Jack Vance: The Languages of Pao

“Help, doctor!” cried Bustamonte. “To the Panarch!”

Aiello’s fists beat a spasmodic tattoo on the tabletop; his eyes went dim, his head fell forward in the complete lassitude of death.

The doctors gingerly examined Aiello, a gross hulk with arms and legs sprawled in four directions. Beran, the new Panarch, Deified Breath of the Paonese, Tyrant-Absolute of Eight Continents, Ocean-Master, Suzerain of the System and Acknowledged Leader of the Universe (among his other honorary titles), sat fidgeting, evidencing neither comprehension nor grief. The Mercantil stood in a taut group, muttering to each other; Palafox, who had not moved from his seat at the table, watched with completely impassive features.

Bustamonte, now Ayudor-Senior, lost no time in asserting the authority which, as regent for the new Panarch, he might be expected to employ. He waved his hand; a squad of Mamarone leapt to stations surrounding the pavilion.

“None will leave,” declared Bustamonte, “until these tragic circumstances are clarified.” He turned to the doctors. “Have you determined the cause of death?”

The first of the three doctors bowed. “The Panarch succumbed to poison. It was administered by a sting-missile, thrust into the left side of his throat. The poison …” He consulted the dials, the shadow-graphs and color-wheels of an analyzer into which his colleagues had inserted samples of Aiello’s body-fluids. “The poison appears to be a mepothanax derivative, extin most probably.”

“In that case,” spoke Bustamonte, and his gaze swung from the huddle of Mercantil traders to the grave Lord Palafox, “the crime was committed by someone in this room.”

Sigil Paniche diffidently approached the corpse. “Allow me to examine this sting.”

The chief doctor indicated a metal plate. Here rested the black sting with its small white bulb.

Sigil Paniche’s face was strained. “This object is that which I glimpsed in the hand of the Medallion, no more than a few moments ago.”

Bustamonte succumbed to rage. His jowls went pink, his eyes swam with fire. “This accusation from you—a Mercantil swindler!—is a horror of impertinence, an epic of cruelty! You accuse the lad of killing his father?”

Beran began to whimper; his head wobbled from side to side. “Quiet,” hissed Bustamonte. “The nature of the deed is clear!”

“No, no,” protested Sigil Paniche, and all the Mercantil stood blanched and helpless.

“There is no room for doubt,” Bustamonte stated inexorably. “You came to Pergolai aware that your duplicity had been discovered. You were resolved to evade the penalties.”

“This is nonsense!” cried the Mercantil. “How could we plan so idiotic an act?”

Bustamonte ignored the protest. In a voice of thunder he continued. “The Panarch would not be mollified. You hid yourself in darkness, you killed the great leader of the Paonese!”

“No, no!”

“But you will derive no benefit from the crime! I, Bustamonte, am even less placable than Aiello! As my first act I pronounce judgment upon you.”

Bustamonte held up his arm, palm outward, fingers clenched over thumb—the traditional death-signal of the Paonese. He called to the commander of the Mamarone. “Subaqueate these creatures!” He glanced into the sky; the sun was low. “Make haste, before sundown!”

Hurriedly, for a Paonese superstition forbade killing during the hours of darkness, the Mamarone carried the traders to a cliff overlooking an arm of the sea. Their feet were thrust into ballasted tubes, they were flung out through the air. They struck the water, sank, and the surface was calm as before.

Twenty minutes later, by order of Bustamonte, the body of Aiello was brought forth. Without ceremony it was weighted and cast after the Mercantil. Once again the sea showed a quick white blossom of foam; once again it rolled quiet and blue.

The sun hovered at the rim of the sea. Bustamonte, Ayudor-Senior of Pao, walked with nervously energetic steps along the terrace.

Lord Palafox sat nearby. At each end of the terrace stood a Mamarone, fire-sting aimed steadily at Palafox, to thwart any possible act of violence.

Bustamonte stopped short in front of Palafox. “My decision was wise—I have no doubt of it!”

“What decision is this?”

“In connection with the Mercantil.”

Palafox considered. “You may now find trade relations difficult.”

“Pah! What do they care for the lives of three men so long as there is profit to be obtained?”

“Very little, doubtless.”

“These men were cheats and swindlers. They deserved no more than they received.”

“In addition,” Palafox pointed out, “the crime has been followed by an appropriate penalty, with no lack of equilibrium to disturb the public.”

“Justice has been done,” said Bustamonte stiffly.

Palafox nodded. “The function of justice, after all, is to dissuade any who might wish to perform a like misdeed. The execution constitutes such a dissuasion.”

Bustamonte swung on his heel, paced up and down the terrace. “It is true that I acted partly from considerations of expediency.”

Palafox said nothing.

“In all candor,” said Bustamonte, “I admit that the evidence points to another hand in the affair, and the major element of the difficulty remains, like the bulk of an iceberg.”

“What difficulty is this?”

“How shall I deal with young Beran?”

Palafox stroked his lean chin. “The question must be considered in its proper perspective.”

“I fail to understand you.”

“We must ask ourselves, did Beran actually kill the Panarch?”

Protruding his lips, bulging his eyes, Bustamonte contrived to become a grotesque hybrid of ape and frog. “Undoubtedly!”

“Why should he do so?”

Bustamonte shrugged. “Aiello had no love for Beran. It is doubtful if the child were actually fathered by Aiello.”

“Indeed?” mused Lord Palafox. “And who might be the father?”

Bustamonte shrugged once more. “The Divine Petraia was not altogether fastidious in her indiscretions, but we will never know the truth, since a year ago Aiello ordained her subaqueation. Beran was grief-stricken, and here might be the source of the crime.”

“Surely you do not take me for a fool?” Palafox asked, smiling a peculiar fixed smile.

Bustamonte looked at him in startlement. “Eh? What’s this?”

“The execution of this deed was precise. The child appeared to be acting under hypnotic compulsion. His hand was guided by another brain.”

“You feel so?” Bustamonte frowned. “Who might such ‘another’ be?”

“Why not the Ayudor-Senior?”

Bustamonte halted in his pacing, then laughed shortly. “This is fantasy indeed! What of yourself?”

“I gain nothing from Aiello’s death,” said Palafox. “He asked me here to a specific purpose. Now he is dead, and your own policy faces a different direction. There is no further need for me.”

Bustamonte held up his hand. “Not so fast. Today is not yesterday. The Mercantil, as you suggest, may prove hard to deal with. Perhaps you will serve me as you might have served Aiello.”

Palafox rose to his feet. The sun was settling past the far horizon into the sea; it swam orange and distorted in the thick air. A breeze tinkled among glass bells and drew sad flute-sounds from an aeolian harp; feathery cycads sighed and rustled.

The sun flattened, halved, quartered.

“Watch now!” said Palafox. “Watch for the green flash!”

The last fiery bar of red sank below the horizon; then came a flickering shaft of pure green, changing to blue, and the sunlight was gone.