Eight Fantasms and Magics

by Jack Vance

  “Strange,” he muttered, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “The uncle plays music, the girl stares alone at the stars of the night. . . .” He considered a moment. “I may be over-suspicious. If witch she be, there is naught to be gained from me. If they be simple refugees as she says, and lovers of music, they may enjoy the airs from Ascolais; it will repay, in some measure, their hospitality.” He reached into his saddlebag, brought forth his flute, and tucked it into his boot.

  He returned to where the girl awaited him.

  “You have not told me your name,” she reminded him, “that I may introduce you to my uncle.”

  “I am Guyal of Sfere, by the River Scaum in Ascolais. And you?”

  She smiled, pushing the portal wider. Warm yellow light fell into the cobbled street.

  “I have no name. I need none. There has never been any but my uncle; and when he speaks there is no one to answer but I.”

  Guyal stared in astonishment; then, deeming his wonder too apparent for courtesy he controlled his expression. Perhaps she suspected him of wizardry and feared to pronounce her name lest he make magic with it.

  They entered a flagged hall and the sound of piping grew louder.

  “I will call you Ameth, if I may," said Guyal. "That is a flower of the south, as golden and kind as you seem to be."

  She nodded. “You may call me Ameth."

  They entered a tapestry-hung chamber. A great fire glowed at one wall, and here stood a table bearing food. On a bench sat the musician—an old man, untidy, unkempt. White hair hung tangled down his back; his beard, in no better case, was dirty and yellow. He wore a ragged kirtle, by no means clean, and the leather of his sandals had broken into dry cracks. Strangely, he did not take the flute from his mouth but kept up his piping; and the girl in yellow, so Guyal noted, seemed to move in rhythm to the tones.

  "Uncle Ludowik," she cried in a gay voice, "I bring you a guest, Sir Guyal of Sfere."

  Guyal looked into the man’s face and wondered. The eyes, though somewhat rheumy with age, were gray and intelligent and, so Guyal thought, bright with a strange joy, which further puzzled Guyal, for the lines of the face indicated nothing other than years of misery.

  "Perhaps you play?" inquired Ameth. "My uncle is a great musician, and this is his time for music. He has kept the routine for many years. . . ." She turned and smiled at Ludowik the musician, who jerked his head and contrived an acquiescent grin, never taking the flute from his mouth.

  Ameth motioned to the bounteous table. "Eat, Guyal, and I will pour you wine. Afterwards perhaps you will play the flute for us.”

  “Gladly,” said Guyal, and he noticed how the joy on Ludowik’s face grew more apparent, quivering around the corners of his mouth.

  He ate and Ameth poured him golden wine until his head went to reeling. And never did Ludowik cease his piping— a tender melody of running water, then a grave tune that told of the lost ocean to the west, then a simple melody such as a child might sing at his games. Guyal noted with wonder how Ameth fitted her mood to the music—grave and gay as the music led her. Strange! thought Guyal. But then— people thus isolated were apt to develop peculiar mannerisms, and they seemed kindly withal.

  He finished his meal and stood erect, steadying himself against the table. Ludowik was lilting a melody of glass birds swinging round and round in the sunlight. Ameth came dancing over to him and stood close, so that he smelled the perfume of her loose golden hair. Her face was happy and wild. . . . Peculiar how Ludowik watched so grimly, and yet without a word. Perhaps he misdoubted a stranger’s intent. Still. . .

  “Now," breathed Ameth, “perhaps you will play the flute; you are strong and young." Then she said, as she saw Guyal’s eyes widen. “I mean you will play on the flute for old Uncle Ludowik, and he will be happy and go off to bed— and then we will sit and talk far into the night."

  “Gladly will I play the flute," said Guyal. “I am accounted quite skillful at my home in Sfere." Glancing at Ludowik, he surprised an expression of crazy gladness. Marvelous that a man should be so fond of music!

  “Then—play!" breathed Ameth, urging him a little toward Ludowik and the flute.

  “Perhaps," suggested Guyal, “I had better wait till your uncle pauses. I would seem discourteous-"

  “No, as soon as you indicate that you wish to play, he will let off. Merely take the flute. You see," she confided, “he is rather deaf."

  “Very well," said Guyal, “except that I have my own flute." And he brought it out from his boot. “Why—what is the matter?" For a change had come over the girl and the old man. A quick light had risen in her eyes, and Ludowik’s strange gladness had gone, and there was but dull hopelessness in his eyes, stupid resignation.

  Guyal slowly stood back, bewildered. “Do you not wish me to play?"

  There was a pause. “Of course," said Ameth, young and charming once more. “But I’m sure that Uncle Ludowik would enjoy hearing you play his flute. He is accustomed to the pitch; another scale might be unfamiliar. . . .”

  Ludowik nodded, and hope again shone in the rheumy old eyes. It was indeed a fine flute, Guyal saw, a rich piece of white metal, chased and set with gold, and Ludowik clutched this flute as if he would never let go.

  “Take the flute,” suggested Ameth. “He will not mind in the least.” Ludowik shook his head, to signify the absence of objection. But Guyal, noting with distaste the long, stained beard, also shook his head. “I can play any scale, any tone on my flute. There is no need for me to use that of your uncle and possibly distress him. Listen,” and he raised his instrument. “Here is a song of Kaiin, called ‘The Opal, the Pearl, and the Peacock.’ ”

  He put the pipe to his lips and began to play, very skillfully indeed, and Ludowik followed him, filling in gaps, making chords. Ameth, forgetting her vexation, listened with eyes half closed, and moved her arm to the rhythm.

  “Did you enjoy that?” asked Guyal when he had finished.

  “Very much. Perhaps you would try it on Uncle Ludowik’s flute? It is a fine flute to play, very soft and easy to the breath.”

  “No,” said Guyal, with sudden obstinacy. “I am able to play only my own instrument.” He blew again, and it was a dance of the festival, a quirking carnival air. Ludowik, playing with supernal skill, ran merry phrases as might fit, and Ameth, carried away by the rhythm, danced a dance of her own, a merry step in time to the music.

  Guyal played a tarantella of the peasant folk, and Ameth danced wilder and faster, flung her arms, wheeled, jerked her head in a fine display. And Ludowik’s flute played a brilliant obbligato, hurtling over, now under, chording, veering, warping little silver strings of sound around Guyal’s melody, adding urgent little grace-phrases.

  Ludowik’s eyes now clung to the whirling figure of the dancing girl. And suddenly he struck up a theme of his own, a tune of wildest abandon, of a frenzied beating rhythm; and Guyal, carried away by the force of the music, blew as he never had blown before, invented trills and runs, gyrating arpeggios, blew high and shrill, loud and fast and clear.

  It was as nothing to Ludowik’s music. His eyes were starting; sweat streamed from his seamed old forehead; his flute tore the air into shreds.

  Ameth danced frenzy; she was no longer beautiful, she appeared grotesque and unfamiliar. The music became something more than the senses could bear. Guyal's vision turned pink and gray; he saw Ameth fall in a faint, in a foaming fit; and Ludowik, fiery-eyed, staggered erect, hobbled to her body and began a terrible intense concord, slow measures of most solemn and frightening meaning.

  Ludowik played death.

  Guyal of Sfere turned and ran wide-eyed from the hall. Ludowik, never noticing, continued his terrible piping, played as if every note were a skewer through the twitching girl's shoulder blades.

  Guyal ran through the night and cold air bit at him like sleet. He burst into the shed, and the white horse nickered. On with the saddle, on with the bridle, away down the streets of old Carchasel, along the starlit cobble
s, past the gaping black windows, away from the music of death!

  Guyal of Sfere galloped up the mountain with the stars in his face, and not until he came to the shoulder did he turn in the saddle to look back.

  The verging of dawn trembled into the stony valley. Where was Carchasel? There was no city, only a crumble of ruins. . . .

  Hark! A far sound?

  No. All was silence.

  And yet . . .

  Only dark stones on the floor of the valley.

  Guyal, fixed of eye, turned and went his way along the trail which stretched north before him.

  The walls of the defile were gray granite, stained dull scarlet and black by lichen. The horse's hooves made a clop-clop-clop on the stone. After the sleepless night Guyal began to sag in the saddle. He resolved to round one more bend in the trail and then take rest.

  The rock looming above hid the sky. The trail twisted around a shoulder of rock; ahead shone a patch of indigo. One more turning, Guyal told himself. The defile fell open, the mountains were at his back. He looked out across a hundred miles of steppe: a land shaded with subtle colors, fading and melting into the haze at the horizon. To the east he saw a lone eminence cloaked by a dark company of trees, the glisten of a lake at its foot. To the west a ranked mass of gray-white ruins was barely discernible. The Museum of Man? . . . Guyal dismounted and sought sleep within the Expansible Egg.

  The sun rolled in sad majesty behind the mountains; murk fell across the tundra. Guyal awoke and refreshed himself. He gave meal to his horse, ate dry fruit and bread; then he mounted and rode down the trail. Gloom deepened; the plain sank from sight like a drowned land. Guyal reined his horse. Better, he thought, to ride in the morning. If he lost the trail in the dark, who could tell what he might encounter?

  A mournful sound. Guyal turned his face to the sky. A sigh? A moan? . . . Another sound, closer: the rustle of cloth. Guyal cringed into his saddle. Floating slowly across the darkness came a shape robed in white. Under the cowl and glowing with witch-light was a drawn face with eyes like the holes in a skull.

  It breathed a sad sound and drifted away.

  Guyal drew a shuddering breath and slumped against the pommel. Then he slipped to the ground and established the Egg about himself and his horse; presently, as he lay staring into the dark, sleep came on him and so the night passed.

  He awoke before dawn and set forth. The trail was a ribbon of white sand between banks of gray furze; the miles passed swiftly.

  As he neared the tree-shrouded hillock he saw roofs through the foliage and smoke rising into the sharp air. And presently to right and left spread fields of spikenard, callow, and mead-apple. Guyal continued with eyes watchful for men.

  The trail passed beside a fence of stone and black timber enclosing a region of churned and scorched earth, which

  Guyal paused to examine. The horse started nervously; Guyal, turning, saw three men who had come quietly upon him: individuals tall and well-formed, somewhat solemn, with golden-ivory skin and jet-black hair. Their garments implied an ancient convention: tight suits of maroon leather trimmed with black lace and silver chain, maroon cloth hats crumpled in precise creases, with black leather flaps extended horizontally over each ear. Their attitudes expressed neither threat nor welcome. “Greetings, stranger,” said one. “Whither bound?”

  “I go as fate directs,” replied Guyal cautiously. “You are Saponids?”

  “That is our race, though now we are few. Before you is our final city, Issane.” He inspected Guyal with frank curiosity. “And what of yourself?”

  “I am Guyal of Sfere, which is in Ascolais, far to the south.”

  The Saponids regarded Guyal with respect. “You have come a long and perilous way.”

  Guyal looked back at the mountains. “Through the north forests and the wastes of Fer Aquila. At nightfall yesterday I passed through the mountains. In the dark a ghost hovered above till I thought the grave had marked me for its own.” He paused in surprise; his words seemed to have released a powerful emotion in the Saponids. Their features lengthened, their mouths grew white. The spokesman, his polite detachment a trifle diminished, searched the sky. “A ghost. . . . In a white garment, floating on high?”

  “Yes; is it a known familiar of the region?”

  There was a pause.

  “In a certain sense,” said the Saponid. “It is a signal of woe. . . . But I interrupt your tale.”

  “There is little to tell. I took shelter for the night, and this morning I fared down to the plain.”

  “Were you not molested further? By the Walking Serpent, who ranges the slopes like fate?”

  “I saw neither walking serpent nor so much as a lizard; h still, a blessing protects my trail and I come to no harm so long a$ I keep my course.”

  “Interesting, interesting.”

  “Now,” said Guyal, “permit me to inquire of you, since there is much I would learn; what is this ghost, what event does he commemorate, and what are the portents?”

  “You ask beyond my certain knowledge,” replied the Saponid cautiously. “Of this ghost it is well not to speak lest our attention reinforce its malignity.”

  “As you will,” replied Guyal. “Perhaps—” He caught his tongue. Before inquiring for the Museum of Man it would be wise to learn in what regard the Saponids held it, lest learning his interest they should seek to deny him knowledge.

  “Yes?” inquired the Saponids. “What is your lack?”

  Guyal indicated the seared area behind the fence of stone and timber. “What is the cause of this devastation?”

  The Saponid looked across the area with a blank expression.

  “It is one of the ancient places; so much is known, no more. You will desire to rest and refresh yourself at Issane. Come; we will guide you.”

  He turned down the trail; Guyal, finding neither words nor reasons to reject the idea, urged his horse forward.

  The Saponids walked in silence; Guyal, though he seethed with a thousand questions, likewise held his tongue. They skirted a placid lake. The surface mirrored the sky, shoals of reeds, boats in the shape of sickles, with bow and stern curving high from the water.

  So they entered Issane: a town of no great pretense. The houses were hewn timber, golden brown, russet, weathered black. The construction was intricate and ornate, the walls rising three stories to steep gables. Pillars and piers were carved with complex designs: meshing ribbons, tendrils, leaves, lizards. The screens that guarded the windows were likewise carved, with foliage patterns, animal faces, radiant stars; rich textures in the mellow wood. Much effort, much expressiveness, had been expended on the carving.

  They proceeded up a steep lane under the gloom cast by the trees, and the Saponids came forth to stare. They moved quietly and spoke in low voices, and their garments were of an elegance Guyal had not expected to see on the northern steppe.

  One of the men turned to Guyal. “Will you oblige us by waiting until the First Elder is informed, so that he may prepare a suitable reception?”

  The request was framed in candid words and with guileless eyes. Guyal thought to perceive ambiguity in the phrasing, but since the hooves of his horse were planted in the center of the road, and since he did not propose leaving the road, Guyal assented with an open face. The Saponids disappeared and Guyal sat musing on the pleasant town perched so high above the plain.

  A group of girls came to look at Guyal with curious eyes. Guyal returned the inspection, and sensed a lack about their persons, a discrepancy which he could not instantly identify. They wore graceful garments of woven wool, striped and dyed various colors; they were supple and slender, and seemed not lacking in coquetry. And yet . . .

  The Saponid returned. “Now, Sir Guyal, may we proceed?”

  Guyal, endeavoring to remove any flavor of suspicion from his words, said, “You will understand that by the very nature of my father’s blessing I dare not leave the delineated trail; for then, instantly, I would become liable to any curse placed on
me along the way.”

  The Saponid made an understanding gesture. “Naturally; you follow a sound principle.”

  Guyal bowed in gratification, and they continued up the road.

  A hundred paces and the road leveled, crossing a common planted with small, fluttering, heart-shaped leaves, colored in all shades of purple, red, and black.

  The Saponid turned to Guyal. “As a stranger I must caution you never to set foot on the common. It is one of our sacred places, and tradition requires that a severe penalty be exacted for transgressions and sacrilege.”

  “I note your warning,” said Guyal. “I will respectfully obey your law.”

  They passed a dense thicket; with hideous clamor a bestial shape sprang from concealment, a creature with tremendous fanged jaws. Guyal’s horse shied, bolted, sprang out upon the sacred common and trampled the fluttering leaves.

  A number of Saponid men rushed forth, grasped the horse, seized Guyal and dragged him from the saddle.

  “Wait!" cried Guyal. “What means this? Release me!” The Saponid who had been his guide advanced, shaking his head in reproach. “Indeed, and only had I just impressed upon you the gravity of such an offense!”

  “But the monster frightened my horse!” said Guyal. “I am nowise responsible for this trespass; release me, let us proceed to the reception.”

  The Saponid said, “I fear that the penalties prescribed by tradition must first come into effect. Your protests, though of superficial plausibility, will not sustain examination. For instance, the creature you term a monster is in reality a harmless domesticated beast. Secondly, I observe the animal you bestride; he will not make a turn or twist without the twitch of the reins. Thirdly, even if your postulates were conceded, you thereby admit to guilt by virtue of negligence and omission. You should have secured a mount less apt to unpredictable action, or upon learning of the sanctitude of the common, you should have considered such a contingency as even now occurred, and therefore dismounted, leading your beast. Therefore, Sir Guyal, though loath, I am forced to believe you guilty of impertinence, impiety, disregard and impudicity. Therefore, as Castellan and Sergeant-Reader of the Litany, so responsible for the detention of law-breakers, I must order you secured, contained, pent, incarcerated and confined until such time as the penalties will be exacted.” “The entire episode is mockery!” raged Guyal. “Are you savages, then, thus to mistreat a lone wayfarer?”