The Brave Free Men Page 6

  Casallo slowly obeyed. Etzwane watched him closely and could not read the meaning of Casallo’s backward glance. Etzwane signaled the hostler: “Let the balloon go aloft.”

  He waited until the Iridixn floated three hundred yards overhead, then walked back to the three men.

  Hillen grunted a few words over each shoulder to his assistants, then faced Etzwane, who halted at a distance of twenty feet. To the younger of the assistants Etzwane said: “Go, if you please, to your office and bring me here the roster of workers, with the record of their indentures.”

  The young man looked expectantly toward Hillen, who said: “Please address yourself to me; I alone give orders to camp personnel.”

  “I speak with the Anome’s voice,” said Etzwane. “I give orders as I choose, and I must be obeyed, otherwise heads leave necks.”

  Hillen showed no trepidation. He gestured to his assistant. “Go fetch the records.”

  Etzwane spoke to the short man. “What are your duties?”

  The man looked toward Hillen, his face bland and placid.

  Hillen said, “He acts as my bodyguard when I walk among the workers. We deal with desperate men at Camp Three.”

  “We won’t need him,” said Etzwane. “Go to the office and stay there until you are summoned.”

  Hillen made an indifferent gesture; the short man departed. Hillen and Etzwane waited in silence. The younger of the assistants returned with a thick gray ledger, which Etzwane took. “You may now return to the office and wait there; we will not need you.”

  The aide looked questioningly at Hillen, who gave his head a shake and signaled the man to the office. Etzwane watched with suddenly narrowed eyes: the two had betrayed themselves. “Just a moment,” he said. “Hillen: why did you shake your head?”

  For a moment Hillen was non-plussed. He shrugged. “I meant nothing particular.”

  Etzwane said in a measured voice: “At this moment we reach a critical phase in your life. Either you cooperate with me, to the exclusion of all else, or I will impose a harsh penalty. You have your choice; which is it to be?”

  Hillen smiled a patently insincere smile. “If you are the representative of the Anome, I must obey you. But where are your credentials?”

  “Here,” said Etzwane, handing over a purple protocol bearing the Anome’s sigil. “And here.” He displayed the pulse-emitter. “Tell me then: why did you shake your head to this man? What did you warn him against?”

  “Insolence,” said Hillen in a voice so neutral as to be an insult in itself.

  “You were notified of my coming,” said Etzwane. “Is this not correct?”

  Hillen gave the brim of his hat a twitch. “No such notification reached me.”

  Around the corner of the stockade came a group of four men carrying rakes, shovels and leather sacks of water. What if one threatened with his shovel and Hillen, in aiming his dart-gun, struck Etzwane instead?

  Etzwane, who held absolute power in Shant, was also absolutely vulnerable.

  The garden gang shambled across the compound without menace. No threat here. But perhaps on another occasion?

  Etzwane said, “Your dart-guns are unneeded. Drop them to the ground, if you please.”

  Hillen growled, “To the contrary, they are constantly necessary. We live and work among desperate men.”

  Etzwane brought forth the broad impulse tube, a destructive weapon of cruel potential, which exploded every torc within its range, and could as easily destroy a thousand as one. “I make myself responsible for your safety, and I must see to my own. Drop the dart-guns.”

  Hillen still hesitated.

  “I will count to five,” said Etzwane. “One —”

  With dignity Hillen placed his weapon on the ground; his assistant followed suit. Etzwane moved back a pace or two and glanced into the ledger. Each page detailed the name of a worker, his torc code, a resumé of his background. Figures indicated the fluctuating status of his indenture.

  Nowhere did Etzwane see the name Jerd Finnerack. Odd. “We will visit the stockade,” he told Hillen. “You may return to the office.” This last was for Hillen’s assistant.

  They marched through the afternoon glare to the tall stockade, the portals of which stood open. Flight would have little appeal for a man in this soggy land of chumpa, blue-black ahulph, swamp-vermin.

  Inside the stockade the heat was concentrated, and rose in shimmering waves. To one side were tanks and racks, to the other was a great shed where the withe was peeled, scraped, graded, hardened and packed. Beyond were the dormitories, the kitchens and refectory. The air smelled sour: a rancid odor which Etzwane assumed to derive from withe-processing.

  Etzwane went to the shed and looked along the line of tables. About fifty men worked here, with a peculiar listless haste. They watched Etzwane and Hillen from the side of their faces.

  Etzwane looked into the kitchens. Twenty cooks, busy at various tasks — peeling vegetables, scouring earthenware pots, boning the carcass of a gray-fleshed beast — turned aside expressionless glances which implied more than glares or hoots of derision.

  Etzwane slowly returned to the center of the compound where he paused to think. The atmosphere at Camp Three was oppressive in the extreme. Still: what else could be expected? Indenture and the threat of indenture guaranteed that each man fulfilled his obligations; the system was acknowledged to be a useful social force. No denying, however, that under extreme circumstances, great hardship was the result. Etzwane asked Hillen: “Who cuts the withe?”

  “Work parties go out into the thickets. When they cut their quota they come back in.”

  “How long have you been here yourself?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “What is the turnover in personnel?”

  “They come, they go.”

  Etzwane indicated the ledger. “Few of the men seem to diminish their obligations. Ermel Gans, for instance, in four years has reduced his debt only two hundred and ten florins. How is this possible?”

  “The men run up irresponsible charges at the canteen — drinking, for the most part.”

  “To the extent of five hundred florins?” Etzwane pointed to an entry.

  “Gans committed an unruly act, and was put into a disciplinary cell. After a month Gans decided to pay a fine.”

  “Where is the disciplinary annex?”

  “It is an annex behind the stockade,” Hillen’s voice had taken on a rough edge.

  “We will inspect this annex.”

  Hillen strove to keep his voice pitched in a tone of calm rationality. “This is not a good idea. We have serious disciplinary problems here. The interference of an outsider can create a turmoil.”

  “I am sure this is true,” said Etzwane. “On the other hand, abuses, if such exist, come to light only when someone notices them.”

  “I am a practical man,” said Hillen. “I merely enforce company regulations.”

  “Conceivably the regulations are unreasonable,” said Etzwane. “I will inspect the annex.”

  Etzwane said in a stifled voice: “Get these men out into the air at once.”

  Hillen’s face was like a stone. “What are your plans here at Camp Three?”

  “You’ll learn in due course. Bring the men up from those holes.”

  Hillen gave a terse order to the guards. Etzwane watched as fourteen haggard men came forth from the annex. He asked Hillen: “Why did you remove the name ‘Jerd Finnerack’ from the roster?”

  Hillen apparently had been waiting for the question. “He is no longer on the work-force.”

  “He paid out his indenture?”

  “Jerd Finnerack has been transferred to civil custody.”

  In a mild voice Etzwane asked, “Where is he now?”

  “In criminal detention.”

  “And where is that?”

  Hillen jerked his head toward the south. “Yonder.”

  “How far?”

  “Two miles.”

  “Order a diligen
ce.”

  The way to the detention house led across a dreary flat mounded with rotting waste from the withe processing, then entered through a grove of enormous gray shag-barks. After the stockade, and in anticipation of the detention compound, the beauty of the way seemed weird and unreal. Masses of pale green foliage floated far overhead, ethereal as clouds; the cool spaces below were like grottoes. A few thin beams of sunlight impinged in a trefoil of circles upon the dust of the road: pale blue, pearl white, pink.

  Etzwane broke the silence: “Have you seen Roguskhoi in the neighborhood?”

  “No.”

  The forest dwindled into a thicket of aspen, tape-leaves and stunted similax; the road broke out upon a soggy black heath, steaming with aromatic vapors. Insects glinted past, whining like darts. Etzwane at first tended to flinch and duck; Hillen sat sternly erect.

  They approached a low concrete structure, almost windowless. “The detention house,” said Hillen. Etzwane, noticing a peculiar aliveness to his expression, became instantly suspicious. “Stop the diligence here.”

  Hillen turned him a burning narrow-eyed glance, then hunched his shoulders. He looked in angry frustration toward the detention hall. Etzwane jumped quickly to the ground, now certain that Hillen had planned mischief. “Get to the ground,” he said. “Walk to the hall, call forth the guards. Have them bring out Jerd Finnerack, and send him here to me.”

  Hillen gave a fatalistic shrug; stepping down to the road, he trudged to the blockhouse, halting a few yards from the entrance. He called brusquely. From within came a short fat man with unkempt wads of black hair hanging down past his cheeks. Hillen made a sharp furious motion, the two looked back at Etzwane. The fat man asked a sad question; Hillen gave a terse reply. The fat man returned within.

  Etzwane waited, his mind charged with tension. At Angwin Junction Finnerack had been a sturdy blond youth, mild and trusting. From sheer goodness, so it then had seemed, Finnerack had urged escape upon Etzwane and had even offered assistance. Certainly he had never envisioned Etzwane’s dramatic act, which after the event had cost Finnerack dearly. Etzwane now realized that he had bought his own freedom at the cost of Finnerack’s suffering.

  From the house stumbled a thin crooked man of indeterminate age. His yellow-white hair hung in snarls past his ears. Hillen jerked his thumb toward Etzwane. Finnerack turned to look and across fifty yards Etzwane felt the hot blue-white gaze. Slowly, painfully, as if his legs ached, Finnerack came down the road. Twenty feet behind strolled Hillen, arms casually folded.

  Etzwane called out sharply: “Hillen! Go back to the house!”

  Hillen appeared not to hear.

  Etzwane pointed the pulse-emitter. “Go back!”

  Hillen turned, and still holding his arms folded, went slowly back to the house. Finnerack looked back and forth, with a puzzled half-grin, then continued toward Etzwane.

  Finnerack halted. “What do you want of me?”

  Etzwane searched the corded brown face, seeking the placid Finnerack of old. Finnerack clearly did not recognize him. Etzwane asked, “You are the Jerd Finnerack who served at Angwin Junction?”

  “I am and I did.”

  “How long have you been here?” Etzwane indicated the detention house.

  “Five days.”

  “Why were you brought here?”

  “So they could kill me. Why else?”

  “But you are still alive.”

  “True.”

  “Who is inside?”

  “Three prisoners and two keepers.”

  “Finnerack, you are now a free man.”

  “Indeed. Who are you?”

  “There is a new Anome in the land of Shant. I am his executive assistant. What of the other prisoners? What are their crimes?”

  “Three assaults on a guard. I have assaulted only twice; Hillen no longer can count to three.”

  Etzwane turned to consider Hillen, who hulked morosely in the shade of the detention house. “Hillen carries a dart-gun under his arms, or so I suspect. Before my arrival, what was the conduct of the guards?”

  “An hour ago they received a message from Camp Three, and went to stand by the window with their weapons. Then you arrived. Hillen called to put me out. The rest you know.”

  Etzwane called to Hillen. “Order the guards outside.”

  Hillen spoke over his shoulder; two guards came forth, the first fat, the second tall and sallow with docked ears.

  Etzwane moved a few slow paces forward. “All three of you — turn your backs and put your hands in the air.”

  Hillen stared woodenly, as if he had not heard. Etzwane was not deceived. Hillen calculated his chances, which were poor, from any aspect. Hillen disdainfully dropped the dart-gun he had somehow managed to obtain. He turned and put his hands into the air. The two guards did likewise.

  Etzwane moved somewhat closer. He told Finnerack: “First check the guards for weapons, then release the other prisoners.”

  Finnerack went to obey. Moments passed, silent except for the whine of insects and a few muffled sounds from within the detention house. The prisoners came forth: pallid bony men blinking curiously toward Etzwane. “Pick up the dart-gun,” Etzwane told Finnerack. “Take Hillen and the guards to the cells; lock them up.”

  With ironic calm Finnerack signaled the three officials — gestures no doubt modeled upon those the officials themselves employed. Hillen, appreciating this, smiled grimly and walked into the detention house.

  Whatever his faults, thought Etzwane, Hillen accepted adversity without loss of dignity. Today, from Hillen’s point of view, had proved an adverse day indeed.

  Etzwane consulted with Finnerack and the other two erstwhile prisoners, then went into the fetid detention house. His stomach jerked at the filth of the cells, in which Hillen and his minions hunched grim and disconsolate.

  Etzwane spoke to Hillen: “Before arriving at Camp Three I bore you no ill-will, but first you sought to thwart me, then to kill me. Beyond doubt you received instructions from another source. What was that source?”

  Hillen only stared with eyes like lead balls.

  Etzwane said, “You have made a bad choice.” He turned away. The fat guard, already streaming with sweat, called plaintively: “What of us?”

  Etzwane spoke dispassionately. “Neither Finnerack, Jaime nor Mermiente argues for your release. Each feels that clemency would be a mistake. Who should know better than they? Jaime and Mermiente have agreed to act as your jailers; henceforth you must deal with them.”

  “They will kill us; is this the justice of the Anome?”

  “I don’t know where justice lies,” said Etzwane. “Perhaps it will come of itself, for you surely will get as much mercy as you gave.”

  Finnerack and Etzwane went to the diligence, Etzwane ill-at-ease and looking back over his shoulder. Where was justice indeed? Had he acted wisely and decisively? Had he taken the weak, maudlin, easy course? Both? Neither? He would never know.

  “Hurry,” said Finnerack. “Toward sunset the chumpas come up from the swamp.”

  Through the declining light they set out to the north. Finnerack began to study Etzwane from the side of his eyes. “Somewhere I have known you,” said Finnerack. “Where? Why did you come for me?”

  Sooner or later the question must be answered. Etzwane said: “Long ago you did me a service which I finally am able to repay. This is the first reason.”

  In Finnerack’s corded brown face the eyes glinted like blue ice.

  Etzwane went on. “A new Anome has come to power. I serve as his executive assistant. I have many anxieties; I need an assistant of my own, a confederate on whom I can rely.”

  Finnerack spoke in a voice of awe and wonder, as if he doubted either Etzwane’s sanity or his own. “You have chosen me for this position?”

  “This is correct.”

  Finnerack gave a chuckle of wild amusement, as if his doubts were now resolved: both he and Etzwane were mad. “Why me, whom you hardly know?”

>   “Caprice. Perhaps I remember how you were kind to a desperate waif at Angwin.”

  “Ah!” The sound came up from the depths of Finnerack’s soul. The amusement, the wonder were gone as if they had never existed. The bony body seemed to crouch into the seat.

  “I escaped,” said Etzwane. “I became a musician. A month ago the new Anome came to power, and instantly called for war against the Roguskhoi. He required that I enforce this policy and I myself was given power. I learned of your condition, though I did not realize the harshness of Camp Three.”

  Finnerack straightened in his seat. “Can you guess your risk in telling this tale? Or my rage toward those who have made me my life? Do you know what they have done to me, to make me pay debts I never incurred? Do you know that I consider myself mad: an animal that has been made savage? Do you know how taut is the film that halts me from tearing you to pieces, and running back to do the same for Hillen?”

  “Restrain yourself,” said Etzwane. “The past is the past; you are alive, and now we have work to do.”

  “Work?” sneered Finnerack. “Why should I work?”

  “For the same reason I work: to save Shant from the Roguskhoi.”

  Finnerack uttered a harsh gust of laughter. “The Roguskhoi have done me no harm. Let them do as they like.”

  Etzwane could think of nothing to say. For a period the diligence rolled north along the road. They entered the shag-bark grove, and the sunlight, now noticeably lavender, cast long green shadows.

  Etzwane spoke. “Have you never thought how you would better the world, had you the power?”

  “I have indeed,” said Finnerack in a voice somewhat milder than before. “I would destroy those who had ravaged me: my father, Dagbolt, the wretched boy who took his freedom and made me pay the cost, the balloon-way magnates, Hillen. There are many.”

  “This is the voice of your anger,” said Etzwane. “By destroying these people you do nothing real; the evil continues, and somewhere other Jerd Finneracks will ache to destroy you for not helping them when you had power.”