“In a stately manner she walked away, into the eccentric angles of the perspective, and with every step she seemed to dwindle, either in the distance or in stature. She walked pensively, in a manner which almost might be construed as invitational. I succumbed to impulse and set out after her — first at a dignified saunter, then faster and faster until I galloped on pounding legs and finally dropped in exhaustion to the ground. Llorio turned and spoke: ‘See how the grossness of your character has caused you a foolish indignity!’

“She flicked her hand to throw down a squalm which struck me on the forehead. ‘I now give you leave to return to your manse.’ And with that she was gone.

“I awoke on the couch in my work-room. Instantly I sought out my Calanctus and applied his recommended prophylactics in full measure.”

“Most odd!” said Rhialto. “I wonder how Calanctus dealt with her.”

“Just as we must do, by forming a strong and relentless cabal.”

“Just so, but where and how? Zanzel has been ensqualmed, and certainly he is not alone.”

“Bring out your farvoyer; let us learn the worst. Some may still be saved.”

Rhialto rolled out an ornate old tabouret, waxed so many times as to appear almost black. “Who will you see first?”

“Try the staunch if mysterious Gilgad. He is a man of discrimination and not easily fooled.”

“We may still be disappointed,” said Rhialto. “When last I looked, a nervous snake might have envied the deft motion of his tongue.” He touched one of the scallops which adorned the edge of the tabouret and spoke a cantrap, to evoke the miniature of Gilgad in a construct of his near surroundings.

Gilgad stood in the kitchen of his manse Thrume, berating the cook. Rather than his customary plum-red suit, the new Gilgad wore wide rose-red pantaloons tied at waist and ankle with coquettish black ribbons. Gilgad’s black blouse displayed in tasteful embroidery a dozen red and green birds. Gilgad also used a smart new hair-style, with opulent rolls of hair over each ear, a pair of fine ruby hair-pins to hold the coiffure in place, and a costly white plume surmounting all.

Rhialto told Ildefonse: “Gilgad has been quick to accept the dictates of high fashion.”

Ildefonse held up his hand. “Listen!”

From the display came Gilgad’s thin voice, now raised in anger: “— grime and grit in profusion; it may have served during my previous half-human condition, but now many things have altered and I see the world, including this sordid kitchen, in a new light. Henceforth, I demand full punctilio! All areas and surfaces must be scoured; extreme neatness will prevail! Further! My metamorphosis will seem peculiar to certain among you, and I suppose that you will crack your little jokes. But I have keen ears and have little jokes of my own! Need I mention Kuniy, who hops about his duties on little soft feet with a mouse-tail trailing behind him, squeaking at the sight of a cat?”

Rhialto touched a scallop to remove the image of Gilgad. “Sad. Gilgad was always something of a dandy and, if you recall, his temper was often uncertain, or even acrid. Ensqualmation evidently fails to ennoble its victim. Ah well, so it goes. Who next?”

“Let us investigate Eshmiel, whose loyalty surely remains staunch.”

Rhialto touched a scallop and on the tabouret appeared Eshmiel in the dressing room of his manse Sil Soum. Eshmiel’s previous guise had been notable for its stark and absolute chiaroscuro, with the right side of his body white and the left side black. His garments had followed a similar scheme, though their cut was often bizarre or even frivolous.*

In squalmation, Eshmiel had not discarded his taste for striking contrast, but now he seemed to be wavering between such themes as blue and purple, yellow and orange, pink and umber: these being the colors adorning the mannequins ranged around the room. As Rhialto and Ildefonse watched, Eshmiel marched back and forth, inspecting first one, then another, but finding nothing suitable to his needs, which caused him an obvious vexation.

Ildefonse sighed heavily. “Eshmiel is clearly gone. Let us grit our teeth and investigate the cases first of Hurtiancz and then Dulce-Lolo.”

Magician after magician appeared on the tabouret, and in the end no doubt remained but that ensqualmation had infected all.

Rhialto spoke gloomily: “Not one of the group showed so much as a twitch of distress! All wallowed in the squalming as if it were a boon! Would you and I react in the same way?”

Ildefonse winced and pulled at his blond beard. “It makes the blood to run cold.”

“So now we are alone,” said Rhialto. “The decisions are ours to make.”

“They are not simple,” said Ildefonse after reflection. “We have come under attack: do we retaliate? If so: how? Or even: why? The world is moribund.”

“But I am not! I am Rhialto, and such treatment offends me!”

Ildefonse nodded thoughtfully. “That is an important point. I, with equal vehemence, am Ildefonse!”

“More, you are Ildefonse the Preceptor! And now you must use your legitimate powers.”

Ildefonse inspected Rhialto through blue eyes blandly half-closed. “Agreed! I nominate you to enforce my edicts!”

Rhialto ignored the pleasantry. “I am thinking of IOUN stones.”

Ildefonse sat up in his chair. “What is your exact meaning?”

“You must decree confiscation from the ensqualmated witches of all IOUN stones, on grounds of policy. Then we will work a time-stasis and send sandestins out to gather the stones.”

“All very well, but our comrades often conceal their treasures with ingenious care.”

“I must confess to a whimsical little recreation — a kind of intellectual game, as it were. Over the years I have ascertained the hiding-place of every IOUN stone current among the association. You keep yours, for instance, in the water reservoir of the convenience at the back of your work-room.”

“That, Rhialto, is an ignoble body of knowledge. Still, at this point, we cannot gag at trifles. I hereby confiscate all IOUN stones in the custody of our bewitched former comrades. Now, if you will impact the continuum with a spell, I will call in my sandestins Osherl, Ssisk and Walfing.”

“My creatures Topo and Bellume are also available for duty.”

The confiscation went with an almost excessive facility. Ildefonse declared: “We have struck an important blow. Our position is now clear; our challenge is bold and direct!”

Rhialto frowningly considered the stones. “We have struck a blow; we have issued a challenge: what now?”

Ildefonse blew out his cheeks. “The prudent course is to hide until the Murthe goes away.”

Rhialto gave a sour grunt. “Should she find us and pull us squeaking from our holes, all dignity is lost. Surely this is not the way of Calanctus.”

“Let us then discover the way of Calanctus,” said Ildefonse. “Bring out Poggiore’s Absolutes; he devotes an entire chapter to the Murthe. Fetch also The Decretals of Calanctus, and, if you have it, Calanctus: His Means and Modes.”

4

Dawn was still to come. The sky over Wilda Water showed a flush of plum, aquamarine and dark rose. Rhialto slammed shut the iron covers of the Decretals. “I find no help. Calanctus describes the persistent female genius, but he is not explicit in his remedies.”

Ildefonse, looking through The Doctrines of Calanctus, said: “I find here an interesting passage. Calanctus likens a woman to the Ciaeic Ocean which absorbs the long and full thrust of the Antipodal Current as it sweeps around Cape Spang, but only while the weather holds fair. If the wind shifts but a trifle, this apparently placid ocean hurls an abrupt flood ten or even twenty feet high back around the cape, engulfing all before it. When stasis is restored and the pressure relieved, the Ciaeic is as before, placidly accepting the current. Do you concur with this interpretation of the female geist?”

“Not on all counts,” said Rhialto. “At times Calanctus verges upon the hyperbolic. This might be regarded as a typical case, especially since he provides no program for holding off or even diverting the Ciaeic flood.”

“He seems to suggest that one does not strive, ordinarily, to control this surge but, rather, rides over it in a staunch ship of high freeboard.”

Rhialto shrugged. “Perhaps so. As always, I am impatient with obscure symbolism. The analogy assists us not at all.”

Ildefonse ruminated. “It suggests that rather than meeting the Murthe power against power, we must slide across and over the gush of her hoarded energy, until at last she has spent herself and we, like stout ships, float secure and dry.”

“Again, a pretty image, but limited. The Murthe displays a protean power.”

Ildefonse stroked his beard and looked pensively off into space. “Indeed, one inevitably starts to wonder whether this fervor, cleverness and durability might also govern her — or, so to speak, might tend to influence her conduct in, let us say, the realm of —”