“Useless,” said Ildefonse. “Their IOUN stones absorb the magic.”
The archveults in their turn became active. Three ports opened; three spells simultaneously issued forth, to be intercepted by Morreion’s IOUN stones, which momentarily pulsed the brighter.
Morreion stepped three paces forward. He pointed his finger; force struck at the osmium door. It creaked and rattled, but held firm.
Morreion pointed his finger at the fragile pink nacre; the force slid away and was wasted.
Morreion pointed at the stone posts which supported the castle. They burst apart. The castle lurched, rolled over and down the crags. It bounced from jut to jut, smashing and shattering, and splashed into the Quicksilver Ocean, where a current caught it and carried it out to sea. Through rents in the nacre the archveults crawled forth, to clamber to the top. More followed, until their accumulated weight rolled the pearl over, throwing all on top into the quicksilver sea, where they sank as deep as their thighs. Some tried to walk and leap to the shore, others lay flat on their backs and sculled with their hands. A gust of wind caught the pink bubble and sent it rolling across the sea, tossing off archveults as a turning wheel flings away drops of water. A band of Jangk harpies put out from the shore to envelop and devour the archveults closest at hand; the others allowed themselves to drift on the current and out to sea, where they were lost to view.
Morreion turned slowly toward the magicians of Earth. His face was gray. “A fiasco,” he muttered. “It is nothing.”
Slowly he walked toward the palace. At the steps he stopped short. “What did they mean: ‘The real culprits’?”
“A figure of speech,” replied Ildefonse. “Come up on the pavilion; we will refresh ourselves with wine. At last your vengeance is complete. And now …” His voice died as Morreion climbed the steps. One of the bright blue stones lost its color. Morreion stiffened as if at a twinge of pain. He swung around to look from magician to magician. “I remember a certain face: a man with a bald head; black beardlets hung from each of his cheeks. He was a burly man … What was his name?”
“These events are far in the past,” said the diabolist Shrue. “Best to put them out of mind.”
Other blue stones became dull: Morreion’s eyes seemed to assume the light they had lost.
“The archveults came to Earth. We conquered them. They begged for their lives. So much I recall … The chief magician demanded the secret of the IOUN stones. Ah! What was his name! He had a habit of pulling on his black beardlets … A handsome man, a great popinjay — I almost see his face — he made a proposal to the chief magician. Ah! Now it begins to come clear!” The blue stones faded one by one. Morreion’s face shone with a white fire. The last of the blue stones went pallid.
Morreion spoke in a soft voice, a delicate voice, as if he savored each word. “The chief magician’s name was Ildefonse. The popinjay was Rhialto. I remember each detail. Rhialto proposed that I go to learn the secret; Ildefonse vowed to protect me, as if I were his own life. I trusted them; I trusted all the magicians in the chamber: Gilgad was there, and Hurtiancz and Mune the Mage and Perdustin. All my dear friends, who joined in a solemn vow to make the archveults hostage for my safety. Now I know the culprits. The archveults dealt with me as an enemy. My friends sent me forth and never thought of me again. Ildefonse — what have you to say, before you go to wait out twenty aeons in a certain place of which I know?”
Ildefonse said bluffly, “Come now, you must not take matters so seriously. All’s well that ends well; we are now happily reunited and the secret of the IOUN stones is ours!”
“For each pang I suffered, you shall suffer twenty,” said Morreion. “Rhialto as well, and Gilgad, and Mune, and Herark and all the rest. Vermoulian, lift the palace. Return us the way we have come. Put double fire to the incense.”
Rhialto looked at Ildefonse, who shrugged.
“Unavoidable,” said Rhialto. He evoked the Spell of Temporal Stasis. Silence fell upon the scene. Each person stood like a monument.
Rhialto bound Morreion’s arms to his side with swaths of tape. He strapped Morreion’s ankles together, and wrapped bandages into Morreion’s mouth, to prevent him uttering a sound. He found a net and, capturing the IOUN stones, drew them down about Morreion’s head, in close contact with his scalp. As an afterthought he taped a blindfold over Morreion’s eyes.
He could do no more. He dissolved the spell. Ildefonse was already walking across the pavilion. Morreion jerked and thrashed in disbelief. Ildefonse and Rhialto lowered him to the marble floor.
“Vermoulian,” said Ildefonse, “be so good as to call forth your staff. Have them bring a trundle and convey Morreion to a dark room. He must rest for a spell.”
13
Rhialto found his manse as he had left it, with the exception of the way-post, which was complete. Well satisfied, Rhialto went into one of his back rooms. Here he broke open a hole into subspace and placed therein the netful of IOUN stones which he carried. Some gleamed incandescent blue; others were mingled scarlet and blue; the rest shone deep red, pink, pink and green, pale green, and pale lavender.
Rhialto shook his head ruefully and closed the dimension down upon the stones. Returning to his work-room he located Puiras among the Minuscules and restored him to size.
“Once and for all, Puiras, I find that I no longer need your services. You may join the Minuscules, or you may take your pay and go.”
Puiras gave a roar of protest. “I worked my fingers to the bone; is this all the thanks I get?”
“I do not care to argue with you; in fact, I have already engaged your replacement.”
Puiras eyed the tall vague-eyed man who had wandered into the work-room. “Is this the fellow? I wish him luck. Give me my money; and none of your magic gold, which goes to sand!”
Puiras took his money and went his way. Rhialto spoke to the new servitor. “For your first task, you may clear up the wreckage of the aviary. If you find corpses, drag them to the side; I will presently dispose of them. Next, the tile of the great hall …”
-- THE END --
About the Author
Jack Vance (1916 – )
Jack Vance was born in 1916 and studied mining, engineering and journalism at the University of California. During the Second World War he served in the merchant navy and was torpedoed twice.
Author Jack Vance has been central to both science fiction and fantasy since 1945, publishing nearly ninety novels and collections. He has received every major genre award, including the Edgar, Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy and Science Fiction Writers of America Grand Master.
Beginning in the late 1940s, Vance contributed a variety of short stories and novels to the pulp magazines, but nothing of this early work, dependent as it was on pulp conventions, prefigured the mature Vance. The change began with his first published book, The Dying Earth (1950). The novel's convincing articulation of a future Earth in which magic has replaced science was instantly influential, and remains so to the present, continuing to inspire authors and game designers.
Vance's second original contribution to the science fiction and fantasy fields was his sophisticated approach to the "planetary romance," a style of science fiction tale in which the setting is a richly detailed planet, the characteristics of which significantly effect the plot. Vance's work not only expanded this genre's existing archetypes, but established several new ones, significantly inspiring other authors to this day.
As Vance's created worlds became richer and more complex, so too did his style. His writing had always tended toward the baroque, but by the early 1960s it had developed into an effective, high-mannered diction, saturated with a rich but distanced irony. His resulting genius of place, and command as a landscape artist and gardener of worlds has rarely been matched.
Also By Jack Vance
The Dying Earth
1. The Dying Earth (1950) (aka Mazirian the Magician)
