by Jack Vance
“Absolute falsity!” roared Hurtiancz. “I simulate nothing!”
Ildefonse shrugged. “For all his deficiencies as polemicist and magician, Hurtiancz at least is candid.”
Hurtiancz controlled his fury. He said, “Who could defeat your volubility? As a magician, however, I outmatch your bumbling skills as Rhialto the Marvellous exceeds your rheumy decrepitude.”
Ildefonse in his turn became angry. “A test!” He flung up his hand; the massive blocks scattered in all directions; they stood on a vacant floor in the full glare of sunlight. “What of that?”
“Trivial,” said Hurtiancz. “Match this!” He held up his two hands; from each finger issued a jet of vivid smoke in ten different colors.
“The pretty prank of a charlatan,” declared Ildefonse. “Now watch! I utter a word: ‘Roof!’” The word leaving his lips hesitated in the air, in the form of symbol, then moved out in a wide circle, to impinge upon the roof of one of the strangely styled structures still extant. The symbol disappeared; the roof glowed a vivid orange and melted to spawn a thousand symbols like the word Ildefonse had sent forth. These darted high in the sky, stopped short, disappeared. From above, like a great clap of thunder, came Ildefonse’s voice: “ROOF!”
“No great matter,” stated Hurtiancz. “Now —”
“Hist!” said Mune the Mage. “Cease your drunken quarrel. Look yonder!”
From the structure whose roof Ildefonse had demolished came a man.
9
The man stood in the doorway. He was impressively tall. A long white beard hung down his chest; white hair covered his ears; his eyes glittered black. He wore an elegant caftan woven in patterns of dark red, brown, black and blue. Now he stepped forward, and it could be seen that he trailed a cloud of glowing objects. Gilgad, who had returned from the plaza, instantly set up a shout: “The IOUN stones!”
The man came forward. His face showed an expression of calm inquiry. Ildefonse muttered, “It is Morreion! Of this there can be no doubt. The stature, the stance — they are unmistakable!”
“It is Morreion,” Rhialto agreed. “But why is he so calm, as if each week he received visitors who took off his roof, as if ‘Nothing’ loomed over someone else?”
“His perceptions may have become somewhat dulled,” Herark suggested. “Notice: he evinces no signal of human recognition.”
Morreion came slowly forward, the IOUN stones swirling in his wake. The magicians gathered before the marble steps of the palace. Vermoulian stepped forth and raised his hand. “Hail, Morreion! We have come to take you from this intolerable isolation!”
Morreion looked from one face to the other. He made a guttural sound, then a rasping croak, as if trying organs whose use he had long forgotten.
Ildefonse now presented himself. “Morreion, my comrade! It is I, Ildefonse; do you not remember the old days at Kammerbrand? Speak then!”
“I hear,” croaked Morreion. “I speak, but I do not remember.”
Vermoulian indicated the marble stairs. “Step aboard, if you will; we depart this dreary world at once.”
Morreion made no move. He examined the palace with a frown of vexation. “You have placed your flying hut upon the area where I dry my skeins.”
Ildefonse pointed toward the black wall, which through the haze of the atmosphere showed only as a portentous shadow. “‘Nothing’ looms close. It is about to impinge upon this world, whereupon you will be no more; in short, you will be dead.”
“I am not clear as to your meaning,” said Morreion. “If you will excuse me, I must be away and about my affairs.”
“A quick question before you go,” spoke Gilgad. “Where does one find IOUN stones?”
Morreion looked at him without comprehension. At last he gave his attention to the stones, which swirled with a swifter motion. In comparison, those of the archveult Xexamedes were listless and dull. These danced and curveted, and sparkled with different colors. Closest to Morreion’s head moved the lavender and the pale green stones, as if they thought themselves the most loved and most privileged. Somewhat more wayward were the stones glowing pink and green together; then came stones of a proud pure pink, then the royal carmine stones, then the red and blue; and finally, at the outer periphery, a number of stones glittering with intense blue lights.
As Morreion cogitated, the magicians noted a peculiar circumstance: certain of the innermost lavender stones lost their glow and became as dull as the stones of Xexamedes.
Morreion gave a slow thoughtful nod. “Curious! So much which I seem to have forgotten … I did not always live here,” he said in a voice of surprise. “There was at one time another place. The memory is dim and remote.”
Vermoulian said, “That place is Earth! It is where we will take you.”
Morreion smilingly shook his head. “I am just about to start on an important journey.”
“Is the trip absolutely necessary?” inquired Mune the Mage. “Our time is limited, and even more to the point, we do not care to be engulfed in ‘Nothing’.”
“I must see to my cairns,” said Morreion in a mild but definite manner.
For a moment there was silence. Then Ildefonse asked, “What is the purpose of these cairns?”
Morreion used the even voice of one speaking to a child. “They indicate the most expeditious route around my world. Without the cairns it is possible to go astray.”
“But remember, there is no longer need for such landmarks,” said Ao of the Opals. “You will be returning to Earth with us!”
Morreion could not restrain a small laugh at the obtuse persistence of his visitors. “Who would look after my properties? How could I fare if my cairns toppled, if my looms broke, if my kilns crumbled, if my other enterprises dissolved, and all for the lack of methodical care?”
Vermoulian said blandly, “At least come aboard the palace to share our evening banquet.”
“It will be my pleasure,” replied Morreion. He mounted the marble steps, to gaze with pleasure around the pavilion. “Charming. I must consider something of this nature as a forecourt for my new mansion.”
“There will be insufficient time,” Rhialto told him.
“‘Time’?” Morreion frowned as if the word were unfamiliar to him. Other of the lavender stones suddenly went pale. “Time indeed! But time is required to do a proper job! This gown for instance.” He indicated his gorgeously patterned caftan. “The weaving required four years. Before that I gathered beast-fur for ten years; then for another two years I bleached and dyed and spun. My cairns were built a stone at a time, each time I wandered around the world. My wanderlust has waned somewhat, but I occasionally make the journey, to rebuild where necessary, and to note the changes of the landscape.”
Rhialto pointed to the sun. “Do you recognize the nature of that object?”
Morreion frowned. “I call it ‘the sun’ — though why I have chosen this particular term escapes me.”
“There are many such suns,” said Rhialto. “Around one of them swings that ancient and remarkable world which gave you birth. Do you remember Earth?”
Morreion looked dubiously up into the sky. “I have seen none of these other suns you describe. At night my sky is quite dark; there is no other light the world over save the glow of my fires. It is a peaceful world indeed … I seem to recall more eventful times.” The last of the lavender stones and certain of the green stones lost their color. Morreion’s eyes became momentarily intent. He went to inspect the tame water-nymphs which sported in the central fountain. “And what might be these glossy little creatures? They are most appealing.”
“They are quite fragile, and useful only as show,” said Vermoulian. “Come, Morreion, my valet will help you prepare for the banquet.”
“You are most gracious,” said Morreion.
10
The magicians awaited their guest in the grand salon. Each had his own opinion of the circumstances. Rhialto said, “Best that we raise the palace now and so be off and away. Morreion ma
y be agitated for a period, but when all the facts are laid before him he must surely see reason.”
The cautious Perdustin demurred. “There is power in the man! At one time, his magic was a source of awe and wonder; what if in a fit of pique he wreaks a harm upon all of us?”
Gilgad endorsed Perdustin’s view. “Everyone has noted Morreion’s IOUN stones. Where did he acquire them? Can this world be the source?”
“Such a possibility should not automatically be dismissed,” admitted Ildefonse. “Tomorrow, when the imminence of ‘Nothing’ is described, Morreion will surely depart without resentment.”
So the matter rested. The magicians turned their discussion to other aspects of this dismal world.
Herark the Harbinger, who had skill as a cognizancer, attempted to divine the nature of the race which had left ruins across the planet, without notable success. “They have been gone too long; their influence has waned. I seem to discern creatures with thin white legs and large green eyes … I hear a whisper of their music: a jingling, a tinkle, to a rather plaintive obbligato of pipes … I sense no magic. I doubt if they recognized the IOUN stones, if in fact such exist on this planet.”
“Where else could they originate?” demanded Gilgad.
“The ‘shining fields’ are nowhere evident,” remarked Haze of Wheary Water.
Morreion entered the hall. His appearance had undergone a dramatic change. The great white beard had been shaved away; his bush of hair had been cropped to a more modish style. In the place of his gorgeous caftan he wore a garment of ivory silk with a blue sash and a pair of scarlet slippers. Morreion now stood revealed as a tall spare man, attentive and alert. Glittering black eyes dominated his face, which was taut, harsh at chin and jaw, massive of forehead, disciplined in the even lines of the mouth. The lethargy and boredom of so many aeons were nowhere evident; he moved with easy command, and behind him, darting and circling, swarmed the IOUN stones.
Morreion greeted the assembled magicians with an inclination of the head, and gave his attention to the appointments of the salon. “Magnificent and luxurious! But I will be forced to use quartz in the place of this splendid marble, and there is little silver to be found; the Sahars plundered all the surface ores. When I need metal I must tunnel deep underground.”
“You have led a busy existence,” declared Ildefonse. “And who were the Sahars?”
“The race whose ruins mar the landscape. A frivolous and irresponsible folk, though I admit that I find their poetic conundrums amusing.”
“The Sahars still exist?”
“Indeed not! They became extinct long ages ago. But they left numerous records etched on bronze, which I have taken occasion to translate.”
“A tedious job, surely!” exclaimed Zilifant. “How did you achieve so complicated a task?”
“By the process of elimination,” Morreion explained. “I tested a succession of imaginary languages against the inscriptions, and in due course I found a correspondence. As you say, the task was time-consuming; still I have had much entertainment from the Sahar chronicles. I want to orchestrate their musical revelries; but this is a task for the future, perhaps after I complete the palace I now intend.”
Ildefonse spoke in a grave voice. “Morreion, it becomes necessary to impress certain important matters upon you. You state that you have not studied the heavens?”
“Not extensively,” admitted Morreion. “There is little to be seen save the sun, and under favorable conditions a great wall of impenetrable blackness.”
“That wall of blackness,” said Ildefonse, “is ‘Nothing’, toward which your world is inexorably drifting. Any further work here is futile.”
Morreion’s black eyes glittered with doubt and suspicion. “Can you prove this assertion?”
“Certainly. Indeed we came here from Earth to rescue you.”
Morreion frowned. Certain of the green stones abruptly lost their color. “Why did you delay so long?”
Ao of the Opals gave a bray of nervous laughter, which he quickly stifled. Ildefonse turned him a furious glare.
“Only recently were we made aware of your plight,” explained Rhialto. “Upon that instant we prevailed upon Vermoulian to bring us hither in his peregrine palace.”
Vermoulian’s bland face creased in displeasure. “‘Prevailed’ is not correct!” he stated. “I was already on my way when the others insisted on coming along. And now, if you will excuse us for a few moments, Morreion and I have certain important matters to discuss.”
“Not so fast,” Gilgad cried out. “I am equally anxious to learn the source of the stones.”
Ildefonse said, “I will put the question in the presence of us all. Morreion, where did you acquire your IOUN stones?”
Morreion looked around at the stones. “To be candid, the facts are somewhat vague. I seem to recall a vast shining surface … But why do you ask? They have no great usefulness. So many ideas throng upon me. It seems that I had enemies at one time, and false friends. I must try to remember.”
Ildefonse said, “At the moment you are among your faithful friends, the magicians of Earth. And if I am not mistaken, the noble Vermoulian is about to set before us the noblest repast in any of our memories!”
Morreion said with a sour smile, “You must think my life that of a savage. Not so! I have studied the Sahar cuisine and improved upon it! The lichen which covers the plain may be prepared in at least one hundred seventy fashions. The turf beneath is the home of succulent helminths. For all its drab monotony, this world provides a bounty. If what you say is true, I shall be sorry indeed to leave.”
“The facts cannot be ignored,” said Ildefonse. “The IOUN stones, so I suppose, derive from the northern part of this world?”
“I believe not.”
“The southern area, then?”
“I rarely visit this section; the lichen is thin; the helminths are all gristle.”
A gong-stroke sounded; Vermoulian ushered the company into the dining room, where the great table glittered with silver and crystal. The magicians seated themselves under the five chandeliers; in deference to his guest who had lived so long in solitude, Vermoulian refrained from calling forth the beautiful women of ancient eras.
Morreion ate with caution, tasting all set before him, comparing the dishes to the various guises of lichen upon which he usually subsisted. “I had almost forgotten the existence of such food,” he said at last. “I am reminded, dimly, of other such feasts — so long ago, so long … Where have the years gone? Which is the dream?” As he mused, some of the pink and green stones lost their color. Morreion sighed. “There is much to be learned, much to be remembered. Certain faces here arouse flickering recollections; have I known them before?”
“You will recall all in due course,” said the diabolist Shrue. “And now, if we are certain that the IOUN stones are not to be found on this planet —”
“But we are not sure!” snapped Gilgad. “We must seek, we must search; no effort is too arduous!”
“The first to be found necessarily will go to satisfy my claims,” declared Rhialto. “This must be a definite understanding.”
Gilgad thrust his vulpine face forward. “What nonsense is this? Your claims were satisfied by a choice from the effects of the archveult Xexamedes!”
Morreion jerked around. “The archveult Xexamedes! I know this name … How? Where? Long ago I knew an archveult Xexamedes; he was my foe, or so it seems … Ah, the ideas which roil my mind!” The pink and green stones all had lost their color. Morreion groaned and put his hands to his head. “Before you came my life was placid; you have brought me doubt and wonder.”
“Doubt and wonder are the lot of all men,” said Ildefonse. “Magicians are not excluded. Are you ready to leave Sahar Planet?”
Morreion sat looking into a goblet of wine. “I must collect my books. They are all I wish to take away.”
11
Morreion conducted the magicians about his premises. The structures which had
seemed miraculous survivals had in fact been built by Morreion, after one or another mode of the Sahar architecture. He displayed his three looms: the first for fine weaves, linens and silks; the second where he contrived patterned cloths; the third where his heavy rugs were woven. The same structure housed vats, dyes, bleaches and mordants. Another building contained the glass cauldron, as well as the kilns where Morreion produced earthenware pots, plates, lamps and tiles. His forge in the same building showed little use. “The Sahars scoured the planet clean of ores. I mine only what I consider indispensable, which is not a great deal.”
Morreion took the group to his library, in which were housed many Sahar originals as well as books Morreion had written and illuminated with his own hand: translations of the Sahar classics, an encyclopedia of natural history, ruminations and speculations, a descriptive geography of the planet with appended maps. Vermoulian ordered his staff to transfer the articles to the palace.
Morreion turned a last look around the landscape he had known so long and had come to love. Then without a word he went to the palace and climbed the marble steps. In a subdued mood the magicians followed. Vermoulian went at once to the control belvedere where he performed rites of buoyancy. The palace floated up from the final planet.
Ildefonse gave an exclamation of shock. “‘Nothing’ is close at hand — more imminent than we had suspected!”
The black wall loomed startlingly near; the last star and its single world drifted at the very brink.
“The perspectives are by no means clear,” said Ildefonse. “There is no sure way of judging but it seems that we left not an hour too soon.”
“Let us wait and watch,” suggested Herark. “Morreion can learn our good faith for himself.”
So the palace hung in space, with the pallid light of the doomed sun playing upon the five crystal spires, projecting long shadows behind the magicians where they stood by the balustrade.
The Sahar world was first to encounter ‘Nothing’. It grazed against the enigmatic nonsubstance, then urged by a component of orbital motion, a quarter of the original sphere moved out clear and free: a moundlike object with a precisely flat base, where the hitherto secret strata, zones, folds, intrusions and core were displayed to sight. The sun reached ‘Nothing’; it touched, advanced. It became a half-orange on a black mirror, then sank away from reality. Darkness shrouded the palace.