The Faceless Man aka The Anome Page 7

  "Indeed? And make a balloon-way career?"

  "I plan to give the matter thought," said Etzwane. "As you have remarked, I am not yet clamped and not yet committed.''

  "Tell that to Dagbolt," said Finnerack. "Here comes the grip; be handy with the signal and the brake."

  The grip entered the sheave; as it reached the circumference, Etzwane pressed the signal and braked the wheel.

  "Quite right," said Finnerack.

  Etzwane brought up the claw-jack, hooked it into the ring, drew down slack, and detached the grip.

  "Exactly right," said Finnerack. "You've learned the knack, no question of it."

  Etzwane caught the grip on the edge of the sheave, released the lever-jack, shook away the hook. He stepped up into the ring and kicked free the grip. Finnerack stared in bewilderment. "What are you doing?" he gasped. "You've set free the balloon!"

  "Exactly," called Etzwane. "Give my regards to Dagbolt. Good-by, Finnerack."

  The balloon swept him away on the wind from Mount Mish, while Finnerack watched open-mouthed from below. Etzwane perched with one foot in the ring and, clutching the guy lines, waved his hand; Finnerack, standing foreshortened with head turned back, raised his arm in dubious farewell. Etzwane felt a pang of regret; he had never met anyone he liked so well as Finnerack. Someday they might meet again ...

  In the balloon the wind-tender realized that something had gone amiss but knew no remedy for the situation. "Attention all," he cried out to the passengers. "The guys have slipped; we are floating free in a northwest direction, which will take us safely across the Wildlands. There is no danger! Everyone please remain calm. When we approach a settled community, I will valve gas and lower us to the ground. For the unavoidable change of schedule I extend the official apologies of the balloon-way."

  Chapter 5

  The balloon floated down from the Hwan in the halcyon quiet of the upper air. Etzwane rode surrounded by lavender-white radiance; so unreal and peaceful were the circumstances, he felt no fear. Underneath passed the great forests of Canton Trestevan: parasol darabas, dark maroon and purple, soft-seeming as feather dusters, returning ripples of wincing greenish bronze to the touch of the wind. In the dank lower valleys stood redwoods, hoary giants five hundred feet tall, half as old as the coming of the human race. Lower still, along the piedmont, were hangman trees, black oaks and green elms, the unique syndic trees whose seeds sprouted legs and poisonous pincers. After walking to a satisfactory location, each seed roved within a ten-foot circle, poisoning all competing vegetation, then dug a hole and buried itself.

  The forests persisted into Canton Sable, then gave way to a region of small farms and a thousand small ponds where crayfish, eels, white-worm, a dozen other varieties of water-food were produced, packed, frozen, and shipped to the metropolitan markets of Garwiy, Brassei, Maschein. The villages were tiny toys exuding minuscule wisps of smoke; along the roads moved infinitesimal wagons and traps drawn by insect-size bullocks and pacers. Etzwane would have enjoyed the landscape, had he been comfortable.

  He rode with first one foot in the ring, then the other, then one foot on top of the other. He tried to sit in the angle between the two guy lines, but the cables cut into his hips. His perch became more uncomfortable by the minute. His feet were knobs of pain; his arms and shoulders ached from the strain of clinging to the guys. Still, his exhilaration persisted; he had no fault to find with circumstances.

  The wind had died to a murmur; the balloon drifted with great deliberation into Canton Frill, a green, dark blue, brown, white and purple checkerboard of fields and orchards. A meandering river, the Lurne, was a casual insult of nature to the human geometry of hedges and roads; ten miles to the west the river passed through a market town, built in the typical Frillish style: tobacco-brown panels of pressed gum-leaves between posts of polished iban, rising two or even three stories. Above the town rose a forest of poles, flying good-luck banners, prayer-flags, secret omens, tender and sometimes illicit signals between lovers. Looking over the countryside, Etzwane thought Frill an agreeable place, and he hoped that the balloon would land here, if for no other reason than to ease his aching body.

  The wind-tender, for his part, had hoped to drift on into Canton Cathriy where the trade winds blowing in from Shellflower Bay would take him southwest to meet the Great Transverse Route somewhere in Canton Mai, but he had to reckon with his passengers. They had divided into two factions. The first had become impatient with hanging motionless in the still air and demanded that the balloon be put down; the second, to the contrary, feared that the wind would rise and sweep them to perdition out over the Green Ocean; they insisted even more emphatically that the balloon be lowered.

  The wind-tender at last threw up his arms in vexation and valved out a quantity of gas until his altimeter indicated gradual descent. He opened his floor panel to inspect the terrain below and for the first time noticed Etzwane. He peered down in shock and suspicion, but he could be sure of nothing. And in any event he was powerless to act unless he chose to slide down one of the guy lines to confront the unauthorized passenger, which he did not care to do.

  The guys sank into the thick blue grass of a meadow. Etzwane jumped gratefully out of the ring; the balloon, relieved of his weight, swung back aloft. Etzwane ran like a wild creature for the hedge. Heedless of cuts and scratches, he burst through the brambles and into a lane where he ran pell-mell until he came to a copse of yap-nut trees. He plunged into the shadows and stood till he caught his breath.

  He could see nothing but foliage. Selecting the tallest tree in sight, he climbed until he could see over the hedge and across the meadow.

  The balloon was down, anchored to a stump. The passengers had alighted and stood arguing with the wind-tender, demanding immediate fare rebates and expense money. This the wind-tender refused to pay over, in the certain knowledge that the main office clerks would not casually refund these sums unless he were able to produce detailed vouchers, invoices, and receipts.

  The passengers began to grow ugly; the wind-tender at last resolved the matter by breaking loose the anchor and scrambling into the gondola. Relieved of the passengers, the balloon rose swiftly and drifted away, leaving the passengers in a disconsolate cluster.

  For three weeks Etzwane roamed the countryside, a gaunt harsh-featured lad in the rags of his Pure Boy gown. In the heart of the yapnut grove he built a little den of twigs and leaves in which he maintained a tiny fire, blown up from a coal stolen at a farm house hearth. He stole other articles: an old jacket of green homespun, a lump of black sausage, a roll of coarse cord and a bundle of hay with which he planned to make himself a bed. The hay was insufficient; he returned for a second bundle and stole as well an old earthenware bowl with which the farmer fed his fowl. On this latter occasion, as he jumped from the back window of the barn, he was sighted by the boys of the farm, who gave chase and harried him through the woods until at last he went to cover in a dense thicket. He heard them destroying his den and exclaiming in anger at the stolen goods as they blundered past: "Yodel's ahulphs will winkle him out. They can take him back upland for their pains." Cold chills coursed down Etzwane's back. When the boys left the wood, he climbed the tall tree and watched them return to their farm. They won't bring in ahulphs," he told himself in a hollow voice. They'll forget all about me tomorrow. After all, it was just a bit of hay ... An old coat..."

  On the following day Etzwane kept an anxious watch on the farmhouse. When he saw the folk going about their normal duties, he became somewhat less fearful.

  The next morning when he climbed the tree he saw to his horror three ahulphs beside the barn. They were a lumpy dwarfish variety, with the look of hairy goblin-dogs: the Murtre Mountain strain. In a panic Etzwane leapt from the tree and set off through the woods toward the river Lurne. If luck were with him, he would find a boat or a raft; for he could not swim.

  Leaving the forest, he crossed a field of purple moy; looking back, his worst fears were realized : the ahulphs
came behind.

  So far they had not sighted him; they ran with their eyes and foot-noses to the ground. With pounding legs and bumping heart, Etzwane ran from the field, up the highroad that paralleled the riverbank.

  Along the road came a high-wheeled carriage drawn by a prime pacing bullock, the result of nine thousand years breeding. Though capable of a very smart pace, it moved in a leisurely fashion, as if the driver were in no great hurry to reach his destination. Etzwane pulled up the old jacket to hide his bare neck and called to the man who drove the carriage: "Please, sir, may I ride with you for a little bit?"

  The man, reining the pacer to a halt, gave Etzwane a somber appraisal. Etzwane, returning the inspection, saw a lean man of indeterminate age with a pallid skin, a high forehead and austere nose, a shock of soft white hair neatly cropped, wearing a suit of fine gray cloth. The verticals of his torc were purple and gray; the horizontals were white and black, neither of which Etzwane could identify. He seemed very old, knowing and urbane, yet, on the other hand, not very old at all. He spoke in a voice of neutral courtesy: "Jump aboard. How far do you go?"

  "I don't know," said Etzwane. "As far as possible. To be quite frank, the ahulphs are after me."

  "Indeed? What is your crime?"

  "Nothing of any consequence. The farmer boys consider me a vagabond and want to hunt me down."

  "I can't very well assist fugitives," said the man, "but you may ride with me for a bit."

  "Thank you."

  The cart moved down the road, Etzwane keeping a watch behind. The man put a toneless question : "Where is your home?"

  Etzwane could trust no one with this secret. "I have no home."

  "And where is your destination?"

  "Garwiy. I want to put a petition to the Faceless Man to help my mother."

  "And how would he do this?"

  Etzwane looked over his shoulder; the ahulphs were not yet in sight. "She is under unjust indenture and now must work in the tannery. The Faceless Man could order her indenture lifted; I'm sure she has paid it off and more, but they keep no reckonings."

  "The Faceless Man is not likely to intervene in a matter of canton law."

  "I've been told so. But perhaps hell listen."

  The man gave a faint smile. 'The Faceless Man is gratified that canton law functions effectively. Can you believe that he'll disrupt old customs and turn everything topsy-turvy, even at Bashon?"

  Etzwane looked at him in surprise. "How did you know?"

  "Your gown. Your way of speech. Your mention of a tannery."

  Etzwane had nothing to say. He looked over his shoulder, wishing the man would drive faster.

  Even as he looked, the ahulphs bounded out into the road. Crouching down, Etzwane watched in sweating fascination. Through some peculiar working of their brain, a loss of scent confused them, and no amount of training or exhortation could persuade them to seek their quarry visually. Etzwane looked around at the man, who seemed more distant and austere than ever. The man said, "I won't be able to protect you. You must help yourself."

  Etzwane turned back to watch the road. Over the hedge bounded the farmer's boys. The ahulphs made grinning disavowals, loping helpfully in one direction, then another. The boys gave a caw of rage at the helplessness of the ahulphs; then one saw the carriage and pointed. All began to run in hot pursuit.

  Etzwane said anxiously, "Can't you drive somewhat faster? Otherwise they will kill me."

  The man looked stonily ahead as if he had not heard. Etzwane gave a despairing glance behind, to find his pursuers gaining rapidly. His life was coming to an end. The ahulphs, with license to kill, would rend him apart at once, then carefully tie the parts into parcels to take home, quarreling over this and that as they did so. Etzwane jumped from the carriage, to tumble head over heels into the road. Scraped and bruised but feeling nothing, he sprang down the river bank, bursting through the alders and into the swift yellow Lurne. What now? He had never swam a stroke in his life. ... He clutched to the twigs, shuddering uncontrollably, torn between dread of the water and a desire to immerse himself away from view. The ahulphs came crashing down the river bank, trying to push their hairy faces through the thicket. Etzwane eased himself downstream, clinging to the twigs, letting his legs float. The green jacket weighed on him; he slipped it off. Catching a bubble of air, it moved downstream, attracting the attention of the farm boys who could see only indistinctly through the brush. They ran shouting along the bank; Etzwane waited. Fifty yards downstream they discovered their mistake and stood arguing: Where was their quarry? They .ordered one of the ahulphs to swim across the stream and range the opposite bank, to which the ahulph made whining protests. The boys drew back up the bank. Etzwane floated with the current, hoping to pass them unseen and presently pull himself to shore.

  Silence on the bank: a sinister absence of sound. Etzwane's legs began to feel numb; cautiously he edged himself into the thicket. The disturbance attracted attention; one of the boys set up a halloo. Etzwane fell back into the water and, missing his grip on the twigs, was carried off into the stream. Straining to hold up his head, beating down with his arms, "thrashing with his legs, Etzwane floundered out into midstream. His breath came in harsh gasps; water entered his mouth to choke him; he felt himself going down. The opposite bank was not too far away. He made a desperate final effort; one of his feet touched bottom. He pushed, thrust himself, hopping and lurching toward the bank. Kneeling in the shallows, clinging to the alders, he hung his head and gave himself up to hoarse racking coughs. From the far bank the boys jeered at him, and the ahulphs began to thrust down through the alders. Etzwane wearily tried to push through the brush, but the bank beyond loomed high and steep above him. He waded with the current. One of the ahulphs jumped into the stream and paddled directly toward Etzwane; the current carried him past. With all his force Etzwane threw a chunk of water-sodden timber. It struck the hairy dog-spider head; the creature keened and moaned and retreated to the opposite bank. Etzwane half-waded, half-hopped with the current, the boys and ahulphs keeping pace along the other bank. Suddenly they all ran forward pell-mell; looking down the stream, Etzwane saw a five-arched stone bridge and, beyond, the town. His pursuers intended to cross the bridge and come down the bank at him. Etzwane gauged the stream; he could never swim back across. He made a ferocious attack on the alders, ignoring scratches, jabs, cuts; at length he pulled himself to the bank, a vertical rise of six feet overgrown with fern and thorn-grass. He scrambled halfway up, to fall moaning back into the alders. Once again he tried, clinging with fingernails, elbows, chin, knees. By the most precarious of margins he crawled up and over, to lie flat on his face at the edge of the riverside lane. He could not rest an instant. Glassy-eyed, he heaved himself first to his hands and knees, then to his feet.

  Only fifty yards away the town began. Across the lane, in a wooded park, he saw a half-dozen carts painted in gay symbols of pale pink, white, purple, pale green, blue.

  Etzwane staggered forward, flapping his arms; he ran up to a short sour-faced man of middle-age who sat on a stool sipping hot broth from a cup.

  Etzwane composed himself as best he could, but his voice was tremulous and hoarse. "I am Gastel Etzwane; take me into your troupe. Look; I wear no torc. I am a musician."

  The short man drew back in surprise and irritation. "Get along with you; do you think we clasp every passing rascal to our bosoms? We are adepts; this is our standard of excellence; go dance a jig in the market square."

  Down the road came the ahulphs and behind the farm boys.

  Etzwane cried, "I am no rascal; my father was Dystar the druithine; I play the khitan." He searched wildly about; he saw a nearby instrument and seized it. His fingers were weak and water-soaked; he tried to play a run of chords and produced only a jangle.

  A black-furred hand seized his shoulder and pulled; another took his arm and jerked another direction; the ahulphs fell to disputing which had touched him first.

  The musician rose to his feet. He
seized a length of firewood and struck furiously at both ahulphs. "Goblins, be off; do you dare touch a musician?"

  The peasant youths came forward. "Musician? He is a common thief, a vagabond. We intend to kill him and protect our hard-earned goods."

  The musician threw down a handful of coins.

  "A musician takes what he needs; he never steals. Pick up your money and go."

  The farm boys made surly sounds and glared at Etzwane. Grudgingly they picked the coins out of the dirt and departed, the ahulphs yelping and dancing sideways. Their work was for -naught; they would receive neither money nor meat.

  The musician once more settled upon his stool. "Dystar's son, you say. What a sorry letdown. Well, it can't be helped. Throw away those rags; have the women give you a jacket and a meal. Then come let me see what is to be done."

  Chapter 6

  Clean, warm, full of bread and soup, Etzwane came cautiously back to Frolitz, who sat at a table under the trees, a flagon of liquor at his elbow. Etzwane sat down on a bench and watched. Frolitz fitted a new reed to the mouthpiece of a wood-horn. Etzwane waited. Frolitz apparently intended to ignore his presence.

  Etzwane hitched himself forward. "Do you intend to let me stay with the troupe, sir?"

  Frolitz turned his head. "We are musicians, boy. We demand a great deal from each other."

  "I would do my best," said Etzwane.

  "It might not be good enough. String up that instrument yonder."

  Etzwane took up the khitan and did as he was bid. Frolitz grunted. "Now tell me how Dystar's son runs the fields in rags?"

  "I was born at Bashon in Canton Bastern," said Etzwane. "A musician named Feld Maijesto gave me a khitan, which I learned to play as best as I could. I did not care to become a Chilite, and I ran away."

  "That is a lucid exposition," said Frolitz. "I am acquainted with Feld, who takes a rather casual attitude toward his craft. I make serious demands upon my folk; we are not slackers here. What if I send you away?"