Rhialto the Marvellous

by Jack Vance

  Doulka had recovered his confidence and blinked at his visitors with torpid complacence. Idly, as if through the force of habit, he began to twist and interweave his fingers with a dexterity which Rhialto found interesting, even fascinating. He spoke in a droning nasal monotone: “The mystery surrounding the ruins is more apparent than real.” As Doulka spoke, he wove his fingers slowly back and forth. “Centuries passed by, one upon the other, and the gods stood steadfast, by day and by night. At last they succumbed to the grind of wind and rain. They became dust and their power was gone.”

  Doulka worked his fingers in and out. “The land was empty and the ruins lay quiet. The ‘Paragons’ slept their long sleep in alabaster eggs. Youths and maidens of prime quality ripened on their silken couches, unknown to all!”

  Doulka’s fingers created odd patterns. Rhialto began to feel a pleasant lassitude, which he ascribed to his efforts of the day.

  “My dear fellow, I see that you are weary!” said Doulka. “I reproach myself!” Three ceremonial chairs of woven withe were brought out, their backs carved to represent contorted human faces.

  “Sit,” said Doulka in a soothing voice. “Rest yourself.”

  Doulka ponderously placed his own fat buttocks upon the creaking withe of a chair. Rhialto also seated himself, to ease his tired limbs. He turned to Osherl and spoke in the language of the twenty-first aeon: “What is this sly old devil doing to me, that I feel such torpor?”

  Osherl responded in an offhand manner: “He commands four sandestins of an inferior sort: the type we call ‘madlings’. They are building patterns of lassitude in and out of your eyes, which are now somewhat skewed. Doulka has already given orders to prepare for a feast.”

  Rhialto spoke indignantly: “Why did you not prevent this trickery? Where is your loyalty?”

  Osherl merely coughed in discomfiture.

  Rhialto told Osherl: “Order the madlings to pull Doulka’s nose out to a length of two feet, to impose an ulcerous cyst at the tip, and also a large painful carbuncle on each buttock.”

  “As you wish.”

  The work was done to his satisfaction. “Now,” he told Osherl, “and this should go without saying, order the madlings to desist from all further nuisances upon my person.”

  “Yes, true. We would not want Doulka to retaliate in kind.”

  “Then you will accord the madlings their freedom, and send them on their way, with instructions never again to serve Doulka.”

  “A generous thought!” declared Osherl. “Does the same instruction apply to me?”

  “Osherl, do not distract me. I must question Doulka, despite his new preoccupations.” Rhialto turned back to the agitated trundleman and spoke in the language of the village: “You have learned the penalty of bad faith. All in all, I consider myself merciful, so be grateful and rejoice in this fact! Now then: shall we continue our conversation?”

  Doulka said sulkily: “You are an irritable man! I intended no great harm! What more can I tell you?”

  “You have explored the ruins thoroughly?”

  “We are not interested in the ruins, except as they yield alabaster eggs for our delectation.”

  “I see. How many eggs have you devoured?”

  “Over the years they number five thousand six hundred and forty one. Few remain.”

  Rhialto said: “‘Few’? Unless you have miscounted, a single Paragon remains to institute the Age of Gold. You have eaten all the others.”

  Doulka momentarily forgot his nose and buttocks. “Only one remaining? This is bad news! Our feasts are at an end!”

  “What of treasure?” asked Rhialto. “Have you taken gems and crystals from the vaults of the city?”

  “We have indeed, since we take pleasure in fine things: notably all red, pink and yellow gems. Those which are blue and green induce bad luck and we use them for our amusement.”

  “How so?”

  “We tie them to the tails of bogadils, or ursial lopers or even manks, which prompts them to absolutely comical acts of worry and shame, so that they run pell-mell through the forest.”

  “Hmmf. And what of a luminous blue crystal in the form of a prism, thus and so? Has such an object come to your attention?”

  Doulka ruefully felt the length of his nose. “I seem to recall such an item, in the not too distant past.”

  Rhialto, all kindliness, asked: “Does your nose truly cause you such distress?”

  “Oh indeed, indeed!”

  “And your buttocks?”

  “They are exquisitely painful.”

  “When you bring me the blue crystal I seek, your sores will be healed.”

  Doulka gave a surly grunt. “That is no easy task.”

  Rhialto had no more to say and with Osherl moved somewhat away from the village, where Osherl established a comfortable pavilion of dark blue silk. On a heavy red and blue rug of intricate pattern Osherl arranged a massive table of carved dark timber surrounded by four low chairs with dark red velvet cushions. Outside the structure he laid down a similar rug and a second table, for occasions when the day was fine. Above he arranged a canopy and at each corner placed a tall black iron pedestal with a lamp of many facets.

  Leaving Osherl sitting at the interior table, Rhialto climbed into the sky, up through the overcast and out into a glare of vermilion sunlight charged with an acrid blue overtone.

  The time was middle afternoon; the sun hung half-way down the sky. The cloud-cover extended without break for as far as Rhialto could see in all directions. He looked through the pleurmalion, and to his pleasure discovered the dark spot hanging in the sky somewhat to the north and east of where he stood.

  Rhialto ran at speed above the clouds and ranged himself immediately below the spot, then dropped down through the overcast and toward the forest below. Finally he reached the forest floor, where he made a quick and superficial search, finding nothing.

  Returning to the pavilion, Rhialto found Osherl sitting as before. Rhialto described his activities. “My search definitely lacked accuracy. Tomorrow you shall mount as high as possible with the pleurmalion and post yourself precisely under the spot. From this point you will lower a weighted cord until it dangles close to the forest, where we can hope to find the Perciplex … What is that savage hooting and yelping sound?”

  Osherl looked out through the silken flap at the front of the pavilion. “The villagers are excited; they are calling out in enthusiasm.”

  “Curious,” said Rhialto. “Perhaps Doulka, rather than cooperate, has seen fit to cut off his nose … Otherwise they would seem to have little reason to rejoice. Now then, another thought has occurred to me: why does the blue spot fly so high in the air?”

  “No mystery there: for reasons of far visibility.”

  “All very well, but surely another signal could have served more efficiently: for instance, a rod of blue light, conspicuous from afar, but also accurate at its lower end.”

  “In candour, I do not understand Sarsem’s motives, unless he truly took Hache-Moncour’s injunctions to heart.”

  “Oh? What injunctions were these?”

  “Just idle badinage, or so I suppose. Hache-Moncour ordered that the sky-spot be made to perform so rudely that you would never truly strike home to the crystal, but would forever be chasing it back and forth like some mad fool chasing the will o’ the wisp.”

  “I see. And why did you not tell me this before? No matter; the day will come when you learn who controls your indenture points: me or Hache-Moncour … That howling and whooping is incessant! Doulka must be cutting off his nose an inch at a time. Osherl, order them to quiet.”

  “It seems a harmless jollity; they are merely preparing a feast.”

  Rhialto looked up alertly. “A feast? Of what sort?”

  “The last of the Paragons: a maiden who has only just emerged from the alabaster egg. After ingestion is under way, the noise no doubt will abate.”

  Rhialto leapt to his feet. “Osherl, words fail me. Come along, on t
he double-quick.”

  Striding back to the village, Rhialto found Doulka sitting before his hut on a pair of enormous down pillows, his nose tied in a poultice. Preparations for a feast were under way, with women of the village cutting and slicing roots, vegetables, and seasonings to the specifications of their recipe. In a pen to the side stood the last of the Paragons: a maiden whom a butcher might classify in the ‘slightly smaller than medium’ range, of ‘choice quality’, ‘tender if lacking in excessive fat’. Her garments had disintegrated during her long sleep; she wore nothing but a necklace of copper and turquoise. Haggard with fear she looked through the bars of the pen as a pair of hulking apprentice butchers arranged a work table and began to sharpen their implements.

  Doulka the Trundleman saw the approach of Rhialto and Osherl with a scowl. “What is it this time? We are preparing to indulge ourselves in a last feast of quality. Your business must wait, unless you have come to relieve me of my pain.”

  Rhialto said: “There will be no feast, unless you yourself wish to climb into the pot. Osherl, bring the lady from the pen and provide her suitable garments.”

  Osherl split the pen into a million motes, and draped the girl’s body in a pale blue robe. Doulka cried out in grief and the villagers went so far as to take up weapons. For distraction, Osherl evoked four blue goblins eight feet tall. Hopping forward and gnashing their fangs, they sent the villagers fleeing with high heels into the forest.

  Rhialto, Osherl and the dazed maiden returned to the pavilion, where Rhialto served her a cordial, and explained the circumstances in a gentle voice. She listened with a blank gaze and perhaps understood something of what Rhialto told her, for presently she wept tears of grief. Rhialto had mixed an anodyne into the cordial, and her grief became a languid dream-state in which the disasters of her life were without emotive force, and she was content to sit close beside Rhialto and take comfort from his presence.

  Osherl looked on with cynicism. “Rhialto, you are a curious creature, one of an obstinate and enigmatic race.”

  “How so?”

  “Poor Doulka is desolate; his folk creep through the forest, afraid to go home for fear of goblins; meanwhile you console and flatter this mindless female.”

  Rhialto responded with quiet dignity: “I am motivated by gallantry, which is a sentiment beyond your understanding.”

  “Bah!” said Osherl. “You are as vain as a jay-cock and already you are planning fine postures to strike in front of this pubescent little creature, with whom you will presently attempt a set of amorous pastimes. Meanwhile Doulka goes hungry and my indenture is as irksome as ever.”

  Rhialto reflected a moment. “Osherl, you are clever but not clever enough. I am not so easily distracted as you would hope. Therefore, let us now resume our conversation. What else have you concealed from me in connection with Sarsem and Hache-Moncour?”

  “I gave little attention to their strategies. You should have specified the topics in which you were interested.”

  “Before the fact? I can not know whether I am interested or not until the plans are made.”

  “In truth, I know little more than you. Hache-Moncour hopes to advance his own cause, with Sarsem’s help, but this is no surprise.”

  “Sarsem is playing a dangerous game. Ultimately he will suffer the penalties of duplicity! Let all others learn from Sarsem’s despicable example!”

  “Ah well, who knows how the game will go?” said Osherl airily.

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  Osherl would say no more, and Rhialto with pointed displeasure sent him out into the night to guard the pavilion. Osherl eased his task by setting up four large goblin’s heads glowing with a ghastly blue luminosity, which startled Rhialto himself when he stepped out to see how went the night.

  Returning within, Rhialto arranged a couch for the maiden, where she presently slept the sleep of emotional exhaustion. A short time later Rhialto also took his repose.

  In the morning the maiden awoke composed but listless. Rhialto arranged a bath of perfumed water in the lavatory, while Osherl, using the guise of a serving woman, laid out for her use a crisp outfit of white duck trousers, a scarlet coat trimmed with golden buttons and black frogging, and black ankle-boots trimmed with red floss. She bathed, dressed, ordered her ear-length black hair, and came tentatively out into the main chamber where Rhialto joined her at breakfast.

  Through the power of the glossolary, he spoke to her in her own tongue: “You have suffered a terrible tragedy, and I offer you my sympathy. My name is Rhialto; like yourself I am not native to this dreary epoch. May I inquire your name?”

  At first the maiden seemed indisposed to respond, then said in a resigned voice: “My secrets are no longer of consequence. In my personal thought-language I have named myself ‘Furud Dawn-stuff’ or ‘Exquisite Dawn-thing’. At my school I won a credential as ‘Shalukhe’ or ‘Expert Water-Swimmer’ and this was used as my friend-name.”

  “That seems a good name, and it is the name I will use, unless you prefer otherwise.”

  The maiden showed him a dreary smile. “I no longer have the status to command the luxury of preference.”

  Rhialto found the concept complex but comprehensible. “It is true that ‘innate quality’ and ‘merit derived from bold assertion’ must be the source of your self-esteem. You shall be known as Shalukhe the Survivor; is not that a prideful condition?”

  “Not particularly, since your help alone saved my life.”

  Osherl, overhearing the remark, ventured a comment: “Nevertheless, your tactics are instinctively correct. To deal with Rhialto the Marvellous, and here I allude to your host and the conservator of my indenture, you must fuel the fires of his bloated vanity. Exclaim upon his handsome countenance; feign awe at his wisdom; he will be putty in your hands.”

  Rhialto said in a measured voice: “Osherl’s mood is often acerb; despite his sarcasm, I will be happy to earn your good opinion.”

  Shalukhe the Swimmer could not restrain her amusement. “You have already gained it, Sir Rhialto! I am also grateful to Osherl for his assistance.”

  “Bah!” said Rhialto. “He felt greater concern for the hunger of poor Doulka.”

  “Not so!” cried Osherl. “That was just my little joke!”

  “In any event, and if you will forgive me the presumption of asking: what is to become of me now?”

  “When our business here is done, we shall return to Almery, and talk further of the matter. As for now, you may regard yourself as my subaltern, and you are assigned to the supervision of Osherl. See that he is at all times neat, alert and courteous!”

  Again half-smiling, Shalukhe appraised Osherl. “How can I supervise someone so clever?”

  “Simplicity itself! If he shirks, speak only two words: ‘indenture points’.”

  Osherl uttered a hollow laugh. “Already Rhialto the Marvellous works his supple wiles.”

  Rhialto paid no heed. He reached down, took her hands and pulled her erect. “And now: to work! Are you less distraught than before?”

  “Very much so! Rhialto, I thank you for your kindness.”

  “Shalukhe the Swimmer, or Dawn-thing, or however you will be called: a shadow still hangs over you, but it is a pleasure to see you smile.”

  Osherl spoke in the language of the twenty-first aeon: “Physical contact has been made, and the program now enters its second phase … Such a poor torn little wretch, how could she resist Rhialto?”

  “Your experience is limited,” said Rhialto. “It is more a case of ‘How could Rhialto resist such a poor torn little wretch?’”

  The girl looked from one to the other, hoping to divine the sense of the interchange. Rhialto spoke out: “Now, to our business! Osherl, take the pleurmalion —” he handed the object to Osherl “— then climb above the clouds to locate the sky-spot. From a point directly below, lower a heavy flashing red lantern on a long cord until it hangs close above the Perciplex. The day is windless and accuracy shou
ld be fine.”

  Osherl, for reasons of caprice, now took upon himself the guise of a middle-aged Walvoon shopkeeper dressed in baggy black breeches, a mustard-ocher vest and a wide-brimmed black hat. He took the pleurmalion in a pudgy hand, mounted the sky on three lunging strides.

  “With any luck,” Rhialto told Shalukhe, “my irksome task is close to its end, whereupon we will return to the relative calm of the twenty-first aeon … What’s this? Osherl back so soon?”

  Osherl jumped down from the sky to the rug before the pavilion. He made a negative signal and Rhialto uttered a poignant cry. “Why have you not located the Perciplex?”

  Osherl gave his fat shop-keeper’s face a doleful shake. “The sky-spot is absorbed in the mists and cannot be seen. The pleurmalion is useless.”

  Rhialto snatched the device and sprang high through the air, into the clouds and out, to stand in the acrid vermilion radiance. He put the pleurmalion to his eye, but, as Osherl had asserted, the sky-spot no longer could be seen.

  For a period Rhialto stood on the white expanse, casting a long pale blue shadow. With frowning attention he examined the pleurmalion, then again looked around the sky, to no avail.

  Something was amiss. Staring thoughtfully off across the white cloud-waste, Rhialto pondered the conceivable cases. Had the Perciplex been moved? Perhaps the pleurmalion had lost its force? … Rhialto returned to the pavilion.

  Osherl stood to the side, gazing vacantly toward the mouldering ruins. Rhialto called out: “Osherl! A moment of your time, if you please.”

  Osherl approached without haste, to stand with hands thrust into the pockets of his striped pantaloons. Rhialto stood waiting, tossing the pleurmalion from one hand to the other, and watching Osherl with a pensive gaze.

  “Well then, Rhialto: what now?” asked Osherl, with an attempt at ease of manner.

  “Osherl, who suggested to you that the projection of the Perciplex might be captured by the overcast?”

  Osherl waved one of his hands in a debonair flourish. “To an astute intellect, so much is apparent.”

  “But you lack an astute intellect. Who provided this insight?”