Lyonesse II - The Green Pear and Madouc

by Jack Vance

  Two months passed, during which Sarles profited from fine catches, while nothing seemed to go right for Tamas. One evening Tamas went to the house of Sarles, hoping to make some sort of adjustment in a situation which no one in Mynault considered totally fair, though all agreed that Sarles had acted only within his rights.

  Tamas found Liba alone, sitting by the hearth spinning thread. Tamas came to the middle of the room and looked all around. “Where is Sarles?”

  “At the tavern, or so I would expect, pouring his gut full of wine.” Liba spoke in a flat voice which held a metallic overtone. She glanced at Tamas over her shoulder, then returned to her spindle. “Whatever you want you will not get. He is suddenly a man of property, and struts around like a grandee.”

  “Still, we must have an understanding!” declared Tamas. “He lost his rotten hulk and gained the Lirlou, at the expense of myself, my mother and my sisters. We have lost everything through no fault of our own. We ask only that Sarles deal fairly with us, and give us our share.”

  Liba moved her shoulders in a stony shrug. “It is useless to talk to me. I can do nothing with him. He is a different man since he brought home his green pearl.” She raised her eyes to the mantel, where the pearl rested in a saucer.

  Tamas went to look at the gem. He took it up and hefted it in his fingers, then whistled through his teeth. “This is a valuable object! It would buy another Lirlou! It would make me rich!”

  Liba glanced at him in surprise. Was this the voice of Tamas, everywhere considered the very soul of rectitude? The green pearl seemed to corrupt with greed and selfishness all those who touched it! She turned back to her spinning. “Tell me nothing; what I do not know I can not prevent. I abhor the thing; it gazes at me like an evil eye.”

  Tamas uttered a queer high-pitched chuckle: so odd that Liba glanced at him sidelong in surprise.

  “Just so!” said Tamas. “It is a time for a righting of wrongs! If Sarles complains, let him come to me!” With the pearl in his hand, he ran from the house. Liba sighed and returned to her spinning, with a heavy lump of apprehension in her chest.

  An hour passed with no sound but the sough of the wind in the chimney and an occasional sputter of the fire. Then came the lurching thud of Sarles’ steps as he staggered home from the tavern. He thrust the door wide, stood a moment in the opening, his face round as a plate under the untidy ledges of his black hair. His eyes darted here and there and halted on the saucer; he went to look and found the saucer empty. He uttered a cry of anguish. “Where is the pearl, the lovely green pearl?”

  Liba spoke in her even voice. “Tamas came to talk with you. Since you were not here he took the pearl.”

  Sarles gave a howl of rage. “Why did you not stop him?”

  “It is none of my affair. You must settle the matter with Tamas.”

  Sarles moaned in fury. “You could have stayed him; you gave him the pearl!” He lurched at her with clubbed fists; she raised the spindle and thrust it into his left eye.

  Sarles clapped his hand to the bloody socket, while Liba stood back, awed by the magnitude of her deed.

  Sarles looked at her with his right eye, and stepped slowly forward. Liba, groping behind her, found a broom of tied withes which she lifted and held ready. Sarles came forward one step at a time. Never taking his eye from Liba, he bent and picked up a short-handled axe. Liba screamed and thrust the broom into Sarles’ face, then ran for the door. Sarles seized her hair and, pulling her back, did gruesome work with the axe.

  Neighbors had been attracted by the screams. Men seized Sarles and took him to the square. The town elders were summoned from their beds and came blinking out to do justice by the light of lanterns.

  The crime was manifest; the murderer was known, and there was nothing to be gained by delay. Sentence was passed; Sarles was marched to the hostler’s barn and hanged from the hay derrick, while the village population stared in wonder to see their neighbor kick and jerk by lantern light.

  III

  OALDES, TWENTY MILES NORTH OF MYNAULT, had long served the South Ulfish kings as their seat, though it lacked the grace and historical presence of Ys, and showed to poor advantage when compared to Avallon and Lyonesse Town. To Tamas, however, Oaldes with its market square and busy harbour seemed the very definition of urbanity.

  He stabled his horse and made a breakfast of fish stew at a dockside tavern, all the while wondering where best to sell his wonderful pearl, that he might realize a maximum gain.

  Tamas made a guarded inquiry of the landlord: “I put you this question: if someone wished to sell a pearl of value, where would he find the best price?”

  “Pearls, eh? You will find small clamor for pearls at Oaldes. Here we spend our miserable few coins on bread and codfish. An onion in the stew is all the pearl most of us will ever see. Still, show me your wares.”

  Somewhat reluctantly Tamas allowed the landlord a glimpse of the green pearl.

  “A prodigy!” declared the landlord. “Or is it a cunning puddle of green glass?”

  “It is a pearl,” said Tamas shortly.

  “Perhaps so. I have seen a pink pearl from Hadramaut, and a white pearl from India, both adorning the ears of sea-captains. Let me look once more on your green jewel… . Ah! It glows with a virulent light! There, yonder, is the booth of a Sephard goldsmith; perhaps he will offer you a price.”

  Tamas took the pearl to the goldsmith’s booth and laid it upon the counter. “How much gold and how much silver will you pay out for this fine gem?”

  The goldsmith pushed a long nose close to the pearl and rolled it with a bronze pick. He looked up. “What is your price?”

  Tamas, ordinarily equable, found himself infuriated by the goldsmith’s bland voice. He responded roughly: “I want the full value, and I will not be cheated!”

  The goldsmith shrugged narrow shoulders. “The worth of an article is what someone will pay. I have no market for such a fine trinket. I will give a single gold piece, no more.”

  Tamas snatched the pearl and strode angrily away. And so it went all day. Tamas offered the pearl to everyone who he thought might pay a good price, but met no success.

  Late in the afternoon, tired, hungry and seething with repressed anger, he returned to the Red Lobster Inn, where he ate a pork pasty and drank a mug of beer. At a nearby table four men gambled at dice. Tamas went to watch the play and when one of the men departed, the others invited him to join their game. “You seem a prosperous lad; here’s your chance to enrich yourself even further at our expense!”

  Tamas hesitated, since he knew little of dice or gaming. He thrust his hands into his pockets and touched the green pearl, which sent a pulse of reckless confidence coursing along his nerves.

  “Certainly!” Tamas cried out. “Why not?” He slid into the vacant seat. “You must explain your game to me, since I lack experience at such sport.”

  The other men at the table laughed jovially. “All the better for you!” said one. “Beginner’s luck is the rule!”

  Another said: “The first thing to remember is that if you win your count, you must not forget to collect your wager. Secondly, and even more important from our point of view, if you lose, you must pay! Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely!” said Tamas.

  “Then, just as a gentlemanly courtesy, show us the colour of your money.”

  Tamas brought the green pearl from his pocket. “Here is a gem worth twenty gold pieces; this is my surety! I have no smaller moneys.”

  The other players looked at the pearl in perplexity. One of them said: “It may be worth exactly as you claim, but how do you expect to gamble on that basis?”

  “Very simply. If I win, I win and nothing more need be said. If I lose, I lose until I am in debt to the amount of twenty gold pieces, whereupon I give up my pearl and depart in poverty.”

  “All very well,” said another of the gamblers. “Still, twenty gold pieces is a goodly sum. Suppose I were to win a single gold piece and thereupon had eno
ugh of the game; what then?”

  “Is it not absolutely clear?” demanded Tamas peevishly. “You then give me nineteen gold pieces, take the pearl and depart with your gains.”

  “But I lack the nineteen gold pieces!”

  The third gambler cried out: “Come, let us play the game! No doubt matters will sort themselves out!”

  “Not yet!” cried the cautious gambler. He turned to Tamas. “The pearl is useless in this game; have you no smaller coins?”

  A red-haired red-bearded man wearing the varnished hat and striped trousers of a seaman came forward. He picked up the green pearl and scrutinized it with care. “A rare gem, of perfect luster and remarkable colour! Where did you find this marvel?”

  Tamas had no intention of telling everything he knew. “I am a fisherman from Mynault, and we bring ashore all manner of marine treasure, especially after a storm.”

  “It is a fine jewel,” said the cautious gambler. “Still, in this game you must play with coins.”

  “Come then!” cried the others. “Put out your stakes; let the game begin!”

  Tamas grudgingly laid down ten coppers, which he had been reserving for the night’s supper and lodging.

  The game proceeded and Tamas’s luck was good. First copper, then silver coins rose before him in stacks of gratifying height; he began to play for ever higher stakes, deriving assurance from the green pearl which rested among his winnings.

  One of the gamblers abandoned the game in disgust. “Never have I seen such turns of the dice! I cannot defeat both Tamas and the goddess Fortunate!”

  The red-bearded seaman, who named himself Flary, decided to join the game. “It is probably a lost cause, but I too will challenge this wild fisherman from Mynault.”

  The game proceeded once again. Flary, an expert gambler, secretly introduced a pair of weighted dice into the game, and seizing an appropriate opportunity, placed a wager of ten gold pieces on the board. He called out: “Fisherman, can you meet such a wager?”

  “My pearl is security!” responded Tamas. “Start the game!”

  Flary cast down the dice and once more, to Flary’s great perplexity, Tamas had won the stakes.

  Tamas laughed at Flary’s discomfiture. “That is all for tonight. I have gambled long and hard, and my winnings will buy me a fine new boat. My thanks to you all for a profitable evening.”

  Flary pulled at his beard and squinted sidelong as Tamas counted his money. As if on sudden inspiration Flary swooped down upon the table and pretended to inspect the dice. “As I suspected! Such luck is unnatural! These are weighted dice! We have been robbed!”

  There was sudden silence, then an outburst of fury. Tamas was seized, dragged out to the yard behind the tavern and there beaten black and blue. Flary meanwhile retrieved his dice, his gold pieces and also possessed himself of the green pearl.

  Well pleased with the night’s work, he departed the tavern and went his way.

  IV

  THE SKYRE. A LONG BIGHT OF PROTECTED WATER, separated North Ulfland from the ancient Duchy of Per Aquila, now Godelia, realm of the Celts2. Two towns of very different character looked at each other across the Skyre: Xounges, at the tip of a stony peninsula, and Dun Cruighre, Godelia’s principal port.

  In Xounges, behind impregnable defenses, Gax, the aged king of North Ulfland, maintained the semblance of a court. The Ska, who effectively controlled Gax’s kingdom, tolerated his shadowy pretensions only because an attempt to storm the town would cost far more Ska blood than they were willing to spend. When old Gax died, the Ska would take the town through intrigue or bribery: whichever best served practicality.

  Viewed from the Skyre, Xounges showed an intricate pattern of gray stone and black shadow, under roofs of mouldering brown tile. In total contrast, Dun Cruighre spread back from the docks in an untidy clutter of warehouses, hostleries, bams, shipwright’s shops, taverns and inns, thatched cottages and an occasional two-story stone manse. The heart of Dun Cruighre was its noisy and sometimes raucous square, often the scene of impromptu horse-races, for the Celts were great ones at contention of any sort.

  Dun Cruighre was enlivened by much coming and going, with constant sea-traffic to and from Ireland and Britain. A Christian monastery, the Brotherhood of Saint Bac, boasted a dozen famous relics and attracted pilgrims by the hundreds. Ships from far lands lay alongside the docks, and traders set up booths to display their imports: silk and cotton from Persia; jade, cinnabar and malachite from various lands; perfumed waxes and palm-oil soap from Egypt; Byzantine glass and Rimini faience-all to be exchanged for Celtic gold, silver or tin.

  The inns of Dun Cruighre ranged in quality from fair to good: somewhat better, in fact, than might have been expected, for which the itinerant priests and monks could be thanked, since their tastes were demanding and their pouches tended to chink loud with coin. The most reputable tavern of Dun Cruighre was the Blue Ox, which offered private chambers to the wealthy and straw pallets in a loft to the penurious. In the common room, fowl constantly turned on a spit, and bread came fresh from the oven; travellers often declared that a plump roast pullet, stuffed with onions and parsley, with fresh bread and butter, and a pint or two of the Blue Ox ale made as good a meal as could be had anywhere in the Elder Isles. On fine days service was provided at tables in front of the inn, where patrons could eat and drink and watch the events of the square, which in this boisterous town never lacked for interest.

  Halfway through one such fine morning a person of portly habit, wearing a brown cassock, came to sit at one of the Blue Ox’s outside tables. His face was confident and clever, with round alert eyes, a short nose, and an expression of genial optimism. With nimble white fingers and an earnest snapping of small white teeth he devoured first a roast pullet, then a dozen honeycakes, meanwhile drinking grandly of mead from a pewter mug. His cassock, if judged by its cut and the excellence of its weave, suggested a clerical connection, but the gentleman had thrown back his hood and where once his pate had been shaved clean, a crop of brown hair now once again was evident.

  From the common room of the tavern came a young man of aristocratic demeanour. He was tall and strong, clean-shaven and clear of eye, with an expression of tranquil good humor, as if he found the world a congenial place in which to be alive. His garments were casual: a loose shirt of white linen, trousers of gray twill and an embroidered blue vest. He looked right and left, then approached the table where sat the gentleman in the brown cassock. He asked: “Sir, may I join you? The other tables are occupied and, if possible, I would enjoy the air of this fine morning.”

  The gentleman in the cassock made an expansive gesture: “Be seated at your pleasure! Allow me to recommend the mead; today it is both sweet and strong, and the honeycakes are flawless. Indeed, I plan an immediate second acquaintance with both.”

  The newcomer settled himself into a chair. “The rules of your order are evidently both tolerant and liberal.”

  “Ha ha, not so! The restrictions are austere and the penalties are harsh. My transgressions, in fact, have brought me expulsion from the order.”

  “Hmm! It seems an exaggerated response. A sip or two of mead, a taste of honeycake: where is the harm in this?”

  “None whatever!” declared the ex-priest. “I must admit that the issues possibly went a trifle deeper, and I may even found a new brotherhood, devoid of those stringencies which too often make religion a bore. I am restrained only because I do not wish to be branded a heretic. Are you yourself a Christian?”

  The young man made a negative sign. “The concepts of religion baffle me.”

  “This inscrutability is perhaps not unintentional,” said the ex-priest. “It gives endless employment to dialecticians who otherwise might become public charges or, at very worst, swindlers and tricksters. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Of course. I am Sir Tristano of Castle Mythric in Troicinet. And yourself?”

  “I also am of noble blood, or so it seems to me. For th
e nonce, I use the name my father gave me, which is Orlo.”

  Sir Tristano, signaling the servant girl, ordered mead and honeycakes for both himself and Orlo. “I assume, then, that you have definitely resigned from the church?”

  “Quite so. It makes for a sordid tale. I was called before the abbot that I might answer to charges of drunkenness and wenching. I put forward my views in a manner to enlighten and convince any reasonable person. I assured the abbot that our merciful Lord God would never have created succulent pasties nor smacking ale, not to mention the charms of merry-hearted women, had he not wished these commodities to be enjoyed to the fullest.”

  “The abbot no doubt fell back upon dogma for his rebuttal?”

  “Precisely! He cited passage after passage from the scriptures to justify his position. I suggested that errors might well have crept into the translation, and that, until we were absolutely sure that self-starvation and tormented glands were the will of our glorious Lord, I proposed that we give ourselves the benefit of the doubt. The abbot nevertheless cast me out.”

  “Self-interest also guided him; of this I have no doubt!” said Sir Tristano. “If everyone worshipped in the manner he found most congenial, the abbot, and the pope as well, would find themselves with no one to instruct.”

  At this moment Sir Tristano’s attention was attracted by a scene of activity across the square. “What is the commotion yonder? Everyone is dancing and skipping as if they were on their way to a festival.”

  “It is indeed a celebration of sorts,” said Orlo. “For close on a year a bloody-handed pirate has been terrorizing the sea. Have you heard the name ‘Flary the Red’?”

  “I have indeed! Mothers use the name to frighten their children.”

  “Flary is a nonesuch!” said Orlo. “He has elevated cutthroat daring to a pinnacle of virtuosity, and always he has worn a lucky green pearl in his ear. One day he misplaced his pearl, but nevertheless launched an attack. This was his great mistake. What seemed a fat merchantman was a trap, and fifty Godelian fire-eaters swarmed aboard the pirate ship. Red Flary was captured and today he will lose his head. Shall we observe the ceremony?”