Jack Vance - The Languages of Pao

The doubt was unsettling. Until he was assured of Beran’s death he could not properly enjoy the perquisites of the Panarch’s office. Likewise, the doubt had infected the vast Paonese masses. Daily their recalcitrance increased; Bustamonte’s informers reported that everywhere he was known as Bustamonte Bereglo. ‘Bereglo’ was a word typically Paonese, applied to an unskillful slaughter-house worker, or a creature which worries and gnaws its victim.

Bustamonte seethed inwardly, but comforted himself with outward rectitude, hoping either that the population would accept him as Panarch or that Beran would appear to give the lie to rumors, and submit to a more definite assassination.

Then came the second unsettling shock.

The Mercantil Ambassador delivered Bustamonte a statement which first excoriated the Paonese government for the summary execution of the three trade attachés, broke off all trade relations until indemnification was paid, and set forth the required indemnification—a sum which seemed ridiculously large to a Paonese ruler, who every day in the course of his duties might ordain death for a hundred thousand persons.

Bustamonte had been hoping to negotiate a new armament contract. As he had advised Aiello, he offered a premium for sole rights to the most advanced weapons. The note from the Mercantil Ambassador destroyed all hope of a new agreement.

The third shock was the most devastating of all, and indeed reduced the first two to the proportion of incidents.

The Brumbo Clan of Batmarsh, elevated to primacy over a score of restless competitors, needed a glory-earning coup to cement its position. Eban Buzbek, Hetman of the Brumbos, therefore gathered a hundred ships, loaded them with warriors and set forth against the great world of Pao.

Perhaps he had only intended a foray: a landing, a vast orgiastic assault, a quick garnering of booty, and departure—but passing the outer ring of monitors he met only token resistance, and landing on Vidamand, the most disaffected continent, none at all. This was success of the wildest description!

Eban Buzbek took his ten thousand men to Donaspara, first city of Shraimand; and there was no one to dispute him. Six days after he landed on Pao he entered Eiljanre. The populace watched him and his glory-flushed army with sullen eyes; none made any resistance, even when their property was taken and their women violated. Warfare—even hit-and-run guerilla tactics—was not in the Paonese character. They had relied on the Mamarone for protection, but Bustamonte had prudently departed the capital; there had been confusion and disorganization, and the Mamarone, although completely fearless, lacked initiative and were never called into action.

In any event only a small percentage of the population was touched by the Batch conquest; the others thought their deep slow thoughts and the rhythm of Paonese life proceeded much as before.

Beran, Medallion and son of Panarch Aiello, had lived his life under the most uneventful circumstances. With his diet carefully prescribed and scheduled, he never had known hunger and so had never enjoyed food. His play was supervised by a corps of trained gymnasts and was considered ‘exercise’; consequently he had no inclination for games. His person was tended and groomed, every obstacle and danger was whisked from his path; he had never faced a challenge, and had never known triumph.

Sitting on Palafox’s shoulders, stepping out through the window into the night, Beran felt as if he were living a nightmare. A sudden weightlessness—they were falling! His stomach contracted, the breath rose in his throat. He squirmed and cried out in fear. Falling, falling, falling; when would they strike?

“Quiet,” said Palafox shortly.

Beran’s eyes focused. He blinked. A lighted window moved past his vision. It passed below; they were not falling; they were rising! They were above the tower, above the pavilion! Up into the night they drifted, light as bubbles, up above the tower, up into the star-bright sky. Presently, Beran convinced himself that he was not dreaming; it was therefore through the magic of the Breakness wizard that they wafted through the middle-air, light as thistle-down. As his wonder grew, his fear lessened, and he peered into Palafox’s face. “Where are we going?”

“Up to where I anchored my ship.”

Beran looked wistfully down to the pavilion. It glowed in many colors, like a sea-anemone. He had no wish to return; there was only a vague regret. Up into the sky they floated, for fifteen quiet minutes, and the pavilion became a colored blot far below. His eyes flooded with tears; he lapsed into a state of apathy, hardly caring what happened to him.

Palafox held out his left hand; impulses from the radar-mesh in his palm were reflected back from the ground, converted into stimulus. High enough. Palafox touched his tongue to one of the plates in the tissue of his cheek, spoke a sharp syllable.

Moments passed; Palafox and Beran floated like wraiths. Then a long shape came to blot out the sky. Palafox reached, caught a hand-rail, swung himself and Beran along a hull to an entrance hatch. He pushed Beran into a staging chamber, followed and closed the hatch.

Interior lights glowed.

Beran, too dazed to take an interest in events, sagged upon a bench. He watched Palafox mount to a raised deck, flick at a pair of keys. The sky went dull, and Beran was caught in the pulse of sub-space motion.

Palafox came down from the platform, inspected Beran with dispassionate appraisal. Beran could not meet his gaze.

“Where are we going?” asked Beran, not because he cared, but because he could think of nothing better to say.

“To Breakness.”

Beran’s heart took a queer jump. “Why must I go?”

“Because now you are Panarch. If you remained on Pao, Bustamonte would kill you.”

Beran recognized the truth of the statement. He felt bleak, lost, forlorn. He knew nothing of Breakness, except what had been conveyed by the attitudes and voice-tones of others. The image so formed in his mind was not reassuring.

He stole a look at Palafox—a man far different from the quiet stranger at Aiello’s table. This Palafox was tall as a fire-demon, magnificent with pent energy. A wizard, a Breakness wizard!

Palafox glanced down at Beran. “How old are you, boy?”

“Nine years old.”

Palafox rubbed his long chin. “It is best that you learn what is to be expected of you. In essence, the program is uncomplicated. You will live on Breakness, you shall attend the Institute, you shall be my ward, and the time will come when you serve me as one of my own sons.”

“Are your sons my age?” Beran asked hopefully.

“I have many sons!” said Palafox with grim pride. “I count them by the hundreds!” Becoming aware of Beran’s bemused attention, he laughed humorlessly. “There is much here that you do not understand … Why do you stare?”

Beran said apologetically, “If you have so many children you must be old, much older than you look.”

Palafox’s face underwent a peculiar change. The cheeks suffused with red, the eyes glittered like bits of glass. His voice was slow, icy cold. “I am not old. Never make such a remark again. It is an ill thing to say to a Breakness dominie!”

“I’m sorry!” quavered Beran. “I thought …”

“No matter. Come, you are tired, you shall sleep.”

Beran listlessly rose to his feet.

Palafox, displaying neither kindliness nor severity, lifted him into a bunk. Heat rays warmed Beran’s skin; turning his face to the dark-blue bulkhead, he fell asleep.

Beran awoke in puzzlement to find himself not in his pink and black bed. After contemplating his position, he felt relatively cheerful. The future promised to be interesting, and when he returned to Pao he would be equipped with all the secret lore of Breakness.