by Jack Vance
To the side of the war-wagons stalked rows of memrils: gracile creatures apparently all legs and arms of brown chitin, with small triangular heads raised twenty feet above the ground; it was said that the magician Pikarkas, himself reportedly half-insect, had contrived the memrils from ever more prodigious versions of the executioner beetle.
Tam Tol, King of the Final Kingdom, had stood all day on the parapets of Vasques Tohor, overlooking the Finneian Plain. He watched his elite Knights on their flyers darting down upon the war-wagons; he saw them consumed by Red Ruin. His Twenty Legions, led by the Indomitables, deployed under their ancient standards. They were guarded from above by squadrons of black air-lions, each twenty feet long, armed with fire, gas-jet and fearful sounds.
Tam Tol stood immobile as the Bohul battle-gangs, cursing and sweating, cut down his brave noblemen, and stood long after all hope was gone, heedless of calls and urgencies. His courtiers one by one moved away, to leave Tam Tol at last standing alone, either too numb or too proud to flee.
Behind the parapets mobs ranged the city, gathering all portable wealth, then, departing by the Sunset Gates, made for the sacred city Luid Shug, fifty miles to the west across the Joheim Valley.
Rhialto, running through the sky, halted and surveyed the sky through the pleurmalion. The dark blue spot hung over the western sector of the city; Rhialto proceeded slowly in this direction at a loss for a means to locate the Perciplex quickly and deftly among so much confusion. He became aware of Tam Tol standing alone on the parapets: even as he watched, a barb from the turret of a war-wagon struck up through the afternoon sunlight and Tam Tol, struck in the forehead, fell slowly and soundlessly down the face of the parapets to the ground.
The noise from the Finneian Plain dwindled to a whispering murmur. All flyers had departed the air and Rhialto ran on soft plunging steps a mile closer to the dying city. Halting, he used the pleurmalion once more, and discovered, somewhat to his relief, that the blue sky-spot no longer hovered over the city, but out over the Joheim Valley, where the Perciplex was now evidently included in the loot of someone in the column of refugees.
Rhialto ran through the air to station himself directly below the blue spot, merely to discover a new frustration: the individual with the Perciplex could not be isolated in the crowds of trudging bodies and pale faces.
The sun sank into a flux of color, and the blue spot no longer could be seen on the night sky. Rhialto turned away in vexation. He ran south through the twilight, beyond the Joheim Valley and across a wide meandering river. He descended at the outskirts of a town: Vils of the Ten Steeples, and took lodging for the night at a small inn at the back of a garden of rose-trees.
In the common room the conversation dealt with the war and the power of the Bohul battle-gangs. Speculation and rumor were rife, and all marvelled, with gloomy shakes of the head, at the fateful passing of the Last Kingdom.
Rhialto sat at the back of the room, listening but contributing nothing to the conversation, and presently he went quietly off to his chamber.
12
Rhialto breakfasted upon melon and fried clam dumplings in rose syrup. He settled his account and, departing the town, returned to the north.
A human river still flowed across the Joheim Valley. Multitudes had already arrived before the holy city, only to be denied entry, and their encampment spread like a crust away from the city walls. Above hung the blue spot.
Luid Shug had been ordained a holy place during an early era of the aeon by the legendary Goulkoud the God-friend. Coming upon the crater of a small dead volcano, Goulkoud had been seized by twenty paroxysms of enlightenment, during which he stipulated the form and placement of twenty temples in symmetry around the central volcanic neck. Prebendary structures, baths, fountains and hostels for pilgrims occupied the floor of the crater; a narrow boulevard encircled the rim. Around the outside periphery stood twenty enormous god-effigies in twenty niches cut into the crater walls, each corresponding to one of the temples within the city.
Rhialto descended to the ground. Somewhere among the host huddled before the city was the Perciplex, but the sky-spot seemed to wander, despite Rhialto’s best efforts to bring it directly overhead, in which effort he was sorely hampered by the crowds.
At the center of the city, atop the old volcanic neck, stood a rose-quartz and silver finial. The Arch-priest stepped out upon the highest platform and, holding his arms high, he spoke to the refugees in a voice amplified by six great spiral shells.
“To victims and unfortunates, we extend twenty profound solaces! However, if your hopes include entry into this sacred place, they must be abandoned. We have neither food to feed hunger nor drink to slake thirst!
“Furthermore, I can extend no fair portents! The glory of the world is gone; it will never return until a hundred dreary centuries have run their course! Then hope and splendor will revivify the land, in a culmination of all that is good! This era will then persist until the earth finally rolls beyond Gwennart the Soft Curtain.
“To prepare for the ultimate age we will now select a quota of the choicest and the best, to the number of five thousand six hundred and forty-two, which is a Holy and Mysterious Number heavy with secrets.
“Half of this company will be the noble ‘Best of the Best’: heroes of ancient lineage! Half will be chosen from ‘Nephryne’s Foam’: maidens of virtue and beauty no less brave and gallant than their masculine counterparts. Together they are the ‘Paragons’: the highest excellence of the kingdom, and the flower of the race!
“By the Spell of a Hundred Centuries we will bind them, and they shall sleep through the Dark Epoch which lies ahead. Then, when the Spell is done and the Age of Glory has come, the Paragons will march forth to institute the Kingdom of Light!
“To all others I give this instruction: continue on your way. Go south to the Lands of Cabanola and Eio, or — should you find there no respite — onward to the Land of Farwan, or — should you so elect — across the Lutic Ocean to the Scanduc Isles.
“Time presses upon us! We must take our Paragons. Let the King’s Companions and their families come forward, and the surviving Knights, and the maidens from the Institute of Gleyen and the Flower Songs, as well as Nephryne’s Foam, and all others who in pride and dignity must be considered Paragons!
“To expedite matters, all those of the lowest castes: the twittlers, public entertainers and buffoons; the stupid and ill-bred; the criminals and night-runners; those with short ears and long toenails: let them continue on their journey.
“The same suggestion applies to the somewhat more worthy castes, who, despite their rectitude, will not be included among the ‘Paragons’.
“All aspiring to the Golden Age: let them step forward! We will choose with all possible facility.”
Rhialto again tried to position himself directly below the sky-spot, hoping by some means to identify that person who carried the Perciplex, but found no success.
Either through vanity or desperate hope, few indeed heeded the strictures of the Arch-priest, so that those who pressed forward declaring themselves ‘Paragons’ included not only the noble and well-formed, but also the toothless and corpulent; the hydrocephalics, victims of chronic hiccup, notorious criminals, singers of popular songs and several persons on their death-beds.
The confusion tended to impede the process of selection, and so the day passed. Toward the end of the afternoon, some of the more realistic individuals gave up hope of finding sanctuary in Luid Shug and began to trudge off across the plain. Rhialto watched the sky-spot attentively, but it hung in the sky as before, until at last it faded into the murk of evening. Rhialto somberly returned to the inn at Vils of the Ten Steeples, and passed another restless night.
In the morning he again coursed north to Luid Shug, to discover that the selectors had worked the whole night through, so that all of the ‘Paragons’ had been selected and taken into the city. The gates were now sealed.
A pair of Bohul armies, moving slowly acr
oss the Joheim Valley, converged upon Luid Shug, and all those refugees still encamped near the crater departed in haste.
The dark blue sky-spot now hung over Luid Shug. Rhialto, descending to the ground, approached a postern beside the west gate. He was denied admittance. A voice from the shadows said: “Go your way, stranger; a hundred centuries will pass before Luid Shug again opens its gates. The Spell of Distended Time is on us; go, therefore, and do not bother to look back, since you will see only dreaming gods.”
The Bohul armies were close at hand. Rhialto took to the air and climbed to the tumble of a low white cumulus cloud.
A strange silence muffled the valley. The city showed no movement. With a deliberation more menacing than haste the war-wagons rolled toward the eastern gates of Luid Shug. The Bohul veterans, grumbling and walking as if their feet hurt, came behind.
From the spiral voice-horns above the city came amplified words: “Warriors, turn away! Make no molestation upon us. Luid Shug is now lost to your control.”
Paying no heed, the commanders prepared to strike down the gates with blast-bolts. Five of the stone effigies moved in their niches and raised their arms. The air quivered; the war-wagons shriveled to small tumbles of char. The peevish veterans became like the husks of dead insects. The Joheim Valley was once again quiet.
Rhialto turned away, and strode thoughtfully from cloud to cloud into the south. Where the hills began to rise, some twenty or thirty miles west of Fader’s Waft, he stepped down upon a hummock covered with dry grass and, seeking the shade of a solitary tree, sat leaning against the bole.
The time was close on noon. The fragrance of dry grass came pleasantly on puffs of warm wind. Far to the north-east a coil of smoke rose above the corpse of Vasques Tohor.
Chewing a straw, Rhialto sat reflecting upon his condition. Circumstances were not at the optimum, even though the Perciplex had been more or less precisely located. Osherl must be considered a weak reed, sullen and indifferent. Ildefonse? His interests comported more with those of Rhialto than those of the treacherous Hache-Moncour. Still, Ildefonse was known for his tendencies toward flexibility and expedience. As Preceptor, Ildefonse, even lacking the chug, might be able to compel Sarsem to correct conduct; in the main, however, and all taken with all, Sarsem must be reckoned even less dependable than Osherl.
Rhialto put the pleurmalion to his eye, and as before took note of the dark blue sky-spot over Luid Shug. Rhialto put aside the pleurmalion and called Osherl out from his walnut-shell.
Osherl showed himself as a wefkin four feet high with blue skin and green hair. He spoke in a voice meticulously polite. “My best regards, Rhialto! As I look about, I discover a fine warm day of the sixteenth aeon! The air tingles at one’s skin with characteristic zest. You are chewing grass like an idle farm-boy; I am happy to perceive your enjoyment of time and place.”
Rhialto ignored the pleasantries. “I still lack the Perciplex, and for this failure, you and Sarsem share the blame.”
The wefkin, laughing soundlessly, combed its green silk hair between blue fingers. “My dear fellow! This style of expression becomes you not at all!”
“No matter,” said Rhialto. “Go now to yonder city, and bring me back the Perciplex.”
The wefkin uttered a gay laugh. “Dear Rhialto, your witticisms are superb! The concept of poor Osherl trapped, dragged, pounded, stamped upon, dissected and maltreated by twenty vicious gods is a masterpiece of absurd imagery!”
“I intended no joke,” said Rhialto. “Yonder lies the Perciplex; the Perciplex I must have.”
Osherl himself plucked a blade of grass and waved it in the air to emphasize his remarks. “Perhaps you should recast your goals. In many ways the sixteenth aeon is more kindly than the twenty-first. You chew grass like one born to it. This time is yours, Rhialto! So it has been ordained by stronger voices than either yours or mine!”
“My voice is adequately strong,” said Rhialto. “Also I am friend to the chug and I distribute indenture points with lavish prodigality.”
“Such humor is mordant,” growled Osherl.
“You refuse to enter Luid Shug for the Perciplex?”
“Impossible while the gods stand guard.”
“Then you must take us forward exactly a hundred centuries, so that when Luid Shug awakens to the Age of Gold, we will be on hand to claim our property.”
Osherl wished to discuss the onerous quality of his indenture, but Rhialto would not listen. “All in good time, when we are once more in Boumergarth, Perciplex in hand!”
“The Perciplex? Is that all you want?” asked Osherl with patently false heartiness. “Why did you not say so in the first place? Are you prepared?”
“I am indeed. Work with accuracy.”
13
The hillock and the solitary tree were gone. Rhialto stood on the slope of a stony valley, with a river wandering sluggishly below.
The time seemed to be morning, although a heavy overcast concealed the sky. The air felt raw and damp against his skin; to the east dark wisps of rain drifted down into a black forest.
Rhialto looked about the landscape, but found no evidences of human habitancy: neither fence, farm-house, road, track or path. Rhialto seemed to be alone. Where was Osherl? Rhialto looked here and there in annoyance, then called out: “Osherl! Make yourself known!”
Osherl stepped forward, still the blue-skinned wefkin. “I am here.”
Rhialto indicated the dour landscape. “This does not seem the Age of Gold. Have we come exactly one hundred centuries? Where is Luid Shug?”
Osherl pointed to the north. “Luid Shug is yonder, at the edge of the forest.”
Rhialto brought out the pleurmalion, but the dark blue sky-spot could not be seen for the overcast. “Let us make a closer approach.”
The two coursed north to the site of the sacred city, to discover only a tumble of ruins. Rhialto spoke in perplexity: “This is a most dreary prospect! Where have the gods gone?”
“I will go to Gray Dene and there make inquiry,” said Osherl. “Wait here; in due course I will return with all information.”
“Stop! Hold up!” cried Rhialto. “My question was casual. First find the Perciplex; then you can seek after the gods as long as you like.”
Osherl grumbled under his breath: “You have dawdled away a hundred centuries, yet if I spent a single year in Gray Dene I would still hear threats and abuse on my return. It dulls the edge of one’s initiative.”
“Enough!” said Rhialto. “I am interested only in the Perciplex.”
The two approached the ruins. Wind and weather had worked at the old crater walls so that only traces remained. The temples were rubble; the twenty gods, carved from marble, had likewise eroded to a few toppled fragments, with all their force seeped into the mire.
Rhialto and Osherl walked slowly around the edge of the old city, testing the pleurmalion from time to time, without result.
To the north the forest grew close to the old parapets, and at this point they caught the scent of wood smoke on the wind. Looking here and there, they discovered a crude village of twenty huts just inside the edge of the forest.
“We will make inquiries,” said Rhialto. “I suggest that you change your appearance; otherwise they will think us a queer pair indeed.”
“You should also make alterations. Your hat, for instance, is the shape of an inverted soup-pot, and purple to boot. I doubt if this is the current fashion.”
“There is something in what you say,” admitted Rhialto.
Using the semblance of Lavrentine Redoubtables in glistening armor, barbed and spiked, and with helmets crested with tongues of blue fire, Rhialto and Osherl approached the village, which lacked all charm and smelled poorly.
Rhialto reinforced himself with his glossolary and called out: “Villagers, attention! Two Lavrentine grandees stand nearby; come perform the proper ceremonies of welcome.”
One by one the villagers appeared from their huts, yawning and scratching: folk
of a squat long-armed race with liver-colored skins and long lank hair. Their garments were fashioned from bird-skins and the village showed few civilized amenities; still they seemed sleekly well-fed. At the sight of Rhialto and Osherl, certain of the men called out in pleasure, and taking up long-handled nets advanced upon the two with sinister purpose.
Rhialto called out: “Stand back! We are magicians! Your first sneer of menace will bring down a spell of great distress; be warned!”
The men refused to heed and raised high their nets. Rhialto made a sign to Osherl. The nets folded over backwards to enclose and clench into tight balls those who had thought to use them. Osherl jerked his thumb to whisk these balls away, into the northern sky, through the overcast and out of sight.
Rhialto looked around the group and spoke to a flat-faced woman: “Who is the chieftain of this repulsive group?”
The woman pointed. “There is Doulka who is butcher and trundleman. We need no chieftain; such folk eat more than their share.”
A big-bellied old man with gray wattles sidled a few steps forward. He spoke in a wheedling nasal voice: “Must your disgust be so blatant? True: we are anthropophages. True: we put strangers to succulent use. Is this truly good cause for hostility? The world is as it is and each of us must hope in some fashion to be of service to his fellows, even if only in the form of a soup.”
“Our talents lie elsewhere,” said Rhialto. “If I see any more nets, you will be first to fly the sky.”
“No fear, now that we know your preferences,” declared Doulka. “What are your needs? Are you hungry?”
“We are curious in regard to Luid Shug, which at this time should be awakening to the Age of Gold. Instead we find only rubble, slime and the stink from your village. Why have events gone in this unhappy fashion?”