The Dying Earth
aka
Mazirian the Magician
By
Jack Vance
Book 1 - Tales of the Dying Earth
Fantasy Masterwork
[ First published: 1950 ]
Published under titles:
Tales of the Dying Earth
Mazirian the Magician
Copyright © 1944, 2012 by Jack Vance
All rights reserved.
For information, address
Tom Doherty Associates,
175 Fifth Avenue,
New York, N.Y. 10010.
eISBN: 9781466821941
First eBook Edition : May 2012
This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong, and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.
Digitize: Donna Adams, Paul Rhoads, Format: R.C. Lacovara, Tim Stretton, Diff: Damien G. Jones, Tim Stretton, Tech Proof: Errico Rescigno, Text Integrity: Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Donna Adams, Mike Dennison, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Joel Anderson, John A. Schwab, Comp Review: John A. D. Foley, Andreas Irle, Charles King, Stephane Leibovitsch, Robin L. Rouch, Update Verify: Paul Rhoads, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Proofread: Mike Barrett, Richard Behrens, Patrick Dymond, Charles King, David Mortimore, David Reitsema, Bill Schaub, Gabriel Stein
Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden
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Contents
Cover
I - Mazirian the Magician
II - Turjan of Miir
III - T’sais
IV - Liane the Wayfarer
V - Ulan Dhor Ends a Dream
VI - Guyal of Sfere
About the Author
I
Mazirian the Magician
Deep in thought, Mazirian the Magician walked his garden. Trees fruited with many intoxications overhung his path, and flowers bowed obsequiously as he passed. An inch above the ground, dull as agates, the eyes of mandrakes followed the tread of his black-slippered feet. Such was Mazirian’s garden — three terraces growing with strange and wonderful vegetations. Certain plants swam with changing iridescences; others held up blooms pulsing like sea-anemones, purple, green, lilac, pink, yellow. Here grew trees like feather parasols, trees with transparent trunks threaded with red and yellow veins, trees with foliage like metal foil, each leaf a different metal — copper, silver, blue tantalum, bronze, green iridium. Here blooms like bubbles tugged gently upward from glazed green leaves, there a shrub bore a thousand pipe-shaped blossoms, each whistling softly to make music of the ancient Earth, of the ruby-red sunlight, water seeping through black soil, the languid winds. And beyond the roqual hedge the trees of the forest made a tall wall of mystery. In this waning hour of Earth’s life no man could count himself familiar with the glens, the glades, the dells and deeps, the secluded clearings, the ruined pavilions, the sun-dappled pleasaunces, the gullies and heights, the various brooks, freshets, ponds, the meadows, thickets, brakes and rocky outcrops.
Mazirian paced his garden with a brow frowning in thought. His step was slow and his arms were clenched behind his back. There was one who had brought him puzzlement, doubt, and a great desire: a delightful woman-creature who dwelt in the woods. She came to his garden half-laughing and always wary, riding a black horse with eyes like golden crystals. Many times had Mazirian tried to take her; always her horse had borne her from his varied enticements, threats, and subterfuges.
Agonized screaming jarred the garden. Mazirian, hastening his step, found a mole chewing the stalk of a plant-animal hybrid. He killed the marauder, and the screams subsided to a dull gasping. Mazirian stroked a furry leaf and the red mouth hissed in pleasure.
Then: “K-k-k-k-k-k-k,” spoke the plant. Mazirian stooped, held the rodent to the red mouth. The mouth sucked, the small body slid into the stomach-bladder underground. The plant gurgled, eructated, and Mazirian watched with satisfaction.
The sun had swung low in the sky, so dim and red that the stars could be seen. And now Mazirian felt a watching presence. It would be the woman of the forest, for thus had she disturbed him before. He paused in his stride, feeling for the direction of the gaze.
He shouted a spell of immobilization. Behind him the plant-animal froze to rigidity and a great green moth wafted to the ground. He whirled around. There she was, at the edge of the forest, closer than ever she had approached before. Nor did she move as he advanced. Mazirian’s young-old eyes shone. He would take her to his manse and keep her in a prison of green glass. He would test her brain with fire, with cold, with pain and with joy. She should serve him with wine and make the eighteen motions of allurement by yellow lamp-light. Perhaps she was spying on him; if so, the Magician would discover immediately, for he could call no man friend and had forever to guard his garden.
She was but twenty paces distant — then there was a thud and pound of black hooves as she wheeled her mount and fled into the forest.
The Magician flung down his cloak in rage. She held a guard — a counter-spell, a rune of protection — and always she came when he was ill-prepared to follow. He peered into the murky depths, glimpsed the wanness of her body flitting through a shaft of red light, then black shade and she was gone … Was she a witch? Did she come of her own volition, or — more likely — had an enemy sent her to deal him inquietude? If so, who might be guiding her? There was Prince Kandive the Golden, of Kaiin, whom Mazirian had bilked of his secret of renewed youth. There was Azvan the Astronomer, there was Turjan — hardly Turjan, and here Mazirian’s face lit in a pleasing recollection … He put the thought aside. Azvan, at least, he could test. He turned his steps to his workshop, went to a table where rested a cube of clear crystal, shimmering with a red and blue aureole. From a cabinet he brought a bronze gong and a silver hammer. He tapped on the gong and the mellow tone sang through the room and out, away and beyond. He tapped again and again. Suddenly Azvan’s face shone from the crystal, beaded with pain and great terror.
“Stay the strokes, Mazirian!” cried Azvan. “Strike no more on the gong of my life!”
Mazirian paused, his hand poised over the gong.
