The Brave Free Men Page 3

  “Tell me nothing!” cried Frolitz. “The less my knowledge, the greater my innocence!”

  “As you wish.” Etzwane showed Frolitz the stairs leading to the radio room. “Remember! Sajarano must definitely be barred from this area!”

  “A bold restriction,” said Frolitz, “in view of the fact that he owns the palace.”

  “Regardless, it must be applied. Someone must remain on guard here at all times, day and night.”

  “Inconvenient when we wish to rehearse,” grumbled Frolitz.

  “Rehearse here in front of the stairs.” He pushed the call button; Aganthe appeared.

  “We will be disrupting your routines for a certain period,” said Etzwane. “To be candid, the Anome has ordained a mild form of house arrest for Sajarano. Master Frolitz and his associates will be in charge of arrangements. They are anxious to obtain your complete cooperation.”

  Aganthe bowed. “My responsibility is to his Excellency Sajarano; he has instructed me to obey your orders; this I will do.”

  “Very good. I now instruct you not to listen to any orders Sajarano may utter in conflict with our official duties. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, your Excellency.”

  “If Sajarano gives such an order, you must consult me or Master Frolitz. I cannot emphasize this too strongly. In the morning room you have seen the consequence of incorrect conduct.”

  “I understand completely, your Excellency.” Aganthe departed.

  Etzwane told Frolitz: “From now on, you must control events. Be suspicious! Sajarano is a resourceful man.”

  “Do you consider me any the less so?” demanded Frolitz. “Remember when we last played Kheriteri Melanchine? Who instantly transposed to the seventh tone when Lurnous embarrassed us all? Is not this resource? Who locked Barndart the balladist in the privy when he persisted in song? What then of resource?”

  “I have no fears,” Etzwane replied.

  Frolitz went off to inform the troupe in regard to their new duties; Etzwane returned to Sajarano’s study and there drew up a voucher against public funds to the sum of twenty thousand florins — enough, he calculated, to cover ordinary and extraordinary expenses for the near future.

  At the Bank of Shant the sum of twenty thousand florins was paid over without question or formality; never in his life had Etzwane thought to control so much money!

  The function of money was its use; at a nearby haberdashery Etzwane selected garments he deemed consonant with his new role: a rich jacket of purple and green velour, dark green trousers, a black velvet cape with a pale green lining, the finest boots to be had … He surveyed himself in the haberdasher’s massive carbon-fume mirror, matching this splendid young patrician with the Gastel Etzwane of earlier days, who never spent a florin on other than urgent need.

  The Aesthetic Corporation was housed in the Jurisdictionary, a vast construction of purple, green and blue glass at the back of the Corporation Plaza. The first two levels dated from the Middle Pandamons; the next four levels, the six towers and eleven domes, had been completed ten years before the Fourth Palasedran War, and by a miracle had escaped the great bombardment.

  Etzwane went to the office of Aun Sharah, Chief Discriminator of Garwiy, on the second level of the Jurisdictionary. “Be so good as to announce me,” he told the clerk. “I am Gastel Etzwane.”

  Aun Sharah himself came forth: a handsome man with thick silver hair worn close to his head, a fine aquiline nose, a wide half-smiling mouth. He wore the simplest of dark gray tunics, ornamented only by a pair of small silverwood shoulder-clips: a costume so distinguished that Etzwane wondered if his own garments might not seem over-new and over-rich by comparison.

  The Chief Discriminator inspected Etzwane with easy curiosity. “Come into my rooms, if you will.”

  They went to a large high-ceilinged office overlooking the Corporation Plaza. Like Aun Sharah’s garments, the furnishings of his office were simple and elegant. Aun Sharah indicated a chair for Etzwane and settled upon a couch at the side of the room. Etzwane envied him his ease; Aun Sharah was distracted by no trace of self-consciousness. All his attention, so it appeared, was fixed upon Etzwane, who enjoyed no such advantage.

  “You know of the new state of affairs,” said Etzwane. “The Anome has committed the power of Shant against the Roguskhoi.”

  “Somewhat belatedly,” murmured Aun Sharah.

  Etzwane thought the remark a trifle insouciant. “Be that as it may, we must now arm ourselves. In this regard, the Anome has appointed me his executive deputy; I speak with his voice.”

  Aun Sharah leaned back into the couch. “Isn’t it strange? Only a day or so ago a certain Gastel Etzwane was the object of an official search. I assume you to be the same person.”

  Etzwane regarded the Chief Discriminator with pointed coolness. “The Anome sought me; he found me. I put certain facts at his disposal; he reacted as you know.”

  “Wisely! or such is my opinion,” said Aun Sharah. “What, may I ask, were the ‘facts’?”

  “The mathematical certainty of disaster unless we gave instant battle. Have you arranged the assembly of technists?”

  “The arrangements are being made. How many persons did you wish to consult?”

  Etzwane glanced sharply at the Chief Discriminator, who seemed bland and relaxed. Etzwane feigned perplexity. “Did not the Anome issue a specific command?”

  “I believe that he left the number indefinite.”

  “In that case, assemble the most expert and well-regarded authorities, from which we can select a chairman or director of research. I want you to be on hand as well. Our first objective is to form a corps of capable men, to implement the Anome’s policies.”

  Aun Sharah nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “How much progress has been made along these lines?”

  Etzwane began to find the casual gaze somewhat too knowing. He said, “Not a great deal. Names are still under discussion … In regard to the person Jerd Finnerack, what have you learned?”

  Aun Sharah picked up a slip of paper. He read: “‘Jerd Finnerack: an indentured employee of the balloon-way. Born in the village Ispero in the eastern region of Morningshore. His father, a berry grower, used the child’s person as security against a loan; when he failed his obligation the child was seized. Finnerack has proved a recalcitrant worker. On one occasion he criminally loosed a balloon from the switching-wheel at Angwin Junction, resulting in extensive charges against the company. These costs were added to his indenture. He works now at Camp Three in Canton Glaiy, which is an accommodation for refractory workers. His indenture totals somewhat over two thousand florins.’” He handed the paper to Etzwane. “Why, may I ask, are you interested in Jerd Finnerack?”

  More stiffly than ever Etzwane said, “I understand your natural interest; the Anome however insists upon total discretion. In regard to another matter: the Anome has ordered a movement of women to the maritime cantons. Unpleasant incidents must be minimized. In each canton at least six monitors should be appointed, to hear complaints and note down particulars for subsequent action. I want you to appoint competent officers and station them as quickly as possible.”

  “The measure is essential,” Aun Sharah agreed. “I will despatch men from my own staff to organize the groups.”

  “I leave the matter in your hands.”

  Etzwane departed the Office of the Chief Discriminator. On the whole, matters had gone well. Aun Sharah’s calm visage undoubtedly concealed a seethe of clever formulations, which might or might not persuade him to mischief. More than ever Etzwane felt the need of a completely trustworthy and trusted ally. Alone, his position was precarious indeed.

  He returned by a roundabout route to Sershan Palace. For a period he thought that someone followed him, but when he stepped through Pomegranate Portal and waited in the scarlet gloom behind the pillar, no one came past, and when he continued, the way behind seemed clear.

  Chapter III

  Exactly at noon Etzwane entered the main
conference hall of the Jurisdictionary. Looking neither right nor left he marched to the speaker’s platform; placing his hands on the solid silver rail, he looked out over the attentive faces.

  “Gentlemen: the Anome has prepared a message, which by his instructions I will read to you.” Etzwane brought forth a sheet of parchment. “Here are the words of the Anome:

  Greetings to the technical aristocracy of Garwiy! Today I solicit your counsel in regard to the Roguskhoi. I have long hoped to repel these creatures without violence, but my efforts have been in vain; now we must fight.

  I have ordered formation of an army, but this is only half the work; effective weapons are needed.

  Here is the exact problem. The Roguskhoi warrior is massive, savage, fearless. His principal weapons are a metal cudgel and a scimitar: this latter both a cutting and a throwing weapon, effective to a distance of fifty yards or more. In hand-to-hand combat an ordinary man is helpless. Our soldiers therefore must be armed with weapons useful to a range of one hundred yards, or preferably more.

  I place this problem in your hands, and direct that you immediately concentrate all your efforts upon this single task. All the resources of Shant will be at your disposal.

  Naturally, it is necessary that the effort be organized. So now I wish you to choose from among your present number a chairman, to supervise your efforts.

  For my representative I have appointed the person who reads this message, Gastel Etzwane. He speaks with my voice; you will make your reports to him and follow his recommendations.

  I reiterate the urgency of this matter. Our militia is gathering and soon will need weapons.

  Etzwane put down the paper, and looked out over the ranked faces. “Are there any questions?”

  A stout and somewhat florid man rose ponderously to his feet. “The requirements are less than clear. What sort of weapons does the Anome have in mind?”

  “Weapons to kill the Roguskhoi, and to drive them back, at minimal risk to the user,” said Etzwane.

  “This is all very well,” complained the stout man, “but we are afforded no illumination. The Anome should provide a general set of specifications, or at least basic designs! Are we required to grope in the dark?”

  “The Anome is no technist,” said Etzwane. “You people are the technists! Develop your own specifications and designs! If energy weapons can be produced, so much the better. If not, contrive whatever is practical and feasible. All over Shant the armies are forming; they need the tools of war. The Anome cannot ordain weapons out of thin air; they must be designed and produced by you, the technists!”

  The florid man looked uncertainly from right to left, then sat down. In the back row Etzwane noticed Aun Sharah, who sat with a ruminative smile on his face.

  A tall man with black eyes burning from a waxen face rose to his feet. “Your remarks are to the point, and we will do our best. But remember: we are technists, not innovators. We refine processes rather than create concepts.”

  “If you can’t do the work, find someone who can,” said Etzwane. “I delegate to you the responsibility for this task. Create or die.”

  Another man spoke: “A matter to affect our thinking is the size of the proposed army. This controls the number of weapons required. Elegance might well be less important than availability and effectiveness.”

  “Correct,” said Etzwane. “The army will number between twenty thousand and one hundred thousand, depending upon the difficulty of the campaign. I might add that weapons are only the most urgent need. We want communication equipment so that the commanders of various groups may coordinate their efforts. Your chairman should appoint a team to develop such equipment.”

  Etzwane stood waiting for further inquiries, but a glum and dubious silence persisted. Etzwane said, “I will leave you to your work. Select a chairman, a man whom you know to be competent, decisive and, if necessary, harsh. He will designate work groups as he deems practical. Questions or recommendations will reach me through the Chief Discriminator Aun Sharah.”

  Without further words Etzwane bowed and departed the way he had come.

  In the pavilion before the Jurisdictionary Aun Sharah approached Etzwane. “The processes go into motion,” he said. “I hope efficiently. These folk have no experience in creative work, and if I may say so, the Faceless Man seems in this case indecisive.”

  “How so?” asked Etzwane in a neutral voice.

  “Ordinarily, he would request dossiers and evaluations of each man; he would then appoint a chairman and give precise orders. The technists are now puzzled and uncertain; they lack a sure initiative.”

  Etzwane gave a disinterested shrug. “The Anome has many calculations to make. It is essential that other men share the load.”

  “Of course, if they are capable, and given a program.”

  “They must develop their own program.”

  “It is an interesting idea,” admitted Aun Sharah. “I hope that it will work.”

  “It must work, if we are to survive. The Anome cannot fight the Roguskhoi with his own hands. I presume that you have examined my background?”

  Aun Sharah assented without embarrassment. “You are, or were, a musician with the well-considered troupe of Master Frolitz.”

  “I am a musician. I know other musicians in a way you could not know them, if you prepared a hundred dossiers.”

  Aun Sharah rubbed his chin. “So then?”

  “Suppose the Anome wished to organize a troupe of Shant’s best musicians. No doubt you would compile dossiers and he would make a selection: would these musicians play well; would they complement each other? I suspect otherwise. My point is this: no outsider can effectively organize a group of experts; they must organize themselves. Such is the Anome’s present conviction.”

  “I will be interested in the progress made by the group,” said Aun Sharah. “What weapons do you expect from them?”

  Etzwane turned Aun Sharah a cold side-glance. “What do I know of weapons? I have no expectations, any more than the Anome.”

  “Natural enough. Well then, I must return to my office, to reorganize my staff.” Aun Sharah went his way.

  Etzwane crossed the plaza and stepped down into the Marmite Rose-walk. At a secluded table he sipped a cup of tea and considered his progress to date. It was, he thought, significant; important forces had been set into motion. Women were moving to relative safety in the maritime cantons; at best there would be no more breeding of new Roguskhoi, at worst the Roguskhoi would raid further afield. The militia had been ordained; the technists had been instructed to produce weapons. Sajarano was guarded by Frolitz; Aun Sharah, an uncertain quantity, must be dealt with gingerly.

  For the moment he had done all in his power … Someone had left a copy of the Aernid Koromatik* on a nearby chair; Etzwane picked it up and scanned the colored patterns. Pale blue and green characters informed of social events and trivial gossip, with pink and old rose titillations; these columns Etzwane ignored. He read the lavender proclamation of the Anome. In various shades of indigo and green† opinions of well-known persons were set forth: all evinced approval. “At last the Anome turns his vast power against the savage hordes,” declared the Aesthete Santangelo of Ferathilen, in ultramarine symbols. “The folk of Shant can now relax.”

  * Literally ‘Chromatic Envelope’, to signify an inclusive range of every kind of news.

  † The exact quality of blue or green measured the quoted person’s prestige: reputation, vanity, ridicule, popularity, pomposity: all were implicit in the depths, variations and overtones of the colors employed: a symbology of great subtlety.

  Etzwane’s lip curled; he gave the journal a shake. At the bottom of the page a border of brown enclosed an ochre-yellow message: news of morbid and dreadful nature. The Roguskhoi had moved in a strength estimated at over five hundred into the Farwan Valley of Canton Lor-Asphen, killing many men and enslaving a large number of women. “They have established a camp; they show no signs of retreating into the Hwan. D
o they then regard the valley as conquered territory?

  “The women of Lor-Asphen are now being evacuated into Cantons Morningshore and Esterland as rapidly as possible. Unfortunately, the Anome has not yet mustered sufficient strength to deal a counterblow. It is hoped that there will be no more such terrible acts.”

  Etzwane laid the paper aside, then on second thought folded it into the pocket of his cape. For a space he sat watching the folk at nearby tables. They chatted; they were charming; their sensibilities were subtle … Into the garden now came the stout florid technist, who first had risen to ask questions. He wore a pale green cloak over his black and white; he joined a group of his friends at a table near where Etzwane sat: two men and two women, wearing rich robes of blue, green, purple and white. They leaned forward as the stout man spoke in an animated voice. Etzwane listened: “— insane, insane! This is not our function; what do we know of such things? The Anome expects miracles; he wants bricks without furnishing straw! Let him provide the weapons; is he not the power of Shant?”

  One of his companions spoke a few words to which the florid technist made an impatient retort: “It is all nonsense! I intend to draw up a petition of protest; the Anome will surely see reason.”

  Etzwane listened aghast, in a rigidity of disbelief that dissolved into fury. Only minutes before he had enjoined selfless exertion upon this fat stupid man in the name of all Shant. Already he spread defeatism! Etzwane brought out the pulse-emitter; he punched the studs to the man’s code … He stopped short of touching Yellow; instead he went to glare down into the man’s suddenly blank red face. “I heard your remarks,” said Etzwane. “Do you know how close you came to losing your head? One eighth of an inch, the press of a button.”

  “I spoke idly, no more,” cried the man in a plaintive rush of words. “Must you take everything at face value?”

  “How else? It is how I intend my words. Say goodbye to your friends; you have suddenly become a member of the Garwiy militia. I hope you fight as well as you talk.”