The Faceless Man aka The Anome Page 15

  The music ended; the girl paid no more heed to Etzwane. She seemed uneasy. She settled her fillet, adjusted her belt. Behind Etzwane came the whine of the circuit. The girl jerked to stare. "What is that?" she asked Etzwane.

  Etzwane pretended to listen. "I hear nothing."

  "Is someone in there making peculiar sounds?"

  "Perhaps a musician rehearsing."

  "You are joking." Her face was alive with— humor? Alert mischief? Etzwane wondered.

  "Someone is ill," she suggested. "You had better investigate."

  "If you'll come in with me."

  "No, thank you." She turned to her escort, who gave Etzwane a glance of haughty warning. Etzwane looked toward Ifness and, meeting his gaze, turned to look fixedly toward Frolitz, who stood to his right. His left ear indicated the table in front of him.

  / Ifness nodded without overmuch interest, or so it seemed to Etzwane.

  Into the tavern came four men wearing mauve and gray uniforms: Discriminators. One spoke loudly: "Your attention! A disturbance has been reported in this building. In the name of the Corporation, I order no one to move."

  Etzwane glimpsed the twitch of Ifness's hand. Two reports, two flashes: The glow-bulbs burst. Darkness and confusion came suddenly to Fontenay's tavern. Etzwane made a lunge. He felt the girl, caught her up, carried her in front of Frolitz into the hall. She tried to scream. Etzwane clapped his hand over her mouth. "Not a sound if you know what's good for you!" She kicked and struck at him; her noises were drowned by hoarse shouts in the tavern proper.

  Etzwane staggered to the back door; he groped for the latch, opened the door, carried the writhing girl out into the night. Here he paused, let her feet swing to the ground. She tried to kick him. Etzwane twisted her around, held her arms in a lock. "No noise," he growled in her ear.

  "What are you doing to me?" she cried.

  "Keeping you safe from the raid. Such affairs are great inconveniences."

  "You are the musician I"

  "Exactly."

  "Let me go back. I don't fear the Discriminators."

  "What idiocy!" Etzwane exclaimed. "Now that we are free of that tiresome man you sat with, we can go elsewhere."

  "No, no, no!" Her voice was more confident, even somewhat amused. "You are gallant and bold—but I must go back into the tavern."

  "You may not," said Etzwane. "Come with me, and please make no trouble."

  The girl once more became alarmed. "Where are you taking me?"

  "You'll see."

  "No, no! I—" Someone came behind; Etzwane turned, ready to drop the girl and defend himself. Ifness spoke, "Are you there?"

  "Yes. With a captive."

  Ifness approached. In the dim light of the back alley he peered at the girl. "Who do you have?"

  "I can't say for sure. She wears a peculiar belt. I suggest you take it."

  "No!" cried the girl in an astounded voice.

  Ifness unclasped the belt. "We had best be away, and swiftly." He told the girl: "Do not make a scene of any sort; do not scream or try to attract attention or we will use you roughly. Is that understood?"

  "Yes," she said huskily.

  Each taking one of the girl's arms, they set off through the back streets and in due course arrived at the blue tile cottage. Ifness unlocked the door; they entered.

  Ifness pointed to a couch. "Please sit."

  The girl wordlessly obeyed. Ifness examined the belt. "Curious indeed."

  "So I thought. I noticed her touch the red stud whenever the alarm sounded."

  "You are observant," said Ifness. "I thought you were interested otherwise. Be careful of her; remember Garstang's leg-gun."

  Etzwane went to stand by the girl. "No Faceless Man, then—but a Faceless Woman."

  The girl made a scornful sound. "You are mad."

  Ifness said gently, "Please turn and lay face down on the couch. Excuse me while I search for a weapon." He did so with thoroughness. The girl cried out in indignation; Etzwane looked away. "No weapons," said Ifness.

  "You need only to have asked," said the girl. "I would have told you."

  "You are not otherwise candid."

  "You have asked no questions."

  "I shall, in a few minutes." He rolled over his work table, adjusted the vise to grip the girl's torc. "Do not move or I will be forced to anesthetize you." He worked with his tools, opened her torc. Reaching with his long-nose pliers he removed a tube of explosive. "No Faceless Man, nor Faceless Woman, either," he told Etzwane. "You seized the wrong individual."

  "This is what I tried to tell you," cried the girl in a voice of desperate hope. "It's all a terrible mistake. I am of the Xhiallinen; and I want nothing to do with you or your intrigues."

  Ifness, making no response, worked further on the torc. "The echo circuit is dead. You cannot now be located. We can relax and test your vaunted candor. You are of the Xhiallinen family?"

  "I am Jurjin of Xhiallinen." The girl spoke sullenly.

  "And why do you wear this belt?"

  "For the most simple reason imaginable: vanity."

  Ifness went to the cupboard and returned with a small sac, which he pressed to the girl's neck: sides, nape, and front. She looked at him in apprehension. "It is wet. What did you do to me?"

  "The liquid penetrates your skin and enters your blood. In a moment it will reach your brain and paralyze a certain small organ. Then we will talk further."

  Jurjin's face became rueful and anxious. Etzwane watched her in morbid fascination, wondering as to the details of her existence. She wore her gown with flair and ease; she used the manners of the Garwiy patricians; her coloring was that of the Garwiy race. But her features showed a trace of some foreign strain. Xhiallinen, one of the Fourteen Families, was ancient, and if anything inbred. Jurjin spoke. "I will tell you the truth voluntarily, while I still can think. I wear the belt because the Anome required service of me, and I could not refuse."

  "What was the service?"

  'To act as Benevolence."

  "Who are the other Benevolences?"

  There is only Garstang of Allingenen."

  "Might there not be others?"

  "I am certain that there are none."

  "You, Garstang, and the Faceless Man controlled the whole of Shant?"

  The cantons and the cities are ruled by their particular leaders. It is only necessary to work through these folk. One alone could do this."

  Etzwane started to speak, then controlled his voice. These slim hands must often have pressed the yellow stud of her belt; she must often have seen the heads of men disappear. He turned away with a heavy feeling in his throat.

  "Who," asked Ifness ingenuously, "is the Faceless Man?"

  "I don't know. He is as faceless to me as he is to you."

  Ifness asked, "The box Garstang carried, and your belt: are they guarded against unauthorized use?"

  "Yes. Gray must be pressed before the colors are coded."

  Ifness leaned forward, inspected her eyes, and gave a slight nod. "Why did you summon the Discriminators to Fontenay's?"

  "I did not summon them."

  "Who did?"

  The Faceless Man, I suppose."

  "Who was your escort?"

  The Second of Curnainen, Matheleno."

  "Is he the Faceless Man?"

  Jurjin's face showed a flicker of astonishment. "Matheleno? How could he be so?"

  "Have you received orders from the Faceless Man in regard to Matheleno?"

  "No."

  "He is your lover?"

  The Faceless Man said I might take no lovers." Jurjin's voice began to slur; her eyelids drooped.

  "Was the Faceless Man at Fontenay's Tavern?"

  "I am not sure. I think he was there and noticed something which impelled him to call in the Discriminators."

  "What could that have been?"

  "Spies,"

  "Spies from where?"

  "From Palesedra." Jurjins voice came slowly; her eyes took on a curious bl
ank stare.

  Ifness spoke sharply: "Why should he fear Palasedrans?"

  Jurjin's voice was an unintelligible mutter; her eyes closed.

  She slept. Ifness stood looking down in annoyance.

  Etzwane looked from Ifness to the girl and back to Ifness. "What troubles you?"

  "Her lapse into coma came swiftly. Too swiftly."

  Etzwane peered into the girl's calm face. "She could not feign such a thing."

  "No." Ifness bent over Jurjin's face. He scrutinized each of her features, opened her mouth, peered within. "Hmm."

  "What do you see?"

  "Nothing conclusive, or even suggestive."

  Etzwane turned away, his mind inhabited only by doubts and uncertainties. He straightened the girl's body on the couch and drew a shawl over her. Ifness watched with brooding detachment.

  "What do we do now?" Etzwane asked. He no longer felt antagonism toward Ifness; such an emotion seemed pointless"

  Ifness stirred, as if rousing from a reverie. "We return to a consideration of the Faceless Man and his identity—though for a fact other mysteries seem more cogent."

  "Other mysteries?" Etzwane asked, uncomfortably aware that he must seem numb and stupid.

  There are several. First I might cite the Roguskhoi scimitars. Then Garstang for no clear or good reason attempts a desperate attack. Jurjin of Xhiallinen lapses into a coma as if her brain has been turned off. And the Faceless Man resists, not passively but actively, all demonstrations against the Roguskhoi. All seem guided by a transcendent policy beyond our present imagination."

  "It is very strange," muttered Etzwane.

  "Were the Roguskhoi human, we might reconcile these grotesque acts with simple treachery; but the concept of Garstang and Jurjin of Xhiallinen plotting with the Roguskhoi is sheer insanity."

  "Not if the Roguskhoi are Palasedran freaks sent here to destroy us."

  "The theory is arguable," said Ifness, "until someone troubles to, examine the physiology of the Roguskhoi and considers their reproductive methods. Then doubt is renewed. However—to the lesser mystery. Who is the Faceless Man? We have thrown two stones; the quail has made two startled motions. To recapitulate: We are told with authority that the Anome employed only two Benevolences. Jurjin was not at Pandamon Park, yet an attempt was made to take your head. We must credit this attempt to the Faceless Man. Garstang was not at Fontenay's, still someone summoned the Discriminators. Again we must hold the Faceless Man responsible. I took photographs at both locations; if we find a person common to both—well, let's see what the Laws of Probability have to tell us. I believe that I can quote precise odds. There are roughly two hundred thousand adults in this immediate area, of which two hundred heard the 'anonymous adventurer'—not a large turnout: one in each thousand persons. A similar number might have come to Fontenay's to enjoy the music of Frolitz's troupe: only about a hundred, or one in each two thousand did so. The chances of the same person being present at both locations—unless he had urgent business at both, as did you, I, and the Faceless Man—are therefore one in two million: sufficiently scant to discount. So then, let us investigate."

  Ifness brought from his pocket a tube of dull black metal an inch in diameter, four inches long. Along the flattened top a number of knobs caught the light and glittered in Ifness's hand. He made an adjustment, pointed the tube at the wall beside Etzwane, and projected a cone of light.

  Etzwane had never seen a photograph so detailed. He glimpsed several views of the Corporation Plaza; then Ifness made new adjustments, sending a thousand images flickering against the wall. The picture became still, to depict Pandamon Park and the folk who had come to hear the "anonymous adventurer."

  "Look carefully at these faces," said Ifness. "Unfortunately I can't show these pictures and those from Fontenay's in juxtaposition; we must shift from one set to another."

  Etzwane pointed: 'There stands Garstang. Here—here—here—here—" he pointed to other faces. "I noticed these men; I wondered which might be the Anome."

  "Study them. He will certainly know tricks of altering his appearance." Ifness projected pictures from various angles and vantages; together they scrutinized every face visible.

  "Now to Fontenay's taproom."

  The taproom was half-empty; the musicians sat on the dais. Matheleno and Jurjin had not yet occupied the table near Etzwane.

  Ifness chuckled. "You chose a perfect disguise. You appear as yourself."

  Etzwane, uncertain as to the quality of Ifness's amusement, gave a noncommittal grunt.

  "We go forward in time. The young woman and Matheleno are at your table. Could Matheleno be one of the men at Pandamon Park?"

  "No," said Etzwane after reflection. "He somewhat resembles Garstang, however."

  "The Aesthetes are a distinctive group—a race, in fact, in the process of differentiating."

  The picture changed once more. "It is now four to five minutes before the Discriminators arrived. I would suppose the Faceless Man to be in the room. He would stand where he could watch his Benevolence." Ifness expanded the cone of light, magnifying the images, sending some to the ceiling, some to the floor. Moving the projector, he brought the faces one at a time to the wall beside Etzwane.

  Etzwane pointed. "The man in the far corner leaning against the bar."

  Ifness expanded the image. They looked at the face. It was a quiet face, broad of forehead, clever of eye, small of chin and mouth. The man himself was short, trim, compact. His age could not be guessed.

  Ifness flicked back to Pandamon, Park. Etzwane pointed out the small man with the pursed mouth and the clever sidelong eyes. "There he is."

  "Yes," said Ifness. "That is he, unless my logic and the laws of mathematics are at fault, and one is as incontrovertible as the other."

  For a period they studied the face of the Faceless Man.

  "Now what?" Etzwane asked.

  "For now—nothing. Go to bed, sleep. Tomorrow we will try to put a name to the fellow."

  "What of her?" Etzwane indicated the dazed girl.

  "She won't move for twelve to fourteen hours."

  Chapter 12

  The suns tumbled up into the mauve autumn sky like rollicking kittens: Sasetta over Ezeletta behind Zael. Ifness left the cottage slowly and cautiously, like an old gray fox going forth to hunt. Etzwane sat elbows on knees, pondering Jurjin of Xhiallinen. She lay as Ifness had left her, breathing shallowly: a creature, Etzwane thought, of absolutely entrancing appearance, beautiful enough to hypnotize a man. He studied her face: the pure pale skin, the innocent profile, the dusky eyelashes. How to reconcile this Jurjin of Xhiallinen with her dark occupation? No question but what the work must be done by someone. If unlawful acts went unpunished, Shant would lapse into anarchy, as in the old days when canton feuded with canton. Etzwane's mind was a confusion, swinging between noble rationalization and disgust. She had been commanded by the Anome; she had no choice but to obey. But why had the Anome commanded her, Jurjin of Xhiallinen, to serve as his Benevolence? Surely men like Garstang were more apt for such a service. The Anome's mind was a labyrinth with many strange chambers. Like the minds of all men, including his own, Etzwane told himself bitterly.

  He reached forth, arranged a lock of her soft dark hair. Her eyelids flickered and slowly opened. She turned her head and looked at Etzwane. "You are the musician."

  "Yes."

  She lay quiet, thinking. She noticed the light pouring through the window and made a sudden movement. "It is daytime; I can't stay here."

  "You must."

  "But why?" She turned him a melting glance. "I have done you no harm."

  "You would, had you the chance."

  Jurjin inspected Etzwane's dour face. "Are you a criminal?"

  "I am the 'anonymous adventurer' that Garstang went forth to kill."

  "You taught sedition!"

  "I urged that the Faceless Man protect Shant from the Roguskhoi. That is not sedition."

  "The Roguskhoi are nothing to be f
eared. The Anome has told us this."

  Etzwane gave an angry ejaculation. "I saw the results of the raid on Bashon. My mother was killed."

  Jurjin's face became blank and distant. She murmured, "The Roguskhoi are nothing to fear."

  "How would you cope with them, then?"

  Jurjin focused her eyes upon him. "I don't know."

  "And when they swarm down upon Garwiy, what will you do then? Do you wish to be ravaged? Would you bear a dozen imps that creep from your body while you sleep?"

  Jurjin's face twitched. She started to wail, stopped short and became placid. "It's a matter for the Anome." She raised to her elbow and, watching Etzwane, slowly slid her legs to the floor. Etzwane watched impassively. He asked, "Are you hungry, or thirsty?"

  She made no direct reply. "How long will you keep me here?"

  "Until we find the Faceless Man."

  "What do you want with him?"

  "We will insist that he deal with the Roguskhoi."

  "You intend him no harm?"

  "Not I," said Etzwane, "though he has unjustly tried to kill me."

  "The acts of the Anome must always be just. What if you can't find him?"

  'Then you will remain here. Could it be otherwise?"

  "Not from your point of view. Why do you look at me like that?"

  "I wonder about you. How many men have you killed?"

  She screamed, "One less than I would wish to!" and sprang for the door. Etzwane sat watching. Ten feet from the couch she was jerked to a halt by the cord Ifness had tied from her waist to the couch. She cried out in pain, turned and tugged frantically at the cord. Etzwane watched with detachment, feeling no pity.

  Jurjin found the knot too cunning for her fingers. Slowly she returned to the couch. Etzwane had no more to say to her.

  So they sat for two hours, Ifness returned as quietly as he had gone. He carried a folder that he handed to Etzwane; it contained six large photographic prints, so detailed that Etzwane could count the hairs of the man's sparse eyelashes. At Pandamon Park he had worn a soft black rimless cap pulled low over his forehead; this, with his down-curving little mouth and small, almost immature, nose, gave his face a foreshortened bulldog look. At Fontenay's the dark hair of a wig was drawn straight back from his forehead to swirl down and around each ear: a style popular among the upper middle classes of Garwiy, which displayed to advantage the philosopher's forehead and diminished the pinched expression of nose and mouth. Nowhere did the eyes look directly ahead; always they bore off somewhat to right or left. In both sets of photographs he appeared humorless, determined, introspective, and pitiless.