Songs of the Dying Earth

by Gardner Dozois

  —Elizabeth Hand

  Byron Tetrick

  The Collegeum of Mauge

  Here a young boy sets out in search of the infamous father he’s never known, and finds a lot more than he bargained for…

  Byron Tetrick lives with his wife, Carol, in Fishers Indiana. He is a graduate of the Clarion West Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer’s Workshop. His short fiction, including a Sherlock Holmes adventure, has appeared in various themed anthologies, as well as In the Shadow of the Wall, a collection of fictional Vietnam War stories which he co-edited with Martin H. Greenberg. A retired Air Force fighter pilot and retired International airline Captain, he has also written a non-fiction book on careers in aviation. He is currently working on a homage set in Jack Vance’s “Alastor Cluster” universe, and a non-fiction book on book collecting. Byron is honored to be able to call Jack Vance a dear friend of many years.

  The Collegeum of Mauge

  Byron Tetrick

  Dringo crested the last tired hills of The Mombac Ambit just as the evening flickered into night with a pulse of dim purple light. Below him, teasingly close, the meager glow of a small village cast umber shadows upward through silhouetted branches. So near, yet so far. The shrieks and moans of night creatures seemed to approach him with alarming speed. A sudden amplified roar followed by a piercing howl shredded the last vestige of his nerves. They’re fighting over me, thought Dringo as he quickened his pace, knowing now he had little chance to reach safety. He drew his small dagger. At an angle between him and the village ahead, a nightjar’s mournful oooeeahh promised further menace.

  “I suppose it would be best to increase our stride, don’t you think?” spoke a voice at his side, its suddenness elevating Dringo’s banging heart beyond what he thought possible.

  A young man, elaborately dressed as though he planned meeting other distinguished nabobs, joined Dringo’s trotting gait without further introduction. Voluminous robes of opalescent fabric trailed the stranger like pennants fluttering in a strong gale. An elaborate spiked hat jostled atop his head despite the stranger gripping silver-corded tassels with one hand. “I cast a Spell of Convenient Disregard earlier,” he puffed in staccato, “but it seems to be losing potency.”

  Dringo could make little more of the man who strode beside him in the gloom of the rapidly darkening night other than he appeared about his own age and similar height. He put his mistrust of magicians momentarily aside; better an unknown ally than a known death in the jaws of a visp or deodand. “Do you know any additional magic that could aid us?” asked Dringo, with similar breathlessness.

  “None that I can conjure in our present predicament, other than an admonition that whoever of us lags, most likely will suffice as dinner for our pursuers, allowing the other to reach safety.” With that he laughed and surged forward, his pearl-colored garment becoming ghost-like as his distance lengthened.

  Though the village lights appeared closer, they were yet some distance away when suddenly the young magician halted and bent over, hands resting on his knees. Still gasping, he spoke: “We’re safe now within the boundaries of a protective spell surrounding the village.”

  Dringo slowed but did not stop. “How can you be certain?”

  “I see it,” the stranger huffed. “Like a kalychrome it shimmers just beyond the visible spectrum. I doubt you see it.”

  Not satisfied with such a vague—and invisible to him—assurance, Dringo kept his pace and soon passed him. He struggles for breath as if he might collapse; perhaps he sees the flashing lights one experiences just prior to passing out, thought Dringo. Better to leave him to occupy the hunger of the night creatures.

  “Wait! Slow! A moment only and then we can continue,” pleaded the man. He laughed again as he stood upright and started walking. “I’ll buy the first gill. Slow, and keep me company.”

  “Hardly incentive enough to risk my life,” replied Dringo

  “True, but I promise we are safe within the magical barrier that protects the town.” He spoke a few unintelligible words and waved a hand. “Perhaps you can now see the faint aura of that which shields us?”

  Dringo looked about. There did seem to be a faint, noctilucent shimmer to the air that quickly faded from his vision. “Well, it’s gone now.”

  “No. No. I just don’t have powers enough to hold it within your sight any longer. But you did see it, yes? So slow, and we will build our thirst at a more leisurely pace.”

  With misgivings, Dringo stopped and waited.

  “I’ve traveled far this day with only the scrape of my soles as comfort, and caws and screeches to distress me.” He held out a hand. “Gasterlo. We’ve outdistanced death and surely we are meant to be friends.”

  Dringo reciprocated. “Dringo, a lonely traveler myself. I’m curious that you are so versed in magic and yet so young. I doubt we’d have made it otherwise.”

  Gasterlo lifted a hand in modesty. “My earlier spell could not hold the creatures at bay a moment longer and the power to guard our environs is well beyond my paltry abilities. In fact, it is to become a Master Magician that I left the comforts of an indolent life and venture forth. What entices you? You don’t have the look of a vagabond nor the errant.”

  Dringo hesitated a moment only. What harm can come from openness? “I seek my father. I have—at least so said my mother—only his looks and nothing else that connects me to the man who sired me.”

  “A noble cause, Dringo! We will ponder our futures over that ale I promised. We draw near the periphery of the town and already I can smell the roasting of meats, and my throat yearns for something other than the fusty water I carry.”

  As they approached, the town exhibited a liveliness surprising for the lack of nyctophobia so common in the folk that dared to live within the Ambit. Shutters were open on many of the small cottages that abutted the road creating a warm lambency to their path. Cries of greetings and well wishes were generously spoken by those who happened to peer out as the two strangers passed. One would think that they had just heard that the dying sun was to be invigorated on the morrow and that they expected to wake to a dawn of renewed brilliance, such was their obvious mood of sanguinity.

  The road led to a small area of shops. Gasterlo pointed to the only two-story building. A weathered plank hung from an equally feeble gibbet. A flickering lantern shared the crossbeam throwing shadowy light on the crudely lettered sign: GRIPPO’S HOSTELRY. “Our destination, it would seem. I see nothing ahead more promising.” Gasterlo held the wooden door open and the travelers entered the inn.

  Inside, the bonhomie was even more in evidence. Every table and chair was taken by smiling, red faced men. An elevated side room seemed to be the center of attention to all within, though many turned to look as Dringo and Gasterlo entered. From the raised alcove a young man stood up and shouted: “Gasterlo! We had all but given up. Come have a seat.” He roughly pushed the shoulders of an old man sitting nearby. “Make room for our friend.” The man rose with a subservient nod. Several others moved to the side allowing Dringo to glimpse the speaker’s companions. Four additional young men, two dressed in elaborate doublets of brocatelle and two clad in flowing robes similar to those worn by Gasterlo, were seated on benches that flanked a table of knurled deobado. Succulent food was spread across its surface, and Dringo’s stomach lurched in an attack of envy.

  Gasterlo stepped up, turned back to Dringo who had hesitated and said, “My cohorts. Join us.”

  Just then an officious innkeeper bustled up, shoving several local patrons out of the way. “Make room! Don’t hinder their path, you uncouth rogues. Let these high goombahs join their friends.” He guided them through the crowd to the table. “I assume you’ll be wanting a gill, or do you wish something stronger? An absynthea? A green croate? I am Grippo and I’m at your service.”

  “Beer is fine,” replied Gasterlo without glancing at the innkeeper. He clasped his friend with a hearty embrace. “Cavour Senthgorr, you look well. Are you ready to start train
ing?”

  “Indeed,” he replied. “For too long have we been dogwadled by our powerful fathers. They perch in their manses content to watch the dying sun sink deeper into morbidity while they use their maugism to taunt their rivals and play games of spite with the small folk.”

  “Precisely!” agreed Gasterlo. “If nothing else, let the Twenty-first Eon, if this be our last, be marked by a renewed thrust of triumphant vibrancy—but here, let me introduce Dringo. We two barely escaped the maw of a visp—or some other equally horrible death—not moments ago.” Gasterlo named his friends around the table: Cavour Senthgorr; Tryllo Makshaw; Zimmy Garke; Luppie Fross and Popo Killraye. All were sons of magicians of greater or lesser renown and were to be fellow students at the collegeum. Dringo felt diminished and uncomfortable; the young men were noticeably of higher status and breeding.

  Room was made at the table and they took seats. The beer arrived delivered by a lass of sturdy stock who smiled shyly at Dringo. Gasterlo pulled out his purse, but Cavour halted him, “Our expenses are covered. The school has set up an account. However, you might add a few tercels into the common pot.”

  “The munificence of our fathers surprises me,” said Gasterlo.

  Dringo ventured into the conversation: “Was it you who lofted the encirclement around the town?”

  “Hah,” snorted Popo Killraye. “We have many weeks of study before we’ll be able to repel an insect. No, Lord Lychenbarr has protected this town for our benefit.” He waved an arm in a gesture encompassing the crowd. “Thus, the gratitude of those around us.”

  “I wondered about the festive mood of the people. The Ambit is not known for folk who dare stroll beneath the shadow of a mowood tree, much less cavort openly along gloamy streets.”

  Tryllo Makshaw chuckled. “It seems that Lord Lychenbarr wants us to have a place away from the collegeum to do the things young men do without disturbing his symmetry. He is a fusspot and a querulous magician who has been pressed into service to instruct us reprobates.” He nodded towards another buxomly server jiggling towards the adjoining table. “I look forward to our time here. We shall see exactly how grateful the townspeople are when it comes to surrendering their daughters’ virtues.”

  Cavour pushed a plate of fried trotfish towards Dringo and spoke to Popo, “Hand over that red-looking fungie. You both must be starved. Grippo! Another gill for all at the table.”

  Dringo had forgotten the food but was now ravenous. Gasterlo and he filled plates, and more beer was brought to the table. The evening seemed to progress as a moment in time quickly come and gone. There had been much laughter and good-natured ribbing as only young men lacking attachments can perfect without rancor. Though still crowded, the inn began to quiet with small groups wandering towards the door, usually after stopping by their table, doffing hats and speaking a few ingratiating words. Dringo felt quite above himself surrounded by these sons of powerful magicians. They seemed to enjoy his comradeship, though, as he did their boastful banter. The innkeeper had arranged for their rooms upstairs and by unanimous decision they decided on one last drink before retiring.

  Luppie Fross leaned over to Dringo. “Where does your journey take you next?” he asked.

  “Good question, Luppie. I’ll brood over that tomorrow with a clearer head. I’m searching for my father.” In a moment of braggadocio, he added, “He was a magician himself, you know?”

  “What?” shouted Luppie. He turned to the rest of the table. “Dringo tells me his father is a magician.”

  Embarrassed, he held up his hand. “Hold on! I base that only from some stories I heard from my mother. She only had a short time with him but he did tell her he was a magician of minor rank—of course, according to her, he also claimed many things of which he was not. I don’t even know if he yet lives.”

  “Dringo told me he goes on a quest in search of his father,” remarked Gasterlo.

  “Tell us more,” said Zimmie.

  “Indeed!” added Popo.

  “There is little more to tell,” said Dringo. “Though I don’t know where to begin or whether I can survive the task, I seek my father. Without the aid of Gasterlo tonight, my journey would have ended with only my gnawed bones marking the failure of my mission. But it is a deathbed promise I made to my mother.” Dringo made a gesture with his hand. “You all have spoken disparagingly of your fathers this evening, and I well understand why. Yet, you have someone to measure yourself to. I do not.”

  The table fell silent for a moment. But then Cavour leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I have an outrageous idea, Dringo. Join us at the collegeum. What better way to prepare yourself for the rigors ahead than to have a quiver of spells at your call?”

  At once everyone spoke: “Yes!” cried Tryllo. “Splendid!” said Zimmie. “Bravo!” agreed Popo. Luppie raised his beer in a salute, and he and Gasterlo clanked their tankards.

  Dringo was bewildered, dizzy with drink and the onslaught of thoughts racing through his mind. It was an outrageous idea. “How can that happen? I have only a meager purse. I have no father who has provided a stipend. I know nothing of magic, and obviously you all have some basic skills.” He proceeded to give a litany of other arguments, his voice becoming ever more plaintive as he realized that suddenly he did want this, more than anything.

  “Fiddlefaddle,” said Cavour. “The collegeum has been funded by the Magicians Guild. One more scholar will hardly matter. We will help cover any incidentals. Won’t we, fellows? As for thaumaturgical abilities, we are all fledglings. Gasterlo here is the only one that has more than rudimentary skills.”

  “I am honored, my fine new friends,” said Dringo earnestly. “But you hold a station high above me. It will be obvious to this Lord Lychenbarr of whom you speak that I don’t belong.”

  He hesitated a moment and then added in a somber tone, “I am a bastard.”

  They all looked at each other, and then suddenly the entire table broke out in raucous laughter.

  Finally, Gasterlo spoke, though haltingly, unable to contain his amusement: “We’re all bastards, Dringo. You don’t imagine that magicians take wives, do you? They live in their manses surrounded by poinctures, sandestins and other entities. Their energies flow in directions that at times seem not even human. They are capricious at best and unreliable always. I suppose my father has sired many bastards; and why he chose me is as mysterious as the most complex spells are to my untutored mind.”

  “Makes me wonder if I want that for myself,” joked Tryllo. “Dringo can assume my place.”

  Cavour placed a hand on the table, palm down. “Oh, we will be different. Let us make a pact now, that one: We will remain friends and not become factious old men; and two: We will use our skills in a light-hearted manner.”

  One by one the young men laid a hand on another. They all turned to Dringo.

  With a smile, he added his hand to the stack.

  Lord Lychenbarr frowned down at the assemblage from a raised platform. He paced the dais, his robes swishing the air in the muted chamber like the sound of rustling leaves. “I am tasked,” he finally began in a voice both powerful and resonant, “with transforming you nescient novices into wizards. It would be easier—much easier, in fact—to change a grub into an eagle.”

  Dringo heard Tryllo whisper something to Popo and they both laughed.

  Lord Lychenbarr’s lean face, elongated further by a thin, grey wisp of a beard, darkened with annoyance. He murmured a series of inaudible words.

  As if all sound had been banished, the audarium fell silent. The shifting of feet, the rustle of paper, even the slight wheeze of Zimmie’s breathing ceased instantaneously. Dringo could not move. He tried to look to his side but his sight was as constrained as his body. A burning prickle began to build within his bowels and quickly bloomed in intensity.

  Lord Lychenbarr glared at them. “To say I require absolute obedience and submission to my will in all things can be assumed.” He smiled, but it was more a look of malice. “
Let me add, I also demand quietude and attentiveness. Are there any questions?”

  They all remained motionless, of course.

  “Good, then we will proceed.” he said.

  “I just activated three somewhat minor spells in rapid succession.” He raised a finger. “The first was the Spell of Unbending Rigiditosity.” He added a second upraised finger. “The second was just a tincture of Lugwiler’s Dismal Itch—you would not want to experience it in its undiluted grandeur. And the third…”

  By this time a fire burned vertically through Dringo’s entrails. So great was the pruritus that he would have torn into his body to reach the source.

  Lord Lychenbarr paused as if he had forgotten his train of thought. “Ahh…yes, I neglected to verbalize the third.” He laughed, and then spoke a complex chain of strange syllables.

  At once, the room was filled with groans of relief. Dringo looked about the room and could see that they all had suffered as greatly as he.

  Lord Lychenbarr continued without notice. “The third was Triskole’s Fundamental Reversal that removed the two previous spells. The ability to hold even one such spell in one’s mind requires much study and meticulous execution. To utter one mistaken pervulsion will cause unanticipated results. With that in mind we will begin with Amberlin’s Warning of Infinite Consequences, a precept critical to the structure of all spells.”

  Their first day was a day of humiliation and mortification. Even Gasterlo, who all agreed was at least initially more skilled, was inept. Surprisingly, Dringo found Lord Lychenbarr’s lecture on theory comprehensible, although his first attempt at effecting a primary spell spectacularly futile. Yet, he didn’t feel overwhelmed, and a real glimmer of confidence began to form. As they filed from the room with Lord Lychenbarr’s exceedingly crude derision keeping pace with them, Dringo’s high spirits, however, were shattered.