Puiras, a man spare and loose-jointed, with a bony face and lank black hair, gave a dour nod. “Except for a single matter. When I have accomplished all this, what else?”
Rhialto, drawing on his cloth-of-gold gauntlets, glanced sidewise at his servant. Stupidity? Zeal? Churlish sarcasm? Puiras’ visage offered no clue. Rhialto spoke in an even voice. “Upon completion of these tasks, your time is your own. Do not tamper with the magical engines; do not, for your life, consult the portfolios, the librams or the compendiary. In due course, I may instruct you in a few minor dints; until then, be cautious!”
“I will indeed.”
Rhialto adjusted his six-tiered black satin hat, donned his cloak with that flourish which had earned him his soubriquet ‘the Marvellous’. “I go to visit Ildefonse. When I pass the outer gate impose the boundary curse; under no circumstances lift it until I signal. Expect me at sunset: sooner, if all goes well.”
Making no effort to interpret Puiras’ grunt, Rhialto sauntered to the north portal, averting his eyes from the wreckage of his wonderful aviary. Barely had he passed the portal by, when Puiras activated the curse, prompting Rhialto to jump hastily forward. Rhialto adjusted the set of his hat. The ineptitude of Puiras was but one in a series of misfortunes, all attributable to the archveult Xexamedes. His aviary destroyed, the way-post shattered, old Funk dead! From some source compensation must be derived!
4
Ildefonse lived in a castle above the River Scaum: a vast and complex structure of a hundred turrets, balconies, elevated pavilions and pleasaunces. During the final ages of the 21st Aeon, when Ildefonse had served as preceptor, the castle had seethed with activity. Now only a single wing of this monstrous edifice was in use, with the rest abandoned to dust, owls and archaic ghosts.
Ildefonse met Rhialto at the bronze portal. “My dear colleague, splendid as usual! Even on an occasion like that of today! You put me to shame!” Ildefonse stood back the better to admire Rhialto’s austerely handsome visage, his fine blue cloak and trousers of rose velvet, his glossy boots. Ildefonse himself, for reasons obscure, presented himself in the guise of a jovial sage, with bald pate, a lined countenance, pale blue eyes, an irregular white beard — conceivably a natural condition which vanity would not let him discard.
“Come in, then,” cried Ildefonse. “As always, with your sense of drama, you are last to arrive!”
They proceeded to the great hall. On hand were fourteen sorcerers: Zilifant, Perdustin, Herark the Harbinger, Haze of Wheary Water, Ao of the Opals, Eshmiel, Kilgas, Byzant the Necrope, Gilgad, Vermoulian the Dream-walker, Barbanikos, the diabolist Shrue, Mune the Mage, Hurtiancz. Ildefonse called out, “The last of our cabal has arrived: Rhialto the Marvellous, at whose manse the culminating stroke occurred!”
Rhialto doffed his hat to the group. Some returned the salute; others, Gilgad, Byzant the Necrope, Mune the Mage, Kilgas, merely cast cool glances over their shoulders.
Ildefonse took Rhialto by the arm and led him to the buffet. Rhialto accepted a goblet of wine, which he tested with his amulet.
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.”
