The Faceless Man aka The Anome Page 8

  "I will go to Garwiy and ask the Faceless Man to give me a musician's torc and to help my mother as well."

  Frolitz looked up at the sky. "What illusions the young harbor nowadays! So now the Faceless Man indulges every ragamuffin who comes to Garwiy with a grievance!"

  "He must heed grievances; how else can he rule? Surely he wants the folk of Shant to be content!"

  "Hard to say what the Faceless Man wants. But it's not good policy talking. He might be listening from behind that wagon, and he's said to be thin-skinned. Look yonder on the tree. Only last night, while I slept fifty feet away, that placard was posted! It gives an eerie feeling."

  Etzwane examined the placard. It read:

  The ANOME is Shant!

  Shant is the ANOME!

  Which is to say: The ANOME is everywhere!

  Sly sarcasm is folly.

  Disrespect is sedition.

  With benevolent attention! With fervent zeal!

  With puissant determination!

  The ANOME works for Shant!

  Etzwane nodded soberly. "This is exactly correct. Who posted the placard?"

  "How should I know?" snapped Frolitz. "Perhaps the Faceless Man himself. If I were he, I'd enjoy going about making guilty folk jump. Still it's not wise to attract his notice with petitions and demands. If they are right and reasonable— so much the worse."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Use your head, lad! Suppose you and the canton have come into conflict, and you want matters altered. You go into Garwiy and present a petition which is right and proper and just. The Faceless Man has three choices. He can accommodate you and put the canton into an uproar, with unknown consequences. He can deny your just petition and expect sedition every time you get drunk in a tavern and start to talk. Or he can quietly take your head."

  Etzwane pondered. "You mean that I shouldn't take my grievance to the Faceless Man?"

  "He's the last man to take a grievance to!"

  "Then what should I do?"

  "Just what you're doing. Become a musician and make a living complaining of your woe. But remember: Complain of your own woes Don't complain of the Faceless Man! . . . What's that you're playing now?"

  Etzwane, having strung the khitan, had touched forth a few chords. He said, "Nothing in particular. I don't know too many tunes. Only what I learned from the musicians who came along the road."

  "Halt, halt, halt!" cried Frolitz, covering his ears. "What are these strange noises, these original discords?"

  Etzwane licked his lips. "Sir, it is a melody of my own contriving."

  "But this is impertinence! You consider the standard works beneath your dignity? What of the repertory I have labored to acquire? You tell me now that I have wasted my time, that henceforth I must attend only the outpourings of your natural genius?"

  Etzwane at last was able to insert a disclaimer.

  "No, no, sir, by no means! I have never been able to hear the famous works; I was forced to play tunes I thought up myself."

  "Well, so long as it doesn't become an obsession—Not so much thumb there. What of the rated-box? Do you think it's there for show?"

  "No sir. I hurt my elbow somewhat today."

  "Well, then, why scratch aimlessly at the khitan? Let's hear a tune on the wood-horn."

  Etzwane looked dubiously at the instrument, which was tied together with string. "I've never had the sleight of it."

  "What?" Frolitz gaped in disbelieving shock. "Well, then, learn it! The tringolet, the clarion, the tipple as well. We are musicians in this troupe, not, like Feld and his scamping cronies, a set of theorizing dilettantes. Here, take this wood-horn; go play scales. After a bit I'll come by and listen."

  A year later Master Frolitz brought his troupe to Garwiy, Etzwane now wearing a musician's torc. This was a locality the wandering troupes visited but seldom, for the urbane folk of Garwiy enjoyed novelty, style, and topical substance in preference to music. Etzwane, paying no heed to Frolitz's advice, went to the Corporation Plaza and stood in line at the booth where petitions to the Faceless Man might be filed for five florins. A placard reassured those who waited:

  All petitions are seen by the ANOME!

  The same scrupulous judgment is applied to the problems of all, if their petition costs five or five hundred florins. Be concise and definite, state the exact deficiency or hardship, specify the precise solution you propose. Merely because you are filing a petition does not indicate that your cause is just; conceivably you are wrong and your adversary right. Be instructed, rather than disappointed, should the ANOME yield a negative response.

  The ANOME administers equity, not bounty I

  Etzwane paid his five florins, received a form from the desk. In the most careful language he stated his case, citing the cynicism of the Chilites in respect to the indentures of the women. "In particular, the lady Eathre has more than paid her obligation to the Ecclesiarch Osso Higajou, but he has assigned her to work in the tannery. I pray that you order this injustice terminated, that the lady Eathre may be free to select the future course of her life without reference to the wishes of Ecclesiarch Osso."

  Occasionally the five-florin petitions encountered slow responses; Etzwane's, however, received a verdict on the following day. All petitions arid their responses were deemed in the public interest and posted openly on a board; with trembling fingers Etzwane pulled down the response coded with his torc colors.

  The response read:

  The ANOME notes with sympathy a son's concern for the welfare of his mother. The laws of Canton Bastern are definite. They require that before an indenture can be considered paid, the indentured person must display a receipt and balance sheet for all monies paid over by the person and all charges incurred and debited against the same person's account. Sometimes a person consumes food, lodging, clothing, education, entertainment, medicine, and the like, in excess of his or her earnings, whereupon the payment of an indenture may be delayed. Such is possibly true in the present case.

  The judgment is this: I command the Ecclesiarch Osso Higajou, upon presentation of this document, to render free the person of the lady Eathre, provided that she can show a favorable balance of one thousand five hundred florins, or if some person pays in cash to Ecclesiarch Osso Higajou one thousand five hundred florins, when it will be assumed that a previous balance between credit and debit exists.

  In short, take this document and one thousand five hundred florins to Ecclesiarch Osso; he must deliver to you your mother, the lady Eathre.

  With hope and encouragement,

  THE ANOME

  Etzwane became furiously angry. He instantly purchased a second petition and wrote: "Where can I get one thousand five hundred florins? I earn a hundred florins a year. Eathre has paid Osso twice over; will you lend me one thousand five hundred florins?"

  As before, the response was prompt. It read:

  The ANOME regrets that he cannot lend either private or public funds for the settlement of indentures. The previous judgment remains the definitive verdict.

  Etzwane wandered back to Fontenay's Inn where Frolitz made his Garwiy headquarters and wondered how or where he could lay his hands on one thousand five hundred florins.

  Five years later, at Maschein in Canton Maseach, on the south slope of the Hwan, Etzwane encountered his father Dystar. The troupe, coming into town late, was at liberty for the evening. Etzwane and Fordyce, a youth three or four years older—Etzwane was now about eighteen—wandered through town, from one tavern to the next, gathering gossip and listening with critical ears to what music was being played.

  At the Double Fish Inn they heard Master Rickard Oxtot's Gray-Blue-Green Interpolators.[‡‡‡‡] During an intermission Etzwane fell into a discussion with the khitan-player, who minimized his own abilities. 'To hear the khitan played in proper fashion, step across the way to the Old Caraz and hear the druithine."

  Fordyce and Etzwane presently crossed to the Old Caraz and took goblets of effervescent green punch. T
he druithine sat in a corner gazing moodily at the audience: a tall man with black-gray hair, a strong nervous body, the face of a dreamer dissatisfied with his dreams. He touched his khitan, tuned one of the strings, struck a few chords, listened as if displeased. His dark gaze wandered the room, rested on Etzwane, passed on. Again he began to play: slowly, laboriously working around the edges of a melody, reaching here, searching there, testing this, trying that, like an absent-minded man raking leaves in a wind. Insensibly the music became easier, more certain; the lank themes, the incommensurate rhythms, fused into an organism with a soul: every note played had been preordained and necessary.

  Etzwane listened in wonder. The music was remarkable, played with majestic conviction and a total absence of effort. Almost casually, the druithine imparted heartbreaking news; he told of golden oceans and unattainable islands; he reported the sweet futility of life, then, with a wry double beat and an elbow at the scratch-box, supplied solutions to all the apparent mysteries.

  His meal, hot pickled land crab with barley, melon balls dusted with pollen, had been splendid but not copious; payment[§§§§] had long been made. He had taken a flask of Gurgel's Elixir; another stood at his elbow, but he seemed uninterested in further drink. The music dwindled and departed into silence, like a caravan passing over the horizon.

  Fordyce leaned over, put a question to one who sat nearby: "What is the druithine's name?"

  "That is Dystar."

  Fordyce turned marveling to Etzwane. "It is your father!"

  Etzwane, with no words to say, gave a curt nod.

  Fordyce rose to his feet. "Let me tell him that his natural son is here, who plays the khitan in his own right."

  "No," said Etzwane. "Please don't speak to him."

  Fordyce sat down slowly. "Why not, then?"

  Etzwane heaved a deep sigh. "Perhaps he has many natural sons. A good number may play the khitan. He might not care to give polite attention to each of these."

  Fordyce shrugged and said no more.

  Once more Dystar struck at his khitan, to play music that told of a man striding through the night, halting from time to time to muse upon one or another of the stars.

  For a reason Etzwane could not define, he became uncomfortable. Between himself and this man whom he did not know existed a tension. He had no claim against him; he could reproach him.

  for no fault of omission or commission; his debt to Eathre had been precisely that of all the other men who had stepped into her cottage from Rhododendron Way; like the others he had paid in full and gone his way. Etzwane made no attempt to fathom the workings of his mind. He made an excuse to Fordyce and departed the Old Caraz. In a deep depression he wandered back to camp, Eathre's image before his mind. He cursed himself for negligence, for lack of diligence. He had saved little money—though for a fact he earned little enough. This was as it should be; Etzwane had no complaint. In addition to sustenance Frolitz provided instruction and opportunity to play. Musicians other than druithines seldom became wealthy, a situation that persuaded many troupers to try their luck as druithines. A few succeeded; most, finding the cost of their meals undischarged, attempted to enliven their performances with bravura effects, eccentric mannerisms, or when all else failed, singing songs with khitan accompaniment to audiences of peasants, children, and the musically illiterate.

  Back at the camp Etzwane turned dark thoughts back and forth in his mind. He had no illusions; at his present competence, with his present experience of life, he was incapable of becoming a druithine. What of the future? His life with Master Frolitz was satisfactory enough; did he want more? He went to his locker and brought forth his khitan; sitting on the steps of the cart, he began to play the slow music, pensive and melancholy, to which the folk of Canton Ifwiy liked to step their pavannes. The music sounded dry, contrived, lifeless. Remembering the supple, urgent music that surged from Dystar's khitan as if it had its own life, Etzwane became first grim, then sad, then bitterly angry— at Dystar, at himself. He put up the khitan and laid himself into his bunk where he tried to order his whirling young mind.

  Another five years passed. Master Frolitz and the Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greeners, as he now called his troupe, came to Brassei in Canton Elphine, not a great distance from Garwiy. Etzwane had grown into a slight, nervously muscular young man, with a face somber and austere. His hair was black, his skin darkly sallow; his mouth hung in a slightly crooked droop; he was neither voluble, gay, nor gregarious; his voice was soft and spare, and only when he had taken wine did he seem to become easy or spontaneous. Certain of the musicians thought him supercilious, others thought him vain; only Master Frolitz sought out his company, to the puzzlement of all, for Frolitz was warm where Etzwane was cold, forward where Etzwane stepped aside. When taxed with his partiality, Frolitz only scoffed; for a fact he found Etzwane a good listener, a wry and taciturn foil to his own volubility.

  After establishing camp on Brassei Common, Frolitz, with Etzwane for company, made the rounds of the city's taverns and music halls, to learn the news and solicit work. During the late evening they came to Zerkow's Inn, a cavernous structure of old timber and whitewashed marl. Posts supported a roof of a dozen crazy angles; from the beams hung mementos of all the years of the inn's existence: grotesque wooden faces blackened by grime and smoke, dusty glass animals, the skull of an ahulph, three dried cauls,

  an iron meteorite, a collection of heraldic balls, much more. At the moment Zerkow's was almost deserted, due to the weekly rigor ordained by Paraplastus, the local Cosmic Lord of Creation. Frolitz approached Loy the innkeeper and made his proposals. While the two chaffered, Etzwane stood to the side, absent-mindedly studying the placards on the posts. Preoccupied with his own concerns, he observed nothing of what he read. This morning he had received a large sum of money, an unexpected sum that had substantially augmented his savings. Sufficiently? For the twentieth time he cast up a reckoning; for the twentieth time he arrived at the same figure, on the borderline between adequacy and inadequacy. Yet where would he get more? Certainly not from Frohtz, not for a month or more. But time passed; with his goal so near he itched with impatience. His eyes focused on the placards, for the most part standard exhortations to probity:

  The BLANK, being faceless, shows the same semblance to all. Whom no man knows, no man can suborn.

  Obey all edicts with alacrity! The casual bystander may be the UNKNOWN FORCE himself!

  Lucky folk of Shant! In sixty-two cantons sing praise! How can evil flourish when every act is subject to the scrutiny of the GLORIOUS ANOME?

  The posters were printed in magenta, signifying grandeur, on a field of grayed pink, the color of omnipotence.

  On the wall hung a bulletin, somewhat larger, printed in the brown and black of emergency:

  Warning! Take care! Several large bands of Roguskhoi have, recently been observed along the slopes of the Hwan! These noxious creatures may not be approached, at sure peril of your life!

  Frolitz and Loy came to mutually satisfactory terms: on the following night Frolitz would bring in the Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greeners for a two-or three-week engagement. In recognition of the understanding Loy served Etzwane a free tankard of green cider. Etzwane asked, "When was the black-brown put up?"

  "About the Roguskhoi? Two or three days ago. They made a raid down into Canton Shallou and kidnapped a dozen women."

  "The Faceless Man should act," said Etzwane. "The least he can do is protect us; isn't that his function? Why do we wear these torcs otherwise?"

  Frolitz, conversing with a stranger in traveler's clothes who had just entered the tavern, took time to speak over his shoulder: "Pay no heed to the lad; he has no knowledge of the world."

  Loy, puffing out his fat cheeks, ignored Frolitz instead. "It's no secret that something. must be done. I've heard ugly reports of the creatures. It seems that they're swarming like ants up in the Hwan. There aren't females, you know, just males."

  "How do they breed?" Etzwane wondered. "It is a matter I
can't understand."

  "They use ordinary women, with great enthusiasm, or so I'm told, and the issue is always male."

  "Peculiar . . . Where would such creatures come from?"

  "Palasedra," declared Loy wisely. "You must know the direction of Palasedran science: always breeding, always forcing, never satisfied with creatures the way they are. I say, and others agree, that an unruly strain slipped out of the Palasedran forcing houses and crossed the Great Salt Bog into Shant. To our great misfortune."

  "Unless they come to spend their florins at Zerkow's!" Frolitz called down the bar. "Since they're great drinkers, that's the way to handle them: keep them in drink and in debt."

  Loy shook his head dubiously. "They'd drive away my other trade. Who wants to bump beakers with a murderous red-faced demon two feet taller than himself? I say, order them back to Palasedra without delay."

  "That may be the best way," said Frolitz, "but is it the practical way? Who will issue the order?"

  There's an answer to that," said Etzwane. The Faceless Man must exert himself. Is he not omnipotent? Is he not ubiquitous?" He jerked his thumb toward the pink and magenta placards. "Such are his claims."

  Frolitz spoke in a hoarse whisper to the stranger. "Etzwane wants the Faceless Man to go up into the Hwan and torc all the Roguskhoi."

  "As good a way as any," said Etzwane with a sour grin.

  Into the tavern burst a young man, a porter employed at Zerkow's. "Have you heard? At Makkaby's Warehouse, not half an hour ago, a burglar got his head taken. The Faceless Man is nearby!"

  Everyone in the room looked around. "Are you certain?" demanded Loy. "There might have been a swash-trap set out."

  "No, without question: the torc took his head. The Faceless Man caught him in the act."

  "Fancy that!" Loy marveled. "The warehouse is only a step down the street!"

  Frolitz turned to lean back against the bar. "There you have it," he told Etzwane. "You complain: 'Why does not the Faceless Man act?' Almost while you speak he acts. Is not that your answer?"