“Drink then of the ancient vintage, to solemnize this new dignity!”

Yodo bowed low. “With the most heartfelt gratitude, Exalted.” He raised the goblet, drank. Derwe Coreme watched indifferently. Yodo put down the goblet, frowned, gave a convulsive jerk, turned a startled glance at Cugel, fell to the rug, cried out, twitched and lay still.

Cugel frowningly inspected Derwe Coreme. She appeared as startled as had Yodo. Now she turned to look at him. “Why did you poison Yodo?”

“It was your doing,” said Cugel. “Did you not order poison in the wine?”

“No.”

“You must say ‘No, Exalted’.”

“No, Exalted.”

“If you did not — who?”

“I am perplexed. The poison perhaps was meant for me.”

“Or both of us.” Cugel signaled one of the footmen. “Remove the corpse of Yodo.”

The footman signaled a pair of hooded under-servants, who carried off the unfortunate major-domo.

Cugel took the crystal goblets, stared down into the amber liquid, but did not communicate his thoughts. Derwe Coreme leaned back in her chair, contemplated him at length. “I am puzzled,” she said presently. “You are a man past the teaching of my experience. I cannot decide upon the colour of your soul.”

Cugel was charmed by the quaint turn of phrase. “You see souls in color, then?”

“Indeed. It was the birth-gift of a lady sorceress, who also provided me my walking boat. She is dead and I am alone, with no friend nor any who thinks of me with love. And so I have ruled Cil with little joy. And now you are here, with a soul which flickers through many colours, like that of no human man to come before me.”

Cugel forbore to mention Firx, whose own spiritual exhalation, mingling with that of Cugel’s, undoubtedly caused the variegation Derwe Coreme had noted. “There is a reason for this effect,” said Cugel, “which in due course will be voided, or so I hope. Until then, you may regard my soul as one shining with the purest ray imaginable.”

“I will try to keep this in mind, Exalted.”

Cugel frowned. In Derwe Coreme’s remarks and the poise of her head he noted barely concealed insolence, which he found exasperating. Still, there was ample time to correct the matter after learning the use of the amulet, a business of prime urgency. Cugel leaned back into the cushions, and spoke as one who muses idly: “Everywhere at this time of Earth’s dying exceptional circumstances are to be noted. Recently, at the manse of Iucounu the Laughing Magician, I saw a great libram which indexed all the writings of magic, and all styles of thaumaturgical rune. Perhaps you have similar volumes in your library?”

“It well may be,” said Derwe Coreme. “The Fourteenth Garth Haxt of Slaye was a diligent collator, and compiled a voluminous pandect on the subject.”

Cugel clapped his hands together. “I wish to see this important work at once!”

Derwe Coreme looked at him in wonder. “Are you then such a bibliophile? A pity, because The Eighth Rubel Zaff ordered this particular compendium submerged off Cape Horizon.”

Cugel made a sour face. “Are no other treatises at hand?”

“Doubtless,” said Derwe Coreme. “The library occupies the whole of the north wing. But will not tomorrow suffice for your research?” And, stretching in languid warmth, she contrived to twist her body into first one luxurious position, then another.

Cugel drank deep from a black glass goblet. “Yes, there is no haste in this matter. And now —” He was interrupted by a woman of middle age in voluminous brown garments, evidently one of the under-servants, who at this moment rushed into the hall. She was shouting hysterically and several footmen sprang forward to support her. Between racking sobs she made clear the source of her anguish: an abominable act only just now committed by the ghoul upon her daughter.

Derwe Coreme gracefully indicated Cugel. “Here is the new Lord of Cil; he has vast powers of magic and will order the ghoul destroyed. Will you not, Exalted?”

Cugel thoughtfully rubbed his chin. A dilemma indeed. The woman and all the servitors fell down upon their knees. “Exalted, if you control this corrosive magic, employ it instantly to destroy the vile ghoul!”

Cugel winced, and turning his head met Derwe Coreme’s thoughtful gaze. He jumped to his feet. “What need I of magic when I can wield a sword? I will hack the creature organ from organ!” He signaled the six men-at-arms who stood by in their brass armour. “Come! Bring torches! We fare forth to dismember the ghoul!”

The men-at-arms obeyed without enthusiasm. Cugel herded them toward the great portal. “When I fling wide the doors, rush forth with the torches, to create a blaze which will illuminate the evil being! Have swords drawn so that when I send him reeling you may strike the coup de grace!”

The men-at-arms each with torch and drawn sword stood before the portal. Cugel slid back the bolts and flung wide the portal. “Out! Shine upon the ghoul the last light of his existence!”

The men-at-arms raced desperately forth, with Cugel swaggering after, flourishing his sword. The men-at-arms paused at the head of the steps, to look uncertainly out over the promenade, from which a quiet horrid sound could be heard.

Cugel looked over his shoulder to see Derwe Coreme watching attentively from the doorway. “Forward!” he shouted. “Surround this wretched creature, whose death is now upon him!”

The men-at-arms gingerly descended the steps, with Cugel marching to the rear. “Hack with a will!” he called. “There is ample glory for all! The man who fails to deal a stroke I blast by magic!”

The flickering lights shone on the pedestals, ranging in a long line to merge at last with the darkness. “Forward!” cried Cugel. “Where is this bestial being? Why does he not appear to receive his deserts?” And Cugel peered through the wavering shadows, hoping the ghoul by now would have taken alarm and fled.

To the side came a small sound. Turning, Cugel saw a tall pale shape standing quietly. The men-at-arms gasped, fled incontinently up the broad stones. “Slay the beast by magic, Exalted!” called the sergeant. “The most expeditious method is often the best!”

The ghoul came forward; Cugel stumbled back. The ghoul took a quick step forward. Cugel sprang behind a pedestal. The ghoul swung out its arm; Cugel hacked with his sword, sprang to the protection of another pedestal, then raced with great agility back across the terrace. The door was already closing; Cugel flung himself through the dwindling aperture. He heaved the door shut, and thrust home the bolts. The ghoul’s weight slammed against the timbers and the bolts creaked in protest.

Cugel turned to meet the bright-eyed appraisal of Derwe Coreme. “What ensued?” she asked. “Why did you not slay the ghoul?”

“The warriors decamped with the torches,” said Cugel. “I could see neither where to hack nor where to hew.”

“Strange,” mused Derwe Coreme. “There seemed ample illumination for so negligible an exercise. Why did you not employ the power of the amulet to rend the ghoul limb from limb?”

“So simple and quick a death is unsuitable,” stated Cugel with dignity. “I must cogitate at length, and decide how he may best expiate his crimes.”

“Indeed,” said Derwe Coreme. “Indeed.”

Cugel strode back into the great hall. “Back to the banquet! Let the wine flow! Everyone must drink to the accession of the new Lord of Cil!”

Derwe Coreme said in a silky voice, “If you please, Exalted, make some display of the power of the amulet, to gratify our curiosity!”

“Certainly!” And Cugel touched carbuncle after carbuncle, producing rumbles and groans of grievous woe, with occasionally a wail or scream.

“Can you do more?” inquired Derwe Coreme, smiling the soft smile of an impish child.

“Indeed, should I so choose. But enough! Drink one and all!”

Derwe Coreme signaled the sergeant of the guard. “Take sword, strike off the fool’s arm; bring me the amulet.”

“With pleasure, Great Lady.” The sergeant advanced with bared blade. Cugel shouted: “Stay! One more step and magic will turn each of your bones at right angles!”

The sergeant looked to Derwe Coreme, who laughed. “As I bade you, or fear my revenge, which is as you know.”

The sergeant winced, marched forward. But now an under-servitor rushed to Cugel, and under his hood Cugel saw the seamed face of old Slaye. “I will save you. Show me the amulet!”

Cugel allowed the eager fingers to grope among the carbuncles. Slaye pressed one of these, called something in a voice so exultant and shrill that the syllables were lost. There was a great fluttering, and an enormous black shape stood at the back of the hall. “Who torments me?” it moaned. “Who will give me surcease?”

“I!” cried Slaye. “Advance through the hall, kill all but myself!”