The Dirdir Read online

  THE DIRDIR

  (Planet of Adventure: Book 3)

  by Jack Vance

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SUN CARINA 4269 had passed into the constellation Tartusz, to mark the onset of Balul Zac Ag, the “unnatural dream time,” when slaughter, slave-taking, pillage and arson came to a halt across the Lokhar Highlands. Balul Zac Ag was the occasion for the Great Fair at Smargash, or perhaps the Great Fair had come first, eventually to generate Balul Zac Ag after unknown hundreds of years. From across the Lokhar Highlands and the regions surrounding Xar, Zhurveg, Seraf, Niss and others came to Smargash to mingle and trade, to resolve stale feuds, to gather intelligence. Hatred hung in the air like a stench; covert glances and whispered curses, in-drawn hisses of detestation accented the color and confusion of the bazaar. Only the Lokhars (the men black-skinned and white-haired, the women whiteskinned and black-haired) maintained faces of placid unconcern.

  On the second day of Balul Zac Ag, as Adam Reith wandered through the bazaar, he became aware that he was being watched. The knowledge came as a dismal shock; on Tschai, surveillance always led to a grim conclusion.

  Perhaps he was mistaken, Reith told himself. He had dozens of enemies; to many others he represented ideological disaster; but how could any of these have traced him to Smargash? Reith continued along the crowded lanes of the bazaar, pausing at the booths to look back the way he had come. But his follower, if in fact he existed, was lost in the confusion. There were Niss in black robes, seven feet tall, striding like rapacious birds: Xars; Serafs; Dugbo nomads squatting over their fires; Human Things expressionless behind pottery faceplates; Zhurvegs in coffee-brown caftans; the black and white Lokhars of Smargash themselves. There was odd staccato noise: the clank of iron, squeak of leather, harsh voices, shrill calls, the whine, rasp and jangle of Dugbo music. There were odors: fern-spice, gland-oil, submusk, dust rising and settling, the reek of pickled nuts, smoke from grilled meats, the perfume of the Serafs. There were colors: black, dull brown, orange, old scarlet, dark blue, dark gold. Leaving the bazaar Reith crossed the dancing field. He stopped short, and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a figure sliding behind a tent.

  Thoughtfully Reith returned to the inn. Traz and the Dirdirman, Ankhe at afram Anacho, sat in the refectory making a meal of bread and meat. They ate in silence; disparate beings, each found the other incomprehensible. Anacho, tall, thin and pallid like all Dirdirmen, was completely hairless, a quality he now tended to minimize under a soft tasseled cap after the style of the Yao. His personality was unpredictable; he inclined toward garrulity, freakish jokes, sudden petulances. Traz, square, somber and sturdy, was in most respects Anacho’s obverse. Traz considered Anacho vain, over-subtle, over-civilized; Anacho thought Traz tactless, severe and over-literal. How the two managed to travel in comparative amity was a mystery to Reith.

  Reith seated himself at the table. “I think I’m being watched,” he announced.

  Anacho leaned back in dismay. “Then we must prepare for disaster—or flight.”

  “I prefer flight,” said Reith. He poured himself ale from a stone jug.

  “You still intend to travel space to this mythical planet of yours?” Anacho spoke in the voice of one who reasons with an obstinate child.

  “I want to return to Earth, certainly.”

  “Bah,” muttered Anacho. “You are the victim of a hoax, or an obsession. Can you not cure yourself? The project is easier to discuss than to effectuate. Spaceships are not wart-scissors, to be picked up at any bazaar booth.”

  Reith said sadly, “I know this only too well.”

  Anacho spoke in an offhand manner: “I suggest that you apply at the Grand Sivishe Spaceyards. Almost anything can be procured, if one has enough sequins.”

  “I suspect that I don’t,” said Reith.

  “Go to the Carabas. Sequins can be had by the bucketful.”

  Traz gave a short snort of derision. “Do you take us for maniacs?”

  “Where is the Carabas?” asked Reith.

  “The Carabas is in the Dirdir Hunting Preserve, at the north of Kislovan. Men with luck and strong nerves sometimes prosper.”

  “Fools, gamblers and murderers, rather,” muttered Traz.

  Reith asked, “How do these men, whatever their nature, gain the sequins?”

  Anacho’s voice was flippant and airy. “By the usual method: they dig up nodes of chrysospine.”

  Reith rubbed his chin. “Is this the source of sequins? I thought that the Dirdir or some such folk minted them.”

  “Your ignorance is that of another planet indeed!” declared Anacho.

  The muscles around Reith’s mouth gave a rueful twitch. “It could hardly be otherwise.”

  “The chrysospine,” said Anacho, “grows only in the Black Zone, which is to say, the Carabas, where uranium compounds occur in the soil. A full node yields two hundred and eighty-two sequins, of one or another color. A purple sequin is worth a hundred clears; a scarlet is fifty, and down through the emeralds, blues, sards and milks. Even Traz knows as much.”

  Traz looked at Anacho with a curled lip. “ ‘Even Traz’?”

  Anacho paid him no heed. “All this to the side; we have no certain evidence of surveillance. Adam Reith may well be mistaken.”

  “Adam Reith is not mistaken,” said Traz. “ ‘Even Traz,’ as you put it, knows better than this.”

  Anacho raised his hairless eyebrows. “How so?”

  “Notice the man who just entered the room.”

  “A Lokhar; what about him?”

  “He is no Lokhar. He watches our every move.”

  Anacho’s jaw fell a trifle slack.

  Reith studied the man surreptitiously; he seemed less burly, less direct and abrupt than the typical Lokhar. Anacho spoke in a subdued voice: “The lad is right. Notice how he drinks his ale, head down instead of back… Disturbing.”

  Reith muttered, “Who would be interested in us?”

  Anacho gave a bark of caustic laughter. “Do you think that our exploits have gone unnoticed? The events at Ao Hidis have aroused attention everywhere.”

  “So this man-whom would he serve?”

  Anacho shrugged. “With his skin dyed black I can’t even guess his breed.”

  “We’d better get some information,” said Reith. He considered a moment. “I’ll walk out through the bazaar, then around into the Old Town. If the man yonder follows, give him a start and come behind. If he stays, one of you stay, the other come after me.”

  Reith went out into the bazaar. At a Zhurveg pavilion he paused to examine a display of rugs, woven, according to rumor, by legless children, kidnapped and maimed by the Zhurvegs themselves. He glanced back the way he had come. No one appeared to be following. He went on a little way, and paused by the racks where hideous Niss women sold coils of braided leather rope, leap-horse harness, crudely beautiful silver goblets. Still no one behind. He crossed the passage to examine a Dugbo display of musical instruments. If he could take a cargo of Zhurveg rugs, Niss silver, Dugbo musical instruments back to Earth, thought Reith, his fortune would be made. He looked over his shoulder, and now he observed Anacho dawdling fifty yards behind. Anacho clearly had learned nothing.

  Reith sauntered on. He paused to watch a Dugbo necromancer: a twisted old man squatting behind trays of misshapen bottles, jugs of salve, junction-stones to facilitate telepathy, love-sticks, sheafs of curses indited on red and green paper. Above flew a dozen fantastic kites, which the old Dugbo manipulated to produce a wan wailing music. He proffered Reith an amulet, which Reith refused to buy. The necromancer spat epithets and caused his kites to dart and shriek discords.

  Reith moved on, into the Dugbo encampment proper. Girls wearing scarves and flounced skirts of black, old rose and ocher solicited Zh
urvegs, Lokhars, Serafs, but taunted the prudish Niss who stalked silently past, heads out-thrust, noses like scythes of polished bone. Beyond the encampment lay the open plain and the far hills, black and gold in the light of Carina 4269.

  A Dugbo girl approached Reith, jangling the silver ornaments at her waist, smiling a gap-toothed grin. “What do you seek out here, my friend? Are you weary? This is my tent; enter, refresh yourself.”

  Reith declined the invitation and stepped back before her fingers or those of her younger sister could flutter near his pouch.

  “Why are you reluctant?” sang the girl. “Look at me! Am I not graceful? I have polished my limbs with Seraf wax; I am scented with haze-water; you could do far worse!”

  “No doubt whatever,” said Reith. “Still…”

  “We will talk together, Adam Reith. We will tell each other of many strange matters.”

  “How do you know my name?” demanded Reith.

  The girl waved her scarf at the younger girls, as if at insects. “Who at Smargash does not know Adam Reith, who strides abroad like an Ilanth prince, and his mind always full of thoughts?”

  “I am notorious then?”

  “Oh, indeed. Must you go?”

  “Yes. I have an engagement.” Reith continued on his way. The girl watched after him with an odd half-smile, which Reith, looking over his shoulder, found disconcerting.

  A few hundred yards further along, Anacho approached from a side-lane. “The man dyed like a Lokhar remained at the inn. For a period you were followed by a young woman dressed as a Dugbo. In the encampment she accosted you, then followed no more.”

  “Strange,” muttered Reith. He looked up and down the street. “No one follows us now?”

  “No one is visible. We might well be under observation. Turn about, if you will.”

  Anacho ran his long white fingers over the fabric of Reith’s jacket. “So I suspected.” He displayed a small black button. “And now we know who tracks you. Do you recognize this?”

  “No. But I can guess. A tell-tale.”

  “A Dirdir adjunct for hunting, used by the very young or the very old to guide them after their quarry.”

  “So the Dirdir are interested in me.”

  Anacho’s face became long and pinched, as if he tasted something acrid. “The events at Ao Khaha have naturally attracted their attention.”

  “What should they want with me?”

  “Dirdir motives are seldom subtle. They want to ask a few questions and then kill you.”

  “The time has come to move on.”

  Anacho glanced toward the sky. “That time has come and gone. I suspect that a Dirdir sky-car approaches at this very moment… Give me the button.”

  A Niss approached, black robes flapping to the stride of his legs. Anacho stepped forth, made a swift movement toward the black gown. The Niss sprang around with a grunt of menace, and for a moment seemed ready to abandon the unnatural restraints of Balul Zac Ag. Then he wheeled and continued along his way.

  Anacho gave his thin fluting chuckle. “The Dirdir will be puzzled when Adam Reith proves to be a Niss.”

  “Before they learn differently, we had best be gone.”

  “Agreed, but how?”

  “I suggest that we consult old Zarfo Detwiler.”

  “Luckily we know where to find him.”

  Skirting the bazaar, the two approached the ale-house, a ramshackle structure of stone and weather-beaten planks. Today Zarfo sat within, to escape the dust and confusion of the bazaar. A stone crock of ale almost hid his black-dyed face. He was dressed in unaccustomed elegance: polished black boots, a maroon cape, a black tricorn hat pulled down over his flowing white hair. He was somewhat drunk and even more garrulous than usual. With difficulty Reith made him aware of his problem. Zarfo at last became exercised. “So, the Dirdir now! Infamous, and during Balul Zac Ag! They had better control their arrogance, or know the wrath of the Lokhars!”

  “All this to the side,” said Reith, “how can we most quickly leave Smargash?”

  Zarfo blinked and dipped another ladle of ale from the crock. “First I must learn where you wish to go.”

  “The Isles of Cloud, or perhaps the Carabas.”

  Zarfo let the ladle sag in shock. “The Lokhars are the most avaricious of people, yet how many attempt the Carabas? Few! And how many return with wealth? Have you noticed the great manor house to the east, with the chain of carved ivory around the bower?”

  “I have seen the manor.”

  “There are no other such manors near Smargash,” said Zarfo portentously. “Do you get my meaning?” He rapped on the bench. “Pot-boy! More ale.”

  “I mentioned the Isles of Cloud as well,” said Reith.

  “Tusa Tala on the Draschade is more convenient for the Isles. How to reach Tusa Tala? The motor-wagon fares only to Siadz at the edge of the highlands; I know of no route down the chasms to the Draschade. The caravan to Zara is two months gone. A skyraft is the only sensible conveyance.”

  “Well, then, where can we obtain a sky-raft?”

  “Not from the Lokhars; we have none. Look yonder: a skyraft and a party of rich Xars! They are about to depart. Maybe their destination is Tusa Tala. Let us inquire.”

  “A moment. We must get word to Traz.” Reith called the potboy, sent him running to the inn.

  Zarfo strode out across the compound with Reith and Anacho behind. Five Xars stood by their old sky-raft: short bullshouldered men with congested complexions. They wore rich robes of gray and green; their black hair rose in rigid varnished columns, flaring slightly outward and sheared off flat.

  “Leaving Smargash so soon, friend Xars?” Zarfo called out in a cheerful voice.

  The Xars muttered together and turned away.

  Zarfo ignored the lack of affability. “Where then are you bound?”

  “Lake Falas; where else?” declared the oldest Xar. “Our business is done; as usual we were cheated. We are anxious to return to the swamps.”

  “Excellent. This gentleman and his two friends need transportation to a point in your general direction. They asked me whether they should offer to pay; I said, ‘Nonsense! The Xars are princes of generosity—’ ”

  “Hold!” the Xar called sharply. “I have at least three remarks to make. First, our raft is crowded. Second, we are generous unless we lose sequins in the process. Third, these two nondescripts have a reckless and desperate air about them, not at all reassuring. Is this the third?” The reference was to Traz, who had arrived on the scene. “A mere lad but no less dubious for all that.”

  Another Xar spoke. “Two further questions: How much can they pay? Where do they wish to go?”

  Reith, considering the uncomfortably scant supply of sequins in his pouch, said, “A hundred sequins is all we can offer; and we want to be taken to Tusa Tala.”

  The Xars threw up their hands in outrage. “Tusa Tala? A thousand miles northwest! We head southeast to Lake Falas! A hundred sequins? Is this a joke? Mountebanks! Off with all of you,„

  Zarfo swaggered threateningly forward. “A mountebank, you call me? Were it not Balul Zac Ag, the ‘unnatural dream time,’ I would tweak all of your ludicrously long noses!”

  The Xars made spitting sounds between their teeth, climbed aboard the raft and departed.

  Zarfo stared after the departing raft. He heaved a sigh. “In this case, failure… Well, all may not prove so churlish. In the sky comes another craft; we shall put the proposal to those aboard, or at an extremity, render them drunk and borrow the vehicle. A handsome craft, that. Surely—”

  Anacho gave a startled outcry. “A Dirdir sky-car! Already they are here! Away to concealment, for our very lives!”

  He started to dart away. Reith seized his arm. “Don’t run; do you want them to identify us so quickly?” To Zarfo: “Where shall we hide?”

  “In the ale-house storeroom but never forget that this is Balul Zac Ag! The Dirdir would never dare violence!”

  “Bah,” sneered
Anacho. “What do they know of your customs, or care?”

  “I will explain to them,” declared Zarfo. He led the three to a shed beside the alehouse, ushered them within. Through a crack in the plank Reith watched the Dirdir sky-car settle into the compound. On sudden thought he turned to Traz, felt over his garments, and in vast dismay discovered a black disc.

  “Quick,” said Anacho. “Give it here.” He left the shed, went into the ale-house. A minute later he returned. “An old Lokhar departing for his cottage now carries the tell-tale.” He went to a crack, peered out toward the field. “Dirdir, sure enough! As always when sport is to be had!”

  The sky-car lay quiet: a craft different from any Reith had seen heretofore, the product of a sure and sophisticated technology. Five Dirdir stepped to the ground: impressive creatures, harsh, mercurial, decisive. They stood approximately at human height, and moved with sinister quickness, like lizards on a hot day. Their dermal surfaces suggested polished bone; their crania raised into sharp blade-like crests, with incandescent antennae streaming back at either side. The contours of the faces were oddly human, with deep eye-sockets, the scalp crests descending to suggest nasal ridges. They half-hopped, half-loped, like leopards walking erect; it was not hard to see in them the wild creatures which had hunted the hot plains of Sibol.

  Three persons approached the Dirdir: the false Lokhar, the Dugbo girl, a man in nondescript gray garments. The Dirdir spoke with the three for several minutes, then brought forth instruments, which they pointed in different directions. Anacho hissed: “They locate their tell-tales. And the old Lokhar in the alehouse still dawdles over his pot!”

  “No matter,” said Reith. “As well in the ale-house as anywhere else.”

  The Dirdir approached the ale-house, moving with their curious half-loping stride. Behind came the three spies.

  The old Lokhar chose this moment to lurch from the alehouse. The Dirdir inspected him in puzzlement, and approached by great leaps. The Lokhar drew back in alarm. “What have we here? Dirdir? Don’t interfere with me!”

  The Dirdir spoke in sibilant lisping voices which suggested the absence of a larynx. “Do you know a man called Adam Reith?”