by Jack Vance
She wandered down the shore to the little stream of fresh water. Here she drank and ate some of the blackberries that grew in rank thickets.
She jerked upright, raised her head. A vast high sound filled the sky, seemed part of all the air. She stood rigid, then craned her neck, searching the overcast, legs half-bent for flight.
A long black sky-fish dropped into view, snorting puffs of fire. Terrified, she backed into the blackberry bushes. The brambles tore her legs, brought her to awareness. She dodged into the forest, crouched under a leaning cypress trunk.
The sky-fish dropped with astounding rapidity, lowered to the beach, settled with a quiet final belch and sigh. Mitr watched in frozen fascination. Never had she known of such a thing, never would she walk the beach again without watching the heavens.
The sky-fish opened. She saw the glint of metal, glass. From the interior jumped three creatures. Her head moved forward in wonder. They were something like herself, but large, red, burly. Strange, frightening things. They made a great deal of noise, talking in hoarse rough voices. One of them saw the glass walls, and for a space they examined the ruins with great interest.
The brown and black beetle which had drank her blood chose this moment to scuttle down the rocks to the beach. One of the newcomers set up a loud halloo and the beetle, bewildered and resentful, ran back up toward the rocks. The stranger held a shiny thing in his hand. It spat a lance of fire and the beetle burst into a thousand incandescent pieces. The three cried out in loud voices, laughing; Mitr shrank back under the tree trunk, making herself as small as possible.
One of the strangers noticed the place on the beach where she had drawn her grating. He called his companions and they looked with every display of attention, studying her footprints with extreme interest. One of them made a comment which caused the others to break into loud laughter. Then they all turned and searched up and down the beach.
They were seeking her, thought Mitr. She crouched so far under the trunk that the bark bruised her flesh.
Presently their interest waned and they went back to the sky-fish. One of them brought forth a long black tube which he took down to the edge of the surf and threw far out into the leaden water. The tube stiffened, pulsed, made sucking sounds. The sky-fish was thirsty and was drinking through his proboscis, thought Mitr.
The three strangers now walked along the beach toward the fresh-water stream. Mitr watched their approach with apprehension. Were they following her tracks? Her hands were sweating, her skin tingled.
They stopped at the water’s edge, drank, only a few paces away. Mitr could see them plainly. They had bright copper hair and little hair-wisps around their mouths. They wore shining red carapaces around their chests, gray cloth on their legs, metal foot-wrappings. They were much like herself—but somehow different. Bigger, harder, more energetic. They were cruel, too; they had burnt the brown and black beetle. Mitr watched them fascinatedly. Where was their home? Were there others like them, like her, in the sky?
She shifted her position; the foliage crackled. Tingles of excitement and fear ran along her back. Had they heard? She peered out, ready to flee. No, they were walking back down the beach toward the sky-fish.
Mitr jumped up from under the tree-trunk, stood watching from behind the foliage. Plainly they cared little that another like themselves lived nearby. She became angry. Now she wanted to chide them, and order them off her beach.
She held back. It would be foolish to show herself. They might easily throw a lance of flame to burn her as they had the beetle. In any event they were rough and brutal. Strange creatures.
She stole through the forest, flitting from trunk to trunk, falling flat when necessary until she had approached the sky-fish as closely as shelter allowed.
The strangers were standing close around the base of the monster and showed no further disposition to explore.
The tube into the bay grew limp. They pulled it back into the sky-fish. Did that mean that they were about to leave? Good. They had no right on her beach. They had committed an outrage, landing so arrogantly, and killing one of her beetles. She almost stepped forward to upbraid them; then remembered how rough and hard and cruel they were, and held back with a tingling skin.
Stand quietly. Presently they will go, and you will be left in possession of your beach.
She moved restlessly. Rough red brutes. Don’t move or they will see you. And then? She shivered.
They were making preparations for leaving. A lump came into her throat. They had seen her tracks and had never bothered to search. They could have found her so easily, she had hid herself almost in plain sight. And now she was closer than ever. If she moved forward only a step, then they would see her.
Skin tingling, she moved a trifle out from behind the tree-trunk. Just a little bit. Then she jumped back, heart thudding.
Had they seen her? With a sudden fluttering access of fright she hoped not. What would they do?
She looked cautiously around the trunk. One of the strangers was staring in a puzzled manner, as if he might have glimpsed movement. Even now he didn’t see her. He looked straight into her eyes.
She heard him call out, then she was fleeing through the forest. He charged after her, and after him came the other two, battering down the undergrowth.
They left her, bruised and bleeding, in a bed of ferns, and marched back through the forest toward the beach, laughing and talking in their rough hoarse voices.
She lay quiet for a while. Their voices grew faint. She rose to her feet, staggered, limped after them.
A great glare lit the sky. Through the trees she saw the sky-fish thunder up—higher, higher, higher. It vanished through the overcast. There was silence along the beach, only the endless mutter of the surf.
She walked down to the water’s edge, where the tide was coming in. The overcast was graying with evening.
She looked for many minutes into the sky, listening. No sound. The damp wind blew in her face, ruffling her hair. She sighed, turned back toward the ruined glass walls with tears on her cheeks.
The tide was washing up over the grate of straight lines she had drawn so carefully in the sand. Another few minutes and it would be entirely gone.
Afterword to “The Mitr”
I think everything I’ve ever read contributes to the background from which I write…for instance, when I was awfully young, I read all the Oz books. They were an enormous influence on me. And then there [were] the Edward Stratemeyer fiction-factory writers. [Howard R. Garis and other writers] had a pseudonym of Roy Rockwood and [they] wrote different kinds of science fiction stories…
Later, I loved P.G. Wodehouse. I thought he was a marvelous writer. I still do to this day. I think he hasn’t been appreciated enough for his magnificent creativity and his beautiful writing. Oh, they laugh at him, but they don’t take him seriously because he seems frivolous. He did what he set out to do and he did it beautifully.
Then there was a writer called Jeffrey Farnol, who wrote in the early ’20s. He wrote magnificent adventure stories, which I read in my teens, I guess. I was fascinated by their mastery of atmosphere and pace, excitement and derring-do. He’s dated a little bit. He’s kind of sentimental in his attitudes towards ladies and old people. He’s very courtly… Those are two men that I admire.
Then there was Clark Ashton Smith, who wrote for Weird Tales and who had a wild imagination. He wasn’t a very talented writer, but his imagination was wonderful. Also Edgar Rice Burroughs. I don’t think he had any influence on my writing at all, but I loved his work when I was young…Burroughs could generate atmosphere, especially the Barsoom books.
These are just the tip of the iceberg, because I read and read and read. I read everything.
—Jack Vance 2002
Morreion
1
The archveult Xexamedes, digging gentian roots in Were Wood, became warm with exertion. He doffed his cloak and returned to work, but the glint of blue scales was noticed by Herark the H
arbinger and the diabolist Shrue. Approaching by stealth they leapt forth to confront the creature. Then, flinging a pair of nooses about the supple neck, they held him where he could do no mischief.
After great effort, a hundred threats and as many lunges, twists and charges on the part of Xexamedes, the magicians dragged him to the castle of Ildefonse, where other magicians of the region gathered in high excitement.
In times past Ildefonse had served the magicians as preceptor and he now took charge of the proceedings. He first inquired the archveult’s name.
“I am Xexamedes, as well you know, old Ildefonse!”
“Yes,” said Ildefonse, “I recognize you now, though my last view was your backside, as we sent you fleeting back to Jangk. Do you realize that you have incurred death by returning?”
“Not so, Ildefonse, since I am no longer an archveult of Jangk. I am an immigrant of Earth; I declare myself reverted to the estate of a man. Even my fellows hold me in low esteem.”
“Well and good,” said Ildefonse. “However, the ban was and is explicit. Where do you now house yourself?” The question was casual, and Xexamedes made an equally bland response.
“I come, I go; I savor the sweet airs of Earth, so different from the chemical vapors of Jangk.”
Ildefonse was not to be put off. “What appurtenances did you bring: specifically, how many IOUN stones?”
“Let us talk of other matters,” suggested Xexamedes. “I now wish to join your local coterie, and, as a future comrade to all present, I find these nooses humiliating.”
The short-tempered Hurtiancz bellowed, “Enough impudence! What of the IOUN stones?”
“I carry a few such trinkets,” replied Xexamedes with dignity.
“Where are they?”
Xexamedes addressed himself to Ildefonse. “Before I respond, may I inquire your ultimate intentions?”
Ildefonse pulled at his white beard and raised his eyes to the chandelier. “Your fate will hinge upon many factors. I suggest that you produce the IOUN stones.”
“They are hidden under the floorboards of my cottage,” said Xexamedes in a sulky voice.
“Which is situated where?”
“At the far edge of Were Wood.”
Rhialto the Marvellous leapt to his feet. “All wait here! I will verify the truth of the statement!”
The sorcerer Gilgad held up both arms. “Not so fast! I know the region exactly! I will go!”
Ildefonse spoke in a neutral voice. “I hereby appoint a committee to consist of Rhialto, Gilgad, Mune the Mage, Hurtiancz, Kilgas, Ao of the Opals, and Barbanikos. This group will go to the cottage and bring back all contraband. The proceedings are adjourned until your return.”
2
The adjuncts of Xexamedes were in due course set forth on a sideboard in Ildefonse’s great hall, including thirty-two IOUN stones: spheres, ellipsoids, spindles, each approximately the size of a small plum, each displaying inner curtains of pale fire. A net prevented them from drifting off like dream-bubbles.
“We now have a basis for further investigation,” said Ildefonse. “Xexamedes, exactly what is the source of these potent adjuncts?”
Xexamedes jerked his tall black plumes in surprise, either real or simulated. He was yet constrained by the two nooses. Haze of Wheary Water held one rope, Barbanikos the other, to ensure that Xexamedes could touch neither. Xexamedes inquired, “What of the indomitable Morreion? Did he not reveal his knowledge?”
Ildefonse frowned in puzzlement. “‘Morreion’? I had almost forgotten the name…What were the circumstances?”
Herark the Harbinger, who knew lore of twenty aeons, stated: “After the archveults were defeated, a contract was made. The archveults were given their lives, and in turn agreed to divulge the source of the IOUN stones. The noble Morreion was ordered forth to learn the secret and was never heard from since.”
“He was instructed in all the procedures,” declared Xexamedes. “If you wish to learn—seek out Morreion!”
Ildefonse asked, “Why did he not return?”
“I cannot say. Does anyone else wish to learn the source of the stones? I will gladly demonstrate the procedure once again.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then Ildefonse suggested, “Gilgad, what of you? Xexamedes has made an interesting proposal.”
Gilgad licked his thin brown lips. “First, I wish a verbal description of the process.”
“By all means,” said Xexamedes. “Allow me to consult a document.” He stepped toward the sideboard, drawing Haze and Barbanikos together; then he leaped back. With the slack thus engendered he grasped Barbanikos and exuded a galvanic impulse. Sparks flew from Barbanikos’ ears; he jumped into the air and fell down in a faint. Xexamedes snatched the rope from Haze and before anyone could prevent him, he fled from the great hall.
“After him!” bawled Ildefonse. “He must not escape!”
The magicians gave chase to the fleet archveult. Across the Scaum hills, past Were Wood ran Xexamedes; like hounds after a fox came the magicians. Xexamedes entered Were Wood and doubled back, but the magicians suspected a trick and were not deceived.
Leaving the forest Xexamedes approached Rhialto’s manse and took cover beside the aviary. The bird-women set up an alarm and old Funk, Rhialto’s servitor, hobbled forth to investigate.
Gilgad now spied Xexamedes and exerted his Instantaneous Electric Effort—a tremendous many-pronged dazzle which not only shivered Xexamedes but destroyed Rhialto’s aviary, shattered his antique way-post and sent poor old Funk dancing across the sward on stilts of crackling blue light.
3
A linden leaf clung to the front door of Rhialto’s manse, pinned by a thorn. A prank of the wind, thought Rhialto, and brushed it aside. His new servant Puiras, however, picked it up and, in a hoarse grumbling voice, read:
NOTHING THREATENS MORREION
“What is this regarding Morreion?” demanded Rhialto. Taking the leaf he inspected the minute silver characters. “A gratuitous reassurance.” A second time he discarded the leaf and gave Puiras his final instructions. “At midday prepare a meal for the Minuscules—gruel and tea will suffice. At sunset serve out the thrush pâté. Next, I wish you to scour the tile of the great hall. Use no sand, which grinds at the luster of the glaze. Thereafter, clear the south sward of debris; you may use the aeolus, but take care; blow only down the yellow reed; the black reed summons a gale, and we have had devastation enough. Set about the aviary; salvage all useful material. If you find corpses, deal with them appropriately. Is so much clear?”
Puiras, a man spare and loose-jointed, with a bony face and lank black hair, gave a dour nod. “Except for a single matter. When I have accomplished all this, what else?”
Rhialto, drawing on his cloth-of-gold gauntlets, glanced sidewise at his servant. Stupidity? Zeal? Churlish sarcasm? Puiras’ visage offered no clue. Rhialto spoke in an even voice. “Upon completion of these tasks, your time is your own. Do not tamper with the magical engines; do not, for your life, consult the portfolios, the librams or the compendiary. In due course, I may instruct you in a few minor dints; until then, be cautious!”
“I will indeed.”
Rhialto adjusted his six-tiered black satin hat, donned his cloak with that flourish which had earned him his soubriquet ‘the Marvellous’. “I go to visit Ildefonse. When I pass the outer gate impose the boundary curse; under no circumstances lift it until I signal. Expect me at sunset: sooner, if all goes well.”
Making no effort to interpret Puiras’ grunt, Rhialto sauntered to the north portal, averting his eyes from the wreckage of his wonderful aviary. Barely had he passed the portal by, when Puiras activated the curse, prompting Rhialto to jump hastily forward. Rhialto adjusted the set of his hat. The ineptitude of Puiras was but one in a series of misfortunes, all attributable to the archveult Xexamedes. His aviary destroyed, the way-post shattered, old Funk dead! From some source compensation must be derived!
4
Ildefonse lived in a
castle above the River Scaum: a vast and complex structure of a hundred turrets, balconies, elevated pavilions and pleasaunces. During the final ages of the 21st Aeon, when Ildefonse had served as preceptor, the castle had seethed with activity. Now only a single wing of this monstrous edifice was in use, with the rest abandoned to dust, owls and archaic ghosts.
Ildefonse met Rhialto at the bronze portal. “My dear colleague, splendid as usual! Even on an occasion like that of today! You put me to shame!” Ildefonse stood back the better to admire Rhialto’s austerely handsome visage, his fine blue cloak and trousers of rose velvet, his glossy boots. Ildefonse himself, for reasons obscure, presented himself in the guise of a jovial sage, with bald pate, a lined countenance, pale blue eyes, an irregular white beard—conceivably a natural condition which vanity would not let him discard.
“Come in, then,” cried Ildefonse. “As always, with your sense of drama, you are last to arrive!”
They proceeded to the great hall. On hand were fourteen sorcerers: Zilifant, Perdustin, Herark the Harbinger, Haze of Wheary Water, Ao of the Opals, Eshmiel, Kilgas, Byzant the Necrope, Gilgad, Vermoulian the Dream-walker, Barbanikos, the diabolist Shrue, Mune the Mage, Hurtiancz. Ildefonse called out, “The last of our cabal has arrived: Rhialto the Marvellous, at whose manse the culminating stroke occurred!”
Rhialto doffed his hat to the group. Some returned the salute; others, Gilgad, Byzant the Necrope, Mune the Mage, Kilgas, merely cast cool glances over their shoulders.
Ildefonse took Rhialto by the arm and led him to the buffet. Rhialto accepted a goblet of wine, which he tested with his amulet.
