The Faceless Man aka The Anome Page 12

  The people of Garwiy were unique—hyper-civilized, sensitive to all varieties of aesthetic distinction but not themselves particularly creative. The Aesthetic Society, with a membership of patricians from the Ushkadel, administered civic functions, which the ordinary folk of Garwiy found right and proper. The patricians had the money; it was right that they should accept the responsibilities. The typical citizen felt no. resentment toward the patricians; he was equal before the law. If by dint of cleverness or energy he acquired a fortune and bought a palace, he was taken into the Aesthetic Society as a matter of course. After two or three generations as parvenus, his descendants might regard themselves as Aesthetes in their own right. This typical citizen was a complicated person: suave and civil, vivacious, fickle, frivolous, and somewhat brittle. He was voluptuous but critical; complacent but demanding; fashion-conscious but amused by eccentricity. He was gregarious but introverted; Knowledgeable regarding every, green facet .and purple glint of his wonderful city, current with the latest entertainments, uninterested in the rest of Shant. He was not deeply moved by music and had no great patience with the traditions of the druithines or the musical troupes; he preferred facetious ballads, songs with topical references, entertainers with eccentric antics: in short, all the manifestations detested by the musician.

  He regarded his torc as a necessary evil and occasionally made a satirical reference to the Faceless Man, for whom he felt a half-contemptuous awe. Somewhere along the Ushkadel the Faceless Man reputedly lived in a palace; the question of his identity was a constant titillation for the man of Garwiy. He seldom if ever exercised his right of petition; this facility was reserved for the outlander, whom Garwiy folk liked to consider a yokel. He had heard mention of the Roguskhoi and perhaps wondered at their peculiar habits, but his interest went little further. To the Garwiy man the wildlands of the Hwan were almost as remote as the center of Caraz.

  The suns toppled south toward the winter solstice; Durdane at the same time entered that sector of its orbit where the suns occulted: a situation intensifying seasonal contrasts. Cold air from Nimmir brought autumnal winds to the north of Shant.

  The balloon Shostrel, leaving Angwin, spun down the Great Transverse at extraordinary speeds, out of the Wildlands into Shade, then Fairlea, and past Brassei Junction where Etzwane turned an expressionless, glance west, to where Frolitz presumably anticipated "his early arrival; through Cantons Conduce, Maiy, Wild Rose, each jealous of its unique identity, and at last into Canton Garwiy. Down the Vale of Silence they veered at fifty miles an hour, along the line of clear glass tablets, each encasing the monumental effigy of a dynastic king. The poses were identical; the kings stood with right feet slightly forward, forefingers pointing at the ground, the faces wearing somber, almost puzzled expressions, eyes staring ahead, as if in contemplation of an astounding future.

  The wind-tender began to slacken his warps; the Shostrel sailed at an easier pace through the Jardeen Gap and into Garwiy Station. Brakes slowed the running dolly; a Judas was snatched to the guys so expertly that the balloon came to ground in a continuous even motion.

  Etzwane alighted, followed by Ifness. With a polite nod Ifness walked off across the station plaza, to turn into Kavalesko Passway, which led under a tower of dark blue glass ribbed with water-blue pilasters, and into Kavalesko Avenue.[*****] Etzwane shrugged and went his way.

  Frolitz customarily made resort at Fontenay's Inn, north of the plaza, beside the Jardeen, where the management provided meals and lodging in return for a few evenings of music. To Fontenay's Inn Etzwane now betook himself. He called for stylus and paper and immediately set to work drafting the petition that he planned to submit on the following day.

  Two hours later Etzwane finished the document. He gave it a final reading and could find no fault; it seemed clear and uncompromising, with no sacrifice of calm reason. It read:

  To the attention of the ANOME:

  During my recent visit to the lowlands of the Hwan, in Canton Bastern, I observed the effects of a Roguskhoi raid upon the Chil-ite community Bashon. Considerable property damage occurred: a tannery and certain out-buildings were demolished. A large number of women were abducted and subsequently killed under distressing circumstances.

  It has become well known that the Wild-lands of the Hwan are a haven for those noxious savages, who therefore are free to maraud and plunder at will. Each year they wax both in numbers and audacity. It is my opinion that all Roguskhoi now resident in Shant should be destroyed by a stern and unremitting effort. I suggest that a suitable militia be recruited, trained, and armed. Coincidentally, a study should be made of the Roguskhoi, their habits, their preferred resorts. When all is prepared, the militia, using disciplined tactics, should penetrate the Hwan, attack and expunge the Roguskhoi.

  In broad outline, this is my petition. I realize that I propose a major governmental operation, but in my opinion such action is necessary.

  The time was late afternoon: too late to present the petition. Etzwane crossed the Jardeen and strolled through Pandamon Park where the north wind sent autumn leaves scurrying past his feet. He came to the Aeolian Hall, a musical instrument of pearl-gray glass three hundred feet long. Wind collected by scoops was directed into a plenum. The operator worked rods and keys to let pent air move one, two, a dozen, or a hundred from among the ten thousand sets of glass chimes. A person who wandered the hall experienced audible dimension, with sound coming from various directions: tinkling chords, whispers of vaguely heard melody, thin, glassy shiverings, the crystal-pure tones of the center gongs; hurried gusts racing the ceiling like ripples across a pond; fateful chimes, pervasive and melancholy as a buoy bell heard through the fog. On occasion the entire ceiling would seem to burst into sound.

  With the north wind at its full weight, Etzwane heard the hall at its best; at twilight he crossed the river and dined in one of Garwiy's splendid restaurants under a hundred pink and lavender lamps—an experience he had heretofore denied himself. The money he had hoarded over the years: what was its purpose? It represented grief and futility; he would spend it as fast as possible, frivol it away. His sober second self quickly interposed a veto. He would do no such thing. Money so hardly come by should not be lightly dissipated. But tonight, at least, he would enjoy his meal, and he forced himself to do so. The courses were set before him by a pretty waitress. Etzwane considered her with somber interest; she seemed amiable, with a mouth -that seemed always twitching on the verge of a smile. He ate: the viands were prepared and presented to perfection. The meal came to an end. Etzwane wanted to talk to the waitress but felt too shy. In any event she was of Garwiy, and he was an out-lander; she would consider him quaint. He wondered as to the whereabouts of Frolitz, even of the uncommunicative Ifness. In a fretful mood he returned to the inn. He looked into the tavern, which was composed and quiet; no musicians were on

  hand. Etzwane took himself to bed.

  In the morning he visited a haberdasher who fitted him out with new clothes: a white tunic with a high flaring collar, dark green breeches buckled at the ankles, black ahulph-leather boots with silver-wood clasps. He had never before owned an outfit so dashing. He was not altogether convinced that the figure in the carbon-fume mirror was himself. A barber trimmed his hair and shaved him with a glass razor. On a sudden impulse, as if to defy the jeers from his under-brain, he bought a rakish little cap with a medallion of colored glass. The image of himself in the mirror aroused a complicated emotion: disgust and wonder for his own folly, with a trace of ebullience, as if whatever flamboyant traits he had inherited from Dystar were pushing to make themselves felt. Etzwane shrugged and grimaced; he had spent the money; now he must wear the cap. He stepped out into the blazing lavender noon light; the glass of Garwiy flashed and glittered.

  Etzwane walked slowly to the Corporation Plaza. To buy a five-hundred-florin petition, to assert his views, must bring him to the attention of the Faceless Man. Well, what, then? His concerns were valid; his petition was legal. They expres
sed honest anxiety; by his own assertion the Faceless Man was servant to the people of Shant!

  Etzwane crossed the Corporation Plaza to the long, low structure of magenta glass where once before he had come. The front wall supported a panel of dull purple satin to which were pinned petitions and the Faceless Man's response. Twenty or thirty folk, in a variety of cantonal costumes, stood waiting at the five-florin window. They had come from every corner of Shant with their grievances; as they stood in line, they watched the passing folk of Garwiy with truculent expressions. Nearby were more dignified precincts for those earnest enough to buy a hundred-florin petition. At the far end of the building a door distinguished by a purple star opened into the chamber where the very wealthy or the very vehement bought petitions at a cost of five hundred florins.

  Through this latter door marched Etzwane without slackening his stride.

  The chamber was empty. He was the single petitioner. Behind the counter a man jumped to his feet. "Your wishes, sir?"

  Etzwane brought forth his money. "A petition."

  "Very well, sir. A matter of grave importance, no doubt."

  This is my opinion."

  The clerk brought forth a magenta document, a pen, a dish of black ink; as Etzwane wrote, the clerk counted the money and prepared a receipt.

  Etzwane indited his petition, folded it, tucked it into the envelope provided by the clerk, who, examining Etzwane's torc, noted the color code. Tour name, sir, if it please you?"

  "Gastel Etzwane."

  "Your native canton?"

  "Bastern."

  "Very good, sir-- that is sufficient."

  "When will I have my response?"

  The clerk held wide his hands. "How can I answer? The Anome comes and goes; I know no more of his movements than you. In two or three days you might expect to find your response. It must be posted publicly like all the rest; no one may claim that the Anome performs private favors."

  Etzwane went off somewhat less briskly than he had come. The deed was accomplished. He had done all he could; now he must wait upon the decision of the Faceless Man. He climbed a flight of green glass steps to a refreshment garden; the flowers, plants, fronds, and trees were all simulated of blue, green, white and scarlet glass. At a table overlooking the plaza he ate a dish of fruit and hard cheese. He ordered wine and was brought a goblet, slender and high as his lips, of pale cool Pelmonte. He felt dull, deflated. He even felt somewhat absurd. Had he been too bombastic? The Faceless Man surely understood every aspect of the problem; the petition would seem brash and callow. Etzwane glumly sipped his wine. Five hundred florins gone. For what? Expiation of guilt? So that was it. This flinging down of five hundred florins on a useless petition was the way he punished himself. Five hundred hard-earned florins I

  Etzwane compressed his lips. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. What was done was done. At all events the Faceless Man's reply would provide information regarding counter-Roguskhoi measures now in progress.

  Etzwane finished his wine and returned to Fontenay's Inn. He found the proprietor in the pot-room with a trio of cronies. He had been testing his own merchandise and had reached a difficult and captious state.

  Etzwane asked politely, "Who plays the music here of evenings?"

  The proprietor turned his head to survey Etzwane from head to toe; Etzwane regretted the expensive new clothes. In his old garments he looked the part of a traveling musician.

  The proprietor responded curtly: "At the moment, no one."

  "In that case I wish to apply for the chair."

  "Aha. What are your abilities?"

  "I am a musician. I often play the khitan."

  "A budding young druithine, it seems."

  "I do not present myself in such terms," replied Etzwane.

  "A singer, then, with three chords and as many bogus dialects?"

  "I am a musician, not a singer."

  One of the cronies, seeing how the wind blew, held up his goblet and looked through the glass at the contents. "New wine is thin; old wine is rich."

  "My own opinion exactly," said the proprietor. "A new musician knows too little, has felt too little; remember the great Aladar Szantho? He secluded himself fourteen years. Now, with no reflection upon either your aptitudes or potentialities, how could you interest a mature and knowledgeable company?"

  "You will never know until you hear me."

  "You refuse to be daunted? Very well, you shall play. I pay nothing unless you attract custom into the tavern, which I doubt."

  "I expect no pay," said Etzwane, "other than my board and lodging."

  "I can't even agree to that until I hear you. Garwiy is not a city which takes to outland music. If you could hypnotize toads or recite lewd verse or sing topical ballads or roll your eyes in opposite circles, that is another matter."

  "I can only play music," said Etzwane. "My fee, if any, I will leave to your generosity. Is there a khitan on the premises?"

  "You will find one or two such in the cupboard yonder."

  Three days passed. Etzwane played in the pot-room, well enough to amuse the customers and satisfy the proprietor. He attempted no bravura and used the rattle-box with a delicate elbow.

  On the third night, with the time growing late, the mood came upon him, and he struck the idle chords of the druithine commencing a reverie. He played a reflective melody and a minor retrospect. Music is the result of experience, he thought; he had had sufficient experience to be a musician. Admittedly some of his emotions were raw, and some of his chords were played with his knee too hard against the brilliancy lever. The awareness of this came to Etzwane; he changed, almost in midphrase, to soft, quiet passages. He noticed that the company had become attentive. Before he had been playing in an abstraction; now he felt self-conscious. Modulating into a set of conventional chords, he finished. He was afraid to raise his eyes and look out over the company. Might they have felt what he felt? Or were they smiling at his excesses? He put down the instrument and stepped from the chair.

  To confront Frolitz. Who faced him with a queer half smile. The sublime young druithine! Who performs his fantastic surprises at Fontenay's while his master, poor doddering old Frolitz, prays for his return at Brassei."

  "I can explain everything," said Etzwane.

  "Your mother is well, I hope?"

  "She is dead."

  "'Dead' is a sour word," said Frolitz. He scratched his nose, drank from his mug, looked over his shoulder. The troupe is here. Shall we play music?"

  On the following morning Etzwane (again wearing his new garments) went to the Corporation Plaza and across to the Office of Petitions. To the left, gray cards gave answers to the five-florin petitions: adjudications of petty disputes, actions for damage, complaints against local restrictions. In the center, sheets of pale-green parchment, pinned to the board with emerald-glass cabochons, decided hundred-florin actions. At the far right documents of vellum with surrounding bands of black and purple announced responses to the five-hundred-florin petitions. Only three of these were posted on the board.

  Etzwane could hardly restrain his strides as he crossed the plaza; the last few steps he almost ran.

  He scanned the purple-and-black-bordered documents. The first read:

  Lord Fiatz Ergold, having called for the ANOME'S intercession against the unusually harsh judgment rendered in Canton Amaze against his son, the Honorable Arlet, now may hear: The ANOME has requested a transcript of the proceedings and will study the case. The cited penalty appears disproportionate to the offense. Lord Fiatz Ergold however must know that an act merely vulgar or inopportune in one canton is a capital offense in the next. The ANOME, despite sympathy for Lord Fiatz Ergold, may not in justice contravene local laws. However, if circumstances warrant, the ANOME will pray for leniency.

  The second read:

  The gentlewoman Casuelda Adrio is advised that, notwithstanding her anger and concern, the punishment she urges for the man Andrei Simic will not beneficially repair circumstances
as they now exist.

  The third read:

  For the attention of the gentleman Gastel Etzwane and the other worthy folk who have expressed concern for the Roguskhoi bandits in the Wildlands of the Hwan, the ANOME counsels a calm mien. These disgusting creatures will never dare to venture down from the wilderness; their depredations are not likely to molest folk who make it their business to avoid reckless exposure of themselves and their properties.

  Etzwane leaned forward, gaping in disbelief. His hand went to his torc, the unconscious gesture of Shant folk when they reflected in regard to the Faceless Man. He looked again. The statement read exactly as it had originally. With a trembling hand Etzwane reached to claw the document from the display board. He restrained himself. Let it stay. In fact...

  He brought a stylus from his pocket; he wrote on the parchment:

  The Roguskhoi are murderous beasts! The Faceless Man says ignore them while they kill and plunder.

  The Roguskhoi infest our lands. The Faceless Man says keep out of their way.

  Viana Paizifume would have spoken differently.

  Etzwane drew back from the board, suddenly abashed. His act was close to sedition, for which the Faceless Man had little patience. Anger flooded Etzwane again. Sedition, intemperance, -insubordination. How could affairs be otherwise? Any man must be prompted to outrage by policy so bland and unresponsive! He looked around the plaza in trepidation and defiance. None of the folk nearby paid him any close attention. He noticed a man strolling slowly across the square, head bowed as if in cogitation. It was surely Ifness. He seemed not to have observed Etzwane, though he must have passed only thirty feet from the Petitioners' Board. On a sudden impulse Etzwane ran after him.

  Ifness looked around without surprise. He seemed, thought Etzwane, even more placid than usual. Etzwane said, somewhat grimly, "I saw you pass, and I thought to pay my respects."

  "Thank you," said Ifness. "How go your affairs?"

  "Well enough. I am back with Master Frolift; we play at Fontenay's Inn. You should come by and hear our music."