“And why should any one wish to flee the earth? A few are born here to high position: rulership is our duty and burden. The rest are born to ache and sweat with endless labor. It would be disloyal, nay, treason, for a man to depart the Earth merely because she is dying! Why, what kind of cad would abandon an ailing mother? The case is parallel, the moral maxim is the same!”
As he strolled near the Cleft in the central square of the quarter, he paused, for a strange light was shining up from underground. He heard the noise of the buried world on which the foundations of his house were planted: instead of the weeping and begging of the inhumed, the whines of their children for bread, he heard a solemn song. He could not distinguish words, but the tones were rich with joy.
Next he heard, not in the air, but inside the inner works of his ear, of an unearthly three-toned chime, and he realized that Guyal had established more than one anchor for the Analept.
The first of a countless number of soaring men, women, and children rose weightlessly from the cleft, poised in swan-dive against the infinity of the sky, were wrapped in the shining indigo light, and were gone.
Afterword:
In my long vanished youth, time was abundant and book money was dear, and so each book I owed was read and reread until its contents were nearly memorized.
Paperbacks, which cost (at that time) less than two dollars, were treats bestowed by the indulgence of a parent as rare as an oasis in a wasteland, a green garden-spot to which the imagination could escape the burning sun of reality for refreshment.
I remember the order of my first three fantasy purchases: the first book I ever bought was H.P. Lovecraft’s Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, edited by Lin Carter; the second was The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle; and the third was an eerie slim volume of tales from a world with a dying sun, where eldritch magicians, and eccentric rogues awaited the final darkness of the world with nonchalant elegance: Jack Vance’s The Dying Earth.
I am old enough to remember the days before Dungeons and Dragons, when the fantasy books were so rare and strange that no two were alike. Gormenghast sat on the shelf next to The Worm Ororboros next to Well At the World’s End next to Xiccarph. The sword of Shanarra had not yet been drawn; the dragonlance was decades away.
Most unalike of all was the fantasy of Vance, where the magic and the superscience were strangely blended. Human nature was on pitiless display, warts and all, but mingled with the finely-mannered and drily ironic affectations of over-elegant speech. It was an unforgettable mix.
Back in those days, fantasy avoided the journalistic prose of Hemingway, the simple straightforward taletelling of Heinlein, Clarke, and Asimov. Clarke Ashton Smith had a voice and vocabulary distinct from that of William Morris, from E.R. Eddison, from Mervyn Peake. These men penned symphonies, arpeggios, arias and arabesques of English language. Most distinctive of all was Jack Vance.
There were many a strange and brilliant idea to be found in these older fantasies. The central problem confronting any author of magical tales was how to write a convincing drama where the magic does not solve too easily any and all dramatic conflicts, and for this Vance had a unique and frankly brilliant solution: wizards can memorize only a certain number of the half-living reality-warping syllables of magical spells per day, and, once expelled from the mouth, the spell vanished eerily from the memory. Of course, this seems as a commonplace today, thanks to Gary Gygax borrowing the idea (and indeed the names of several spells) from Vance, but it is not a commonplace idea. It is still as strange and as brilliant as everything Vance does.
Even now, when fantasy is so common that it outsells science fiction, and every book seems oddly bland and similar, the work of Vance from half a century ago still stands out, an oasis for the imagination, an airy garden in the midst of an overfed swamp.
As I aged, my taste changed in many predictable ways. Few of the books I so adored in youth can I read again with undiminished pleasure. Jack Vance is the great exception.
And now, when book-buying money is abundant, but time is dear, and I have no idle hours to beguile with fantasies, Jack Vance is the author for whom I will always make time, to read and read again.
The Dying Earth will always for me live in the shining treasure house of imagination: that oasis will always for me stay green.
—John C. Wright
Glen Cook
The Good Magician
Here a fleeting vision glimpsed high above the River Scaum sends Alfaro, the Long Shark of the Dawn, and a motley, ill-assorted collection of squabbling wizards, on a perilous quest to find a fabulous lost city—one which, it turns out, might have been better left lost…
Glen Cook is the best-selling author of more than forty books. He’s perhaps best-known for the Black Company books, which include The Black Company, Shadows Linger, The White Rose, The Silver Spike, Shadow Games, Dreams of Steel, The Silver Spike, Bleak Seasons, She is the Darkness, Water Sleeps, and Soldiers Live, detailing the adventures of a band of hard-bitten mercenaries in a gritty fantasy world, but he is also the author of the long running Garrett P.I. series, including Sweet Silver Bells, Bitter Gold Hearts, Cold Copper Tears, and nine others, a mixed fantasy/mystery series relating the strange cases of a Private Investigator who works Mean Streets on both sides of the divide between our world and the supernatural world. The prolific Cook is also the author of the science fiction Starfishers series, as well as the eight-volume Dread Empire series, the three-volume Darkwar series, and the recent Instrumentalities of the Night series (two volumes to date), as well as nine standalone novels such as The Heirs of Babylon and The Dragon Never Sleeps. His most recent books are Passage At Arms, a new Starfisher novel; A Fortress in Shadow, a new Dread Empire novel; and Cruel Zinc Melodies, a new Garrett, P.I. novel. Cook lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
The Good Magician
Glen Cook
1
Alfaro Morag, who, in his own mind, styled himself The Long Shark of Dawn, rode his whirlaway high above a forest. Ahead lay the bloody glimmer of the Scaum and his destination, Boumergarth, where he meant to assume protection of a rare tome currently in the collection of Ildefonse the Preceptor. As a precaution against the likelihood that Ildefonse was not prepared to cooperate in the transfer, Alfaro had surrounded himself with Phandaal’s Mantle of Stealth.
His desire was The Book of Changes, subtitled Even the Beautiful Must Die. All secrets of protracted vitality and unending youth were contained therein. The Preceptor’s volume was the last known copy.
Ildefonse was unreasonably narrow about sharing. He would not allow The Book of Changes to be borrowed or copied, definitely an unenlightened attitude. Certainly Alfaro Morag had a right to review the spells therein. Surely he should have access to the formulae for puissant potions.
Such were Morag’s thoughts as he peddled across the sky, ever more displeased with the Preceptor and his hidebound coterie, some of whom had been around since the sun was yellow, half its current size, and not nearly so far away. Those antiquities considered Alfaro Morag a pup, a whippersnapper, a come-lately interloper enslaved by impatience and lack of subtlety in acquiring properties he desired.
Bah! They just felt threatened by the refugee from somewhere so far south no local map revealed it.
Alfaro drifted right, left, up, down. How best to proceed? He spied a silhouette masking the sun, there so briefly he suspected it must be a time mirage. Yet he felt it was familiar.
He swung back, dancing on the breeze. He found the silhouette again, for seconds only. He had to climb to gain the right angle, up where pelgrane would soon cruise, watching the roads for unwary travelers as the last bloody light faded. Or for other things that flew: gruehawks and spent-owls. And whirlaways too small and primitive to be protected by more than a single spell.
Alfaro’s machine could not be seen but made noise thrashing through the air. Morag himself shed odors proclaiming the presence of a delicious bounty.
Alfaro veered off Boumergarth. Shedding
altitude, he hastened to his keep in the upper valley of a tributary of the Scaum, the Javellana Cascade. He touched down yards from the turbulent stream, pausing only long enough to assure that his whirlaway was anchored against mischievous breezes, then headed for the ladder to his front door. “Tihomir! I come! Bring my vovoyeur to the salon. Then prepare a suitable repast.”
Tihomir appeared at the head of the ladder, a wisp of a man featuring sores and seborrheas wherever his skin could be seen, topped by a few strands of fine white hair. His skull had a dent in back and was flat on the right side. He resembled a sickly doppelganger of Alfaro and was, in fact, his unfortunate twin.
Tihomir assisted Alfaro as he stepped off the ladder. “Shall I pull the ladder up?”
“That might be best. It has the feel of an active night. Then get the vovoyeur.”
Tihomir inclined his head. Alfaro often wondered what went on inside. Nothing complex, certainly.
Alfaro’s tower was nowhere so grand as the palaces of the elder magicians of Ascolais. But it was inexpensive. It had been abandoned when he found it. He hoped to complete renovations within the year.
His salon on the third level doubled as his library. A library bereft of even one copy of Lutung Kasarung’s masterwork, The Book of Changes. He took down several volumes uniformly bound in port wine leather, each fourteen inches tall and twenty-two wide, with gold embossing on faces and spines.
Cheap reproductions.
All Alfaro’s books, saving a few acquired under questionable circumstance, were reproductions created in sandestin sweat shops far to the east. Those he chose tonight were collections of artwork, volumes I through IV and VI, of the fourteen volume set, Famous Illustrations of Modern Aeons. Six volumes were all Alfaro could afford, so far. Volume V never arrived.
He finished a quick search of volumes I and IV before Tihomir brought the vovoyeur. “Are the experiments proceeding correctly?”
“All is perfection. Though the miniscules are asking for more salt.”
“They’re robbers.” Literally, actually. There had been a noticeable decline in the number of wayfarers and highwaymen since Alfaro’s advent in Ascolais. He did not boast about it. He doubted that anyone had noticed. “Give them another dram. In the morning.”
“They’re also asking for brandy.”
“As am I. Do we have any? If so, bring a bottle with the meal.”
Tihomir went. Morag lost himself in illustrations.
The one that fickle recollection insisted existed was in the last place he looked, the final illustration in Volume III.
“I thought so. It would be identical if the sun were behind me. And aeons younger.”
He warmed the vovoyeur.
Strokes with a wooden spoon did not spark a response. More vigorous application of an iron ladle enjoyed no more success. Alfaro found himself tempted to suspect that he was being ignored.
Perhaps the Preceptor was too engrossed in his pleasures to respond.
Irked, Alfaro selected a silver tuning fork. He struck the face of the far-seeing device a half dozen times while declaiming, “The Lady of the Gently Floating Shadows makes way for the Great Lady of the Night.”
The surface of the vovoyeur brightened. A shape appeared. It might have been the face of a normally cheerful but time-worn man. Alfaro could not improve the clarity of his fourth-hand device. “Speak, Morag.” Uncharacteristically brusque.
“See this illustration.” Morag held the plate from Famous Illustrations to the vovoyeur. “Do you know this place?”
“I know it. To the point, Morag.”
“I saw it this evening while enjoying an aerial jaunt above the Scaum.”
“Not possible. That place was destroyed aeons ago.”
“Even so, I spied it in a place where nothing stands. Where no one goes because of the haunts.”
Silence stretched. Then the vovoyeur whispered, “It might be best to discuss this face to face. Tomorrow. I will instruct my staff to permit the approach of your whirlaway, so long as it remains visible.”
“I shall follow your instructions precisely, Preceptor.” Stated while reflecting that his vision had been a stroke of good fortune.
There were reasons the Ildefonses of these fading times persisted.
He examined the plate he had shown the Preceptor. There was no accompanying text, just a word: Moadel.
Alfaro searched his meager library for references to Moadel. He found none.
2
Alfaro dismounted from his whirlaway, bowed to Ildefonse while noting that his conveyance was neither the first nor even the tenth to grace the broad lawn at Boumergarth. He was surprised to be greeted by the Preceptor himself, but more surprised to find that he had been preceded by so many beings of peculiar aspect, magicians of Almery and Ascolais, all. Panderleou, evidently having arrived only moments ago, was haranguing Barbanikos and Ao of the Opals about his latest acquisition, a tattered copy of The Day of the Cauldrons. “Hear this from the second chapter. ‘So they killed a thief and gave the best parts to Valmur, to hasten him on his way.’”
Others present included Herark the Harbinger, Vermoulian the Dream-walker, Darvilk the Miianther, wearing the inevitable black domino, Gilgad, as always in red, Perdustin, Byzant the Necrope, and Haze of Wheary Water with a new green pelt and fresh willow leaves where others boasted hair. There were others, the quieter ones, and Mune the Mage made his entrance while Alfaro still silently called the roll. Mune the Mage preceded the foppish Rhialto the Marvellous by moments, and Zahoulik-Khuntze was scarcely a step behind the odious Rhialto.
These constituted the bulk of the magicians of Almery and Ascolais. Alfaro felt the oppressive weight of many gazes. He had not tried hard to win friends. Nor had felt any need. Till now, perhaps.
What was this? What had he stumbled across? As a group, these men—applying the collective in its broadest definition—consisted of the most unsociable, cranky, and iconoclastic denizens of the region. Some had not spoken for decades.
The magicians watched one another with a casual wariness equaling what they lavished on the interloper.
Ildenfonse stepped up to a podium, raised his hands. The approximation of silence gathered shyly. “I do not believe the others will join us. Let us repair to the solarium. I’ve had a light buffet set out, with breakfast vintages and a selection of ales and lagers. We shall then consider young Alfaro’s news.”
The magicians brightened. Elbows flew as they jostled for precedence at the buffet. Ildefonse’s pride did not let him stint.
Alfaro reddened. The loathsomely handsome Rhialto was heads together with the Preceptor. They kept glancing his way.
Alfaro headed for the buffet, only to find it reduced to bones, rinds, pits, and feathers. Some of the 21st Aeon’s finest costumery now featured stains of juice, gravy, grease, and wine.
Clever Ildefonse. Magicians with full bellies and wine in hand soon relaxed. His servants moved among them, keeping their favorite libations topped up.
Ildefonse called for attention. “Young Alfaro, taking the upper airs yester eve, chanced to see something that none of this aeon ought, unless as a time mirage. Amuldar.”
Susurrus, not a syllable of which Alfaro caught.
“He did not recognize what he saw. He did know that it did not belong. A clever lad, he has built himself a library of inexpensive reproductions of masterworks. In one of those, he found an illustration of what he had seen. Suspecting this to be of importance, he contacted me by vovoyeur.” The Preceptor gestured, left-handed, across, up, fingers folded, then open. The Moadel illustration appeared at the western end of the solarium.
A glance at the collective showed the majority to be unimpressed. “Before my time,” grumbled the usually reticent Byzant the Necrope. “And, considering the history, definitely a time mirage.”
Haze of Wheary Water, leaves up like an angry cat’s fur, demanded, “And if it were purest truth, what would it be to us?”
Questions arose.
Likewise names.
Historical events were enumerated.
Accusations flew.
The image did mean something to several magicians.
Arguments commenced, only to be shut down by the host when the spells supporting them threatened damage to his solarium. The magicians were accustomed to making their points briskly, with enthusiasm.
Rhialto approached Alfaro. In Morag’s opinion, he did not deserve his sobriquet. Nor was Rhialto half the supercilious fop of repute. “Alfaro, what moved you to stir all this ferment?”
“I intended nothing of the sort. By chance, I spied an ominous structure where none ought to stand. Amazed, I hurried home, did some research, chanced on the illustration floating yonder. I reported the evil portent to the Preceptor.” Alfaro meant to pursue exact clarity in all aspects, unless interrogated as to why he happened to be where he had been when he had spied this Moadel.
Alfaro posed a question of his own. “Why all the excitement? I didn’t expect to find the entire brotherhood assembled.”
“Assuming you actually saw…that…many magicians’ lives might be impacted.” Rhialto stalked off, having forgotten his usual exaggerated manners. He intervened in a dispute between Byzant the Necrope and Nahouerezzin, both of whom had honored Ildefonse’s vintages with excessive zeal. Nahouerezzin further suffered from senile dementia and thought he was engaged in some quarrel of his youth.
The mood of the gathering changed as the magicians made inroads into Ildefonse’s cellar. The oldest became particularly dour and testy.
Rhialto having demonstrated no interest in further converse, Alfaro slipped off into anonymity. The others preferred to ignore him? He would not fail to enjoy the advantages. He made an especial acquaintance with the buffet once the Preceptor’s staff refurbished the board. The long gray coat he affected boasted numerous capacious pockets, inside and out, as a magician’s coat should. When those pockets threatened to overflow, he strolled down to the lawn. His whirlaway sagged on its springs as weight accumulated in its cubbies and panniers.
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