Jack Vance - The Languages of Pao

The sky-sleds began to act peculiarly, sinking, rising, jostling. They turned and fled precipitously. At the same time, there was excitement among the troops. They were in disarray, flourishing their arms, bobbing and hopping. The pulsating whine died; the Mamarone collapsed on the ground.

Palafox smiled faintly. “They are unlikely to annoy us further.”

“Bustamonte might try to bomb us.”

“If he is wise,” said Palafox negligently, “he will attempt nothing so drastic. And he is wise at least to that extent.”

“Then what will he do!”

“Oh—the usual futilities of a ruler who sees his regnum dwindling …”

Bustamonte’s measures in truth were stupid and harsh. The news of Beran’s appearance flew around the eight continents, in spite of Bustamonte’s efforts to discredit the occurrence. The Paonese, on the one hand drawn by their yearning for the traditional, on the other repelled by Bustamonte’s sociological novelties, reacted in the customary style. Work slowed, halted. Cooperation with civil authority ceased.

Bustamonte attempted persuasion, grandiose promises and amnesties. The disinterest of the population was more insulting than a series of angry demonstrations. Transportation came to a standstill, power and communications died, Bustamonte’s personal servants failed to report for work.

A Mamarone, impressed into domestic service, scalded Bustamonte’s arms with a hot towel: this was the trigger which exploded Bustamonte’s suppressed fury. “I have sung to them! They shall now sing in their turn!”

At random he picked half a hundred villages. Mamarone descended upon these communities and were allowed complete license. Sadism was a prominent facet of the neutraloid nature, a substitute for creativity. They were sufficiently ingenious, and they hated natural men and women. The combination produced the most hideous events yet known on Pao.

Atrocity failed to move the population—already an established principle of Paonese history. Beran, learning of the events, felt all the anguish of the victims. He turned on Palafox, reviled him.

Palafox, unmoved, commented that all men die, that pain is transitory and in any event the result of faulty mental discipline. To demonstrate, he held his hand in a flame; the flesh burnt and crackled; Palafox watched without concern.

“These people lack this discipline—they feel pain!” cried Beran.

“It is indeed unfortunate,” said Palafox. “I wish pain to no man, but until Bustamonte is deposed—or until he is dead—these episodes will continue. There is no way we can prevent them.”

“Why do you not restrain these monsters?” raged Beran. “You have the means. You are as guilty as he is!”

“The word ‘guilt’ implies uncertainty,” said Palafox. “I cannot profess to omniscience; but I can plan as well as I can, and regard these plans as definite. I am not uncertain; I am not guilty. And in any event you can restrain Bustamonte as readily as I.”

Beran replied with fury and scorn. “I understand you now. You want me to kill him. Perhaps you have planned this entire series of events. I will kill him gladly! Arm me, tell me his whereabouts—if I die, at least there shall be an end to all.”

“Come,” said Palafox, “you receive your second modification.”

Bustamonte was shrunken and haggard. He paced the black carpet of the foyer, holding his arms stiff, fluttering his fingers as if to shake off bits of grit.

The glass door was closed, locked, sealed. Outside stood four black Mamarone.

Bustamonte shivered. Where would it end? He went to the window, looked out into the night. Eiljanre spread ghostly white to all sides. Three points on the horizon glowed angry maroon where three villages and those who had dwelt there felt the weight of his vengeance.

Bustamonte groaned, chewed his lip, fluttered his fingers spasmodically. He turned away from the window, resumed his pacing. At the window there was a faint hiss which Bustamonte failed to notice.

There was a thud, a draft of air.

Bustamonte turned, froze in his tracks. In the window stood a glaring-eyed young man, wearing black.

“Beran,” croaked Bustamonte. “Beran!”

Beran jumped down to the black carpet, came quietly forward. Bustamonte tried to turn, tried to scuttle and dodge. But his time had come; he knew it, he could not move. His knees went limp, his bowels churned, relaxed.

Beran raised his hand. From his finger darted blue energy.

The affair was accomplished. Beran stepped over the corpse, unsealed the glass doors, flung them aside.

The Mamarone looked around, sprang back, squinted in wonder.

“I am Beran Panasper, Panarch of Pao.”

Pao celebrated the accession of Beran in a frenzy of joy. Everywhere, except in the Valiant camps, along the shore of Zelambre Bay, at Pon, there was rejoicing of so orgiastic a nature as to seem non-Paonese. In spite of a vast disinclination, Beran took up residence in the Grand Palace and submitted to a certain degree of the pomp and ritual expected of him.

His first impulse was to undo all Bustamonte’s acts, to banish the entire ministry to Vredeltope, the penal isle in the far north. Palafox, however, counseled restraint. “You act emotionally—there is no point in discarding the good with the bad.”

“Show me something good,” responded Beran. “I might then be less determined.”

Palafox thought a moment, seemed to be on the point of speaking, hesitated, then said, “For instance: the Ministers of Government.”

“All cronies of Bustamonte’s. All nefarious, all corrupt.”

Palafox nodded. “This may be true. But how do they comport themselves now?”

“Ha!” Beran laughed. “They work night and day, like wasps in autumn, convincing me of their probity.”

“And so they perform efficiently. You would only work confusion in de-robing the lot. I advise you to move slowly—discharge the obvious sycophants and time-servers, bring new men into the ministry only whenever opportunity presents itself.”

Beran was forced to admit the justice of Palafox’s remarks. But now he sat back in his chair—the two were taking a lunch of figs and new wine on the palace roof garden—and seemed to brace himself. “These are only the incidental alterations I wish to make. My main work, my dedication, is to restore Pao to its former condition. I plan to disperse the Valiant camps to various parts of Pao, and do something similar with the Technicant installations. These persons must learn Paonese, they must take their places in our society.”

“And the Cogitants?”

Beran rapped his knuckles on the table. “I want no second Breakness on Pao. There is scope for a thousand institutes of learning—but they must be established among the Paonese people. They must teach Paonese topics in the Paonese language.”

“Ah yes,” sighed Palafox. “Well, I expected nothing better. Presently I will return to Breakness, and you may restore Nonamand to the shepherds and furze-cutters.”

Beran concealed his surprise at Palafox’s docility. “Evidently,” he said at last, “you plan something quite different. You assisted me to the Black Throne only because Bustamonte would not cooperate with you.”

Palafox smiled to himself as he peeled a fig. “I plan nothing. I merely observe and, if requested to do so, advise. Whatever is to occur stems from plans long ago formulated and given momentum.”

“It may become necessary to frustrate these plans,” said Beran.

Palafox ate his fig without concern. “You are naturally at liberty to make such attempts.”

During the next few days Beran pondered at great length. Palafox seemed to regard him as a predictable quantity, one which would automatically react in a direction favorable to Palafox. This consideration moved him to caution and he delayed immediate action against the three non-Paonese enclaves.