“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 afterthought.”

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.

With a dram of Blue Ruin at his elbow, Rhialto examined the convoluted tubes of bronze which he had brought from the castle of Ildefonse: the so-called Preterite Recordium. He tried to trace the course of the tubes but they wound in and out in a most confusing fashion. He gingerly pressed one of the valves, to evoke a sibilant whispering from the horn. He touched another, and now he heard a far-off guttural song. The sound came not from the horn, but from the pathway, and a moment later Puiras lurched through the door. He turned a vacuous leer toward Rhialto and staggered off toward his quarters.

Rhialto called sharply: “Puiras!”

The servitor lurched about. “What then?”

“You have taken too much to drink; in consequence you are drunk.”

Puiras ventured a knowing smirk. “Your perspicacity is keen, your language is exact. I take no exception to either remark.”

Rhialto said, “I have no place for an irresponsible or bibulous servant. You are hereby discharged.”

“No, you don’t!” cried Puiras in a coarse voice, and emphasized the statement with a belch. “They told me I’d have a good post if I stole no more than old Funk and praised your noble airs. Well then! Tonight I stole only moderately, and from me the lack of insult is high praise. So there’s the good post and what’s a good post without a walk to the village?”

“Puiras, you are dangerously intoxicated,” said Rhialto. “What a disgusting sight you are indeed!”

“No compliments!” roared Puiras. “We can’t all be fine magicians with fancy clothes at the snap of a finger.”

In outrage Rhialto rose to his feet. “Enough! Be off to your quarters before I inflict a torment upon you!”

“That’s where I was going when you called me back,” replied Puiras sulkily.

Rhialto conceived a further rejoinder to be beneath his dignity. Puiras stumbled away, muttering under his breath.

6