Jack Vance: The Languages of Pao

Aiello appeared to be faintly surprised. “Insult a Mercantil? Preposterous!”

Sigil Paniche’s skin burnt vermilion.

Bustamonte whispered in Aiello’s ear. Aiello shrugged, turned back to the Mercantil. His voice was cool, his words carefully measured. “For the reasons I have stated, I declare that the Mercantil contract has not been fulfilled. The merchandise will not perform its function. We will not pay.”

Sigil Paniche affirmed, “The delivered articles meet the contractual specifications!” By his lights nothing more need be said.

“But they are useless to our need, a fact known on Mercantil.”

Sigil Paniche’s eyes gleamed. “No doubt Your Supremacy has considered the long-range effects of such a decision.”

Bustamonte could not restrain a retort. “Better had the Mercantil consider the long-range effect of double-dealing.”

Aiello made a small gesture of annoyance, and Bustamonte sat back.

Sigil Paniche looked over his shoulder to his two subordinates; they exchanged emphatic whispers. Then Paniche asked, “May I inquire as to what ‘long-range effects’ the Ayudor alluded?”

Aiello nodded. “I direct your attention to the gentleman at your left hand.”

All eyes swung to the stranger in brown and gray. “Who is this man?” Sigil Paniche asked sharply. “I do not recognize his clothes.”

Aiello was served a bowl of green syrup by one of the black and gold-clad maidens. Bustamonte dutifully sampled a spoonful. Aiello drew the bowl close to him, sipped. “This is Lord Palafox. He is here to offer us advice.” He sipped once more from the bowl, pushed it aside. The maiden quickly removed it.

Sigil Paniche surveyed the stranger with cold hostility. His aides muttered to each other. Bustamonte sat slumped into his seat, as if disassociating himself from whatever understanding existed between Aiello and the stranger.

“After all,” said Aiello, “if we can not rely upon Mercantil for protection, we must seek elsewhere.”

Sigil Paniche once more turned to whisper with his counselors. There was a hushed argument; Paniche snapped his fingers in emphasis, the counselors bowed and became silent. Paniche turned back to Aiello. “Your Supremacy naturally will act as he thinks best. I must point out that the products of Mercantil are surpassed nowhere.”

Aiello glanced at the man in brown and gray. “I am not disposed to dispute this point. Lord Palafox might have something to say.”

Palafox, however, shook his head.

Paniche motioned to one of his subordinates, who advanced reluctantly. “Allow me to display one of our new developments.” The counselor handed him a case, from which Paniche withdrew a pair of small transparent hemispheres.

The neutraloid bodyguards, at the sight of the case, had leapt in front of Aiello with their refrax shields; Sigil Paniche grimaced painfully. “No need for alarm—there is no danger here.”

He displayed the hemispheres to Aiello, then placed them over his eyes. “Our new optidynes! They function either as microscope or telescope! The enormous range of their power is controlled by the ocular muscles and the eyelids. Truly marvellous! For instance —” he turned, looked out the window of the pavilion “—I see quartz crystals in the stones of the sea-wall. A gray chit stands under that far funella bush.” He turned his gaze to his sleeve. “I see the threads, the fibers of the threads, the laminae of the fibers.”

He looked at Bustamonte. “I note the pores of the Ayudor’s estimable nose. I observe several hairs in his nostril.” He glanced at the Medallion, carefully avoiding the solecism of staring at Aiello. “The brave lad is excited. I count his pulse: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, eleven, twelve, thirteen … He holds a tiny object between his fingers, no larger than a pill.” He turned, inspected the man in gray. “I see …” he stared; then with a sudden gesture, removed the optidynes from his eyes.

“What did you see?” Bustamonte inquired.

Sigil Paniche studied the tall man in perturbation and awe. “I saw his sign. The tattoo of a Breakness wizard!”

The words seemed to arouse Bustamonte. He glared in accusation at Aiello, gave Palafox a look of loathing, then glowered down at the carved ivory of the table.

“You are correct,” said Aiello. “This is Lord Palafox, Dominie of Breakness Institute.”

Sigil Paniche bowed his head frigidly. “Will your Supremacy allow me a question?”

“Ask what you will.”

“What does Lord Palafox do here on Pao?”

Aiello said blandly, “He came at my behest. I need expert advice. Certain of my confidants —” he glanced rather contemptuously toward Bustamonte “—feel that we can buy Mercantil co-operation. He believes that for a price you will betray the Brumbos of Batmarsh in the same way you have already betrayed us.”

Sigil Paniche said in a brittle voice, “We deal in all types of merchandise. We can be engaged for special research.”

Aiello twisted his pink mouth into a sneer of repugnance. “I would rather deal with Lord Palafox.”

Paniche could hardly contain his anger. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I would not have your syndics think that their treachery goes unnoticed.”

Sigil Paniche made a great effort. “I urge you to reconsider. In no way have we cheated you. We delivered exactly what was ordered. Mercantil has served you well in the past—we hope to serve you in the future. If you deal with Breakness, think what the bargain entails!”

“I have made no bargains with Lord Palafox,” said Aiello, with a swift glance toward the man in brown and gray.

“Ah, but you will—and, if I may speak openly …” He waited.

“Speak,” said Aiello.

“… to your eventual dismay.” He became emboldened. “Never forget, Supremacy, that they build no weapons on Breakness. They make no application of their science.” He looked to Palafox. “Is this not true?”

“Not altogether,” replied Palafox. “A Dominie of the Institute is never without his weapons.”

“And Breakness manufactures weapons for export?” Paniche persisted.

“No,” answered Palafox with a slight smile. “It is well-known that we manufacture only knowledge and men.”

Sigil Paniche turned to Aiello. “Only weapons can guard you against the fury of the Brumbos. Why not examine, at least, some of our new products?”

“This can do no harm,” Bustamonte urged. “And perhaps we will not require Palafox after all.”

Aiello turned him a peevish glance, but Sigil Paniche already was displaying a globe-shaped projector with a hand grip. “This is one of our most ingenious developments.”

The Medallion Beran, watching in absorption, felt a sudden quiver, a pang of indescribable alarm. Why? How? What? He half-raised in his seat, then, turning his head, met Bustamonte’s eyes. They were bright with meaning. Beran’s mind filled with dread. He must leave the pavilion, he must go! But he could not move from his seat. He bowed his head, waited.

Paniche was directing his tool toward the pink marble dome. “Observe, if you will.” The top half of the room went black, as if concealed by a black shutter, as if snatched from existence. “The device seeks out, attracts and absorbs energy of the visual phase,” explained the Mercantil. “It is invaluable for the confusion of an adversary.”

Beran turned his head, looked helplessly toward Bustamonte.

“Now notice!” cried Sigil Paniche. “I turn this knob here …” He turned the knob; the room was blotted out entirely.

Bustamonte’s cough was the only sound to be heard.

Then there was a hiss of surprise, a rustle of movement, a choking sound.

Light returned to the pavilion. A great horrified gasp sounded; all eyes went to the Panarch. He lay back into his pink silk divan. His leg jerked up, kicked, set dishes and flagons on the table rattling.