Cugel

by Jack Vance

  Deigning no reply, Cugel set off along the road. With the sun scraping along the forested sky-line, he came to Faucelme’s manse: a rambling timber structure of several levels, with a profusion of bays, low square towers with windows all around, balconies, decks, high gables and a dozen tall thin chimneys.

  Concealing himself behind a tree, Cugel studied the house. Several of the windows glowed with light, but Cugel noted no movement within. It was, he thought, a house of pleasant aspect, where one would not expect to find a monster of trickery in residence.

  Crouching, keeping to the cover of trees and shrubbery, Cugel approached the manse. With cat-like stealth he sidled to a window and peered within.

  At a table, reading from a yellow-leafed book, sat a man of indeterminate age, stoop-shouldered and bald except for a fringe of brown-gray hair. A long nose hooked from his rather squat head, with protuberant milky golden eyes close-set to either side. His arms and legs were long and angular; he wore a black velvet suit and rings on every finger, save the forefingers where he wore three. In repose his face seemed calm and easy, and Cugel looked in vain for what he considered the signals of depravity.

  Cugel surveyed the room and its contents. On a sideboard rested a miscellany of curios and oddments: a pyramid of black stone, a coil of rope, glass bottles, small masks hanging on a board, stacked books, a zither, a brass instrument of many arcs and beams, a bouquet of flowers carved from stone.

  Cugel ran light-footed to the front door, where he discovered a heavy brass knocker in the form of a tongue dangling from the mouth of a gargoyle. He let the knocker drop and called out: “Open within! An honest wayfarer needs lodging and will pay a fee!”

  Cugel ran back to the window. He watched Faucelme rise to his feet, stand a moment with head cocked sidewise, then walk from the room. Cugel instantly opened the window and climbed within. He closed the window, took the rope from the sideboard and went to stand in the shadows.

  Faucelme returned, shaking his head in puzzlement. He seated himself in his chair and resumed his reading. Cugel came up behind him, looped the rope around his chest, again and again, and it seemed as if the rope would never exhaust the coil. Faucelme was presently trussed up in a cocoon of rope.

  At last Cugel revealed himself. Faucelme looked him up and down, in curiosity rather than rancor, then asked: “May I inquire the reason for this visit?”

  “It is simple stark fear,” said Cugel. “I dare not pass the night out of doors, so I have come to your house for shelter.”

  “And the ropes?” Faucelme looked down at the web of strands which bound him into the chair.

  “I would not care to offend you with the explanation,” said Cugel.

  “Would the explanation offend me more than the ropes?”

  Cugel frowned and tapped his chin. “Your question is more profound than it might seem, and verges into the ancient analyses of the Ideal versus the Real.”

  Faucelme sighed. “Tonight I have no zest for philosophy. You may answer my question in terms which proximate the Real.”

  “In all candour, I have forgotten the question,” said Cugel.

  “I will re-phrase it in words of simple structure. Why have you tied me to my chair, rather than entering by the door?”

  “At your urging then, I will reveal an unpleasant truth. Your reputation is that of a sly and unpredictable villain with a penchant for morbid tricks.”

  Faucelme gave a sad grimace. “In such a case my bare denial carries no great weight. Who are my detractors?”

  Cugel smilingly shook his head. “As a gentleman of honour I must reserve this information.”

  “Aha indeed!” said Faucelme, and became reflectively silent.

  Cugel, with half an eye always for Faucelme, took occasion to inspect the room. In addition to the side-board, the furnishings included a rug woven in tones of dark red, blue and black, an open cabinet of books and librams, and a tabouret.

  A small insect which had been flying around the room alighted on Faucelme’s forehead. Faucelme reached up a hand through the bonds and brushed away the insect, then returned his arm into the coil of ropes.

  Cugel turned to look in slack-jawed wonder. Had he tied the ropes improperly? Faucelme seemed bound as tightly as a fly in a spider-web.

  Cugel’s attention was attracted by a stuffed bird, standing four feet high, with a woman’s face under a coarse mop of black hair. A two-inch crest of transparent film rose at the back of the forehead. A voice sounded over his shoulder. “That is a harpy from the Xardoon Sea. Very few remain. They are partial to the flesh of drowned sailors, and when a ship is doomed they come to keep vigil. Notice the ears —” Faucelme’s finger reached over Cugel’s shoulder and lifted aside the hair “— which are similar to those of a mermaid. Be careful with the crest!” The finger tapped the base of the prongs. “The points are barbed.”

  Cugel looked around in amazement, to see the finger retreating, pausing to scratch Faucelme’s nose before disappearing into the ropes.

  Cugel quickly crossed the room and tested the bonds, which seemed at adequate tension. Faucelme at close range took note of Cugel’s hat ornament and made a faint hissing sound between his teeth.

  “Your hat is a most elaborate confection,” said Faucelme. “The style is striking, though in regions such as this you might as effectively wear a leather stocking over your head.” So saying, he glanced down at his book.

  “It well may be,” replied Cugel. “And when the sun goes out a single loose smock will fulfill every demand of modesty.”

  “Ha ha! Fashions will then be meaningless! That is a droll notion!” Faucelme stole a glance at his book. “And that handsome bauble: where did you secure so showy a piece?” Again Faucelme swept his eyes across the pages of his book.

  “It is a bit of brummagem I picked up along the way,” said Cugel carelessly. “What are you reading with such avidity?” He picked up the book. “Hm … ‘Madame Milgrim’s Dainty Recipes’.”

  “Indeed, and I am reminded that the carrot pudding wants a stir. Perhaps you will join me for a meal?” He spoke over his shoulder: “Tzat!” The ropes fell away to a small loose coil and Faucelme rose to his feet. “I was not expecting guests, so tonight we will dine in the kitchen. But I must hurry, before the pudding scorches.”

  He stalked on long knob-kneed legs into the kitchen with Cugel coming doubtfully after. Faucelme motioned to a chair. “Sit down and I will find us a nice little morsel or two: nothing high nor heavy, mind you, no meats nor wines as they inflame the blood and according to Madame Milgrim give rise to flactomies. Here is some splendid gingle-berry juice which I recommend heartily. Then we shall have a nice stew of herbs and our carrot pudding.”

  Cugel seated himself at the table and watched with single-minded vigilance as Faucelme moved here and there, collecting small dishes of cakes, preserves, compotes and vegetable pastes. “We shall have a veritable feast! Seldom do I indulge myself, but tonight, with a distinguished guest, all discipline goes by the boards!” He paused in his work. “Have you told me your name? As the years advance, I find myself ever more absent-minded.”

  “I am Cugel, and originally of Almery, where I am now returning.”

  “Almery! A far way to go, with curious sights at every step, and many a danger as well. I envy you your confidence! Shall we dine?”

  Cugel ate only from the dishes which Faucelme himself ate, and thought to feel no ill effects. Faucelme spoke discursively as he ate from this or that plate with prim little nips: “… name has unfortunate antecedents in the region. Apparently the nineteenth aeon knew a ‘Faucelme’ of violent habit indeed, and there may have been another ‘Faucelme’ a hundred years later, though at that distance in time lifetimes blur together. I shudder to think of their deeds … Our local villains now are a clan of farmers: angels of mercy by comparison, nevertheless with certain nasty habits. They give their mermelants beer to drink, then send them out to intimidate travellers. They dared to come up here one day, s
tamping up and down the porch and showing their bellies. ‘Beer!’ they shouted. ‘Give us good beer!’ Naturally I keep no such stuff on hand. I took pity on them and explained at length the vulgar qualities of inebriation, but they refused to listen, and used offensive language. Can you believe it? ‘You double-tongued old wowser, we have listened long enough to your cackle and now we want beer in return!’ These were their very words! So I said: ‘Very well; you shall have beer.’ I prepared a tea of bitter belch-wort and nuxium; I chilled it and caused it to fume, in the manner of beer. I called out: ‘Here is my only beer!’ and served it in ewers. They slapped down their noses and sucked it up in a trice. Immediately they curled up like sow-bugs and lay as if dead for a day and a half. Finally they uncoiled, rose to their feet, befouled the yard in a most lavish manner, and skulked away. They have never returned, and perhaps my little homily has brought them to sobriety.”

  Cugel tilted his head sidewise and pursed his lips. “An interesting story.”

  “Thank you.” Faucelme nodded and smiled as if musing over pleasant memories. “Cugel, you are a good listener; also you do not swill down your food with chin in plate, then look hungrily here and there for more. I appreciate delicacy and a sense of style. In fact, Cugel, I have taken a fancy to you. Let us see what we can do to help you along the road of life. We shall take our tea in the parlour: the finest Amber Moth-wing for an honoured guest! Will you go ahead?”

  “I will wait and keep you company,” said Cugel. “It would be rude to do otherwise.”

  Faucelme spoke heartily: “Your manners are those of an earlier generation. One does not see their like among the young folk of today, who think of nothing but self-indulgence.”

  Under Cugel’s watchful eye Faucelme prepared tea and poured it into cups of egg-shell porcelain. He bowed and gestured to Cugel. “Now to the parlour.”

  “Lead the way, if you will.”

  Faucelme showed a face of whimsical surprise, then shrugged and preceded Cugel into the parlour. “Seat yourself, Cugel. The green velour chair is most comfortable.”

  “I am restless,” said Cugel. “I prefer to stand.”

  “Then at least take off your hat,” said Faucelme with a trace of petulance.

  “Certainly,” said Cugel.

  Faucelme watched him with bird-like curiosity. “What are you doing?”

  “I am removing the ornament.” Protecting his hands with a folded kerchief, Cugel slipped the object into his pouch. “It is hard and sharp and I fear that it might mar your fine furniture.”

  “You are most considerate and deserve a little gift. This rope for instance: it was walked by Lazhnascenthe the Lemurian, and is imbued with magical properties. For instance, it responds to commands; it is extensible and stretches without loss of strength as far as you require. I see that you carry a fine antique sword. The filigree of the pommel suggests Kharai of the eighteenth aeon. The steel should be of excellent quality, but is it sharp?”

  “Naturally,” said Cugel. “I could shave with the edge, were I of a mind to do so.”

  “Then cut yourself a convenient length of the rope: let us say ten feet. It will tuck neatly into your pouch, yet it will stretch ten miles at your command.”

  “This is true generosity!” declared Cugel, and measured off the stipulated length. Flourishing his sword, he cut at the rope, without effect. “Most peculiar,” said Cugel.

  “Tut, and all the time you thought your sword to be sharp!” Faucelme touched two fingers to a mischievous grin. “Perhaps we can repair the deficiency.” From a cabinet he brought a long box, which, when opened, proved to contain a shining silver powder.

  “Thrust your blade into the glimmister,” said Faucelme. “Let none touch your fingers, or they will become rigid silver bars.”

  Cugel followed the instructions. When he withdrew the sword, it trailed a fine sift of spangling glimmister. “Shake it well,” said Faucelme. “An excess only mars the scabbard.”

  Cugel shook the blade clean. The edge of the sword twinkled with small coruscations, and the blade itself seemed luminous.

  “Now!” said Faucelme. “Cut the rope.”

  The sword cut through the rope as if it were a strand of kelp.

  Cugel gingerly coiled the rope. “And what are the commands?”

  Faucelme picked up the loose rope. “Should I wish to seize upon something, I toss it high and use the cantrap ‘Tzip!’, in this fashion —”

  “Halt!” cried Cugel, raising his sword. “I want no demonstrations!”

  Faucelme chuckled. “Cugel, you are as brisk as a tittle-bird. Still, I think none the less of you. In this sickly world, the rash die young. Do not be frightened of the rope; I will be mild. Observe, if you will! To disengage the rope, call the order ‘Tzat’, and the rope returns to hand. So then!” Faucelme stood back and held up his hands in the manner of one who dissembles nothing. “Is this the conduct of a ‘sly and unpredictable villain’?”

  “Decidedly so, if the villain, for the purposes of his joke, thinks to simulate the altruist.”

  “Then how will you know villain from altruist?”

  Cugel shrugged. “It is not an important distinction.”

  Faucelme seemed to pay no heed; his mercurial intellect was already exploring a new topic. “I was trained in the old tradition! We found our strength in the basic verities, to which you, as a patrician, must surely subscribe. Am I right in this?”

  “Absolutely, and in all respects!” declared Cugel. “Recognizing, of course, that these fundamental verities vary from region to region, and even from person to person.”

  “Still, certain truths are universal,” argued Faucelme. “For instance, the ancient rite of gift exchange between host and guest. As an altruist I have given you a fine and nutritious meal, a length of magic rope and perduration of the sword. You will demand with full vigor what you may give me in return, and I will ask only for your good regard —”

  Cugel said with generous spontaneity: “It is yours, freely and without stint, and the basic verities have been fulfilled. Now, Faucelme, I find myself somewhat fatigued and so —”

  “Cugel, you are generous! Occasionally, as we toil along our lonely path through life we encounter one who instantly, or so it seems, becomes a dear and trusted friend. I shall be sorry to see you depart! You must leave me some little memento, and in fact I will refuse to take anything other than that bit of tinsel you wear on your hat. A trifle, a token, no more, but it will keep your memory green, until the happy day of your return! You may now give over the ornament.”

  “With pleasure,” said Cugel. Using great care he reached into his pouch and withdrew the ornament which had originally clasped his hat. “With my warmest regards, I present you with my hat ornament.”

  Faucelme studied the ornament a moment, then looked up and turned the full gaze of his milky golden eyes upon Cugel. He pushed back the ornament. “Cugel, you have given me too much! This is an article of value — no, do not protest! — and I want only that rather vulgar object with the spurious red gem at the center which I noticed before. Come, I insist! It will hang always in a place of honour here in my parlour!”

  Cugel showed a sour smile. “In Almery lives Iucounu the Laughing Magician.”

  Faucelme gave a small involuntary grimace.

  Cugel continued. “When I see him he will ask: ‘Cugel, where is my “Pectoral Skybreak Spatterlight” which was entrusted into your care?’ What can I tell him? That a certain Faucelme in the Land of the Falling Wall would not be denied?”

  “This matter bears looking into,” muttered Faucelme. “One solution suggests itself. If, for instance, you decided not to return to Almery, then Iucounu would not learn the news. Or if, for instance —” Faucelme became suddenly silent.

  A moment passed. Faucelme spoke in a voice of affability: “You must be fatigued and ready for your rest. First then: a taste of my aromatic bitters, which calm the stomach and refresh the nerves!”

  Cugel tried
to decline but Faucelme refused to listen. He brought out a small black bottle and two crystal cups. Into Cugel’s cup he poured a half-inch of pale liquid. “This is my own distillation,” said Faucelme. “See if it is to your taste.”

  A small moth fluttered close to Cugel’s cup and instantly fell dead to the table.

  Cugel rose to his feet. “I need no such tonic tonight,” said Cugel. “Where shall I sleep?”

  “Come.” Faucelme led Cugel up the stairs and opened the door into a room. “A fine cozy little nook, where you will rest well indeed.”

  Cugel drew back. “There are no windows! I should feel stifled.”

  “Oh? Very well, let us look into another chamber … What of this? The bed is soft and fine.”

  Cugel voiced a question: “What is the reason for the massive iron gridwork above the bed? What if it fell during the night?”

  “Cugel, this is sheer pessimism! You must always look for the glad things of life! Have you noticed, for instance, the vase of flowers beside the bed!”

  “Charming! Let us look at another room.”

  “Sleep is sleep!” said Faucelme peevishly. “Are you always so captious? … Well then, what of this fine chamber? The bed is good; the windows are wide. I can only hope that the height does not affect you with vertigo.”

  “This will suit me well,” said Cugel. “Faucelme, I bid you good night.”

  Faucelme stalked off down the hall. Cugel closed the door and opened wide the window. Against the stars he could see tall thin chimneys and a single cypress rearing above the house.

  Cugel tied an end of his rope to the bed-post, then kicked the bed, which at once knew revulsion for the suction of gravity and lifted into the air. Cugel guided it to the window, pushed it through and out into the night. He darkened the lamp, climbed aboard the bed and thrust away from the manse toward the cypress tree, to which he tied the other end of the rope. He gave a command: “Rope, stretch long.”