Cugel

by Jack Vance

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  CUGEL: THE SKYBREAK SPATTERLIGHT.

  Copyright © 1981, 2012 by Jack Vance.

  All rights reserved.

  For information, address

  Tom Doherty Associates,

  175 Fifth Avenue,

  New York, N.Y. 10010.

  e-ISBN 9781466821965

  First eBook Edition: May 2012

  The Bagful of Dreams, 1977. The Seventeen Virgins, 1973.

  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: Richard Chandler, Ian Davies, Herve Goubin, Joel Hedlund, Christopher Taylor-Davies, Format: John A. Schwab, Diff: Joel Hedlund, Charles King, Tech Proof: Fred Zoetemeyer, Text Integrity: Rob Friefeld, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Donna Adams, Hans van der Veeke, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Joel Anderson, Comp Review: Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Charles King, Update Verify: Bob Luckin, Paul Rhoads, RTF-Diff: Patrick Dusoulier, Bill Schaub, Proofread: Patrick Dusoulier, Ed Gooding, Karl Kellar, David A. Kennedy, Joe Keyser, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Jim Pattison, Joel Riedesel, Steve Sherman

  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

  THE COMPLETE WORKS

  of

  Jack Vance

  Cugel: the Skybreak Spatterlight

  Previously published as

  Cugel’s Saga

  Contents

  Tor Copyright Notice

  Chapter I – Shanglestone Strand to Saskervoy

  Chapter II – From Saskervoy to Tustvold

  Chapter III – From Tustvold to Port Perdusz

  Chapter IV – From Port Perdusz to Kaspara Vitatus

  Chapter V – From Kaspara Vitatus to Cuirnif

  Chapter VI – Cuirnif to Pergolo

  Chapter I

  Shanglestone Strand to Saskervoy

  1

  Flutic

  Iucounu (known across Almery as ‘the Laughing Magician’) had worked one of his most mordant jokes upon Cugel. For the second time Cugel had been snatched up, carried north across the Ocean of Sighs, dropped upon that melancholy beach known as Shanglestone Strand.

  Rising to his feet, Cugel brushed sand from his cloak and adjusted his hat. He stood not twenty yards from that spot upon which he had been dropped before, also at the behest of Iucounu. He carried no sword and his pouch contained no terces.

  The solitude was absolute. No sound could be heard but the sigh of the wind along the dunes. Far to the east a dim headland thrust into the water, as did another, equally remote, to the west. To the south spread the sea, empty except for the reflection of the old red sun.

  Cugel’s frozen faculties began to thaw, and a whole set of emotions, one after the other, made themselves felt, with fury taking precedence over all.

  Iucounu would now be enjoying his joke to the fullest. Cugel raised his fist high and shook it toward the south. “Iucounu, at last you have exceeded yourself! This time you will pay the price! I, Cugel, appoint myself your nemesis!”

  For a period Cugel strode back and forth, shouting and cursing: a person long of arm and leg, with lank black hair, gaunt cheeks, and a crooked mouth of great flexibility. The time was middle afternoon, and the sun, already half-way into the west, tottered down the sky like a sick animal. Cugel, who was nothing if not practical, decided to postpone the remainder of his tirade; more urgent was lodging for the night. Cugel called down a final curse of pulsing carbuncles upon Iucounu, then, picking his way across the shingle, he climbed to the crest of a dune and looked in all directions.

  To the north a succession of marshes and huddles of black larch straggled away into the murk.

  To the east Cugel gave only a cursory glance. Here were the villages Smolod and Grodz, and memories were long in the Land of Cutz.

  To the south, languid and listless, the ocean extended to the horizon and beyond.

  To the west, the shore stretched far to meet a line of low hills which, thrusting into the sea, became a headland … A red glitter flashed across the distance, and Cugel’s attention was instantly attracted.

  Such a red sparkle could only signify sunlight reflecting from glass!

  Cugel marked the position of the glitter, which faded from view as the sunlight shifted. He slid down the face of the dune and set off at best speed along the beach.

  The sun dropped behind the headland; gray-lavender gloom fell across the beach. An arm of that vast forest known as the Great Erm edged down from the north, suggesting a number of eery possibilities, and Cugel accelerated his pace to a striding bent-kneed lope.

  The hills loomed black against the sky, but no sign of habitation appeared. Cugel’s spirits sagged low. He proceeded more slowly, searching the landscape with care, and at last, to his great satisfaction, he came upon a large and elaborate manse of archaic design, shrouded behind the trees of an untidy garden. The lower windows glowed with amber light: a cheerful sight for the benighted wanderer.

  Cugel turned briskly aside and approached the manse, putting by his usual precautions of surveillance and perhaps peering through the windows, especially in view of two white shapes at the edge of the forest which quietly moved back into the shadows as he turned to stare.

  Cugel marched to the door and tugged smartly at the bell-chain. From within came the sound of a far gong.

  A moment passed. Cugel looked nervously over his shoulder, and again pulled at the chain. Finally he heard slow steps approaching from within.

  The door opened and a pinch-faced old man, thin, pale, and stoop-shouldered, looked through the crack.

  Cugel used the suave tones of gentility. “Good evening! What is this handsome old place, may I ask?”

  The old man responded without cordiality: “Sir, this is Flutic, where Master Twango keeps residence. What is your business?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Cugel airily. “I am a traveler, and I seem to have lost my way. I will therefore trespass upon Master Twango’s hospitality for the night, if I may.”

  “Quite impossible. From which direction do you come?”

  “From the east.”

  “Then continue along the road, through the forest and over the hill, to Saskervoy. You will find lodging to meet your needs at the Inn of Blue Lamps.”

  “It is too far, and in any event robbers have stolen my money.”

  “You will find small comfort here; Master Twango gives short shrift to indigents.” The old man started to close the door, but Cugel put his foot into the aperture.

 
; “Wait! I noticed two white shapes at the edge of the forest, and I dare go no farther tonight!”

  “In this regard, I can advise you,” said the old man. “The creatures are probably rostgoblers, or ‘hyperborean sloths’, if you prefer the term. Return to the beach and wade ten feet into the water; you will be safe from their lust. Then tomorrow you may proceed to Saskervoy.”

  The door closed. Cugel looked anxiously over his shoulder. At the entrance to the garden, where heavy yews flanked the walk, he glimpsed a pair of still white forms. Cugel turned back to the door and jerked hard at the bell-chain.

  Slow steps padded across the floor, and once again the door opened. The old man looked out. “Sir?”

  “The ghouls are now in the garden! They block the way to the beach!”

  The old man opened his mouth to speak, then blinked as a new concept entered his mind. He tilted his head and spoke craftily: “You have no funds?”

  “I carry not so much as a groat.”

  “Well then; are you disposed toward employment?”

  “Certainly, if I survive the night!”

  “In that case, you are in luck! Master Twango can offer employment to a willing worker.” The old man threw open the door and Cugel gratefully entered the manse.

  With an almost exuberant flourish the old man closed the door. “Come, I will take you to Master Twango, and you can discuss the particulars of your employment. How do you choose to be announced?”

  “I am Cugel.”

  “This way then! You will be pleased with the opportunities! … Are you coming? At Flutic we are brisk!”

  Despite all, Cugel held back. “Tell me something of the employment! I am, after all, a person of quality, and I do not turn my hand to everything.”

  “No fear! Master Twango will accord you every distinction. Ah, Cugel, you will be a happy man! If only I were young again! This way, if you please.”

  Cugel still held back. “First things first! I am tired and somewhat the worse for travel. Before I confer with Master Twango I would like to refresh myself and perhaps take a bite or two of nourishment. In fact, let us wait until tomorrow morning, when I will make a far better impression.”

  The old man demurred. “At Flutic all is exact, and every jot balances against a corresponding tittle. To whose account would I charge your refreshment? To Gark? To Gookin? To Master Twango himself? Absurd. Inevitably the consumption would fall against the account of Weamish, which is to say, myself. Never! My account at last is clear, and I propose to retire.”

  “I understand nothing of this,” grumbled Cugel.

  “Ah, but you will! Come now: to Twango!”

  With poor grace Cugel followed Weamish into a chamber of many shelves and cases: a repository of curios, to judge by the articles on display.

  “Wait here a single moment!” said Weamish and hopped on spindly legs from the room.

  Cugel walked here and there, inspecting the curios and estimating their value. Strange to find such objects in a place so remote! He bent to examine a pair of small quasi-human grotesques rendered in exact detail. Craftsmanship at its most superb! thought Cugel.

  Weamish returned. “Twango will see you shortly. Meanwhile he offers for your personal regalement this cup of vervain tea, together with these two nutritious wafers, at no charge.”

  Cugel drank the tea and devoured the wafers. “Twango’s act of hospitality, though largely symbolic, does him credit.” He indicated the cabinets. “All this is Twango’s personal collection?”

  “Just so. Before his present occupation he dealt widely in such goods.”

  “His tastes are bizarre, even peculiar.”

  Weamish raised his white eyebrows. “As to that I cannot say. It all seems ordinary enough to me.”

  “Not really,” said Cugel. He indicated the pair of grotesques. “For instance, I have seldom seen objects so studiously repulsive as this pair of bibelots. Skillfully done, agreed! Notice the detail in these horrid little ears! The snouts, the fangs: the malignance is almost real! Still, they are undeniably the work of a diseased imagination.”

  The objects reared erect. One of them spoke in a rasping voice: “No doubt Cugel has good reason for his unkind words; still, neither Gark nor I can take them lightly.”

  The other also spoke: “Such remarks carry a sting! Cugel has a feckless tongue.” Both bounded from the room.

  Weamish spoke in reproach. “You have offended both Gark and Gookin, who came only to guard Twango’s valuables from pilferage. But what is done is done. Come; we will go to Master Twango.”

  Weamish took Cugel to a large workroom, furnished with a dozen tables piled with ledgers, crates and various oddments. Gark and Gookin, wearing smart long-billed caps of red and blue respectively, glared at Cugel from a bench. At an enormous desk sat Twango, who was short and corpulent, with a small chin, a dainty mouth and a bald pate surrounded by varnished black curls. Under his chin hung a faddish little goatee.

  Upon the entrance of Cugel and Weamish, Twango swung around in his chair. “Aha, Weamish! This gentleman, so I am told, is Cugel. Welcome, Cugel, to Flutic!”

  Cugel doffed his hat and bowed. “Sir, I am grateful for your hospitality on this dark night.”

  Twango arranged the papers on his desk and appraised Cugel from the corner of his eye. He indicated a chair. “Be seated, if you will. Weamish tells me that you might be inclined to employment, under certain circumstances.”

  Cugel nodded graciously. “I will be pleased to consider any post for which I am qualified, and which offers an appropriate compensation.”

  Weamish called from the side: “Just so! Conditions at Flutic are always optimum and at worst meticulous.”

  Twango coughed and chuckled. “Dear old Weamish! We have had a long association! But now our accounts are settled and he wishes to retire. Am I correct in this, Weamish?”

  “You are, in every last syllable!”

  Cugel made a delicate suggestion: “Perhaps you will describe the various levels of employment available and their corresponding perquisites. Then, after analysis, I will be able to indicate how best I can serve you.”

  Weamish cried out: “A wise request! Good thinking, Cugel! You will do well at Flutic, or I am much deceived.”

  Twango again straightened the papers on his desk. “My business is simple at its basis. I exhume and refurbish treasures of the past. I then survey, pack, and sell them to a shipping agent of Saskervoy, who delivers them to their ultimate consignee, who, so I understand, is a prominent magician of Almery. If I shape each phase of the operation to its best efficiency — Weamish, in a spirit of jocularity, used the word ‘meticulous’ — I sometimes turn a small profit.”

  “I am acquainted with Almery,” said Cugel. “Who is the magician?”

  Twango chuckled. “Soldinck the shipping agent refuses to release this information, so that I will not sell direct at double profit. But from other sources I learn that the consignee is a certain Iucounu of Pergolo … Cugel, did you speak?”

  Cugel smilingly touched his abdomen. “An eructation only. I usually dine at this time. What of your own meal? Should we not continue our discussion over the evening repast?”

  “All in good time,” said Twango. “Now then, to continue. Weamish has long supervised my archaeological operations, and his position now becomes open. Is the name ‘Sadlark’ known to you?”

  “Candidly, no.”

  “Then for a moment I must digress. During the Cutz Wars of the Eighteenth Aeon, the demon Underherd interfered with the overworld, so that Sadlark descended to set matters right. For reasons obscure — I personally suspect simple vertigo — Sadlark plunged into the mire, creating a pit now found in my own back garden. Sadlark’s scales persist to this day, and these are the treasures which we recover from the slime.”

  “You are fortunate in that the pit is so close to your residence,” said Cugel. “Efficiency is thereby augmented.”

  Twango tried to follow Cugel’s reasoning, th
en gave up the effort. “True.” He pointed to a nearby table. “There stands a reconstruction of Sadlark in miniature!”

  Cugel went to inspect the model, which had been formed by attaching a large number of silver flakes to a matrix of silver wires. The sleek torso stood on a pair of short legs terminating in circular webs. Sadlark lacked a head; the torso rose smoothly to a prow-like turret, fronted by a particularly complex scale with a red node at the center. Four arms hung from the upper torso; neither sense organs nor digestive apparatus were evident, and Cugel pointed out this fact to Twango as a matter of curiosity.

  “Yes, no doubt,” said Twango. “Things are done differently in the overworld. Like the model, Sadlark was constructed of scales on a matrix not of silver wires but wefts of force. When Sadlark plunged into the mire, the dampness annulled his forces; the scales dispersed and Sadlark became disorganized, which is the overworld equivalent of mortality.”

  “A pity,” said Cugel, returning to his seat. “His conduct from the first would seem to have been quixotic.”

  “Possibly true,” said Twango. “His motives are difficult to assess. Now, as to our own business: Weamish is leaving our little group and his post as ‘supervisor of operations’ becomes open. Is such a position within your capacity?”

  “I should certainly think so,” said Cugel. “Buried valuables have long engaged my interest!”

  “Then the position should suit you famously!”

  “And my stipend?”

  “It shall be exactly that of Weamish, even though Weamish is a skilled and able associate of many years. In such cases, I play no favorites.”

  “In round numbers, then, Weamish earns how many terces?”

  “I prefer to keep such matters confidential,” said Twango, “but Weamish, so I believe, will allow me to reveal that last week he earned almost three hundred terces, and the week before as much again.”

  “True, from first to last!” said Weamish.

  Cugel rubbed his chin. “Such a stipend would seem adequate to my needs.”