The Brave Free Men (9 page)

"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 diligence."

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 shagbarks. 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,
lie
looked in angry frustration toward the detention hall, then hunched his shoulders. 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 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 shagbark 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."

"Correctly so," said Finnerack. "All men are bags of vileness, myself as well. Let the Roguskhoi kill all."

"It is foolish to be outraged by a fact of nature," Etzwane protested. "Men are as they are, on Durdane even more so.. Our ancestors came here to indulge their idiosyncrasies; an excess of extravagance is our heritage. Viana Paizifiume understood this well and put torcs around our necks to tame us."

Finnerack tugged at his torc so viciously that Etzwane shrank away for fear of an explosion.

"I have not been tamed," said Finnerack. "I have only been enslaved."

"The system has faults," Etzwane agreed. "Still, across Shant the cantons keep peace and laws are obeyed. I hope to repair the faults, but first the Roguskhoi must be dealt with."

Finnerack gave only an uninterested shrug. They rode on in silence: out of the shagbark forest across the saw-grass meadow, now silent and melancholy in the twilight.

Etzwane spoke pensively, "I find myself in a peculiar position. The new Anome is a man of theories and ideals; he relies on me to make the hard decisions. I need help. I initially thought of you, who had helped me before and to whom I owed gratitude. But your attitude discourages me; perhaps I must look elsewhere. I can still give you freedom and wealth—almost anything you want."

Finnerack tugged again at the torc, which hung loosely around his taut brown neck. "You can't remove my noose; you can't give me real freedom. Wealth? Why not? I have earned it. Best of all give me the governance of Camp Three, if only for a month."

"What would you do if this were the case?" asked Etzwane, hoping to gauge the exact condition of Finnerack's mind.