Jack Vance, page 15
Queen Sollace accepted a fig from the maid. “That will be all; I am almost sated with these wonderful morsels; they are as sweet as honey!” She turned to Lady Desdea. “Proceed as before; I can advise you no better.”
“But you have heard the problems!”
“It might be coincidence, or fancy, or even a bit of hysteria. We cannot let such silly panics affect our policy.”
Lady Desdea cried another protest, but Queen Sollace held up her hand. “No, not another word! I have heard all I care to hear.”
The drowsy days of summer passed: fresh dawns, with dew on the lawns and bird calls floating through the air from far distances; then the bright mornings and golden afternoons, followed by orange, yellow and red sunsets; then the blue-gray dusk and at last the starry nights, with Vega at the zenith, Antares to the south, Altair in the east and Spica declining in the west. Lady Desdea had discovered a convenient way to deal with Madouc since her unproductive and frustrating report to Queen Sollace. She spoke in a grim monotone, assigning the lessons and stating the schedule, then with a scornful sniff and a stiff back she departed and gave no further heed either to Madouc or her achievements. Madouc accepted the system and pursued only the reading which interested her. Lady Desdea, in her turn, discovered that life had become less of a trial. Queen Sollace was content to hear no more of Madouc’s transgressions, and in her conversations with Lady Desdea avoided all reference to Madouc.
After a week of relative placidity, Madouc delicately mentioned Tyfer and his need for exercise. Lady Desdea said crossly: “The proscription derives not from me but from Her Majesty. I can grant no permission. If you ride your horse, you risk the queen’s displeasure. But it is all one to me.”
“Thank you,” said Madouc. “I feared that you might be difficult.”
“Ha hah! Why should I beat my head against a rock?” Lady Desdea started to turn away, then halted. “Tell me: where did you learn that opprobrious little trick?”
“The ‘Sissle-way’? It was taught to me by Shimrod the Magician, that I might defend myself against tyrants.”
“Hmf.” Lady Desdea departed. Madouc at once took herself to the stables, where she ordered Sir Pom-Pom to saddle up Tyfer and prepare for an excursion across the countryside.
1 Sir Blaise would eventually sire Sir Glahan of Benwick, who in his turn would sire one of King Arthur’s best paladins, Sir Lancelot du Lac. Also present at the celebration was Sir Garstang of Twanbow Hall, whose son would sire another of King Arthur’s most trusted comrades, Sir Tristram of Lyonesse.
CHAPTER
FIVE
1
Shimrod rode in company with Dhrun to Lyonesse Town, where Dhrun, with Amery, took passage to Domreis aboard a Troice cog. Shimrod watched from the quay-side until the tawny sails dwindled across the horizon, then went to a nearby inn and seated himself in the shade of a grape arbor. Over a platter of sausages and a mug of ale he considered the possibilities of the next few days and what might lie in store for him.
The time had come when he must take himself to Swer Smod, that he might confer with Murgen and learn whatever needed learning. The prospect did not lift his spirits. Murgen’s dreary disposition blended well with the somber and darkling atmosphere of Swer Smod; his sour smile was equivalent to another man’s wild frivolity. Shimrod knew well what to expect at Swer Smod and prepared himself accordingly; had he discovered good cheer and merry-making, he would have wondered as to Murgen’s sanity.
Shimrod left the arbor and went to a baker’s booth, where he bought two large honeycakes, each packed in a reed basket. One of the cakes was sprinkled with chopped raisins, the other was cast over with nuts. Shimrod took up the cakes and stepped around to the back of the booth. The baker, assured that Shimrod had gone to relieve himself, ran out to remonstrate. “Hold hard, sir! Go elsewhere for such business! I want no great chife in the air; it is poor advertisement!” He halted, looking right and left. “Where are you, sir?” He heard a mutter, a whimper, a rush of wind. Something whisked up at a blur and away from his vision, but of Shimrod there was naught to be seen.
Slow of foot the baker returned to the front of his booth but told no one of the event, for fear of being thought over-imaginative.
2
Shimrod was transported to a stony flat high on the slopes of the Teach tac Teach, with the panorama to the east swathed under the Forest of Tantrevalles out to the edge of vision. The walls of Swer Smod rose at his back: a set of massive rectangular shapes, meshed and merged, stacked and layered, with three towers of unequal height rising above all, like sentinels surveying the landscape.
Shimrod’s approach to the castle was obstructed by a stone wall eight feet high. At the portal hung a sign he had not seen before. Black symbols conveyed a daunting admonition:
WARNING!
TRESPASSERS! WAYFARERS! ALL OTHERS!
ADVANCE AT RISK!
If you cannot read these words, cry out ‘KLARO!’
and the sign will declare the message aloud.
PROCEED NO FARTHER, AT PERIL OF DEATH!
In case of need, consult Shimrod the Magician,
at his manse Trilda, in the
Great Forest of Tantrevalles.
Shimrod halted at the portal and surveyed the yard beyond. Nothing had changed since his last visit. On guard were the same two gryphs: Vus, mottled moss-green, and maroon-red Vuwas, whose color was that of old blood, or raw liver. Both stood eight feet tall, with massive torsos clad in plaques of horny carapace. Vus displayed a crest of six black spikes, to which, in his vanity, he had affixed a number of medals and emblems. Vuwas wore across his scalp and down the nape of his neck a stiff brush of black-red fibers. Not to be outdone by Vus, he had attached several fine pearls to this bristle. Vus and Vuwas, at this moment, sat beside their sentinel box, hunched over a chessboard wrought from black iron and bone. The pieces stood four inches high, and cried out as they were moved, in derision, shock, outrage, or occasionally approval. The gryphs paid no heed to the comments and played their own game.
Shimrod pushed through the iron gate and entered the forecourt. The gryphs glared hot-eyed over their pronged shoulders. Each ordered the other to rise up and kill Shimrod; each demurred. “Do you take me for a fool?” demanded Vuwas. “In my absence, you would make three illicit moves and no doubt abuse my pieces. It is you who must do your duty, and at this very moment.”
“Not I!” said the moss-green Vus. “Your remarks merely indicate what you yourself have in mind. While I killed this sheep-faced fool, you would push my reignet into limbo and baffle my darkdog into the corner.”
Vuwas growled to Shimrod over his shoulder: “Go away; it is simpler for everyone. We avoid the trouble of killing you, and you need not worry about arranging your affairs.”
“Out of the question,” said Shimrod. “I am here on important business. Do you not recognize me? I am Murgen’s scion Shimrod.”
“We remember nothing,” grunted Vuwas. “One earthling looks much like another.”
Vus pointed to the ground. “Wait where you stand until we finish our game. This is a critical juncture!”
Shimrod sauntered over to inspect the chessboard. The gryphs paid him no heed.
“Ludicrous,” said Shimrod after a moment.
“Hist!” snarled Vuwas, the maroon-red gryph. “We will tolerate no interference!”
Vus looked around challengingly: “Do you intend insult? If so, we will tear you limb from limb on the spot!”
Shimrod asked: “Can a cow be insulted by the word ‘bovine’? Can a bird be insulted by the word ‘flighty’? Can a pair of bumbling mooncalves be insulted by the word ‘ludicrous’?”
Vuwas spoke sharply: “Your hints are not clear. What are you trying to tell us?”
“Simply that either of you could win the game with a single move.”
The gryphs glumly examined the board. “How so?” asked Vus.
“In your case, you need only conquer this bezander with your caitiff, then march the arch-priestess forward to confront the serpent, and the game is yours.”
“Never mind all that!” snapped Vuwas. “How might I win?”
“Is it not obvious? These mordykes stand in your way. Strike them aside with your ghost, like this, whereupon your caitiffs have the freedom of the board.”
“Ingenious,” said Vus the mottled green gryph. “Those moves, however, are considered improper on the world Pharsad. Further, you have called the pieces by their wrong names, and also you have disarranged the board!”
“No matter,” said Shimrod. “Simply replay the game, and now I must be on my way.”
“Not so fast!” cried out Vuwas. “There is still a small task to be accomplished!”
“We were not born yesterday,” stated Vus. “Prepare for death.”
Shimrod put the reed baskets on the table. Vuwas the dark red gryph asked suspiciously: “What is in the baskets?”
“They contain honeycakes,” said Shimrod. “One of the cakes is somewhat larger and more tasty than the other.”
“Aha!” said Vus. “Which is which?”
“You must open the baskets,” said Shimrod. “The larger cake is for whichever of you is the most deserving.”
“Indeed!”
Shimrod sauntered off across the forecourt. For a moment there was silence behind him, then a mutter, then a sharp remark, an equally sharp retort, followed by a sudden outburst of horrid snarls, bellows, thuds and tearing sounds.
Traversing the forecourt, Shimrod climbed three steps to a stone porch. Stone columns framed an alcove and a ponderous black iron door, twice his height and wider than his arms could span. Black iron faces looked through festoons of black iron vines; black iron eyes watched Shimrod with sardonic curiosity. Shimrod touched a stud; the door swung open to the grinding of iron on iron. He stepped through the opening, into a high-ceilinged entry hall. To right and left pedestals supported a pair of stone statues, of exaggerated attenuation, robed and cowled so that the gaunt faces remained in shadow. No servitor appeared; Shimrod expected none. Murgen’s servitors were more often than not invisible.
The way was familiar to Shimrod. He passed through the entry hall into a long gallery. At regular intervals, tall portals opened into chambers serving a variety of functions. There was no one to be seen nor any sound to be heard; an almost unnatural stillness held Swer Smod.
Shimrod walked along the gallery without haste, looking into the chambers on either side to discover what changes had been made since his last visit. Often the chambers were dark, and usually empty. Some served conventional purposes; others were dedicated to a use less ordinary. In one of these chambers Shimrod discovered a tall woman standing before an easel, back turned to the doorway. She wore a long gown of gray-blue linen; cloud-white hair was gathered at the nape of her neck by a ribbon, then hung down her back. The easel supported a panel; using brushes and pigments from a dozen clay pots, the woman worked to create an image on the surface of the panel.
Shimrod watched a moment, but could not clearly define the nature of the image. He entered the chamber, that he might observe at closer range and perhaps with better understanding, but had no great success. The pigments looked to be an identical heavy black, allowing the woman small scope for contrast, or so it seemed to Shimrod. He moved a step closer, then another. At last he was able to perceive that each pigment, anomalous and strange to his eyes, quivered with a particular subtle luster unique to itself. He studied the panel; the shapes formed by the black oozes swam before his vision; neither their definition nor their pattern were at all obvious.
The woman turned her head; with blank white eyes she looked at Shimrod. Her expression remained vague; Shimrod was not sure that she saw him, but it could not be that she was blind! The case would be self-contradictory!
Shimrod smiled politely. “It is an interesting work that you do,” he said. “The composition, however, is not quite clear to me.”
The woman made no response, and Shimrod wondered if she might also be deaf. In a somber mood he left the chamber and continued along the gallery to the great hall. Again, no footman or other servitor stood on hand to announce him; Shimrod passed through the portal, into a chamber so high that the ceiling was lost among the shadows. A line of narrow windows halfway down one of the walls admitted pale light from the north; flames in the fireplace provided a more cheerful illumination. The walls were panelled with oak but bare of decoration. A heavy table occupied the center of the room. Cabinets along the far wall displayed books, curios and miscellaneous oddments; to the side of the mantelpiece a glass globe, charged with glowing green plasma, hung by a silver wire from the ceiling; within huddled the curled skeleton of a weasel, skull peering through high haunches.
Murgen stood by the table, looking down into the fire: a man of early maturity, well-proportioned but of no particular distinction. Such was his ordinary semblance, in which he felt most comfortable. He acknowledged Shimrod’s presence with a glance and casual wave of the hand.
“Sit,” said Murgen. “I am glad that you are here; in fact, I was about to summon you, that you might deal with a moth.”
Shimrod seated himself by the fire. He looked around the chamber. “I am here, but I see no moth.”
“It has disappeared,” said Murgen. “How was your journey?”
“Well enough. I came by way of Castle Sarris and Lyonesse Town, in company with Prince Dhrun.”
Murgen settled into a chair beside Shimrod. “Will you eat or drink?”
“A goblet of wine might calm my nerves. Your devils are more horrid than ever. You must curb their truculence.”
Murgen made an indifferent gesture. “They serve their purpose.”
“Far too well, in my opinion,” said Shimrod. “Should one of your honoured guests be late in arrival, do not be offended; it is likely that the devils have torn him to bits.”
“I entertain seldom,” said Murgen. “Still, since you are so definite, I will suggest that Vus and Vuwas moderate their vigilance.”
A silver-haired sylph, barelegged, drifted into the hall. She carried a tray on which rested a blue glass flask and a pair of goblets, twisted and worked into quaint shapes. She placed the tray on the table, turned Shimrod a quick sideglance and decanted two goblets of dark red wine. One of these she offered to Shimrod, the other to Murgen, then drifted from the hall as silently as she had come.
For a moment the two drank wine from the blue glass goblets in silence. Shimrod studied the suspended green-glowing globe. Black glittery beads in the small skull seemed to return his scrutiny. Shimrod asked: “Is it yet alive?”
Murgen looked over his shoulder. The black beads again appeared to shift to meet Murgen’s gaze. “The dregs of Tamurello perhaps still exist: his tincture so to speak, or perhaps the verve of the green gas itself is responsible.”
“Why do you not destroy the globe, gas and all, and be done with it?”
Murgen made a sound of amusement. “If I knew all there was to be known, I might do so. Or, on the other hand, I might not do so. Consequently, I delay. I am both wary and chary of disturbing what seems a stasis.”
“But it is not truly a stasis?”
“There is never a stasis.”
Shimrod made no comment. Murgen continued. “I am warned by my instincts. They tell me of movement, furtive and slow. Someone wishes to catch me as I drowse, complacent and bloated with power. The possibility is real; I cannot look in all directions at once.”
“But who has the will to work such a strategy? Surely not Tamurello!”
“Perhaps not Tamurello.”
“Who else, then?”
“There is a recurrent question which troubles me. At least once each day I ask myself: where is Desmei?”
“She disappeared, after creating Carfilhiot and Melancthe: that is the general understanding.”
Murgen’s mouth took on a wry twist. “Was it all so simple? Did Desmei truly entrust her revenge to the likes of Carfilhiot and Melancthe—the one a monster, the other an unhappy dreamer?”
“Desmei’s motives have always been a puzzle,” said Shimrod. “Admittedly, I have never studied them in depth.”
Murgen gazed into the fire. “From nothing came much. Her malice was kindled by what seems a trivial impulse: Tamurello’s rejection of her erotic urge. Why, then, the elaborations? Why did she not simply revenge herself upon Tamurello? Was Melancthe intended to serve as her instrument of vengeance? If so, her plans went awry. Carfilhiot ingested the green fume, while Melancthe barely sensed its odor.”
“Still, the memory seems to fascinate her,” said Shimrod.
“It would seem a most seductive stuff. Tamurello consumed the green pearl; now he crouches in the globe, and the green suffusion surrounds him to a surfeit. He gives no evidence of joy.”
“This in itself might be considered the vengeance of Desmei.”
“It seems too paltry. For Desmei, Tamurello represented not only himself but all his kind. There are no gauges to measure such malice; one can only feel and wonder.”
“And cringe.”
“It is instructive, perhaps, to note that Desmei in her creation of Melancthe and Carfilhiot used a demon magic derived from Xabiste. The green gas may itself be Desmei, in a form imposed upon her by the condition of Xabiste. If so, she is no doubt anxious to resume a more conventional shape.”
“Are you suggesting that Desmei and Tamurello are bottled together in the globe?”
“It is only an idle thought. Meanwhile I guard Joald and soothe his monstrous hulk, and ward away whatever might disturb his long wet rest. When time permits, I study the demon magic of Xabiste, which is slippery and ambiguous. Such are my preoccupations.”
“You mentioned that you were about to call me here to Swer Smod.”
“Quite so. The conduct of a moth has caused me concern.”
