The Jack Vance Treasury

by Jack Vance

  Thissell feebly cried out, “I’m not Angmark; I’m Edwer Thissell; he’s Angmark.” But no one listened to him; there were only cries of dismay, shock, disgust at the sight of his face. He called to Angmark, “Give me my mask, a slave-cloth…”

  Angmark sang jubilantly, “In shame he lived, in maskless shame he dies.”

  A Forest Goblin stood before Angmark. “Moon Moth, we meet once more.”

  Angmark sang, “Stand aside, friend Goblin, I must execute this criminal. In shame he lived, in shame he dies!”

  A crowd had formed around the group; masks stared in morbid titillation at Thissell.

  The Forest Goblin jerked the rope from Angmark’s hand, threw it to the ground. The crowd roared. Voices cried, “No duel, no duel! Execute the monster!”

  A cloth was thrown over Thissell’s head. Thissell awaited the thrust of a blade. But instead his bonds were cut. Hastily he adjusted the cloth, hiding his face, peering between the folds.

  Four men clutched Haxo Angmark. The Forest Goblin confronted him, playing the skaranyi. “A week ago you reached to divest me of my mask; you have now achieved your perverse aim!”

  “But he is a criminal,” cried Angmark. “He is notorious, infamous!”

  “What are his misdeeds?” sang the Forest Goblin.

  “He has murdered, betrayed; he has wrecked ships; he has tortured, blackmailed, robbed, sold children into slavery; he has—”

  The Forest Goblin stopped him. “Your religious differences are of no importance. We can vouch however for your present crimes!”

  The hostler stepped forward. He sang fiercely, “This insolent Moon Moth nine days ago sought to pre-empt my choicest mount!”

  Another man pushed close. He wore a Universal Expert, and sang, “I am a Master Mask-maker; I recognize this Moon Moth out-worlder! Only recently he entered my shop and derided my skill. He deserves death!”

  “Death to the out-world monster!” cried the crowd. A wave of men surged forward. Steel blades rose and fell, the deed was done.

  Thissell watched, unable to move. The Forest Goblin approached, and playing the stimic sang sternly, “For you we have pity, but also contempt. A true man would never suffer such indignities!”

  Thissell took a deep breath. He reached to his belt and found his zachinko. He sang, “My friend, you malign me! Can you not appreciate true courage? Would you prefer to die in combat or walk maskless along the esplanade?”

  The Forest Goblin sang, “There is only one answer. First I would die in combat; I could not bear such shame.”

  Thissell sang. “I had such a choice. I could fight with my hands tied, and so die—or I could suffer shame, and through this shame conquer my enemy. You admit that you lack sufficient strakh to achieve this deed. I have proved myself a hero of bravery! I ask, who here has courage to do what I have done?”

  “Courage?” demanded the Forest Goblin. “I fear nothing, up to and beyond death at the hands of the Night-men!”

  “Then answer.”

  The Forest Goblin stood back. He played his double-kamanthil. “Bravery indeed, if such were your motives.”

  The hostler struck a series of subdued gomapard chords and sang, “Not a man among us would dare what this maskless man has done.”

  The crowd muttered approval.

  The mask-maker approached Thissell, obsequiously stroking his double-kamanthil. “Pray, Lord Hero, step into my nearby shop, exchange this vile rag for a mask befitting your quality.”

  Another mask-maker sang, “Before you choose, Lord Hero, examine my magnificent creations!”

  A man in a Bright-Sky Bird mask approached Thissell reverently. “I have only just completed a sumptuous houseboat; seventeen years of toil have gone into its fabrication. Grant me the good fortune of accepting and using this splendid craft; aboard waiting to serve you are alert slaves and pleasant maidens; there is ample wine in storage and soft silken carpets on the decks.”

  “Thank you,” said Thissell, striking the zachinko with vigor and confidence. “I accept with pleasure. But first a mask.”

  The mask-maker struck an interrogative trill on the gomapard. “Would the Lord Hero consider a Sea-Dragon Conqueror beneath his dignity?”

  “By no means,” said Thissell. “I consider it suitable and satisfactory. We shall go now to examine it.”

  Afterword to “The Moon Moth”

  The symbolic adjuncts used to enlarge the human personality are of course numerous. Clothes comprise a most important category of these symbols and sometimes when people are gathered together it is amusing to examine garments, unobtrusively of course, and to reflect that each article has been selected with solicitous care with the intention of creating some particular effect.

  Despite the symbolic power of clothes, men and women are judged, by and large, by circumstances more difficult to control: posture, accent, voice timbre, the shape and color of their bodies, and most significant of all, their faces. Voices can be modulated, diets and exercise, theoretically at least, force the body into socially acceptable contours. What can be done to the face? Enormous effort has been expended in this direction. Jowls are hoisted, eyebrows attached or eliminated, noses cropped, de-hooked, de-humped. The hair is tormented into a thousand styles: puffed, teased, wet, dried, hung this way or that: all to formulate a fashionable image. Nonetheless, all pretenses are transparent: nature-fakery yields to the critical eye. No matter what our inclinations, whether or not we like our faces, we are forced to live with them, and to accept whatever favor, censure or derision we willy-nilly incur.

  Except those intricate and intelligent folk of the world Sirene, whose unorthodox social habits are considered in the [preceding] pages.

  —Jack Vance 1976

  * * *

  *Kiv: five banks of resilient metal strips, fourteen to the bank, played by touching, twisting, twanging. [back]

  *Stimic: three flute-like tubes equipped with plungers. Thumb and forefinger squeeze a bag to force air across the mouth-pieces; the second, third and fourth little fingers manipulate the slide. The stimic is an instrument well-adapted to the sentiments of cool withdrawal, or even disapproval. [back]

  *Krodatch: a small square sound-box strung with resined gut. The musician scratch- es the strings with his fingernail, or strokes them with his fingertips, to produce a variety of quietly formal sounds. The krodatch is also used as an instrument of insult. [back]

  *Skaranyi: a miniature bag-pipe, the sac squeezed between thumb and palm, the four fingers controlling the stops along four tubes. [back]

  *Gomapard: one of the few electric instruments used on Sirene. An oscillator produces an oboe-like tone which is modulated, choked, vibrated, raised and lowered in pitch by four keys. [back]

  *Double-kamanthil: an instrument similar to the ganga, except the tones are produced by twisting and inclining a disk of resined leather against one or more of the forty-six strings. [back]

  The Bagful of Dreams

  The River Isk, departing Lumarth, wandered in wide curves across the Plain of Red Flowers, bearing generally south. For six halcyon days Cugel sailed his skiff down the brimming river, stopping by night at one or another of the river-bank inns.

  On the seventh day the river swung to the west, and passed by erratic sweeps and reaches through that land of rock spires and forested hillocks known as the Chaim Purpure. The wind blew, if at all, in unpredictable gusts, and Cugel, dropping the sail, was content to drift with the current, guiding the craft with an occasional stroke of the oars.

  The villages of the plain were left behind; the region was uninhabited. In view of the crumbled tombs along the shore, the groves of cypress and yew, the quiet conversations to be overheard by night, Cugel was pleased to be afloat rather than afoot, and drifted out of the Chaim Purpure with great relief.

  At the village Troon, the river emptied into the Tsombol Marsh, and Cugel sold the skiff for ten terces. To repair his fortunes he took employment with the town butcher, performing the more dis
tasteful tasks attendant upon the trade. However, the pay was adequate and Cugel steeled himself to his undignified duties. He worked to such good effect that he was called upon to prepare the feast served at an important religious festival.

  Through oversight, or stress of circumstance, Cugel used two sacred beasts in the preparation of his special ragout. Halfway through the banquet the mistake was discovered and once again Cugel left town under a cloud.

  After hiding all night behind the abattoir to evade the hysterical mobs, Cugel set off at best speed across the Tsombol Marsh.

  The road went by an indirect route, swinging around bogs and stagnant ponds, veering to follow the bed of an ancient highway, in effect doubling the length of the journey. A wind from the north blew the sky clear of all obscurity, so that the landscape showed in remarkable clarity. Cugel took no pleasure in the view, especially when, looking ahead, he spied a far pelgrane cruising down the wind.

  As the afternoon advanced the wind abated, leaving an unnatural stillness across the marsh. From behind tussocks water-wefkins called out to Cugel, using the sweet voices of unhappy maidens: “Cugel, oh Cugel! Why do you travel in haste? Come to my bower and comb my beautiful hair!”

  And: “Cugel, oh Cugel! Where do you go? Take me with you, to share your joyous adventures!”

  And: “Cugel, beloved Cugel! The day is dying; the year is at an end! Come visit me behind the tussock, and we will console each other without constraint!”

  Cugel only walked the faster, anxious to discover shelter for the night.

  As the sun trembled at the edge of Tsombol Marsh Cugel came upon a small inn, secluded under five dire oaks. He gratefully took lodging for the night, and the innkeeper served a fair supper of stewed herbs, spitted reed-birds, seed-cake and thick burdock beer.

  As Cugel ate, the innkeeper stood by with hands on hips. “I see by your conduct that you are a gentleman of high place; still you hop across Tsombol Marsh on foot like a bumpkin. I am puzzled by the incongruity.”

  “It is easily explained,” said Cugel. “I consider myself the single honest man in a world of rogues and blackguards, present company excepted. In these conditions it is hard to accumulate wealth.”

  The innkeeper pulled at his chin, and turned away. When he came to serve Cugel a dessert of currant cake, he paused long enough to say: “Your difficulties have aroused my sympathy. Tonight I will reflect on the matter.”

  The innkeeper was as good as his word. In the morning, after Cugel had finished his breakfast, the innkeeper took him into the stable-yard and displayed a large dun-colored beast with powerful hind legs and a tufted tail, already bridled and saddled for riding.

  “This is the least I can do for you,” said the innkeeper. “I will sell this beast at a nominal figure. Agreed, it lacks elegance, and in fact is a hybrid of dounge and felukhary. Still, it moves with an easy stride; it feeds upon inexpensive wastes, and is notorious for its stubborn loyalty.”

  Cugel moved politely away. “I appreciate your altruism, but for such a creature any price whatever is excessive. Notice the sores at the base of its tail, the eczema along its back, and, unless I am mistaken, it lacks an eye. Also, its odor is not all it might be.”

  “Trifles!” declared the innkeeper. “Do you want a dependable steed to carry you across the Plain of Standing Stones, or an adjunct to your vanity? The beast becomes your property for a mere thirty terces.”

  Cugel jumped back in shock. “When a fine Cambalese wheriot sells for twenty? My dear fellow, your generosity outreaches my ability to pay!”

  The innkeeper’s face expressed only patience. “Here, in the middle of Tsombol Marsh, you will buy not even the smell of a dead wheriot.”

  “Let us discard euphemism,” said Cugel. “Your price is an outrage.”

  For an instant the innkeeper’s face lost its genial cast and he spoke in a grumbling voice: “Every person to whom I sell this steed takes the same advantage of my kindliness.”

  Cugel was puzzled by the remark. Nevertheless, sensing irresolution, he pressed his advantage. “In spite of a dozen misgivings, I offer a generous twelve terces!”

  “Done!” cried the innkeeper almost before Cugel had finished speaking. “I repeat, you will discover this beast to be totally loyal, even beyond your expectations.”

  Cugel paid over twelve terces and gingerly mounted the creature. The landlord gave him a benign farewell. “May you enjoy a safe and comfortable journey!”

  Cugel replied in like fashion. “May your enterprises prosper!”

  In order to make a brave departure, Cugel tried to rein the beast up and around in a caracole, but it merely squatted low to the ground, then padded out upon the road.

  Cugel rode a mile in comfort, and another, and taking all with all, was favorably impressed with his acquisition. “No question but what the beast walks on soft feet; now let us discover if it will canter at speed.”

  He shook out the reins; the beast set off down the road, its gait a unique prancing strut, with tail arched and head held high.

  Cugel kicked his heels into the creature’s heaving flanks. “Faster then! Let us test your mettle!”

  The beast sprang forward with great energy, and the breeze blew Cugel’s cloak flapping behind his shoulders.

  A massive dire oak stood beside a bend in the road: an object which the beast seemed to identify as a landmark. It increased its pace, only to stop short and elevate its hind-quarters, thus projecting Cugel into the ditch. When he managed to stagger back up on the road, he discovered the beast cavorting across the marsh, in the general direction of the inn.

  “A loyal creature indeed!” grumbled Cugel. “It is unswervingly faithful to the comfort of its barn.” He found his green velvet cap, clapped it back upon his head and once more trudged south along the road.

  During the late afternoon Cugel came to a village of a dozen mud huts populated by a squat long-armed folk, distinguished by great shocks of whitewashed hair.

  Cugel gauged the height of the sun, then examined the terrain ahead, which extended in a dreary succession of tussock and pond to the edge of vision. Putting aside all qualms he approached the largest and most pretentious of the huts.

  The master of the house sat on a bench to the side, whitewashing the hair of one of his children into radiating tufts like the petals of a white chrysanthemum, while other urchins played nearby in the mud.

  “Good afternoon,” said Cugel. “Are you able to provide me food and lodging for the night? I naturally intend adequate payment.”

  “I will feel privileged to do so,” replied the householder. “This is the most commodious hut of Samsetiska, and I am known for my fund of anecdotes. Do you care to inspect the premises?”

  “I would be pleased to rest an hour in my chamber before indulging myself in a hot bath.”

  His host blew out his cheeks, and wiping the whitewash from his hands beckoned Cugel into the hut. He pointed to a heap of reeds at the side of the room. “There is your bed; recline for as long as you like. As for a bath, the ponds of the swamp are infested with threlkoids and wire-worms, and cannot be recommended.”

  “In that case I must do without,” said Cugel. “However, I have not eaten since breakfast, and I am willing to take my evening meal as soon as possible.”

  “My spouse has gone trapping in the swamp,” said his host. “It is premature to discuss supper until we learn what she has gleaned from her toil.”

  In due course the woman returned carrying a sack and a wicker basket. She built up a fire and prepared the evening meal, while Erwig the householder brought forth a two-string guitar and entertained Cugel with ballads of the region.

  At last the woman called Cugel and Erwig into the hut, where she served bowls of gruel, dishes of fried moss and ganions, with slices of coarse black bread.

  After the meal Erwig thrust his spouse and children out into the night, explaining: “What we have to say is unsuitable for unsophisticated ears. Cugel is an important traveler an
d does not wish to measure his every word.”

  Bringing out an earthenware jug, Erwig poured two tots of arrak, one of which he placed before Cugel, then disposed himself for conversation. “Whence came you and where are you bound?”

  Cugel tasted the arrak, which scorched the entire interior of his glottal cavity. “I am native to Almery, to which I now return.”

  Erwig scratched his head in perplexity. “I cannot divine why you go so far afield, only to retrace your steps.”

  “Certain enemies worked mischief upon me,” said Cugel. “Upon my return, I intend an appropriate revenge.”

  “Such acts soothe the spirit like no others,” agreed Erwig. “An immediate obstacle is the Plain of Standing Stones, by reason of asms which haunt the area. I might add that pelgrane are also common.”

  Cugel gave his sword a nervous twitch. “What is the distance to the Plain of Standing Stones?”

  “Four miles south the ground rises and the Plain begins. The track proceeds from sarsen to sarsen for a distance of fifteen miles. A stout-hearted traveler will cross the plain in four to five hours, assuming that he is not delayed or devoured. The town Cuirnif lies another two hours beyond.”

  “An inch of foreknowledge is worth ten miles of afterthought—”

  “Well spoken!” cried Erwig, swallowing a gulp of arrak. “My own opinion, to an exactitude! Cugel, you are astute!”

  “—and in this regard, may I inquire your opinion of Cuirnif?”

  “The folk are peculiar in many ways,” said Erwig. “They preen themselves upon the gentility of their habits, yet they refuse to whitewash their hair, and they are slack in their religious observances. For instance, they make obeisance to Divine Wiulio with the right hand, not on the buttock, but on the abdomen, which we here consider a slipshod practice. What are your own views?”

  “The rite should be conducted as you describe,” said Cugel. “No other method carries weight.”