Jack Vance - The Houses of Iszm

Farr took a deep breath, fighting to control intense revulsion mingled with pity and a peculiar urgency he could not define… He became aware of the attention of the Iszics and turned sharply. The double-segmented eyes of all three were riveted upon him.

Farr suppressed his emotions as best he could. Whatever the Iszics expected, he would make certain to disappoint them. “This must be the Thord with whom I was locked up.”

Zhde Patasz came slowly forward, his lips twisting in and out. “You recognize him?”

Farr shook his head. “I hardly saw him. He is an alien, and looks to me much like any other of his race.” He peered more closely into the sac of amber gum. “Is he alive?”

“To a certain degree.”

“Why do you bring me here?”

Zhde Patasz was almost certainly disturbed, perhaps even angry. Farr wondered what sort of complex plan had gone awry. He stared into the sac. The Thord—had it moved? Omon Bozhd, standing at his left, apparently had noticed the same almost imperceptible twitch of muscle. “The Thord have great psychic resources,” said Onion Bozhd, moving forward.

Farr turned to Zhde Patasz. “It was my understanding that he had died.”

“So he has,” said Zhde Patasz, “for all practical purposes. He is no longer Chayen, Fourteenth of Tente, Baron of Binicristi Castle. His personality is departed, he is now an organ, or a nodule, attached to a tree.”

Farr looked back to the Thord. The eyes had opened, and the face had taken on an odd expression. Farr wondered if the Thord could hear words, could understand. In Omon Bozhd beside him, there was a tension, a straining of perplexity. A quick glance showed the same rigidity now in Zhde Patasz and Uder Che. All stared in wonder at the Thord. Uder Che uttered a sudden staccato burst of Iszic, pointed to the foliage. Farr looked up to find that the leaves were shivering. There were no draughts, no currents of air within the dome. Farr looked back to the Thord, to find the eyes fixed on his own. The face strained, the muscles around the mouth had corded. Farr could not tear his gaze away. Now the mouth drooped, the lips quivered. Overhead the heavy branches creaked and groaned.

“Impossible!” croaked Onion Bozhd. “This is not a correct reaction!”

The branches swayed and lurched. There was a terrifying crack and down swept a whistling mass of foliage, to fall upon Zhde Patasz and Uder Che. There was another groaning of tortured wood; the trunk split, the entire tree wavered and toppled. The sac burst, and the Thord sprawled out upon the floor, half-supported by the fiber bundles into which his arms terminated. His head lolled back and his mouth split into a ghastly grin. “I am no tree,” he croaked in a throaty, gurgling voice. “I am Chayen of Tente.” Trickles of yellow lymph oozed from his mouth. He coughed convulsively and fixed his gaze upon Farr. “Get hence, get hence. Leave these cursed tree-dwellers. Go, do what you must.”

Omon Bozhd had leaped to assist Zhde Patasz from under the toppled tree; Farr looked toward them uncertainly. The Thord sank back. “Now I die,” he said in a guttural whisper. “I die not as a tree of Iszm, but as a Thord, as Chayen of Tente.”

Farr turned away, and gave assistance to Omon Bozhd and Zhde Patasz, who were trying to extricate Uder Che from under the foliage. But to no avail. A broken branch had driven through the architect’s neck. Zhde Patasz gave a cry of despair. “The creature has wounded me in death as he troubled me in life. He has killed the most accomplished of architects.” Zhde Patasz turned away and strode from the dome. Omon Bozhd and Farr followed.

The party returned to Tjiere Town, in gloom and silence. Zhde Patasz conducted himself toward Farr with no more than bare civility. When the glide-car slid into the central avenue, Farr said, “Zhde Patasz Sainh, the events of this afternoon have troubled you deeply, and I think it best that I no longer trespass on your hospitality.”

Zhde Patasz responded curtly. “Farr Sainh must do as he thinks best.”

“I will carry with me forever the memory of my stay on Tjiere Atoll,” said Farr fulsomely. “You have given me an insight into the problems of the Iszic planter, and for this I thank you.”

Zhde Patasz bowed. “Farr Sainh may rest assured that we, on our part, will keep him ever fresh in our minds.”

The glide-car stopped at the plaza beside which grew the three hotels and Farr alighted. After a moment’s hesitation Omon Bozhd did likewise. There was a final exchange of formal thanks and equally formal disclaimers, and then the glide-car moved on.

Omon Bozhd went up to Farr. “And what are your plans now?” he inquired gravely.

“I will rent a room at the hotel,” said Farr.

Omon Bozhd nodded, as if Farr had uttered a truth of great profundity. “And then?”

“My boat is still under charter,” said Farr. He frowned. He had little desire to investigate the plantations of other atolls. “I’ll probably return to Jhespiano. And then…”

“And then?”

Farr shrugged fretfully. “I’m not sure.”

“In any event, I wish you a pleasant voyage.”

“Thank you.”

Farr crossed the plaza, registered at the largest of the hotels, and was shown to a suite of pods similar to those which he had occupied at the house of Zhde Patasz.

When he came down to the restaurant for his evening meal, the Szecr were once more in evidence, and Farr felt stifled. After the meal, a typical Iszic repast of marine and vegetable pastes, Farr walked down the avenue to the waterfront, where he ordered the Lhaiz made ready for immediate sailing. The captain was not aboard; the boatswain protested that dawn of the following day was the earliest possible time of departure, and Farr had to be content. To pass the evening he went to walk along the beach. The surf, the warm wind, the sand were like those of Earth, but the silhouettes of the alien trees and the two Szecr padding behind threw everything into a different context, and Farr felt a pang of homesickness. He had journeyed enough. It was time to return to Earth.

Farr boarded the Lhaiz before Xi Aurigae had fully cleared the horizon, and with the freedom of the Pheadh before him his spirits lifted. The crew was at work, reeving halyards, unfolding sails; there was about the Lhaiz the electric sense of immediacy of a ship about to sail. Farr tossed his meager luggage into the after cabin, looked about for the captain, and gave orders to sail. The captain bowed, then called various orders to the crew. Half an hour passed, but the Lhaiz had not yet cast off. Farr went to the captain, who stood far forward. “Why the delay?”

The captain pointed below, to where a seaman in a punt worked on the hull. “A leak is being repaired, Farr Sainh. We will soon be underway.”

Farr, returning to the elevated fan-tail, seated himself in the shade of an awning. Another fifteen minutes went by. Farr relaxed and began to take pleasure in the surroundings, the activity of the waterfront, the passers-by in their stripes and bands of various colors… Three Szecr approached the Lhaiz and came aboard. They spoke to the captain, who turned and gave orders to the crew.

Sails bellied to the wind, mooring lines were cast off, rigging creaked. Fair jumped from his chair, suddenly furious. He started forward to order the Szecr ashore, then restrained himself. It would be an exercise in pure futility. Fuming with repressed rage, Farr returned to his chair. Bubbling, breasting through the blue water, the Lhaiz put out to sea. Tjiere Atoll dwindled, became a shadow on the horizon, then vanished. The Lhaiz scudded west, with the wind astern. Farr frowned. To the best of his recollection he had given no instructions as to their destination. He summoned the captain.