Cugel

by Jack Vance

  There was no time for a second attempt; the women were upon him. Holding sword and pouch so that they did not impede his running, Cugel took to his heels, with the fastest of the women in pursuit.

  After half a mile the women gave up the chase and Cugel paused to catch his breath. Already smoke was rising from Nisbet’s abode, as the mob wreaked vicarious vengeance on Nisbet. On top of their columns the men stood up, the better to observe events. High in the sky the wagon drifted eastward on the wind, with Nisbet peering over the side.

  Cugel heaved a sigh. Slinging the pouch over his shoulder, he set off to the south toward Port Perdusz.

  2

  Faucelme

  Setting his course by the bloated red sun, Cugel journeyed south across an arid wasteland. Small boulders cast black shadows; an occasional stand-back bush, with leaves like fleshy pink ear-lobes, thrust thorns toward Cugel as he passed.

  The horizons were blurred behind haze the color of watered carmine. No human artifact could be seen, nor any living creature, except on a single occasion when, far to the south, Cugel noted a pelgrane of impressive wingspan flying lazily from west to east. Cugel flung himself flat and lay motionless until the creature had disappeared into the eastern haze. Cugel then picked himself up, dusted off his garments and proceeded south.

  The pallid soil reflected heat. Cugel paused to fan his face with his hat. In so doing he brushed his wrist lightly across ‘Spatterlight’, the sky-breaker scale which Cugel now used as a hat ornament. The contact caused an instant searing pain and a sucking sensation as if ‘Spatterlight’ were anxious to engulf the whole of Cugel’s arm and perhaps more. Cugel looked askance at the ornament: his wrist had barely made contact! ‘Spatterlight’ was not an object to be dealt with casually.

  Cugel gingerly replaced the hat on his head and continued south at speed, hoping to come upon shelter before nightfall. He moved at so hasty a gait that he almost blundered over the brink of a sink-hole fifty yards wide. He stopped short with one leg poised over the abyss, with a black tarn a hundred feet below. For a few breathless seconds Cugel tottered in a state of disequilibrium, then lurched back to safety.

  After catching his breath, Cugel proceeded with greater caution. The sink-hole, he soon discovered, was not an isolated case. Over the next few miles he came upon others of greater or less dimension and few gave warning of their presence; there was only an instant brink and a far drop into dark water.

  At larger sink-holes dark blue weeping-willow trees hung over the edge, half-concealing rows of peculiar habitations. These were narrow and tall, like boxes piled one on the other. There seemed no concern for precision and parts of the structures rested on the branches of the weeping-willows.

  The folk who had built the tree-towers were difficult to see among the shadows of the foliage; Cugel glimpsed them as they darted across their queer little windows, and several times he thought to see them slipping into the sink-hole on slides polished from the native limestone. Their stature was that of a small human being or a boy, though their countenances suggested a peculiar hybridization of reptile, stalking bang-nose beetle and miniature gid. To cover their gray-green pelts they wore flounced belly-guards of pale fiber, and caps with black ear-flaps, apparently fabricated from human skulls.

  The aspect of these folk gave Cugel little hope of obtaining hospitality, and indeed prompted him to slip away before they decided to pursue him.

  As the sun sank low, Cugel became ever more nervous. If he tried to travel by night, he would certainly blunder into a sink-hole. If he thought to wrap himself in his cloak and sleep in the open, he thereupon became prey for visps, which stood nine feet tall and looked across the night through luminous pink eyes, and traced the scent of flesh by means of two flexible proboscises growing from each side of their scalp-crest.

  The lower limb of the sun touched the horizon. In desperation Cugel tore up branches of brittlebush, whose wood made excellent torches. He approached a sink-hole fringed with weeping-willows and selected a tree-tower somewhat isolated from the others. As he drew near, he glimpsed weasel-like shapes darting back and forth in front of the windows.

  Cugel drew his sword and pounded on the planked wall. “It is I, Cugel!” he roared. “I am king of this wretched wasteland! How is it that none of you have paid your fees?”

  From within came a chorus of howling high-pitched invective, and filth was flung from the windows. Cugel drew back and set one of the branches afire. From the windows came piercing cries of outrage, and certain residents of the tree-tower ran out into the branches of the weeping-willow and slid down into the water of the sink-hole.

  Cugel kept a wary eye to the rear, so that none of the tree-tower folk should creep up from behind to jump on his back. He pounded again on the walls. “Enough of your slops and filth! Pay over a thousand terces at once, or vacate the premises!”

  From within nothing could be heard but hisses and whispers. Watching in all directions, Cugel circled the structure. He found a door and thrust in the torch, to discover a work-room, with a polished limestone bench across one wall, on which rested several alabaster ewers, cups and trenchers. There was neither hearth nor stove; evidently the tree-tower folk shunned the use of fire; nor was there communication with the upper levels, by means of ladders, traps or stairs.

  Cugel left his branches of brittlebush and his burning torch on the dirt floor and went to gather more fuel. In the plum-colored afterglow he collected four armloads of branches and brought them to the tree-tower; during the final load he heard at frighteningly close hand the melancholy call of a visp.

  Cugel hurriedly returned to the tree-tower. Once again the residents issued furious protests, and strident screams echoed back and forth across the sink-hole.

  “Vermin, settle down!” called Cugel. “I am about to take my rest.”

  His commands went unheeded. Cugel brought his torch from the work-room and flourished it in all directions. The tumult instantly died.

  Cugel returned into the work-room and blocked the door with the limestone slab, which he propped into place with a pole. He laid his fire so that it would burn slowly, one brand at a time. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he composed himself to sleep.

  During the night he awoke at intervals to tend his fire, to listen and to peer through a crack out across the sinkhole, but all was quiet save for the calls of wandering visps.

  In the morning Cugel aroused himself with the coming of sunlight. Through cracks he scrutinized the area outside the tree-tower, but nothing seemed amiss, and no sound could be heard.

  Cugel pursed his lips in dubious reflection. He would have been reassured by some more or less overt demonstration of hostility. The quiet was over-innocent.

  Cugel asked himself: “How, in similar case, would I punish an interloper as bold as myself?”

  And next: “Why risk fire or sword?”

  Then: “I would plan a horrid surprise.”

  Finally: “Logic leads to the concept of a snare. So then: let us see what there is to be seen.” Cugel removed the limestone slab from the door. All was quiet: even more quiet than before. The entire sink-hole held its breath. Cugel studied the ground before the tree-tower. He looked right and left, to discover cords dangling from the branches of the tree. The ground before the door had been sprinkled with a suspicious amount of soil, which failed to conceal altogether the outlines of a net.

  Cugel picked up the limestone slab and thrust it at the back wall. The planks, secured with pegs and withes, broke loose; Cugel jumped through the hole and was away, with cries of outrage and disappointment ringing after him.

  Cugel continued to march south, toward far hills which showed as shadows behind the haze. At noon he came upon an abandoned farmstead beside a small river, where he gratefully sated his thirst. In an old orchard he found an ancient crab-apple tree heavy with fruit. He ate to satiation and filled his pouch.

  As Cugel set off on his way he noticed a stone tablet with a weathered inscription:
<
br />   EVIL DEEDS WERE DONE AT THIS PLACE

  MAY FAUCELME KNOW PAIN UNTIL THE SUN GOES OUT

  AND AFTER

  A cold draught seemed to touch the back of Cugel’s neck, and he looked uneasily over his shoulder. “Here is a place to be avoided,” he told himself, and set off at full stride of his long legs.

  An hour later Cugel passed beside a forest where he discovered a small octagonal chapel with the roof collapsed. Cugel cautiously peered within, to find the air heavy with the reek of visp. As he backed away, a bronze plaque, green with the corrosion of centuries, caught his eye. The characters read:

  MAY THE GODS OF GNIENNE WORK BESIDE

  THE DEVILS OF GNARRE TO WARD US

  FROM THE FURY OF FAUCELME

  Cugel suspired a quiet breath, and backed away from the chapel. Both past and present oppressed the region; with the utmost relief would Cugel arrive at Port Perdusz!

  Cugel set off to the south at a pace even faster than before.

  As the afternoon waned, the land began to swell in hillocks and swales: precursors to the first rise of the hills which now bulked high to the south. Trees straggled down from the upper-level forests: mylax with black bark and broad pink leaves; barrel-cypress, dense and impenetrable; pale gray parments, dangling strings of spherical black nuts; graveyard oak, thick and gnarled with crooked sprawling branches.

  As on the previous evening, Cugel saw the day grow old with foreboding. As the sun dropped upon the far hills he broke out into a road running roughly parallel to the hills, which presumably must connect by one means or another with Port Perdusz.

  Stepping out upon the road, Cugel looked right and left, and to his great interest saw a farmer’s wain halted about half a mile to the east, with three men standing by the back end.

  To avoid projecting an impression of urgency, Cugel composed his stride to an easy saunter, in the manner of a casual traveler, but at the wain no one seemed either to notice or to care.

  As Cugel drew near, he saw that the wain, which was drawn by four mermelants, had suffered a breakdown at one of its tall rear wheels. The mermelants feigned disinterest in the matter and averted their eyes from the three farmers whom the mermelants liked to consider their servants. The wain was loaded high with faggots from the forest, and at each corner thrust high a three-pronged harpoon intended as a deterrent to the sudden swoop of a pelgrane.

  As Cugel approached, the farmers, who seemed to be brothers, glanced over their shoulders, then returned unsmilingly to their contemplation of the broken wheel.

  Cugel strolled up to the wagon. The farmers watched him sidelong, with such disinterest that Cugel’s affability congealed on his face.

  Cugel cleared his throat. “What seems to be wrong with your wheel?”

  The oldest of the brothers responded in a series of surly grunts: “Nothing ‘seems’ to be wrong with the wheel. Do you take us for fools? Something is definitely and factually wrong. The retainer ring has been lost; the bearings have dropped out. It is a serious matter, so go your way and do not disturb our thinking.”

  Cugel held up a finger in arch reproach. “One should never be too cock-sure! Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Bah! What do you know of such things?”

  The second brother said: “Where did you get that odd hat?”

  The youngest of the three attempted a thrust of heavy humor. “If you can carry the load on the axle while we roll the wheel, then you can be of help. Otherwise, be off with you.”

  “You may joke, but perhaps I can indeed do something along these lines,” said Cugel. He appraised the wain, which weighed far less than one of Nisbet’s columns. His boots had been anointed with ossip wax and all was in order. He stepped forward and gave the wheel a kick. “You will now discover both wheel and wagon to be weightless. Lift, and discover for yourselves.”

  The youngest of the brothers seized the wheel and lifted, exerting such strength that the weightless wheel slipped from his grasp and rose high into the air, where it was caught in the wind and blown away to the east. The wagon, with a block under the axle, had taken no effect from the magic and remained as before.

  The wheel rolled away down the sky. From nowhere, or so it seemed, a pelgrane swung down and, seizing the wheel, carried it off.

  Cugel and the three farmers watched the pelgrane and the wheel disappear over the mountains.

  “Well then,” said the oldest. “What now?”

  Cugel gave his head a rueful shake. “I hesitate to make further suggestions.”

  “Ten terces is the value of a new wheel,” said the oldest brother. “Pay over that sum at once. Since I never threaten I will not mention the alternatives.”

  Cugel drew himself up. “I am not one to be impressed by bluster!”

  “What of cudgels and pitchforks?”

  Cugel took a step back and dropped a hand to his sword. “If blood runs along the road, it will be yours, not mine!”

  The farmers stood back, collecting their wits. Cugel moderated his voice. “A wheel such as yours, damaged, broken, and worn almost through to the spokes, might fairly be valued at two terces. To demand more is unrealistic.”

  The oldest brother declared in grandiose tones: “We will compromise! I mentioned ten terces, you spoke of two. Subtracting two from ten leaves eight; therefore pay us eight terces and everyone will be satisfied.”

  Cugel still hesitated. “Somewhere I sense a fallacy. Eight terces is still too much! Remember, I acted from altruism! Must I pay for good deeds?”

  “Is it a good deed to send our wheel whirling through the air? If this is your kindness, spare us anything worse.”

  “Let us approach the matter from a new direction,” said Cugel. “I need lodging for the night. How far is your farmstead?”

  “Four miles, but we shall not sleep in our beds tonight; we must stay to guard our property.”

  “There is another way,” said Cugel. “I can make the whole wagon weightless —”

  “What?” cried the first brother. “So that we lose wagon as well as wheel?”

  “We are not the dunderheads you take us for!” exclaimed the second brother.

  “Give us our money and go your way!” cried the youngest. “If you need lodging, apply to the manse of Faucelme a mile along the road.”

  “Excellent notion!” declared the first brother with a broad grin. “Why did not I think of it? But first: our ten terces.”

  “Ten terces? Your jokes are lame. Before I part with a single groat I want to learn where I can securely pass the night.”

  “Did we not tell you? Apply to Faucelme! Like you he is an altruist and welcomes passing vagabonds to his manse.”

  “Remarkable hats or none,” chuckled the youngest.

  “During the olden times a ‘Faucelme’ seems to have despoiled the region,” said Cugel. “Is the ‘Faucelme’ yonder a namesake? Does he follow in the foot-steps of the original?”

  “I know nothing of Faucelme nor his forbears,” said the oldest brother.

  “His manse is large,” said the second brother. “He never turns anyone from his door.”

  “You can see the smoke from his chimney even now,” said the youngest. “Give us our money and be off with you. Night is coming on and we must prepare against the visps.”

  Cugel rummaged among the crab-apples and brought out five terces. “I give up this money not to please you but to punish myself for trying to improve a group of primitive peasants.”

  There was another spate of bitter words, but at last the five terces were accepted, and Cugel departed. As soon as he had passed around the wagon he heard the brothers give vent to guffaws of coarse laughter.

  The mermelants lay sprawled untidily in the dirt, probing the roadside weeds for sweet-grass with their long tongues. As Cugel passed, the lead animal spoke in a voice barely comprehensible through a mouthful of fodder. “Why are the lumpkins laughing?”

  Cugel shrugged. “I helped them with magic and their wheel flew away, s
o I gave them five terces to stifle their outcries.”

  “Tricks, full and bold!” said the mermelant. “An hour ago they sent the boy to the farm for a new wheel. They were ready to roll the old wheel into the ditch when they saw you.”

  “I ignore such paltriness,” said Cugel. “They recommended that I lodge tonight at the manse of Faucelme. Again I doubt their good faith.”

  “Ah, those treacherous grooms!* They think they can trick anyone! So they send you to a sorcerer of questionable repute.”

  *

  The mermelants, to sustain vanity, refer to their masters as ‘grooms’ and ‘tenders’. Ordinarily amiable, they are fond of beer, and when drunk rear high on their splayed rear legs to show their ribbed white bellies. At this juncture any slight provocation sends them into paroxysms of rage, and they exercise their great strength for destruction.

  Cugel anxiously searched the landscape ahead. “Is no other shelter at hand?”

  “Our grooms formerly took in wayfarers and murdered them in their beds, but no one wanted to bury the corpses so they gave up the trade. The next lodging is twenty miles.”

  “That is bad news,” said Cugel. “How does one deal with Faucelme?”

  The mermelants munched at the sweet-grass. One said: “Do you carry beer? We are beer-drinkers of noble repute and show our bellies to all.”

  “I have only crab-apples, to which you are welcome.”

  “Yes, those are good,” said the mermelant, and Cugel distributed what fruit he carried.

  “If you go to Faucelme, be wary of his tricks! A fat merchant survived by singing lewd songs the whole night long and never turning his back on Faucelme.”

  One of the farmers came around the wagon, to halt in annoyance at the sight of Cugel. “What are you doing here? Be off with you and stop annoying the mermelants.”