“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 selected 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.”