“I am more inclined to punish Hurtiancz for his crassness,” said Ildefonse. “But now he simulates a swinish stupidity to escape my anger.”
“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?”
