Rhialto the Marvellous

by Jack Vance

In mock chagrin Ildefonse protested: “The wine is sound; have you yet been poisoned at my board?”

  “No. But never have circumstances been as they are today.”

  Ildefonse made a sign of wonder. “The circumstances are favorable! We have vanquished our enemy; his IOUN stones are under our control!”

  “True,” said Rhialto. “But remember the damages I have suffered! I claim corresponding benefits, of which my enemies would be pleased to deprive me.”

  “Tush,” scolded Ildefonse. “Let us talk on a more cheerful note. How goes the renewal of your way-post? The Minuscules carve with zest?”

  “The work proceeds,” Rhialto replied. “Their tastes are by no means coarse. For this single week their steward has required two ounces of honey, a gill of Misericord, a dram and a half of malt spirits, all in addition to biscuit, oil and a daily ration of my best thrush pâté.”

  Ildefonse shook his head in disapproval. “They become ever more splendid, and who must pay the score? You and I. So the world goes.” He turned away to refill the goblet of the burly Hurtiancz.

  “I have made investigation,” said Hurtiancz ponderously, “and I find that Xexamedes had gone among us for years. He seems to have been a renegade, as unwelcome on Jangk as on Earth.”

  “He may still be the same,” Ildefonse pointed out. “Who found his corpse? No one! Haze here declares that electricity to an archveult is like water to a fish.”

  “This is the case,” declared Haze of Wheary Water, a hot-eyed wisp of a man.

  “In that event, the damage done to my property becomes more irresponsible than ever!” cried Rhialto. “I demand compensation before any other general adjustments are made.”

  Hurtiancz frowned. “I fail to comprehend your meaning.”

  “It is elegantly simple,” said Rhialto. “I suffered serious damage; the balance must be restored. I intend to claim the IOUN stones.”

  “You will find yourself one among many,” said Hurtiancz.

  Haze of Wheary Water gave a sardonic snort. “Claim as you please.”

  Mune the Mage came forward. “The archveult is barely dead; must we bicker so quickly?”

  Eshmiel asked, “Is he dead after all? Observe this!” He displayed a linden leaf. “I found it on my blue tile kurtivan. It reads, ‘NOTHING THREATENS MORREION’.”

  “I also found such a leaf!” declared Haze.

  “And I!” said Hurtiancz.

  “How the centuries roll, one past the other!” mused Ildefonse. “Those were the days of glory, when we sent the archveults flitting like a band of giant bats! Poor Morreion! I have often puzzled as to his fate.”

  Eshmiel frowned down at his leaf. “‘NOTHING THREATENS MORREION’ — so we are assured. If such is the case, the notice would seem superfluous and over-helpful.”

  “It is quite clear,” Gilgad grumbled. “Morreion went forth to learn the source of the IOUN stones; he did so, and now is threatened by nothing.”

  “A possible interpretation,” said Ildefonse in a pontifical voice. “There is certainly more here than meets the eye.”

  “It need not trouble us now,” said Rhialto. “To the IOUN stones in present custody, however, I now put forward a formal claim, as compensation for the damage I took in the common cause.”

  “The statement has a specious plausibility,” remarked Gilgad. “Essentially, however, each must benefit in proportion to his contribution. I do not say this merely because it was my Instantaneous Electric Effort which blasted the archveult.”

  Ao of the Opals said sharply, “Another casuistic assumption which must be rejected out-of-hand, especially since the providential energy allowed Xexamedes to escape!”

  The argument continued an hour. Finally a formula proposed by Ildefonse was put to vote and approved by a count of fifteen to one. The goods formerly owned by the archveult Xexamedes were to be set out for inspection. Each magician would list the items in order of choice; Ildefonse would collate the lists. Where conflict occurred determination must be made by lot. Rhialto, in recognition of his loss, was granted a free selection after Choice five had been determined; Gilgad was accorded the same privilege after Choice ten.

  Rhialto made a final expostulation: “What value to me is Choice five? The archveult owned nothing but the stones, a few banal adjuncts and these roots, herbs and elixirs.”

  His views carried no weight. Ildefonse distributed sheets of paper; each magician listed the articles he desired; Ildefonse examined each list in turn. “It appears,” he said, “that all present declare their first choice to be the IOUN stones.”

  Everyone glanced towards the stones; they winked and twinkled with pale white fire.

  “Such being the case,” said Ildefonse, “determination must be made by chance.”

  He set forth a crockery pot and sixteen ivory disks. “Each will indite his sign upon one of the chips and place it into the pot, in this fashion.” Ildefonse marked one of the chips, dropped it into the pot. “When all have done so, I will call in a servant, who will bring forth a single chip.”

  “A moment!” exclaimed Byzant. “I apprehend mischief; it walks somewhere near.”

  Ildefonse turned the sensitive Necrope a glance of cold inquiry. “To what mischief do you refer?”

  “I detect a contradiction, a discord; something strange walks among us; there is someone here who should not be here.”

  “Someone moves unseen!” cried Mune the Mage. “Ildefonse, guard the stones!”

  Ildefonse peered here and there through the shadowy old hall. He made a secret signal and pointed to a far corner: “Ghost! Are you on hand?”

  A soft sad whisper said, “I am here.”

  “Respond: who walks unseen among us?”

  “Stagnant eddies of the past. I see faces: the less-than-ghosts, the ghosts of dead ghosts … They glimmer and glimpse, they look and go.”

  “What of living things?”

  “No harsh blood, no pulsing flesh, no strident hearts.”

  “Guard and watch.” Ildefonse returned to Byzant the Necrope. “What now?”

  “I feel a strange flavor.”

  “What do you suggest then?”

  Byzant spoke softly, to express the exquisite delicacy of his concepts. “Among all here, I alone am sufficiently responsive to the subtlety of the IOUN stones. They should be placed in my custody.”

  “Let the drawing proceed!” Hurtiancz called out. “Byzant’s plan will never succeed.”

  “Be warned!” cried Byzant. With a black glance towards Hurtiancz, he moved to the rear of the group.

  Ildefonse summoned one of his maidens. “Do not be alarmed. You must reach into the pot, thoroughly stir the chips, and bring forth one, which you will then lay upon the table. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Lord Magician.”

  “Do as I bid.”

  The girl went to the pot. She reached forth her hand. At this precise instant Rhialto activated a spell of Temporal Stasis, with which, in anticipation of some such emergency, he had come prepared.

  Time stood still for all but Rhialto. He glanced around the chamber, at the magicians in their frozen attitudes, at the servant girl with one hand over the pot, at Ildefonse staring at the girl’s elbow.

  Rhialto leisurely sauntered over to the IOUN stones. He could now take possession, but such an act would arouse a tremendous outcry and all would league themselves against him. A less provocative system was in order. He was startled by a soft sound from the corner of the room, when there should be no sound in still air.

  “Who moves?” called Rhialto.

  “I move,” came the soft voice of the ghost.

  “Time is at a standstill. You must not move, or speak, or watch, or know.”

  “Time, no-time — it is all one. I know each instant over and over.”

  Rhialto shrugged and turned to the urn. He brought out the chips. To his wonder each was indited ‘Ildefonse’.

  “Aha!” exclaimed Rhialto. “Some crafty rascal select
ed a previous instant for his mischief! Is it not always the case? At the end of this, he and I will know each other the better!” Rhialto rubbed out Ildefonse’s signs and substituted his own. Then he replaced all in the pot.

  Resuming his former position, he revoked the spell.

  Noise softly filled the room. The girl reached into the pot. She stirred the chips, brought forth one of them which she placed upon the table. Rhialto leaned over the chip, as did Ildefonse. It gave a small jerk. The sign quivered and changed before their eyes.

  Ildefonse lifted it and in a puzzled voice read, “Gilgad!”

  Rhialto glanced furiously at Gilgad, who gave back a bland stare. Gilgad had also halted time, but Gilgad had waited until the chip was actually upon the table.

  Ildefonse said in a muffled voice, “That is all. You may go.” The girl departed. Ildefonse poured the chips on the table. They were correctly indited; each bore the sign or the signature of one of the magicians present. Ildefonse pulled at his white beard. He said, “It seems that Gilgad has availed himself of the IOUN stones.”

  Gilgad strode to the table. He emitted a terrible cry. “The stones! What has been done to them?” He held up the net, which now sagged under the weight of its contents. The brooding translucence was gone; the objects in the net shone with a vulgar vitreous glitter. Gilgad took one and dashed it to the floor, where it shattered into splinters. “These are not the IOUN stones! Knavery is afoot!”

  “Indeed!” declared Ildefonse. “So much is clear.”

  “I demand my stones,” raved Gilgad. “Give them to me at once or I loose a spell of anguish against all present!”

  “One moment,” growled Hurtiancz. “Delay your spell. Ildefonse, bring forth your ghost; learn what transpired.”

  Ildefonse gave his beard a dubious tug, then raised his finger towards the far corner. “Ghost! Are you at hand?”

  “I am.”

  “What occurred while we drew chips from the pot?”

  “There was motion. Some moved, some stayed. When the chip at last was laid on the table, a strange shape passed into the room. It took the stones and was gone.”

  “What manner of strange shape?”

  “It wore a skin of blue scales; black plumes rose from its head, still it carried a soul of man.”

  “Archveult!” muttered Hurtiancz. “I suspect Xexamedes!”

  Gilgad cried, “So then, what of my stones, my wonderful stones? How will I regain my property? Must I always be stripped of my valued possessions?”

  “Cease your keening!” snapped the diabolist Shrue. “The remaining items must be distributed. Ildefonse, be so good as to consult the lists.”

  Ildefonse took up the papers. “Since Gilgad won the first draw, his list will now be withdrawn. For second choice —”

  He was interrupted by Gilgad’s furious complaint. “I protest this intolerable injustice! I won nothing but a handful of glass gewgaws!”

  Ildefonse shrugged. “It is the robber-archveult to whom you must complain, especially when the drawing was attended by certain temporal irregularities, to which I need make no further reference.”

  Gilgad raised his arms in the air; his saturnine face knotted to the surge and counter-surge of his passions. His colleagues watched with dispassionate faces. “Proceed, Ildefonse,” said Vermoulian the Dream-walker.

  Ildefonse spread out the papers. “It appears that among the group only Rhialto has selected, for second choice, this curiously shaped device, which appears to be one of Houlart’s Preterite Recordiums. I therefore make this award and place Rhialto’s list with Gilgad’s. Perdustin, Barbanikos, Ao of the Opals, and I myself have evinced a desire for this Casque of Sixty Directions, and we must therefore undertake a trial by lot. The jar, four chips —”

  “On this occasion,” said Perdustin, “let the maid be brought here now. She will put her hand over the mouth of the pot; we will insert the chips between her fingers; thus we ensure against a disruption of the laws of chance.”

  Ildefonse pulled at his white whiskers, but Perdustin had his way. In this fashion all succeeding lots were drawn. Presently it became Rhialto’s turn to make a free choice.

  “Well then, Rhialto,” said Ildefonse. “What do you select?”

  Rhialto’s resentment boiled up in his throat. “As restitution for my seventeen exquisite bird-women, my ten-thousand-year-old way-post, I am supposed to be gratified with this packet of Stupefying Dust?”

  Ildefonse spoke soothingly. “Human interactions, stimulated as they are by disequilibrium, never achieve balance. In even the most favorable transaction, one party — whether he realizes it or not — must always come out the worse.”

  “The proposition is not unknown to me,” said Rhialto in a more reasonable voice. “However —”

  Zilifant uttered a sudden startled cry. “Look!” He pointed to the great mantel-piece; here, camouflaged by the carving, hung a linden leaf. With trembling fingers Ildefonse plucked it down. Silver characters read:

  MORREION LIVES A DREAM.

  NOTHING IS IMMINENT!

  “Ever more confusing,” muttered Hurtiancz. “Xexamedes persists in reassuring us that all is well with Morreion: an enigmatic exercise!”

  “It must be remembered,” the ever cautious Haze pointed out, “that Xexamedes, a renegade, is enemy to all.”

  Herark the Harbinger held up a black-enameled forefinger. “My habit is to make each problem declare its obverse. The first message, ‘NOTHING THREATENS MORREION’, becomes ‘SOMETHING DOES NOT THREATEN MORREION’; and again, ‘NOTHING DOES THREATEN MORREION’.”

  “Verbiage, prolixity!” grumbled the practical Hurtiancz.

  “Not so fast!” said Zilifant. “Herark is notoriously profound! ‘NOTHING’ might be intended as a delicate reference to death; a niceness of phrase, so to speak.”

  “Was Xexamedes famous for his exquisite good taste?” asked Hurtiancz with heavy sarcasm. “I think not. Like myself, when he meant ‘death’ he said ‘death’.”

  “My point exactly!” cried Herark. “I ask myself: What is the ‘Nothing’, which threatens Morreion? Shrue, what or where is ‘Nothing’?”

  Shrue hunched his thin shoulders. “It is not to be found among the demon-lands.”

  “Vermoulian, in your peregrine palace you have traveled far. Where or what is ‘Nothing’?”

  Vermoulian the Dream-walker declared his perplexity. “I have never discovered such a place.”

  “Mune the Mage: What or where is ‘Nothing’?”

  “Somewhere,” reflected Mune the Mage, “I have seen a reference to ‘Nothing’, but I cannot recall the connection.”

  “The key word is ‘reference’,” stated Herark. “Ildefonse, be so good as to consult the Great Gloss.”

  Ildefonse selected a volume from a shelf, threw back the broad covers. “‘Nothing’. Various topical references … a metaphysical description … a place? ‘Nothing: the nonregion beyond the end of the cosmos.’”

  Hurtiancz suggested, “For good measure, why not consult the entry ‘Morreion’?”

  Somewhat reluctantly Ildefonse found the reference. He read: “‘Morreion: A legendary hero of the 21st Aeon, who vanquished the archveults and drove them, aghast, to Jangk. Thereupon they took him as far as the mind can reach, to the shining fields where they win their IOUN stones. His erstwhile comrades, who had vowed their protection, put him out of mind, and thereafter nought can be said.’ A biased and inaccurate statement, but interesting nonetheless.”

  Vermoulian the Dream-walker rose to his feet. “I have been planning an extended journey in my palace; this being the case I will take it upon myself to seek Morreion.”

  Gilgad gave a croak of fury and dismay. “You think to explore the ‘shining fields’! It is I who has earned the right, not you!”

  Vermoulian, a large man, sleek as a seal, with a pallid inscrutable face, declared: “My exclusive purpose is to rescue the hero Morreion; the IOUN stones to me are no more than an idle aft
erthought.”

  Ildefonse spoke: “Well said! But you will work more efficaciously with a very few trusted colleagues; perhaps myself alone.”

  “Precisely correct!” asserted Rhialto. “But a third person of proved resource is necessary in the event of danger. I also will share the hardships; otherwise I would think ill of myself.”

  Hurtiancz spoke with truculent fervor. “I never have been one to hold back! You may rely on me.”

  “The presence of a Necrope is indispensable,” stated Byzant. “I must therefore accompany the group.”

  Vermoulian asserted his preference for traveling alone, but no one would listen. Vermoulian at last capitulated, with a peevish droop to his usually complacent countenance. “I leave at once. If any are not at the palace within the hour I will understand that they have changed their minds.”

  “Come, come!” chided Ildefonse. “I need three-and-a-half hours simply to instruct my staff! We require more time.”

  “The message declared, ‘Nothing is imminent’,” said Vermoulian. “Haste is of the essence!”

  “We must take the word in its context,” said Ildefonse. “Morreion has known his present condition several aeons; the word ‘imminent’ may well designate a period of five hundred years.”

  With poor grace Vermoulian agreed to delay his departure until the following morning.

  5

  The ancient sun sank behind the Scaum hills; thin black clouds hung across the maroon afterlight. Rhialto arrived at the outer portal to his domain. He gave a signal and waited confidently for Puiras to lift the boundary curse.

  The manse showed no responsive sign.

  Rhialto made another signal, stamping impatiently. From the nearby forest of sprawling kang trees came the moaning of a grue, arousing the hairs at the back of Rhialto’s neck. He flashed his finger-beams once more: where was Puiras? The white jade tiles of the roof loomed pale through the twilight. He saw no lights. From the forest the grue moaned again and in a plaintive voice called out for solace. Rhialto tested the boundary with a branch, to discover no curse, no protection whatever.

  Flinging down the branch, he strode to the manse. All seemed to be in order, though Puiras was nowhere to be found. If he had scoured the hall the effort was not noticeable. Shaking his head in deprecation, Rhialto went to examine the way-post, which was being repaired by his Minuscules. The superintendent flew up on a mosquito to render his report; it seemed that Puiras had neglected to set out the evening victuals. Rhialto did so now and added half an ounce of jellied eel at his own expense.