Songs of the Dying Earth

by Gardner Dozois

  The Deodand easily, if somewhat noisily, broke the bolt on the door, and they went into the large, dark room that had once been densely packed with Twitterel-who-was-Eliastre’s stock in trade. Now nothing lined the shelves but cobwebs, and even these looked long-abandoned. A rat, perhaps disturbed by the Deodand’s unusual scent, scurried into a corner hole and disappeared.

  “He seems to have left you a note, Laqavee,” said the Deodand, pointing. “It has your name on it.”

  Lixal, who did not have the creature’s sharp vision, had to locate the folded parchment nailed to the wall by touch, then take it outside into the flickering glow of the street-lantern to read it.

  To Lixal Laqavee, extortionist and counterfeit thaumaturge,

  the missive began,

  If you are reading this, one of two things has occurred. If you have come to pay what you owe me, I stand surprised and pleased. In this case, you may give thirteen thousand terces to the landlord of this establishment (he lives next door) and I will receive it from him at a time in the future and in a manner known only to myself. In a spirit of forgiveness, I will also warn you that at no time should you attempt the Exhalation of Thunderous Banishment on a Deodand.

  If you have not returned to erase your debt, as I think more likely, it is because you have used the Exhalation on one of the dusky creatures, but for some reason my intention of teaching you a lesson has been thwarted and you mean to remonstrate with me. (It is possible that my transposition of two key words, because hurried, was not as damaging to the effect as I hoped. It is even remotely possible that the protective charm you wore on your wrist was more useful than it appeared, in which case I must blame my own overconfidence.) If any combination of these is the case for your return, my various curses upon you remain in force and I inform you also that I have moved my business to another town and chosen another name, so that any attempt by you to stir up trouble for me with the Council of Thaumaturgic Practitioners will be doomed to failure.

  You, sir, may rot in hell with my congenial approval.

  signed, He Who Was Twitterel

  Lixal crumpled the parchment in his fist. “Repay him?” he growled. “His purse will groan indeed with the weight of my repayment. His account shall be paid to bursting!”

  “Your metaphors are inexact,” the Deodand said. “I take it we shall not be parting company as quickly as we both had hoped.”

  Like two prisoners condemned to share a cell, Lixal and the Deodand grew weary of each other’s company in the weeks and months after they left Catechumia. Lixal searched half-heartedly for news of the ex-wizard Eliastre, but he was inhibited by the constant presence of the Deodand, who proved a dampening influence on conversation with most of humankind, and so he all but gave up hope of ever locating the author of his predicament, who could have set up shop anew in any one of hundreds of towns and cities across Almery or even farther countries still.

  While they were everywhere shunned by men, they came occasionally into contact with other Deodands, who looked on Lixal not with fear or curiosity, but rather as a potential source of nutrients. When his bracelet proved more than these new Deodands could overcome, they settled instead for desultory gossip with their trapped comrade. Lixal was forced to listen to long discussions criticizing what all parties but himself saw as his ridiculous opposition to the eating of human flesh, living or dead. The Deodand bound to him by the Exhalation was inevitably buoyed after these discussions with like-minded peers, and would often bring an even greater energy to bear on their nightly games of King’s Compass: at times Lixal was hard-pressed to keep up his unbroken record of victories, but keep it he did, and, stinging from the Deodandic imputation of his prudishness, did not hesitate to remind his opponent as often as possible of that creature’s campaign of futility.

  “Yes, it is easy to criticize,” Lixal often said as the board was packed away. “But one has only to review our sporting history to see who has the superior approach to life.” He was even beginning to grow used to this mode of existence, despite the inadequate nature of the Deodand as both a conversationalist and competitor.

  Then, almost a year after their initial joining, came the day when the talismanic bracelet, the admirer’s gift that had so long protected Lixal Laqavee’s life, suddenly ceased to function.

  Lixal discovered that the spell was no longer efficacious in a sudden and extremely unpleasant manner: one moment he slept, dreaming of a charmed scenario in which he was causing Eliastre’s bony nose to sprout carbuncles that were actually bigger than the ex-wizard himself, and laughing as the old man screeched and pleaded for mercy. Then he awoke to discover the Deodand’s stinking breath on his face and the demonic yellow eyes only an inch or two from his own.

  Lixal had time only for a choked squeal, then the taloned hand closed on his neck.

  “Oh, but you are soft, you humans,” the thing whispered, not from stealth it seemed but from pure pleasure in the moment, as if to speak loudly would be to induce a jarring note into anotherwise sublime melody. “My claws would pass through your throat like butter. I will certainly have to choose a slower and more satisfying method of dispatching you.”

  “M-my b-b-bracelet,” stuttered Lixal. “What have you done to it?”

  “I?” The Deodand chortled. “I have done nothing. But as I recall, it was meant to protect you from untimely death. Apparently, in whatever way these things are calculated, your time of dying has arrived. Perhaps in a different state of affairs, a paralleled existence of some sort, this is the moment when you would have been struck lifeless by a falling slate from a roof or mowed down by an overladen horse cart whose driver had lost his grip on the reins. But fear not! In this plane of reality, you shall not have to go searching for your death, Laqavee, since, by convenience, I am here to make certain that things proceed for you as just the Fates desire they should!”

  “But why? Have I mistreated you so badly? We have traveled together for a full round of seasons.” Lixal raised a trembling hand with the intention of giving the Deodand an encouraging, brotherly pat, but at the sight of the creature’s bared fangs he swiftly withdrew it again. “We are as close as any of our two kinds have ever been—we understand each other as well as our two species have ever managed. Surely it would be a shame to throw all that away!”

  The Deodand made a noise of sarcastic amusement. “What does that mean? Had you spent a year chained against your will to a standing rib roast, do you suggest that when the fetters were removed you would suddenly wish to preserve your friendship with it? You are my prey, Laqavee. Circumstances have pressed us together. Now circumstances have released me to destroy you!”

  The grip on his neck was tightening now. “Hold, hold!” Lixal cried. “Do you not remember what you yourself suggested? That if I were to die, you would be held to the spot where my bones fell?”

  “I have considered just that during this long night, since I first realized your magical bracelet no longer dissuaded me. My solution is elegant: I shall devour you bones and all. Thus I will be confined only to the vicinity of my own stomach, something that is already the case.” The Deodand laughed in pleasure. “After all, you spoke glowingly yourself of the closeness of our acquaintanceship, Laqavee—surely you could wish no greater proximity than within my gut!”

  The foul stench of the thing’s breath was almost enough to snatch away what little remained of Lixal’s dizzied consciousness. He closed his eyes so that he would not have to see the Deodand’s terrible gaze when it murdered him. “Very well, then,” he said with as much aplomb as he could muster, although every limb in his body trembled as though he had an ague. “At least I die with the satisfaction of knowing that a Deodand has never beaten a human at King’s Compass, and now never shall.”

  He waited.

  He continued to wait.

  Lixal could not help remembering that the Deodand had earlier spoken of a death both slower and more satisfying than simply having his throat torn out—satisfying to the murderous
creature, Lixal had no doubt, rather than to himself. Was that why the thing hesitated?

  At last he opened his eyes again. The fiery yellow orbs were asquint in anger and some other emotion, harder to discern.

  “You have put your finger on a problem,” the Deodand admitted. “By my account, you have beaten me thrice-three-hundred and forty-four times out of an equal number of contests. And yet, I have felt for some time now that I was on the verge of mastering the game and defeating you. You yourself must admit that our matches have become more competitive.”

  “In all fairness, I must agree with your assertion,” said Lixal. “You have improved both your hoarding and your double sentry maneuver.”

  The Deodand stood, keeping its claw wrapped around Lixal Laqavee’s neck, and thus forcing him to stand as well. “Here is my solution,” the creature told him. “We will continue to play. As long as you can defeat me, I will let you live, because I must know that when I win, as ultimately I feel sure I must, it will be by the sole fact of my own improving skill.”

  Lixal felt a little relieved—his death was to be at least momentarily postponed—but the knowledge did not bring the quickening of hope that might have accompanied such a reprieve in other circumstances. The Deodand did not sleep, while Lixal felt the need to do so for many hours of every day. The Deodand was swift and powerful while he, Lixal, was a great deal less so. And no human with any wit at all would try to help him.

  Still, perhaps something unforeseen might happen that would allow him to conquer the beast or escape. The events of Lixal’s life had taught him that circumstances were bound to change, and occasionally even for the better.

  “You must also keep me well-fed and healthy,” he told the Deodand. “If I am weakened by hunger or illness, any victory of yours would be hollow.”

  “Fair enough.” The creature transferred its iron grip to his arm, then, without further conversation began to walk. It made a good speed through the patchy forest, forcing Lixal to hurry to keep up or risk having his limb pulled from its socket.

  “Where are we going?” Lixal called breathlessly. “What was wrong with that particular camping spot? We had a fire, and could have started a game at our leisure once you had provided us with some dinner.”

  “I am doing just that, but dinner of the kind I seek is not so easily obtained near our previous camping site.”

  Sometime after this unsettling declaration, just as the morning sun began to bring light to the forest, the Deodand dragged Lixel out of the thickest part of the trees and into an open grassy space dotted with lumps of worked stone, some standing upright but many others tumbled and broken, all of them much patched with moss.

  “Why have we come here?” Lixal asked. “This is some ancient graveyard.”

  “Just so,” said the Deodand. “But not truly ancient—burials have taken place here within relatively recent years. You have long forbidden me the chance to dine as I please, on the meat that I most like. Now I shall no longer be bound by your absurd and cruel strictures. And yet I do not want the vigilante impulses of your kind to interfere with our contest, so instead of sallying forth for live human flesh, we will encamp ourselves here, where suitably aged and cured specimens wait beneath only a shallow span of topsoil.” The creature grinned hugely. “I confess I have dreamed of such toothsome delicacies for the entire span of our annoying and undesired companionship.”

  “But what about me?” said Lixal. “What shall I eat? Will you hunt game for me?”

  “You seem to think you still hold the upper hand, Laqavee.” The Deodand spoke as sternly as a disappointed father. “You are far away from the assistance of any of your fellows, and in the passing of a single heartbeat, I can tear your throat with my talons. Hunt game for you? Nonsense.” The Deodand shook its head and shoved him down onto his knees. “You will eat what I do. You will learn thrift as the Deodands practice it! Now set up the gaming board and prepare to defend the honor of your species, Lixal Laqavee! In the meantime, I will begin digging for breakfast.”

  Afterword:

  To be honest, I couldn’t say exactly when I discovered the Dying Earth. Since it happened during my first great flowering of love for science fiction, the time I was about eleven to fourteen, I suspect my primary encounter must have been Eyes of the Overworld, the opening tales of Cugel the Clever. What I do remember was the delight with which I encountered both Jack Vance’s fabulous imagination and the chortling joy with which I followed the elaborate, circumlocuitous conversations between his wonderfully amoral characters in a thousand different strange situations. Dickens and Wodehouse had prepared me for this sort of word-drunkenness, but I had never encountered anything quite like it in science fiction (nor have I found anything quite so piquant in the many years since.)

  I was definitely in love, and I have remained so ever since—not just with the Dying Earth, but with all the products of Vance’s imagination. I only hope that seeing how he has influenced some of the best writers of today (and me, too!) will bring new readers to Vance’s work. Not just because his work deserves it—although it does, it does, it does—but because readers who love wit and imagination have not fully lived until they have spent a while sitting at the master’s feet, laughing and marveling.

  You lucky readers, who still have that discovery ahead of you!

  —Tad Williams

  John C. Wright

  Guyal the Curator

  John C. Wright attracted some attention in the late 90s with his early stories in Asimov’s Science Fiction (with one of them, “Guest Law,” being picked up for David Hartwell’s Year’s Best SF), but it wasn’t until he published his “Golden Age” trilogy (consisting of The Golden Age, The Golden Transcendence, and The Phoenix Exultant) in the first few years of the new century, novels which earned critical raves across the board, that he was recognized as a major new talent in SF. Subsequent novels include the “Everness” fantasy series, including The Last Guardians of Everness and Mists of Everness, and the fantasy “Chaos” series, which includes Fugitives of Chaos, Orphans of Chaos, and Titans of Chaos. His most recent novel, a continuation of the famous “Null-A” series by A.E. van Vogt, is Null-A Continuum. Wright lives with his family in Centreville, Virginia.

  Here he regales us with the story of the last Remonstrator of Old Romarth, who keeps civic order in the streets of the city with the mystic weapon called the Implacable Dark Iron Wand of Quordaal, but who soon will find himself facing threats of unprecedented severity from demons, evil magicians, and immense, sky-towering giants. Fortunately, he—and the Wand—will get some help from an unexpected source…

  Guyal the Curator

  John C. Wright

  In Old Romarth

  Manxolio Quinc was a Grandee of Old Romarth, who dwelt in the Antiquarian’s Quarter, and enjoyed a life of leisurely routine.

  Due to the peculiar nature of the Antiquarian delving, a wall of dark red stone, one fathom thick and five ells high, had been raised around the whole quarter. At equal intervals along it had been erected towers mitered with immense lanterns of Lucifer-glass and cunning amplifying lenses brought at great expense from glassblowers in Kaiin, so that beams of particular penetration could transfix any effluvia, grues, dire-sloths, revenants, melancholics, or apparitions that might appear, or illume fugatives. The well-lit avenues allowed citizens to walk abroad at night without fear of pelgranes or press gangs. Murders, thefts, and morbid eventualities were rare.

  These lights did not reach into the Cleft, a huge well piercing the Magistrate’ s square in the center of the Quarter, which gaped beneath the shadow of a skeletal derrick. The cries and moans that issued from the Cleft reminded passers-by of the stringency of the law in the Antiquarian Quarter.

  The other quarters of the city were not so orderly. Scofflaws and smugglers haunted the wharfs of the Mariner’s Quarter, and the ruffian gangs there were said to be organized by a voice that spoke out of the waters of the bay on moonless nights. A nest of Deodands occupied th
e empty mansions of the Old Quarter and had ferociously repulsed recent attempts to unseat them. Nomads from the Land of the Falling Wall moved into the deserted buildings and shops of the Carcass-Delver’s Quarter, housing their animals in the empty Odeon, penning their oasts in deserted arcades, pulling down mansions for firewood, and driving away Invigilators with glass-tipped arrows from their tiny, recurved bows. Each time they slew a patrol, the tribesmen could be seen in their painted contumely-masks dancing naked jigs on the rooftops.

  The Invigilators manned the gates leading to the Antiquarian Quarter as if against besiegers. Only Manxolio Quinc made it his habit to travel into the ulterior parts of the city, where the laws held no control. He walked the route his fathers and grandfathers had walked during their tenures of office as Civic Remonstrators. The lictors whose duty it was to accompany the Remonstrator on patrol, carrying lancegays aflame with luminous venom, allowed their obligations to lapse, under the excuse that he needed no protection.

  The fame of Manxolio Quinc rested on a mystic weapon thickly fraught with ancient reputation, called the Implacable Dark Iron Wand of Quordaal, which he was seen to carry with him, and from which a ominous susurration oft could be overheard.

  Not even the Deodands in their fury dared molest him, as he strode each day at dawn to the highest point of the ruined citadel in the Old Quarter.

  From here, the crumbling streets and ruins of the outer city lay outspread in the musty, wine-colored light like the intricate diorama a sorcerer’s table might hold.

  The prospect included both the mountains to the north, their peaks stained cerise by the intervening air, and the sweep of the sluggish Szonglei River to the south, where feluccas with slanted sails and many-oared galliards brought silks and spices from Almery and Nefthling Reach and Lesser Far Zhjzo. These same galliards bore away the unearthed findings of Antiquarian Quarter: books and folios leathered in the skins of extinct animals, set with clasps of amethyst, citrine, or ametrine. Each outbound ship was a melancholy sight, for she carried away a treasure never to be replaced.