to bring him to his senses, for his own sake. Perhaps the prospect of a career at Morningswake no longer appeals to him; tell him nevertheless that when his bubble breaks he is always welcome here, for reasons of which we are all aware.

  “‘I have just returned from the Volwodes and I can’t wait to see you. I’ve had some remarkable adventures and I have a wonderful story to tell you, a most wonderful joke, a most prodigious and extraordinary joke which has put ten years on my life, and which might well amuse and edify Jorjol…’ That’s about all here to interest you.”

  Jorjol raised his bleached white eyebrows. “What kind of joke? I am not interested in jokes.”

  “I don’t know what his joke might be; I’m anxious to find out.”

  Jorjol pulled at his long nose, which apparently had been surgically cropped of its drooping Uldra tip. “Uther Madduc was never a great humorist, to my recollection.”

  “True,” said Kelse. “Still, he’s a more complex person than you might think.”

  Jorjol reflected a minute. “I remember your father principally as a man dominated by the strictures of etiquette. Who knows what sort of person he really is?”

  “External events have shaped us all,” said Kelse.

  Jorjol grinned, showing teeth whiter than his hair, in gleaming contrast to his blue skin. “Never! I am I, because I have willed myself thus!”

  Schaine could not restrain a nervous laugh. “Heavens, Muffin—Jorjol—Gray Prince—whatever your name is—your intensity startles us all!”

  Jorjol’s grin diminished somewhat. “You know me for an intense person.” From across the room Valtrina called him; he bowed, and with a final quick glance at Schaine took his leave.

  Schaine heaved a sigh. “Quite true; he’s always been intense.”

  Erris Sammatzen came to join them. “You seem to know the Gray Prince intimately.”

  “Yes, that’s Muffin,” said Kelse. “Father found him out at the edge of the Retent when he was little: he’d been abandoned. Father brought him home and put him into the care of an Ao bailiff, and we all grew up together.”

  “Father always had a soft spot for Muffin,” mused Schaine. “When we were caught in some really flagrant mischief, Kelse and I would get a whack or two, but Muffin always got off with a lecture.”

  “Actually,” said Kelse, “that’s not so much forbearance as the etiquette we just heard about. One never strikes a Blue.”

  Sammatzen glanced across the room to the group of Uldras. “They look pretty formidable. I don’t think I’d want to strike one.”

  “He’d kill you with a knife, but he wouldn’t strike back. Among the Uldras only women fight barehanded; woman-fights are a popular spectacle.”

  Sammatzen looked curiously at Kelse. “You don’t like the Uldras very much.”

  “I like some of them. Our Aos are well-behaved. Kurgech the shaman is one of Father’s cronies. We’ve put a stop to the woman-fights and a few other unpleasant customs. They still work sorcery which we can’t stop.”

  “It would seem that Jorjol wasn’t brought up as an Uldra.”

  “He wasn’t brought up as anything. He lived with the Ao bailiff, but he took lessons with us and played with us and wore Gaean clothes. We really never thought of him as a Blue.”

  “I used to adore him,” said Schaine, “especially after he saved Kelse from the erjin.”

  “Indeed! This was the erjin that took your arm and leg?”

  Kelse gave a curt nod and would have changed the subject but Schaine said: “It happened only two miles south of the house. An erjin came around the Skaw and proceeded to tear Kelse to bits. Jorjol ran up to the beast and blew its head off with a gun, and just in time or Kelse wouldn’t be here now. Father wanted to do something wonderful for Jorjol…” Schaine
paused, thinking back across scenes five years old. “But there were emotional problems. Jorjol wentaurau* . He ran away and we never saw him again, although we learned from Kurgech that he’d crossed into the Retent and joined the Garganche. He was originally Garganche—we knew that from his birth tattoo—so there was no question about their ‘land-scouring’ him.”

  “‘Land-scouring’ is what the Blues do to enemy tribesmen,” remarked Kelse. “One of the things, I should say.”

  Schaine glanced across the room toward Jorjol. “And tonight we find him here at Villa Mirasol. We expected him to make a career for himself, but nothing like this.”

  Kelse said dryly, “Father had in mind head stockman, or bailiff.”

  “You’ll have to agree,” Sammatzen observed, “that for an ambitious Uldra very little opportunity exists to better himself.”

  Gerd Jemasze snorted in sour amusement. “The ambitious Blue wants to raid or ransom or steal enough money to buy a sky-shark. He doesn’t want to be a teacher or an engineer—any more than you want to ride an erjin.”

  “That’s a yearning I’m able to control.”

  “Reflect a moment,” Kelse told him. “The Blues can come to Szintarre whenever they want; they can attend school at Olanje and learn a profession. How many do so? Few, if any. All the Blues in Olanje are agitators and Redemptionist house pets; they exist only to get the land-barons out of the Treaty Lands.”

  “They seem to feel that the land is theirs,” remarked Sammatzen.

  “It’s theirs if they can force us off it,” said Kelse. “If they can’t, it’s ours.”

  Sammatzen shrugged and turned away. Kelse said to Schaine, “We’d better be leaving; we’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  Schaine made no protest. With Gerd Jemasze they bade farewell to Valtrina and departed Villa Mirasol.

  The hour was late. Schaine was restless. She stepped out on her balcony and stood under the stars. The sea was quiet; the town had gone to sleep; a few lights twinkled up and down the shore and through the foliage of the hillside. No sound could be heard but the sigh of the surf…An eventful day. Kelse, Gerd Jemasze, Aunt Val, Muffin (the Gray Prince!)—all components of her childhood, all now with their elemental natures refined and intensified. The tranquility she had come home to find seemed forever lost and gone. She brought faces into her mind. Kelse: more terse and cynical than she could have expected. Kelse had aged very quickly; all his boyish grace had departed…Gerd Jemasze: a hard harsh man with a soul of stone…Muffin, or Jorjol as now he must be called: as gallant and clever as ever. How fateful that the agency which had given him sustenance, education, even life itself—namely Morningswake—should now be the target of Redemptionist attack!…Elvo Glissam! Schaine felt a warm flush, a pulse of eagerness. She hoped that he would stay weeks, months, at Morningswake. She would take him up to the Opal Pits, to the Lake of the Veils, to Sanhredin Glade, to the Magic Forest and the lodge on Mount May; she would ask Kurgech to organize a Grand Karoo*. Elvo Glissam would bring fun to Morningswake where none had existed for five years: five bitter, wasted years.