The Eyes of the Overworld

by Jack Vance

“Can you do more?” inquired Derwe Coreme, smiling the soft smile of an impish child.

  “Indeed, should I so choose. But enough! Drink one and all!”

  Derwe Coreme signaled the sergeant of the guard. “Take sword, strike off the fool’s arm; bring me the amulet.”

  “With pleasure, Great Lady.” The sergeant advanced with bared blade. Cugel shouted: “Stay! One more step and magic will turn each of your bones at right angles!”

  The sergeant looked to Derwe Coreme, who laughed. “As I bade you, or fear my revenge, which is as you know.”

  The sergeant winced, marched forward. But now an under-servitor rushed to Cugel, and under his hood Cugel saw the seamed face of old Slaye. “I will save you. Show me the amulet!”

  Cugel allowed the eager fingers to grope among the carbuncles. Slaye pressed one of these, called something in a voice so exultant and shrill that the syllables were lost. There was a great fluttering, and an enormous black shape stood at the back of the hall. “Who torments me?” it moaned. “Who will give me surcease?”

  “I!” cried Slaye. “Advance through the hall, kill all but myself!”

  “No!” cried Cugel. “It is I who possess the amulet! I whom you must obey! Kill all but me!”

  Derwe Coreme clutched at Cugel’s arm, striving to see the amulet. “It avails nothing unless you call him by name! We are all lost!”

  “What is his name?” cried Cugel. “Counsel me!”

  “Hold back!” declared Slaye. “I have considered —”

  Cugel dealt him a blow and sprang behind the table. The demon was approaching, pausing to pluck up the men-at-arms and dash them against the walls. Derwe Coreme ran to Cugel. “Let me see the amulet; do you know nothing whatever? I will order him!”

  “By no means!” said Cugel. “Am I Cugel the Clever for nothing? Show me which carbuncle, recite me the name.”

  Derwe Coreme bent her head, read the rune, thrust out to press a carbuncle, but Cugel knocked her arm aside. “What name? Or we all die!”

  “Call on Vanille! Press here, call on Vanille!”

  Cugel pressed the carbuncle. “Vanille! Halt this strife!”

  The black demon heeded not at all. There was a second great sound, a second demon appeared. Derwe Coreme cried out in terror. “It was not Vanille; show me the amulet once more!”

  But there was insufficient time; the black demon was upon them.

  “Vanille!” bellowed Cugel. “Destroy this black monster!”

  Vanille was low and broad, and of a swimming green colour, with eyes like scarlet lights. It flung itself upon the first demon, and the terrible bellow of the encounter stunned the ears, and eyes could not follow the frenzy of the fight. The walls shuddered as the great forces struck and rebounded. The table splintered under great splayed feet; Derwe Coreme was flung into a corner. Cugel crawled after, to find her crumpled and staring, half-conscious but bereft of will. Cugel thrust the amulet before her eyes. “Read the runes! Call forth the names; each I will try in turn! Quick, to save our lives!”

  But Derwe Coreme merely made a soft motion with her lips. Behind, the black demon, mounted astride Vanille, was methodically clawing up handfuls of his substance and casting it aside, while Vanille bellowed and screamed and turned his ferocious head this way and that, snapping and snarling, striking with great green arms. The black demon plunged its arms deep, seized some central node and Vanille became a sparkling green slime of a myriad parts, each gleam and sparkle flitting and quivering and dissolving into the stone.

  Slaye stood grinning above Cugel. “Do you wish your life? Hand here the amulet and I spare you. Delay one instant and you are dead!”

  Cugel divested himself of the amulet, but could not bring himself to relinquish it. He said with sudden cunning, “I can give the amulet to the demon.”

  Slaye glared down at him. “And then we all are dead. To me it does not matter. Do so. I defy you. If you want life — the amulet.”

  Cugel looked down at Derwe Coreme. “What of her?”

  “Together you shall be banished. The amulet, for here is the demon.”

  The black demon towered above; Cugel hastily handed the amulet to Slaye, who uttered a sharp cry and touched a carbuncle. The demon whimpered, involuted and disappeared.

  Slaye stood back, grinning in triumph. “Now away with you and the girl. I keep my word to you, no more. You have your miserable lives: depart.”

  “Grant me one desire!” pled Cugel. “Transport us to Almery, to the Valley of the Xzan, where I may rid myself of a canker called Firx!”

  “No,” said Slaye. “I deny you your heart’s-desire. Go at once.”

  Cugel lifted Derwe Coreme to her feet. Still dazed she stared at the wreckage of the hall. Cugel turned to Slaye. “The ghoul waits in the promenade.”

  Slaye nodded. “This well may be true. Tomorrow I shall chastise him. Tonight I call sub-world artisans to repair the hall and restore the glory of Cil. Hence! Do you think I care how you fare with the ghoul?” His face became suffused and his hand strayed toward the carbuncles of the amulet. “Hence, at once!”

  Cugel took Derwe Coreme’s arm and led her from the hall to the great front portal. Slaye stood with feet apart, shoulders hunched, head bent forward, eyes following Cugel’s every move. Cugel eased back the bolts, opened the door, stepped out upon the terrace.

  There was silence along the promenade. Cugel led Derwe Coreme down the steps and off to the side, into the rank growth of the old garden. Here he paused to listen. From the palace came sounds of activity: rasping and scraping, hoarse shouts and bellows, the flash of many-colored lights. Down the center of the promenade came a tall white shape, stepping from the shadow of one pedestal to the next. It paused to listen to the sounds and watch the flaring lights in wonder. While it was so absorbed Cugel led Derwe Coreme away, behind the dark banks of foliage, and so off into the night.

  Chapter III

  The Mountains of Magnatz

  Shortly after sunrise Cugel and Derwe Coreme emerged from the hillside byre where they had huddled the night. The air was chill and the sun, a wine-colored bubble behind high mist, produced no warmth. Cugel clapped his arms, jigged back and forth, while Derwe Coreme stood pinch-faced and limp beside the old byre.

  Cugel presently became irritated by her posture, which implied a subtle disparagement of himself. “Fetch wood,” he told her curtly. “I will strike a fire; we will breakfast in comfort.”

  Without a word the erstwhile princess of Cil went to gather furze. Cugel turned to inspect the dim expanse to the east, voicing an automatic curse upon Iucounu the Laughing Magician, whose rancor had flung him into this northern wasteland.

  Derwe Coreme returned with an armful of twigs; Cugel gave a nod of approval. For a brief period after their expulsion from Cil she had carried herself with an inappropriate hauteur, which Cugel tolerated with a quiet smile for himself. Their first couching had been both eventful and taxing; thereafter Derwe Coreme had modified at least her overt behavior. Her face, delicate and clear of feature, lost little of its brooding melancholy, but the arrogance altered, as milk becomes cheese, to a new and wakeful appreciation of reality.

  The fire crackled cheerfully; they ate a breakfast of rampion and pulpy black gallberries, while Cugel put questions regarding the lands to the east and south. Derwe Coreme could return only small information, none of which was optimistic. “The forest is said to be endless. I have heard it called several names: the Great Erm, the Forest of the East, the Lig Thig. To the south you see the Mountains of Magnatz, which are reputedly dreadful.”

  “In what respect?” demanded Cugel. “The knowledge is of importance; we must cross these mountains on our way to Almery.”

  Derwe Coreme shook her head. “I have heard only hints, and paid no great heed, as never did I expect to visit the region.”

  “Nor I,” grumbled Cugel. “Were it not for Iucounu I would be elsewhere.”

  A spark of interest animated the listless face. “Who
is this Iucounu?”

  “A detestable wizard of Almery. He has a boiled squash for a head, and flaunts a mindless grin. In every way he is odious, and displays the spite of a scalded eunuch.”

  Derwe Coreme’s mouth moved in a small cool smile. “And you antagonized this wizard.”

  “Bah! It was nothing. For a trivial slight he flung me north on an impossible mission. I am not Cugel the Clever for nothing! The mission is achieved and now I return to Almery.”

  “And what of Almery — is this a pleasant land?”

  “Pleasant enough, compared to this desolation of forest and mist. Still, imperfections exist. Wizardry is rife, and justice is not invariable, as I have intimated.”

  “Tell me more of Almery. Are there cities? Are there folk other than rogues and wizards?”

  Cugel frowned. “Certain cities exist, sad shadows of bygone glory. There is Azenomei, where the Xzan joins Scaum Flow, and Kaiin in Ascolais, and others along the shore opposite Kauchique, where the folk are of great subtlety.”

  Derwe Coreme nodded thoughtfully. “I will go to Almery. In your company, from which I can soon recover.”

  Cugel glanced at her sidewise, not liking the flavor of the remark, but before he could particularize, she asked: “What lands lie between us and Almery?”

  “They are wide and dangerous and peopled by gids, erbs, and deodands, as well as leucomorphs, ghouls and grues. Otherwise I am ignorant. If we survive the journey, it will be a miracle indeed.”

  Derwe Coreme looked wistfully back toward Cil, then shrugged and became silent.

  The frugal meal was at its end. Cugel leaned back against the byre, to enjoy the warmth of the fire, but Firx, that agent of coercion implanted by Iucounu in Cugel’s viscera, would allow no respite, and Cugel, grimacing, jumped to his feet. “Come; we must set forth. The spite of Iucounu permits no less.”

  Down the slope they walked, following what appeared to be an old road. The landscape changed. Heath gave way to a damp bottomland: presently they came to the forest. Cugel eyed the gloomy shadows with distrust. “We must go quietly, and hope to arouse nothing baneful. I will watch ahead, and you behind, to ensure that nothing follows, to leap on our backs.”

  “We will lose our way.”

  “The sun hangs in the south: this is our guide.”

  Derwe Coreme shrugged once more; they plunged forward into the shade. The trees stood tall overhead and the sunlight, filtered through the foliage, only exaggerated the gloom. Coming upon a stream they walked along its banks and presently entered a glade where flowed a brimming river.

  On the bank near a moored raft sat four men in ragged garments. Cugel looked Derwe Coreme over critically, and took the jeweled buttons from her garments. “These by all odds are bandits and we must lull their cupidity, even though they seem a poor lot.”

  “Better that we avoid them,” said Derwe Coreme. “They are animals, no better.”

  Cugel demurred. “We need their raft and their guidance, which we must command; if we supplicate, they will believe themselves to have a choice, and become captious.” He strode forward and Derwe Coreme willy-nilly was forced to follow.

  The rogues did not improve upon closer view. Their hair was long and matted, their faces gnarled, with eyes like beetles and mouths showing foul yellow teeth. Withal, their expressions were mild enough, and they watched Cugel and Derwe Coreme approach with wariness rather than belligerence. One of them, it so appeared, was a woman, though this was hardly evident from garments, face or refinement of manner. Cugel gave them a salute of lordly condescension, at which they blinked in puzzlement.

  “What people are you?” asked Cugel.

  “We call ourselves Busiacos,” responded the oldest of the men. “It is both our race and our family; we make no differentiation, being somewhat polyandrous by habit.”

  “You are denizens of the forest, familiar with its routes and trails?”

  “Such is a fair description,” admitted the man, “though our knowledge is local. Remember, this is the Great Erm, which sweeps on league after league without termination.”

  “No matter,” said Cugel. “We require only transfer across the river, then guidance upon a secure route to the lands of the south.”

  The man consulted the others of his group; all shook their heads. “There is no such route; the Mountains of Magnatz lie in the way.”

  “Indeed,” said Cugel.

  “If I were to ferry you across the river,” continued the old Busiaco, “you would be as good as dead, for the region is haunted by erbs and grues. Your sword would be useless: you carry only the weakest magic — this I know for we Busiacos smell magic as an erb sniffs out meat.”

  “How then may we achieve our destination?” demanded Cugel.

  The Busiacos showed little interest in the question. But the man next in age to the eldest, glancing at Derwe Coreme, had a sudden idea, and looked across the river as if pondering. The effort presently overwhelmed him, and he shook his head in defeat.

  Cugel, observing carefully, asked, “What baffles you?”

  “A problem of no great complexity,” replied the Busiaco. “We have small practice in logic and any difficulty thwarts us. I only speculated as to which of your belongings you would exchange for guidance through the forest.”

  Cugel laughed heartily. “A good question. But I own only what you see: namely garments, shoes, cape and sword, all of which are necessary to me. Though, for a fact, I know an incantation which produces a jeweled button or two.”

  “These would be small inducement. In a nearby crypt jewels are heaped as high as my head.”

  Cugel rubbed his jaw reflectively. “The generosity of the Busiacos is everywhere known; perhaps you will lead us past this crypt.”

  The Busiaco made a gesture of indifference. “If you wish, although it is adjacent to the den of a great mother gid, now in oestrus.”

  “We will proceed directly toward the south,” said Cugel. “Come, let us depart at once.”

  The Busiaco maintained his stubborn crouch. “You have no inducement to offer?”

  “Only my gratitude, which is no small matter.”

  “What of the woman? She is somewhat gaunt, but not unappealing. Since you must die in the Mountains of Magnatz, why waste the woman?”

  “True.” Cugel turned to look at Derwe Coreme. “Perhaps we can come to terms.”

  “What?” she gasped in outrage. “Do you dare suggest such a thing? I will drown myself in the river!”

  Cugel took her aside. “I am not called Cugel the Clever for nothing,” he hissed in her ear. “Trust me to outwit this moon-calf!”

  Derwe Coreme surveyed him with distrust, then turned away, tears of bitter anger streaming down her cheeks. Cugel addressed the Busiaco. “Your proposal is clearly the better part of wisdom; so now, let us be off.”

  “The woman may remain here,” said the Busiaco, rising to his feet. “We walk an enchanted path and rigid discipline is necessary.”

  Derwe Coreme took a determined stride toward the river. “No!” cried Cugel hastily. “She is of sentimental temperament, and wishes to see me safely on my way to the Mountains of Magnatz, even though it means my certain death.”

  The Busiaco shrugged. “It is all one.” He led them aboard the raft, cast off the rope, and poled across the river. The water seemed shallow, the pole never descending more than a foot or two. It seemed to Cugel that wading across would have been simplicity itself.

  The Busiaco, observing, said, “The river swarms with glass reptiles, and an unwary man, stepping forth, is instantly attacked.”

  “Indeed!” said Cugel, eying the river dubiously.

  “Indeed. And now I must caution you as to the path. We will meet all manner of persuasions, but as you value your life, do not step aside from where I lead.”

  The raft reached the opposite bank; the Busiaco stepped ashore and made it fast to a tree. “Come now, after me.” He plunged confidently off among the trees. Derwe Coreme follo
wed, with Cugel coming in the rear. The trail was so faint that Cugel could not distinguish it from the untrodden forest, but the Busiaco never faltered. The sun, hanging low behind the trees, could be glimpsed only infrequently. So they proceeded, through sylvan solitudes where not so much as a bird-call could be heard and Cugel was never certain of the direction they traveled.

  The sun, passing its zenith, began to descend, and the trail became no more distinct. Cugel at last called ahead, “You are certain of the trail? It seems that we veer left and right at random.”

  The Busiaco stopped to explain. “We of the forest are an ingenuous folk, but we have this peculiar facility.” He tapped his splayed nose significantly. “We can smell out magic. The trail we follow was ordained at a time too remote to be recalled, and yields its direction only to such as ourselves.”

  “Possibly so,” said Cugel petulantly. “But it seems overly circuitous, and where are the fearsome creatures you mentioned? I have seen only a vole, and nowhere have I sensed the distinctive odor of the erb.”

  The Busiaco shook his head in perplexity. “Unaccountably they have taken themselves elsewhere. Surely you do not complain? Let us proceed, before they return.” And he set forth once again, by a track no less indistinguishable than before.

  The sun sank low. The forest thinned somewhat; scarlet rays slanted along the aisles, burnishing gnarled roots, gilding fallen leaves. The Busiaco stepped into a clearing, where he swung about with an air of triumph. “I have successfully achieved our goal!”

  “How so?” demanded Cugel. “We are still deep in the forest.”

  The Busiaco pointed across the clearing. “Notice the four well-marked and distinct trails?”

  “This seems to be the case,” Cugel admitted grudgingly.

  “One of these leads expeditiously to the southern verge. The others plunge into the forest depths, branching variously along the way.”

  Derwe Coreme, peering through the branches, uttered a sharp ejaculation. “There, fifty paces yonder, is the river and the raft!”

  Cugel turned the Busiaco a dire look. “What of all this?”