Jack Vance - Gaean Reach 01 (5 page)

Elvo Glissam said: “I thought you were all rich, with so much land and mountains and streams and minerals.”

Kelse gave a wry chuckle. “We’re subsistence farmers. We don’t see much cash.”

“Perhaps you can advise us on the lottery,” suggested Schaine.

“Gladly,” said Elvo Glissam. “Invest your money elsewhere. For instance, a resort marina on one of those beautiful islands down there, for the convenience of yachtsmen.”

“Cruising the Persimmon Sea is a chancy business,” said Kelse. “Sometimes morphotes climb aboard and kill everybody and sail the yacht away.”

“That must be quite a sight,” said Gerd Jemasze.

Elvo Glissam grimaced. “Koryphon is a cruel world.”

“Suaniset is peaceful enough,” said Gerd Jemasze.

“So is Morningswake,” said Kelse. “Jorjol tries to tell our Aos how bad things are and they don’t know what he’s talking about. So now Jorjol does his talking in Olanje.”

“Jorjol hardly seems a classical reformer,” said Elvo Glissam. “He’s really a most perplexing individual. What could be his motives? After all, your father was his benefactor.”

Schaine sat silent. Gerd Jemasze scowled down at the Mermione Islands. Kelse said: “There’s really no great mystery. Father has a most rigid set of values. It might seem that Jorjol and Schaine and I grew up as playmates and equals, but there was never any attempt to gloss over the real situation. We were Outkers; Jorjol was a Blue. He never took a meal in the Great Hall; instead he ate in the kitchen, which I suppose rankled much more than he cared to admit. Then summers, when we visited Aunt Val in Olanje, Jorjol was sent out to learn ranch business, because Father intended Jorjol to become head stockman.”

Elvo Glissam nodded soberly and asked no more questions.

The pink sun floated up the sky; the Apex broke through a shoal of cumulus to discover the loom of Uaia across the northern horizon. Details appeared through the haze: bluffs, beaches, promontories; colors gradually clarified to pale dun, ocher, black, white-buff and brown. The shore approached; a peninsula detached itself from the hulk of the continent to enclose a long narrow bight. At the tip clustered a half-dozen warehouses, a few rows of huts and cabins, a rickety hotel of white-painted timber built half over the water on a pier of a hundred crooked stilts. “Galigong,” said Kelse. “The chief seaport of the Retent.”

“And how far to Morningswake?”

“About eight hundred miles.” Kelse studied the landscape through binoculars. “I don’t see the Sturdevant, but we’re a bit early. The Hilgads are having a karoo at their shore camp. I think there’s a woman-fight in progress.” He offered the binoculars to Elvo Glissam, who was just as pleased to see only a confused surge of tall blue-faced forms in white, pink and buff robes.

The sky-car landed; the four stepped out upon the chalky soil of Uaia and hurried across the crackling pink glare to the shelter of the hotel. They entered a dim tavern, illuminated only by a row of green glass bull’s-eyes. The inn-keeper came forward: a short fat Outker with a few whorls of brown hair, a splayed nubbin of a nose, melancholy brown eyes drooping at the outer corners.

Kelse asked: “Are there messages from Morningswake?”

“No sir, not a word.”

Kelse looked down at his watch. “I suppose we’re still a bit early.” He went to the door, looked around the sky and returned. “We’ll take lunch. What can you provide us?”

The inn-keeper dolefully shook his head. “Very little, I fear. I might fry up a bit of spernum. There’s a jar or two of preserved polyps, and I can send the boy out for a salad of rockwort. You can have that sugar tart yonder in the case, although I can’t overly vouch for it.”

“Well, do the best you can. Meanwhile bring us jars of cold ale.”

“As cold as may be, sir.”

The lunch appeared: a meal somewhat less makeshift than the landlord’s diffidence had suggested. The four sat out on the pier in the shade of the hotel, facing north across the water to the Hilgad camp. The landlord confirmed that a karoo was in progress. “But don’t be tempted by curiosity; they’re drunk on raki; they’d treat you very unfairly if you ventured near. Already this morning there’s been three woman-fights and eight rascolades, and tonight they’ll throw from the wheel.” He made a sign of caution and returned into the hotel.

“These terms are all mysterious,” said Elvo Glissam. “None sound appealing.”

“Your instincts are accurate,” said Kelse. He pointed to the sunburnt hillside. “Can you make out those little cages and hutches? That’s where captives wait for ransom. After a year or two, if ransom isn’t paid, the captive is brought out to run down a course. After him come warriors on erjins, armed with lances. If he reaches the other end of the course he’s set free. That’s rascolade. The wheel—see that tall structure with the counterweight? The counterweight is hoisted; the captive is tied to the wheel. The counterweight is cut loose; the wheel spins. At a certain point the captive is cut loose and thrown toward that jut of rock you see offshore. Sometimes he lands in the water and the morphotes get him. The fun goes on until they run out of captives. Meanwhile they’re all eating barbecued morphote and drinking skull-buster and plotting where to get more captives.”

Schaine was displeased by the flavor of the conversation; she did not want Kelse and Gerd Jemasze impinging their prejudices upon Elvo Glissam’s still open mind. She said: “The Hilgad aren’t representative Uldras; in fact they’re pariahs.”

Gerd Jemasze said: “They’re pariahs because they lack traditional lands and kachembas, not because their customs are unusual.”

Schaine started to point out that the remark applied only to the Retent tribes, that Treaty Uldras, such as the Morningswake Aos, were considerably less savage and ruthless; then noticing the sardonic gleam in Gerd Jemasze’s eyes, she held her tongue.

The hours passed. At mid-afternoon Kelse telephoned Morningswake; on the dusty insect-spotted screen in the corner of the tavern appeared the image of Reyona Werlas-Madduc, housekeeper at Morningswake and third cousin to Schaine and Kelse. Her image flared and wavered; her voice vibrated through the antique filaments. “He’s not yet at Galigong? Stars, he should be there by now; he left this morning.”

“Well, he’s not here. Did he mention another destination, or an errand somewhere along the way?”

“He said nothing to me. Is Schaine there? Let me say a word to dear little Schaine.”

Schaine came forward and exchanged greetings with Reyona; then Kelse returned to the telephone. “If Father calls, explain that we’re waiting at Galigong Hotel.”

“He should be there any minute…Might he have stopped off at Trillium to take a glass or two with Dm. Hugo?”

“Hardly likely,” said Kelse. “We’ll just have to wait until he arrives.”

The afternoon passed; the sun sank into the Persimmon Sea among flaring clouds and darting rays. Schaine, Kelse, Elvo Glissam and Gerd Jemasze sat out on the dock, facing westward over the placid water. Worry now hung in the air.

“He wouldn’t be this late unless he ran into trouble,” Kelse declared. “It’s almost certain that he’s been forced down along the way. And two-thirds of the route is over Retent land: Garganche and Hunge and Kyan.”

“Why wouldn’t he radio for help?” Schaine asked.

“A dozen things might have happened,” said Gerd Jemasze. “We’ll surely find him somewhere along the route between here and Morningswake.”

Kelse cursed under his breath. “We can’t find him in the dark; we’ll have to wait for morning.” He went off to arrange for accommodations and returned more disconsolate than ever. “The landlord has two rooms with beds, and he’ll hang up a pair of hammocks. But he doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to feed us supper.”

Supper nonetheless consisted of an adequate platter of sand-creepers poached in sea-water, with a garnish of soursops and fried kale. After the meal the four went once more to sit out on the pier. In a spasm of zeal the inn-keeper threw a cloth over his bait table and served a dessert of biscuits and dried fruit, with a pot of verbena tea.

Conversation among the four dwindled. For a period the Hilgad fires burned high, then subsided to quivering red sparks. Languid swells surging under the pier made soft sad sounds; in the sky constellations began to appear: the magnificent Griffeides, Orpheus with his lute of eight blue stars, Miraldra the Enchantress with blazing Fenim for her diadem, and low in the southeast the star-veils of Alastor Cluster. How pleasant this evening might have been, thought Schaine, had circumstances been different! She felt depressed, a mood distinct from her worry in regard to Uther Madduc. Lovely old Morningswake had become a vortex of ugly emotions, and she was uncertain as to her ultimate sympathies. Not, she suspected, with her father, although it made no difference; she loved him anyway. Why then, she wondered, did she detest Gerd Jemasze so intensely? His opinions were identical to those of her father; he was no less resourceful and self-sufficient. She looked toward the rail where Elvo Glissam and Gerd Jemasze spoke together. Both were about the same age; both were physically personable; both were individuals with pride in their own identities. Elvo was warm-hearted, impulsive and happy; he was sympathetic and idealistic; he concerned himself with moral ultimates. In contrast Gerd Jemasze guarded his feelings behind a cool mask; his humor was sardonic; his code of ethics—if such it could be called—was based upon a self-serving pragmatism…Their conversation drifted across the night; they spoke of morphotes and erjins. Schaine listened.

“—somewhat peculiar,” Gerd was saying. “The palaeontologists find a fossil record of morphote evolution, all the way up from a creature similar to the creeper we ate for supper. The erjins have left no fossils. Their skeletal substance disintegrates over just a few years so that the evolutionary sequence isn’t at all clear; no one even knows how they breed.”

“Except the Wind-runners,” said Kelse.

“How do the Wind-runners domesticate erjins? Do they capture cubs? Or work with adults?”

“Uther Madduc can tell you more than I can; he’s just come down from the Palga.”

“Maybe that’s his ‘wonderful joke’,” suggested Kelse.

Gerd Jemasze shrugged. “So far as I know, the Wind-runners hatch out erjin eggs and train the cubs. Wild erjins are telepathic; maybe the Wind-runners block off the faculty. How? I’ve no more idea than you.”

Kelse and Gerd Jemasze elected to sleep on the ample settees of the Apex and presently took themselves off to bed. Elvo and Schaine walked out to the end of the pier, where they sat on an overturned skiff. Stars reflected along the dark water. The Hilgad fires had guttered low; from somewhere along the shore came music: quavering wails accented by plangent bass outcries. Elvo Glissam listened. “What dire sounds!”

“Blue music is never cheerful,” said Schaine. “The Blues, on the other hand, consider all our music insipid tinkling.”

The Hilgad music dwindled off into silence. The two sat listening to the wash of the waves through the piers. Schaine said: “For you this can’t be a very exciting occasion. Naturally we didn’t plan so much inconvenience.”

“Don’t speak of it! I only hope it’s just inconvenience.”

“I hope so too. As Gerd says, Father carries weapons, and even if his car has gone down we’ll find him tomorrow.”

“Not that I’m pessimistic,” said Elvo, “but how can you be so sure? It’s a long way to Morningswake. There’s a great deal of territory he might have flown over.”

“We always fly by auto-pilot, from destination to destination, just in case our air-cars do come down. It’s an elementary safety precaution. Tomorrow we’ll fly back along the flight line, and unless Father deviated from course we’re certain to find him.” She rose to her feet. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

Elvo stood up and kissed her forehead. “Sleep well and don’t worry—about anything.”

U
nder the gray and rose-pink sky of dawn, the sea lay motionless. From the Hilgad camp smoke drifted across the inlet, carrying a pleasant spicy reek.

Within the tavern the landlord, grumbling and yawning, set forth a breakfast of boiled clams, porridge and tea over which the four wasted little time. Kelse paid the score; a few minutes later the Apex rose into the sky. Jemasze set the auto-pilot to the referents of Morningswake; the Apex slid off to the northwest: across the inlet, over the Hilgad camp. Warriors ran forth, leapt on their erjin mounts, stung them into action with electric prods. Hopping, bounding, running on hind legs, massive heads thrust forward, the erjins followed below, the warriors screaming insane imprecations.

The Hilgad were left behind. The sky-car rose to clear the stony coastal slopes, then flew to an altitude of fifteen hundred feet, to allow maximum visibility right and left across that band of territory over which Uther Madduc would have passed. The Alouan spread away past the range of vision: a rolling plain splotched with clumps of gray thorn, bottle-bush, an occasional thick-trunked hag-tree with branches that seemed to claw at the air. The Apex flew slowly, the four within scanning every square foot of ground.

Miles went past, and hours; the plain sagged and became a basin swimming with heat haze and pocked with salt sinks. Ahead rose the white cliffs of the Lucimer Mountains. “Not very inviting territory,” Elvo Glissam remarked, “which probably explains why it’s still Retent.”

Kelse grinned. “It suits the Kyan well enough. So everybody’s satisfied.”

“They must have simple tastes,” said Elvo Glissam. “I don’t see how a lizard could survive down there.”

“This is dry season. The Kyan are off in those mountains there to the west. During the rains they’ll migrate down into the limestone hills yonder, where they maintain their kachembas.”

“Have you ever explored a kachemba?”

Kelse shook his head. “Never. They’d kill me.”

“How would they know?”

“They’d know.”

Schaine said: “Since we don’t invite them into our drawing rooms, they don’t ask us into their kachembas.”

“Tit for tat, so to speak.”

“And again,” said Kelse, “everyone is well pleased.”