“I am chastened!” Amay said quickly. “I reconsider!”
“I am not so foolish as to trust you again,” Vespanus said. “Come, Hegadil!”
Hegadil stepped through the wall of the crystal bottle, and flew to the ring on Vespanus’ finger.
“Farewell, my lady,” Vespanus said. “I leave you to contemplate your long and doubtless tedious future.”
He left the study before she could speak. In truth, he had not expected any great success with the lady Amay, but he had thought the ploy worth trying. In any case, he would have all summer to puzzle out any traps on the strong room doors—and, of course, he would have the help of Hegadil, which would be considerable.
Pondering thus his own prospects, the Protostrator Vespanus walked to the Onyx Tower, and from its highest room contemplated his new domain.
Afterword:
I seem to be fairly unique in acquiring my taste for Jack Vance’s fiction as an adult.
Most Vance readers seem to have encountered him when they were young. I did, too, but I must have read the wrong stuff, or I read it badly, or maybe I just didn’t get it.
But then I kept hearing from my writer friends about what a terrific writer Jack Vance was, and how much they admired him. And these were writers whose taste I trusted.
So off I went to read The Demon Princes series. Then the Alastor books, and the Tschai series, Big Planet, and—by and by—The Dying Earth.
And so I developed a grownup’s appreciation for Vance’s glorious high style, his psychological acuity, and for the breadth of his invention.
In the Dying Earth novels and stories, I very much enjoyed the scheming of Vance’s sophisticated, amoral wizards, obsessed with politesse, possessions, and prestige, and I thought to tell a story of a character who had not yet earned a place among the elite. Vespanus is young, insufficiently schooled, and possibly second-rate. In order to take his place among the rulers of the Dying Earth, he must employ his limited powers with subtlety and finesse.
Abrizonde, Pex, and Calabrande are countries of my own invention, though I hope I have invented them in the Vance style. They are populated by Vancean creations such as sendestins and twk-men, callow-fields and miniaturized sorcerers, as well as some of my own inventions such as the Halcyon Detonation.
I was delighted to include such Vancean objects as alidades, altazimuths, and dividing engines, which though used in the story by Calabrandene engineers are actual implements used in our actual world by actual surveyors.
Perhaps reality itself pays occasional homage to Jack Vance.
—Walter Jon Williams
Paula Volsky
The Traditions of Karzh
Here’s the story of a lazy and languid lothario who receives the keenest of incentives to apply himself to his studies—the imminent threat of death.
Paula Volsky is the author of the popular The Sorcerer’s Lady series, consisting of The Sorcerer’s Lady, The Sorcerer’s Heir, and The Sorcerer’s Curse. Her other books include The Grand Ellipse, The White Tribunal, The Gates of Twilight, The Curse of the Witch Queen, Illusion, The Luck of Rohan Kru, and The Wolf of Winter. Born in Fanwood, New Jersey, she now lives in Basking Ridge, New Jersey.
The Traditions of Karzh
Paula Volsky
Dhruzen of Karzh, long-time acting master of the manse, surveyed his nephew at length. He beheld a spare and elegantly-clad young man, with black hair framing a pale, lean face, and dark eyes heedlessly content. The sight appeared to please him. His round face pinkened with gratification, his round eyes beamed benevolence.
“Nephew Farnol,” Dhruzen observed, “I wish you a happy birthday. Today you attain the age of one-and-twenty. Let us drink to that accomplishment.”
“Gladly, Uncle.” Farnol of Karzh angled a dutiful inclination of the head.
The two kinsmen touched goblets and drank.
“The wine is to your liking?” Dhruzen inquired with solicitude.
“Excellent.”
“I am glad, for it is yours, as of this day. Indeed, the manse and all of its contents are yours, now that you have come of age. Tell me, Nephew—now that you are master here, what do you intend to do?”
“Do? Why, busy myself with management of the estate, I suppose, and other pursuits. Kaiin offers no end of occupation. My swordplay falls short of perfection; I shall continue the practice bouts. There is the theatre, always in want of patrons; the declamatory competitions, the Vringel Attitudes, the Perambulating Rocks, the Scaum Scullers, the quest to replicate the ancient Golden Light of the Sun—”
“Occupation?” Dhruzen’s lids drooped. “Say rather, diversions, frivolities. Nephew, you squander your force upon trifles. Always you evade the issue of true importance. You speak nothing of magic, whose power measures the eminence of our line. The patriarchs of Karzh all possess some measure of magic. Where is yours?”
“Oh, I have not the aptitude. I cannot hold the simplest of spells in my head, they fly from me like timid birds.” Farnol flexed a careless shrug. “What matter? There are other pursuits equally meritorious.”
“Oh, Nephew—Nephew—Nephew.” Dhruzen shook his curled head in smiling sorrow. “Far be it from me to criticize, but you refuse to acknowledge the essential verity. The master of this manse must possess some measure of thaumaturgical skill. It is a tradition of Karzh. For years, you have neglected your studies, and I—shame upon me—I have indulged your idleness. Now that you have come of age, matters must alter.”
“It is a little late for alteration. Uncle, pray do not trouble yourself,” Farnol counseled easily. “I have not turned out so badly, and no doubt all is for the best.”
“Brave philosophy. I am not without hope, however, that I may yet persuade you to my point of view.” So saying, Dhruzen struck the small gong on the table beside him, and a brazen note resounded.
Into the chamber stepped Gwyllis, household fixture for years beyond count, dry and brittle as an abandoned chrysalis.
“Bring it in,” commanded Dhruzen.
Gwyllis bowed and retired. Moments later, he was back, tottering beneath the weight of a sizable object that he placed with care at the center of the table.
Farnol leaned forward in his chair. He beheld a swirling complexity of interlaced vitreous coils, colorless for the most part, but marked with occasional touches of crimson. At first, the great glass knot appeared randomly formed, but closer inspection revealed elements of structure and design. Here, a subtle pattern of glinting scales. There, the suggestion of a talon. The hint of a snout, the wink of a fang. And visible at the center of the gleaming mass, a compact dark heart, its nature open to conjecture.
“Beguiling, is it not?”
“Indeed.” Farnol looked up to meet his uncle’s happy gaze. A nameless pang assailed him.
“Nephew, you will observe the small leaden casket reposing at the center of the glass knot. Its contents are not without interest to you, but will not be reached save by way of sorcerous art. I invite you to open the casket.”
“Sorcery is quite beyond me. An iron hammer of good weight, fit to shatter the glass impedimenta, should serve just as well.” Farnol spoke with a lighthearted air designed to conceal growing uneasiness.
“Impractical. The importunate blows of a hammer would serve only to reinforce the resolve of the defenders.”
“Defenders?”
“The glass reptiles, Nephew. They appear lifeless, but do not deceive yourself. They brim with righteous defensive zeal. Once roused, their tempers are short and their venom swift.”
“Indeed?” Farnol took a closer look, and now discerned the intricately interlaced, transparent saurians. Crimson color marked their eyes, their claws, and their bulging poison ampoules. Their number was impossible to gauge. “Well. They seem stout guardians. Let them protect their treasure, whatever it may be. I will not disturb them.”
“I urge you to reconsider. The casket at the center of the reptilian knot recommends itself to your attention, f
or it contains the sole known antidote.”
“Antidote?”
“To the bane that you have just swallowed. It was in the excellent wine. I had feared that you might note the addition of a foreign substance, but your mind seemed set on other things. Perambulating Rocks, perhaps. Or Vringel Attitudes.”
“Poison! Then you have murdered me, Uncle?”
“My dear lad, you must not think it. Do you take me for an ogre? What I have done reflects pure avuncular affection. I offer you an opportunity to honor the traditions of Karzh. If the conditions I impose appear extreme, you may take it as an expression of my absolute confidence in your abilities. Now attend, if you please. The draft that you have swallowed is trifling in its effect, scarcely more than an inconvenience. Three or four days must elapse before internal desiccation occasions anything beyond passing discomfort. Another two or three before desiccation gives way to conflagration, and a full ten days before the inner fires consume heart, mind, and life. But why speak of such unpleasantness? Surely it is irrelevant. You need only apply the most rudimentary of magical spells to loosen the knot, open the casket, and swallow the antidote. No doubt you will complete the task within hours, if not minutes, for how could the legitimate master of the manse fail? Nephew, I know that you will make me proud.” Rising from his chair, Dhruzen clapped his kinsman’s shoulder, and departed.
For some seconds, Farnol of Karzh sat motionless, studying the tangle, then spoke without turning his head. “Gwyllis. Fetch me a hammer, an ax, or a crowbar.”
“Useless, Master Farnol,” returned the ancient servant, in tones treble and tweetling. “Be certain that it is magic alone will serve your purpose. Master Dhruzen has ordered it so.”
“I shall summon a magician from the city.”
“The adept will not be admitted. Master Dhruzen has ordered it so.”
“I shall carry the glass knot into Kaiin, then.”
“The knot may not leave the manse. Master Dhruzen—”
“I shall order otherwise, and the servants must obey. I have come of age.”
“An alteration in status perhaps unrecognized by the duller among the household menials.”
“Ah, Gwyllis—my uncle has planned it well. I fear I am a dead man. There is but one course left. I must kill Dhruzen before the poison takes me. It is a small consolation, but it is better than nothing.”
“Permit me to suggest an alternative. While it is true that your uncle’s methods and motives appear questionable, there can be no denying the validity of his argument. It is more than probable that you possess a certain measure of sorcerous ability. You have been given considerable incentive to discover it. You must now apply yourself.”
“Impractical. My mind is not constructed to encompass magical spells. My measure of natural ability expresses itself as a negativity.”
“Here is neither the time nor place for negativity. As for the construction of your mind and the quality or quantity of your abilities, such things are perhaps less immutable than you imagine. Tcheruke the Vivisectionist, who dwells among the hives at the edge of Xence Moraine, is just the man to sift your brain for hidden talent.”
“Vivisectionist?”
“A courtesy title, I believe. Tcheruke is a magician of much erudition, paired with intermittent and unpredictable philanthropy. If your plight interests him—and I would advise you to make certain that it does—then he may undertake to repair all deficiencies. Seek out Tcheruke, and do so without delay.”
Farnol nodded. Deep inside him, a point of heat glowed into being.
The sun stood near its low zenith when Farnol rode away from Manse Karzh. The weary star glowed through a veil of purple haze. The warmer tones faded out of existence at the horizon, where the indigo skies deepened to the color of ink. To the south rose Kaiin, its white walls reflecting faintly violet light. The burnished dome of Prince Kandive the Golden’s palace dominated the skyline, and beyond glinted the waters of the Bay of Sanreale. The narrow track before him circled the northern extremity of the city, winding through the quiet hamlets and leading by leisurely degrees to the Old Town, a silent wilderness of tumbled ruins, broken walls and prostrate columns, fallen turrets and shattered towers, all worn smooth and rounded of contour by the passage of uncounted ages. Past a broken obelisk he rode, beyond which spread a wide court, and now he found his way littered with eyeless corpses—here a great warrior in cloison armor, there a young man in a green cloak, and others, many others. Their cavernous regard chilled him to the heart, but could not extinguish the little fire burning hot at the pit of his stomach. He nudged his horse and rode on.
The senescent red sun limped across the sky, and now the Old Town lay behind him. The grade of the path steepened as the land began to undulate. Shaggy fields of Foun’s dalespread clothed the hillocks and hollows in patinated bronze, sparked with the bright rose-gold of vessileaf. Another hour of riding brought him to the verge of Xence Moraine.
Farnol Drew rein and gazed about him. The land dipped and rolled like the waves of a petrified sea. Everywhere bulked the great boulders and mounds of debris deposited in the lost ages of the past; all of them polished to satiny sheen. The long rays of the westering sun warmed multifarious crowns and summits to crimson. Shadows pooled purple and charcoal in the hollows. Among the hills wound a slow brown stream, its banks lined with tall, narrow, emphatic mounds, whose regularity of size and shape suggested intelligent construction. He studied them for a time, but caught no hint of motion or life. At length, he urged his horse forward at a cautious pace.
The deserted mounds rose twice the height of a man. Closer inspection revealed them to be formed of rock, mortared with glinting crystalline adhesive and plastered over with a black substance whose even luster suggested porcelain. For the most part, the outer coverings were intact and unblemished. Here and there, however, the force of some ancient assault had ripped away chunks of matter to reveal interiors comprising countless compact polyhedral chambers strung like beads upon narrow corridors and galleries. Farnol resisted the impulse to halt and inspect. The sun was sagging toward the horizon, and the shadows rose like spectres from the depths of the ancient earth. He rode on, following the curves of the listless stream until he encountered a gigantic mound, towering above its companions, rising five times the height of a man. The featureless structure communicated nothing beyond assertiveness, yet instinct pushed him toward it. Twice he circled the mound, discerning no gleam of light, no evidence of habitation. Dismounting, he approached and rapped upon the hard surface. No response, but now at last he glimpsed life. A sinuous form slipped along the edge of his vision, and was not there when he turned to look. The wind sighed in regret. His heartbeat quickened, and the spot of heat at the bottom of his stomach seemed to pulse. Farnol drew a deep breath, tried to moisten dry lips, and rapped again.
A nearby tuft of rewswolley shuddered in response. The bristling stalks parted to reveal a hole. A lean figure thrust its head, shoulders, and torso up into the dying light. Farnol glimpsed grey garments; a narrow face partially concealed by a mask fitted with bulging, faceted eyepieces; bony white hands with long, curved fingernails; and a cloak of diaphanous, transparent stuff.
“Well, and what do you seek?” asked the stranger.
“I seek Tcheruke the Vivisectionist.”
“What do you want of Tcheruke?”
“His assistance, for which I am willing to pay well.”
“And what does he care for your terces? Shall he bury them on the Xence Moraine, and wait to see if they sprout?”
“I can offer him an interesting tale—the story of a foolish young heir to a fine estate, a treacherous uncle, and a murder taking place slowly, over the course of ten days.”
“I state with assurance that Tcheruke will hear it, for I am he. Enter.” Head and torso vanished into the hole.
Farnol hesitated. The sinuous form slithered nearly into view for a moment, or he thought that it did. When he turned, there was nothing. Delaying no lon
ger, he tethered his horse, then slid feet first through the rewswolley down into the hole. He found himself in a barrel-vaulted passageway, its curving walls composed of neatly mortared stone, its low arch dictating a crawling progress. For a time, he advanced on hands and knees, his way barely lit by the weak rays trickling into the hole behind him, and a flickering glow somewhere ahead. Then, quite abruptly, he emerged from the passage into a six-walled chamber whose peaked hexagonal ceiling permitted upright posture. The room was austerely furnished with a pallet, low table, mats and floor coverings of woven and twisted grasses. A modest fire crackled on the hearth. An open case of many shelves contained books, folios, scrolls, and assorted small curiosities. Bunches of dried herbs, crystal whorls, and faintly luminescent bone fragments hung suspended from the ceiling.
Tcheruke the Vivisectionist turned to survey his visitor through faceted eyepieces. “Ah, you marvel at the nature of my home,” he observed. “Know that I have built in accordance with the tastes of the Xence Xord, the race inhabiting this locale in ages past. Hybrid of man, shrew, knuve, and winged white ant, the Xence Xord constructed their hives of simple, functional beauty, inscribed verses in praise of Nature’s wonders upon tablets of wax, developed the finest set of aesthetic standards ever known to this world, and at last solved the deepest mysteries of philosophy and morality. Their greatest writings they enclosed in spheres consigned to one of the countless voids between worlds. Then, the Xence Xord died, perhaps unequal to the burden of their own perfection. The wax tablets melted, and the location of the void between worlds was forgotten. But the philosophical treasures yet exist, awaiting rediscovery. To that end, Tcheruke dwells in this place, embracing the ways of the Xence Xord and entreating their small winged ghosts to return and enlighten him.”
Songs of the Dying Earth Page 18