Eight Fantasms and Magics

by Jack Vance

  Slaye glared down at him. “And then we all are dead. To me it does not matter. Do so. I defy you. If you want life —the amulet."

  Cugel looked down at Derwe Coreme. “What of her?"

  “Together you shall be banished. The amulet—for here is the demon."

  The black demon towered above; Cugel hastily handed the amulet to Slaye, who uttered a sharp cry and touched a carbuncle. The demon whimpered, involuted and disappeared.

  Slaye stood back, grinning in triumph. “Now away with you and the girl. I keep my word to you, no more. You have your miserable lives; depart.”

  “Grant me one desire!” pled Cugel. “Transport us to Al-mery, to the Valley of the Xzan, where I may rid myself of a canker called Firx!”

  “No,” said Slaye. “I deny you your heart’s desire. Go at once.”

  Cugel lifted Derwe Coreme to her feet. Still dazed, she stared at the wreckage of the hall. Cugel turned to Slaye. “The ghoul waits in the promenade.”

  Slaye nodded. “This well may be true. Tomorrow I shall chastise him. Tonight I call subworld artisans to repair the hall and restore the glory of Cil. Hence! Do you think I care how you fare with the ghoul?” His face became suffused and his hand strayed toward the carbuncles of the amulet. “Hence, at once!”

  Cugel took Derwe Coreme’s arm and led her from the hall to the great front portal. Slaye stood with feet apart, shoulders hunched, head bent forward, eyes following Cugel’s every move. Cugel eased back the bolts, opened the door and stepped out upon the terrace.

  There was silence along the promenade. Cugel led Derwe Coreme down the steps and off to the side, into the rank growth of the old garden. Here he paused to listen. From the palace came sounds of activity: rasping and scraping, hoarse shouts and bellows, the flash of many-colored lights. Down the center of the promenade came a tall white shape, stepping from the shadow of one pedestal to the next. It paused to listen to the sounds and watch the flaring lights in wonder. While it was so absorbed Cugel led Derwe Coreme away, behind the dark banks of foliage, and so off into the night.

  Guyal of Sfere

  This is one of the tales from The Dying Earth. The time is the remote future. The sun gutters like a candle in the wind. Misanthropic creatures wander the forests: grues, leucomorphs, deodands. The power of the magicians has waned; those still extant spend their energies in plots against each other. In ruins along the coasts of Ascolais and Almery a few languid men and women amuse themselves until that hour when the sun finally glimmers into darkness and the earth grows cold.

  Guyal of Sfere had been born one apart from his fellows and early proved a vexation for his sire. Normal in outward configuration, there existed within his mind a void which ached for nourishment. It was as if a spell had been cast upon his birth, a harassment visited on the child in a spirit of sardonic mockery, so that every occurrence, no matter how trifling, became a source of wonder. Even as young as four seasons he was expounding such inquiries as: “Why do squares have more sides than triangles?”

  “How will we see when the sun goes dark?”

  “Do flowers grow under the ocean?”

  “Do stars hiss and sizzle when rain comes by night?”

  To which his impatient sire gave answers:

  “So it was ordained by the Pragmatica; squares and triangles must obey the rote.”

  “We will be forced to grope and feel our way.”

  “I have not verified this matter; only the Curator would know.”

  “Never. The stars are above the rain, higher even than the highest clouds, and swim in a rarified air where rain can never breed.”

  As Guyal grew to youth, this void in his mind, instead of dwindling becoming sedimented with wax, throbbed with a more violent ache. And so he asked:

  “Why do people die when they are killed?”

  “Where does beauty vanish when it goes?”

  “How long have men lived on Earth?”

  “What is beyond the sky?”

  To which his sire, biting acerbity back from his lips, would respond:

  “Death is the heritage of life; a man’s vitality is like air in a bladder. Poinct this bubble and away, away, away, flees life, like the color of fading dream.”

  “Beauty is a luster which love bestows to guile the eye. Therefore it may be said that only when the brain is without love will the eye look and see no beauty.”

  “Some say men germinated in the soil like grubs in a corpse; others aver that the first men desired residence and so created Earth by sorcery. The question is shrouded in technicality; only the Curator may answer with exactness.” “An endless waste.”

  Guyal pondered and postulated, proposed and expounded, until he found himself the subject of surreptitious humor. The demesne was visited by a rumor that a gleft, coming upon Guyal’s mother in labor, had stolen part of Guyal’s brain, which deficiency he now industriously sought to restore.

  Guyal therefore drew himself apart and roamed the grassy hills of Sfere in solitude. But ever was his mind acquisitive, ever did he seek to exhaust the lore of all around him, until at last his father in vexation refused to hear further inquiries, declaring that all knowledge had been known, that the trivial and useless had been discarded, leaving only that residue necessary to a sound man.

  At this time Guyal was in his first manhood, a slight but erect youth with wide clear eyes, a penchant for severely elegant dress, a firm somewhat compressed mouth.

  Hearing his father’s angry statement, Guyal said, “One more question, then I ask no more.”

  “Speak,” declared his father. “One more question I grant you.”

  “You have often referred me to the Curator; who is he, and where may I find him?”

  A moment the father scrutinized the son whom he now considered past the verge of madness. Then he responded in a quiet voice, “The Curator guards the Museum of Man, which antique legend places in the Land of the Falling Wall —beyond the mountains of Fer Aquila and north of Ascolais. It is not certain that either Curator or Museum still exist; still it would seem that if the Curator knows all things, as is the legend, then surely he would know the wizardly foil to death.”

  Guyal said, “I would seek the Curator and the Museum of Man, that I likewise may know all things.”

  The father said with patience, “I will bestow on you my fine white horse, my Expansible Egg for your shelter, my Scintillant Dagger to illuminate the night. In addition, I lay a blessing along the trail, and danger will slide you by so long as you never wander aside.”

  Guyal quelled the hundred new questions at his tongue, including an inquisition as to where his father had learned these manifestations of sorcery, and accepted the gifts: the horse, the magic shelter, the dagger with the luminous pommel, and the blessing to guard him from the disadvantageous circumstances which plagued those who travelled the dim trails of Ascolais.

  He caparisoned the horse, honed the dagger, cast a last glance around the old manse at Sfere, and set forth to the north.

  He ferried the River Scaum on an old barge. Aboard the barge, and so off the trail, the blessing lost its cogency and in fact seemed to stimulate a counterinfluence, so that the barge-tender, who coveted Guyal’s rich accoutrements, struck out suddenly with his cudgel. Guyal fended off the blow and tripped the man into the murky deep.

  Mounting the north bank of the Scaum he saw ahead the Porphiron Scar, the dark poplars and white columns of Kaiin, the dull gleam of Sanreale Bay.

  Wandering the crumbled streets, he put the languid inhabitants such a spate of questions that one in wry jocularity commended him to a professional augur.

  This, a lank hermetic with red-rimmed eyes and a stained white beard, dwelled in a booth painted with the Signs of the Aumoklopelastianic Cabal.

  “What are your fees?” inquired Guyal cautiously.

  “I respond to three questions,” stated the augur. “For twenty terces I phrase the answer in clear and decisive language; for ten I use a professional cant, whic
h occasionally admits of ambiguity; for five I speak a parable which you must interpret as you will; and for one terce I babble in an unknown tongue.”

  “First I must inquire, how profound is your knowledge?”

  “I know all,” responded the augur. “The secrets of red and the secrets of black, the lost spells of Grand Motholam, the way of the fish and the voice of the bird.”

  “And where have you learned all these things?”

  “By pure induction,” explained the augur. “I retire into my booth, I closet myself with never a glint of light and, so sequestered, I resolve the mysteries of the world.”

  “Controlling such efficacy,” ventured Guyal, “why do you live so meagerly, with not an ounce of fat to your frame and miserable rags to your back?”

  The augur stood back in fury. “Go along with you! Already I have wasted fifty terces of wisdom on you who have never a copper to your pouch. If you desire free enlightenment,” and he cackled in mirth, “seek out the Curator.” He sheltered himself in his booth.

  Guyal took lodging for the night, and in the morning went on his way. The trail made a wide detour around the haunted ruins of Old Town, then took to the fabulous forest.

  For many a day Guyal rode toward the north. By night he surrounded himself and his horse in the Expansible Egg, a membrane impermeable to thew, claw, pressure, sound, and chill, and rested at ease despite the avid creatures of the dark.

  The dull sun fell behind; the days grew wan and the nights bitter, and at last the crags of Fer Aquila showed as a tracing on the north horizon. In this region the forest was a scattering of phalurge and daobado; these last, massive constructions of heavy bronze branches clumped with dark balls of foliage. Beside a giant of the species Guyal came upon a village of turf huts. A group of surly louts appeared and surrounded him with expressions of curiosity. Guyal, no less than the villagers, had questions to ask, but none would speak till the hetman strode up—a burly man in a shaggy fur hat, a cloak of brown fur, and a bristling beard, so that it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. He exuded a rancid odor which displeased Guyal, although from motives of courtesy, he took pains to keep his distaste concealed.

  “Where go you?” asked the hetman.

  “I wish to cross the mountains to the Museum of Man,” said Guyal. “Which way does the trail lead?”

  The hetman pointed out a notch on the silhouette of the mountains. “There is Omona Gap, which is the shortest and best route, though there is no trail. None comes and none goes, since when you pass the Gap, you walk an unknown land. And with no traffic there manifestly need be no trail.”

  The news did not cheer Guyal.

  “How then is it known that Omona Gap is on the way to the Museum?”

  The hetman shrugged. “Such is our tradition.”

  Guyal turned his head at a hoarse snuffling and saw a pen of woven wattles. In a litter of filth and matted straw stood a number of hulking men eight or nine feet tall. They were naked, with wax-colored faces, shocks of dirty yellow hair and watery blue eyes. As Guyal watched, one of them ambled to a trough and noisily began to gulp gray mash.

  Guyal said, “What manner of things are these?”

  The hetman guffawed at Guyal’s ignorance. “They are oasts, naturally.” He indicated Guyal’s white horse. “Never have I seen a stranger oast than the one you bestride. Ours carry us more easily and appear to be less vicious; in addition, no flesh is more delicious than oast properly braised and kettled.”

  Standing close he fondled the metal of Guyal’s saddle and the red and yellow embroidered quilt. “Your deckings however are rich and of superb quality. I will therefore bestow you my large and weighty oast in return for this creature with its accoutrements.”

  Guyal politely declared himself satisfied with his present mount, and the hetman shrugged his shoulders.

  A horn sounded. The hetman looked about, then turned back to Guyal. “Food is prepared; will you eat?”

  Guyal glanced toward the oast-pen. “I am not presently hungry, and I must hasten forward. However, I am grateful for your kindness.”

  He departed; as he passed under the arch of the great daobado he turned a glance back toward the village. There seemed an unwonted activity among the huts. Remembering the hetman’s covetous touch at his saddle, and aware that no longer did he ride the trail, Guyal urged his horse forward and pounded fast under the trees.

  As he neared the foothills the forest dwindled to a savanna, floored with a dull, jointed grass that creaked under the horse’s hooves. Guyal glanced up and down the plain. The sun wallowed in the southwest; the light across the plain was dim and watery. Another hour, then the dark night of the latter-day Earth. Guyal twisted in the saddle, looked behind him. Four oasts, carrying men on their shoulders, came trotting from the forest. Sighting Guyal they broke into a lumbering run. With a crawling skin Guyal wheeled his horse and eased the reins; the white horse loped across the plain toward Omona Gap. Behind ran the oasts, bestraddled by the fur-cloaked villagers.

  The sun touched the horizon. Guyal looked back to his pursuers, bounding now a mile behind, then turned his gaze to the forest ahead. An ill place to ride by night, but where was his choice?

  The foliage loomed above him; he passed under the first gnarled daobados. He changed directions, turned once, twice, a third time, then stood his horse to listen. Far away a crashing in the brake reached his ears. Guyal dismounted, led the horse into a deep hollow where a bank of foliage made a screen. Presently the four men on their hulking oasts passed across the afterglow, black double-shapes in attitudes suggestive of ill-temper and disappointment.

  The thud and pad of feet dwindled and died.

  The horse moved restlessly; the foliage rustled.

  A damp air passed down the hollow and chilled the back of Guyal’s neck. Darkness stood in the hollow like ink in a basin.

  Guyal urged his horse up to the height and sat listening. Far down the wind he heard a hoarse call. Turning in the opposite direction he let the horse choose its own path.

  Branches and boughs knit patterns on the fading sky; the air smelt of moss and mold. The horse stopped short. Guyal, tensing in every muscle, leaned a little forward. The air was still, uncanny; his eyes could plumb not ten feet into the black. Somewhere near was death—grinding death, to come as a sudden shock.

  Sweating cold, afraid to stir a muscle, he forced himself to dismount. Stiffly he slid from the saddle, brought forth the Expansible Egg and flung it around his horse and himself. Safety. Guyal released the pressure of his breath.

  Guyal of Sfere had lost his way in a land of wind and naked crags. As night came he slouched numbly in the saddle while his horse took him where it would. Somewhere the ancient way through Omona Gap led to the northern tundra, but now, under a chilly overcast, north, east, south, and west were alike.

  The horse halted and Guyal found himself at the brink of a quiet valley. Guyal leaned forward, staring. Below spread a dark city. Mist blew along the streets; the afterglow fell dull on slate roofs.

  The horse snorted and scraped the stony ground.

  “A strange town,” said Guyal, “with no lights, no sound, no smell of smoke. . . . Doubtless an abandoned ruin from ancient times.. . .”

  He debated descending to the streets. At times the old ruins were haunted by peculiar distillations. On the other hand such a ruin might be joined to the tundra by a trail. With this thought in mind he started his horse down the slope.

  He entered the town and the hooves rang loud and sharp on the cobbles. The buildings were stone and dark mortar and seemed in uncommonly good preservation. A few lintels had cracked and sagged, a few walls gaped open, but for the most part the stone houses had successfully met the gnaw of time. . . . Guyal scented smoke. Did people live here still? He would proceed with caution.

  Before a building which seemed to be a hostelry flowers bloomed in an urn. Guyal reined his horse and reflected that flowers were rarely cherished by persons of hostil
e disposition.

  “Hello!” he called—once, twice.

  No heads peered from the doors, no orange flicker brightened the windows. Guyal slowly turned and rode on.

  The street widened and twisted toward a large hall, where Guyal saw a light. The building had a high facade, broken by four large windows, each shielded by two blinds of corroded bronze filigree. A marble balustrade fronting the terrace shimmered bone-white behind, a portal of massive wood stood slightly ajar; from here came the beam of light and also a strain of music.

  Guyal of Sfere, halting, gazed not at the house nor at the light through the door. He dismounted and bowed to the young woman who sat pensively along the course of the balustrade. Though it was very cold, she wore but a simple gown, yellow-orange, a ’ daffodil’s color. Topaz hair fell loose to her shoulders and gave her face a cast of gravity and thoughtfulness.

  As Guyal straightened from his greeting, the woman nodded, smiled slightly, and absently fingered the hair by her cheek.

  “A bitter night for travelers.”

  “A bitter night for musing on the stars," responded Guyal.

  She smiled again. “I am not cold. I sit and dream. ... I listen to the music.”

  “What place is this?” inquired Guyal, looking up the street, down the street, and once more to the girl. “Are there any here but yourself?”

  “This is Carchasel,” said the girl, “abandoned by all ten thousand years ago. Only I and my aged uncle live here, finding this place a refuge from the Saponids of the tundra.” She rose to her feet. “But you are cold and weary,” said the girl, “and I keep you standing in the street. Our hospitality is yours.”

  “Which I gladly accept,” said Guyal, “First I must stable my horse.”

  “He will be content in the house yonder. We have no stable.” She indicated a long stone building with a door opening into blackness.

  Guyal took the white horse thither and removed the bridle and saddle; then, standing in the doorway, he listened to the music he had noted before, the piping of an ancient air.