Mazirian the Magician

by Jack Vance

  “It is no magic,” said the younger man shortly. “It is the way of Ampridatvir.”

  At regular intervals along the street stood stone vestibules about ten feet high that had the appearance of sheltering ramps leading below the street.

  “What lies below?” inquired Ulan Dhor.

  The fishermen shrugged. “The doors are tight. No man has ever gone through. Legend says it was the last work of Rogol Domedonfors.”

  Ulan Dhor withheld further questions, observing a growing nervousness in the fishermen. Infected by their apprehension he kept his hand at his sword.

  “None live in this part of Ampridatvir,” said the old fisherman in a hoarse whisper. “It is ancient beyond imagining, ridden with ghosts.”

  The streets broke into a central square, the towers fell away before them. The sliding strip coasted to a stop, like water flowing into a pool. Here glowed the first artificial light Ulan Dhor had seen — a bright globe hung on a looping metal stanchion.

  In this light Ulan Dhor saw a youth in a gray cloak hurrying across the square … A movement among the ruins; the fishermen gasped, crouched. A corpse-pale creature sprang out into the light. Its arms hung knotted and long; dirty fur covered its legs. Great eyes glared from a peaked, fungus-white skull; two fangs hung over the undershot mouth. It leapt upon the wretch in the gray robe and tucked him under his arm; then, turning, gave Ulan Dhor and the fishermen a look of baleful triumph. And now they saw that the victim was a woman …

  Ulan Dhor drew his sword. “No, no!” whispered the older man. “The Gaun will go its way!”

  “But the woman it has taken! We can save her!”

  “The Gaun has seized no one.” The old man clutched at his shoulder.

  “Are you blind, man?” cried Ulan Dhor.

  “There are none in Ampridatvir but the Greens,” said the younger man. “Stay by us.”

  Ulan Dhor hesitated. Was the woman in gray, then, a ghost? If so, why did not the fishermen say as much? … The Gaun, with insolent leisure, stalked toward a long edifice of dark tumbled arches.

  Ulan Dhor ran across the white square of ancient Ampridatvir.

  The monster twisted to face him and flung out a great knotted arm, as long as a man was tall, ending in a white-furred clump of fingers. Ulan Dhor hewed a tremendous blow with his sword; the Gaun’s forearm dangled by a shred of flesh and bone-splinter.

  Jumping back to avoid the spray of blood, Ulan Dhor ducked the grasp of the other arm as it swung past. He hacked again, another great blow, and the second forearm dangled loosely. He sprang close, plunged his blade at the creature’s eye and struck up into the beast’s skull-case.

  The creature died in a series of wild capers, maniac throes that took it dancing around the square.

  Ulan Dhor, panting, fighting nausea, looked down to the wide-eyed woman. She was rising weakly to her feet. He reached an arm to steady her, noticing that she was slim and young, with blonde hair hanging loosely to the level of her jaw. She had a pleasant, pretty face, thought Ulan Dhor — candid, clear-eyed, innocent.

  She appeared not to notice him, but stood half-turned away, wrapping herself in her gray cloak. Ulan Dhor began to fear that the shock had affected her mind. He moved forward and peered into her face.

  “Are you well? Did the beast harm you?”

  Surprise came over her face, almost as if Ulan Dhor were another Gaun. Her gaze brushed his green cloak, quickly moved back to his face, his black hair.

  “Who … are you?” she whispered.

  “A stranger,” said Ulan Dhor, “and much puzzled by the ways of Ampridatvir.” He looked around for the fishermen; they were nowhere in sight.

  “A stranger?” the girl asked. “But Cazdal’s Tract tells us that the Gauns have destroyed all men but the Grays of Ampridatvir.”

  “Cazdal is as incorrect as Pansiu,” remarked Ulan Dhor. “There are still many men in the world.”

  “I must believe,” said the girl. “You speak, you exist — so much is clear.”

  Ulan Dhor noticed that she kept her eyes averted from the green cloak. It stank of fish; without further ado he cast it aside.

  Her glance went to his red coat. “A Raider …”

  “No, no, no!” exclaimed Ulan Dhor. “In truth, I find this talk of color tiresome. I am Ulan Dhor of Kaiin, nephew to Prince Kandive the Golden, and my mission is to seek the tablets of Rogol Domedonfors.”

  The girl smiled wanly. “Thus do the Raiders, and thus they dress in red, and then every man’s hand is turned against them, for when they are in red, who knows whether they be Grays or …”

  “Or what?”

  She appeared confused, as if this facet to the question had not occurred to her. “Ghosts? Demons? There are strange manifestations in Ampridatvir.”

  “Beyond argument,” agreed Ulan Dhor. He glanced across the square. “If you wish, I will guard you to your home; and perhaps there will be a corner where I may sleep tonight.”

  She said, “I owe you my life, and I will help you as best I can. But I dare not take you to my hall.” Her eyes drifted down his body as far as his green trousers and veered away. “There would be confusion and unending explanations …”

  Ulan Dhor said obliquely, “You have a mate, then?”

  She glanced at him swiftly — a strange coquetry, strange flirtation there in the shadows of ancient Ampridatvir, the girl in the coarse gray cloak, her head tilted sideways and the yellow hair falling clear to her shoulder; Ulan Dhor elegant, darkly aquiline, in full command of his soul.

  “No,” she said. “There have been none, so far.” A slight sound disturbed her; she jerked, looked fearfully across the square.

  “There may be more Gauns. I can take you to a safe place; then tomorrow we will talk …”

  She led him through an arched portico into one of the towers, up to a mezzanine floor. “You’ll be safe here till morning.” She squeezed his arm. “I’ll bring you food, if you’ll wait for me …”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Her gaze fell with the strange half-averted wavering of the eyes to his red coat, just brushed his green trousers. “And I’ll bring you a cloak.” She departed. Ulan Dhor saw her flit down the stair and out of the tower like a wraith. She was gone.

  He settled himself on the floor. It was a soft elastic substance, warm to touch … A strange city, thought Ulan Dhor, a strange people, reacting to unguessed compulsions. Or were they ghosts, in truth?

  He fell into a series of spasmodic dozes, and awoke at last to find the wan pink of the latter-day dawn seeping through the arched portico.

  He rose to his feet, rubbed his face, and, after a moment’s hesitation, descended from the mezzanine to the floor of the tower and walked out into the street. A child in a gray smock saw his red coat, flicked his eyes away from the green trousers, screamed in terror, and ran across the square.

  Ulan Dhor retreated into the shadows with a curse. He had expected desolation. Hostility he could have countered or fled, but this bewildered fright left him helpless.

  A shape appeared at the entrance — the girl. She peered through the shadows; her face was drawn, anxious. Ulan Dhor appeared. She smiled suddenly and her face changed.

  “I brought your breakfast,” she said, “also a decent garment.”

  She lay bread and smoked fish before him, and poured warm herb tea from an earthenware jar.

  As he ate he watched her, and she watched him. There was a tension in their relations; she felt incompletely secure, and he could sense the pressures on her mind.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “I am Ulan Dhor. And you?”

  “Elai.”

  “Elai … Is that all?”

  “Do I need more? It is sufficient, is it not?”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  She seated herself cross-legged before him.

  “Tell me about the land from which you come.”

  Ulan Dhor said, “Ascolais now is mostly a great forest, where fe
w care to venture. I live in Kaiin, a very old city, perhaps as old as Ampridatvir, but we have no such towers and floating roads. We live in the old time palaces of marble and wood, even the poorest and most menial. Indeed, some beautiful manses fall to ruins for lack of tenants.”

  “And what is your color?” she asked in a tentative voice.

  Ulan Dhor said impatiently, “Such nonsense. We wear all colors; no one thinks one way or the other about it … Why do you worry about color so? For instance, why do you wear gray and not green?”

  Her gaze wavered and broke from his; she clenched her hands restlessly. “Green? That is the color of the demon Pansiu. No one in Ampridatvir wears green.”

  “Certainly people wear green,” said Ulan Dhor. “I met two fishermen yesterday at sea wearing green, and they guided me into the city.”

  She shook her head, smiling sadly. “You are mistaken.”

  Ulan Dhor sat back. He said presently, “A child saw me this morning and ran off screaming.”

  “Because of your red cloak,” said Elai. “When a man wishes to win honor for himself, he dons a red coat and sets forth across the city to the ancient deserted temple of Pansiu, to seek the lost half of Rogol Domedonfors’ tablet. Legend says that when the Grays recover the lost tablet, then will their power be strong once more.”

  “If the temple is deserted,” asked Ulan Dhor dryly, “why has not some man taken the tablet?”

  She shrugged and looked vaguely into space. “We believe that it is guarded by ghosts … At any rate, sometimes a man in red is found raiding Cazdal’s temple also, whereupon he is killed. A man in red is therefore everybody’s enemy, and every hand is turned against him.”

  Ulan Dhor rose to his feet and wrapped himself in the gray robe the girl had brought.

  “What are your plans?” she asked, rising quickly.

  “I wish to look upon the tablets of Rogol Domedonfors, both in Cazdal’s Temple and in Pansiu’s.”

  She shook her head. “Impossible. Cazdal’s Temple is forbidden to all but the venerable priests, and Pansiu’s Temple is guarded by ghosts.”

  Ulan Dhor grinned. “If you’ll show me where the temples are situated …”

  She said, “I’ll go with you … But you must remain wrapped in the cloak, or it will go badly for both of us.”

  They stepped out into the sunlight. The square was dotted with slow-moving groups of men and women. Some wore green, others wore gray, and Ulan Dhor saw that there was no intercourse between the two. Greens paused by little green-painted booths selling fish, leather, fruit, meal, pottery, baskets. Grays bought from identical shops which were painted gray. He saw two groups of children, one in green rags, the other in gray, playing ten feet apart, acknowledging each other by not so much as a glance. A ball of tied rags rolled from the Gray children into the scuffling group of Greens. A Gray child ran over, picked up the ball from under the feet of a Green child, and neither took the slightest notice of the other.

  “Strange,” muttered Ulan Dhor. “Strange.”

  “What’s strange?” inquired Elai. “I see nothing strange …”

  “Look,” said Ulan Dhor, “by that pillar. Do you see that man in the green cloak?”

  She glanced at him in puzzlement. “There is no man there.”

  “There is a man there,” said Ulan Dhor. “Look again.”

  She laughed. “You are joking … or can you see ghosts?”

  Ulan Dhor shook his head in defeat. “You are the victims of some powerful magic.”

  She led him to one of the flowing roadways; as they were carried through the city he noticed a boat-shaped hull built of bright metal with four wheels and a transparent-domed compartment.

  He pointed. “What is that?”

  “It is a magic car. When a certain lever is pressed the wizardry of the older times gives it great speed. Rash young men ride them along the streets … See there,” and she pointed to a somewhat similar hull toppled into the basin of a long, dry fountain. “That is another one of the ancient wonders — a craft with the power to fly through the air. There are many of them scattered through the city — on the towers, on high terraces, and sometimes, like this one, fallen into the streets.”

  “And no one flies them?” asked Ulan Dhor curiously.

  “We are all afraid.”

  Ulan Dhor thought, what a marvel to own one of these air-cars! He stepped off the flowing road.

  “Where are you going?” asked Elai anxiously, coming after him.

  “I wish to examine one of these air-cars.”

  “Be careful, Ulan Dhor. They are said to be dangerous …”

  Ulan Dhor peered through the transparent dome, saw a cushioned seat, a series of little levers inscribed with characters strange to him and a large knurled ball mounted on a metal rod.

  He said to the girl, “Those are evidently the guides to the mechanism … How does one enter such a car?”

  She said doubtfully, “This button will perhaps release the dome.” She pressed a knob; the dome snapped back, releasing a puff of stagnant air.

  “Now,” said Ulan Dhor, “I will experiment.” He reached within, turned down a switch. Nothing happened.

  “Be careful, Ulan Dhor!” breathed the girl. “Beware of magic!”

  Ulan Dhor twisted a knob. The car quivered. He touched another lever. The boat made a curious whining sound, jerked. The dome began to settle. Ulan Dhor snatched back his arm. The dome snapped into place over a fold of his gray cloak. The boat jerked again, made a sudden movement, and Ulan Dhor was dragged willy-nilly after.

  Elai cried out, seized his ankles. Cursing, Ulan Dhor dropped out of his cloak, watched while the air-boat took a wild uncontrolled curvet, crashed against the side of a tower. It fell with another clang of colliding metal and stone.

  “Next time,” said Ulan Dhor, “I will …”

  He became aware of a strange pressure in the air. He turned. Elai was staring at him, hand against her mouth, eyes screwed up as if she were repressing a scream.

  Ulan Dhor glanced around the streets. The slowly moving people, Grays and Greens, had vanished. The streets were empty.

  “Elai,” said Ulan Dhor, “why do you look at me like that?”

  “The red, in daylight — and the color of Pansiu on your legs — it is our death, our death!”

  “By no means,” said Ulan Dhor cheerfully. “Not while I wear my sword and …”

  A stone, coming from nowhere, crashed into the ground at his feet. He looked right and left for his assailant, nostrils flaring in anger.

  In vain. The doorways, the arcades, the porticos were bare and empty.

  Another stone, large as his fist, struck him between the shoulder-blades. He sprang around and saw only the crumbled facade of ancient Ampridatvir, the empty street, the glistening gliding strip.

  A stone hissed six inches from Elai’s head, and at the same instant another struck his thigh.

  Ulan Dhor recognized defeat. He could not fight stones with his sword. “We had better retreat …” He ducked a great paving block that would have split his skull.

  “Back to the strip,” the girl said in a dull and helpless voice. “We can take refuge across the square.” A stone, looping idly down, struck her cheek; she cried in pain and fell to her knees.

  Ulan Dhor snarled like an animal and sought men to kill. But no living person, man, woman, or child, was visible, though the stones continued to hurtle at his head.

  He stooped, picked up Elai and ran to the swift central flow of the strip.

  The rain of stones presently halted. The girl opened her eyes, winced, and shut them again. “Everything whirls,” she whispered. “I have gone mad. Almost I might think —”

  Ulan Dhor thought to recognize the tower where he had spent the night. He stepped off the strip and approached the portico. He was wrong; a crystal plane barred him the tower. As he hesitated, it melted at a spot directly in front of him and formed a doorway. Ulan Dhor stared wonderingly. Further magic
of the ancient builders.

  It was impersonal magic, and harmless. Ulan Dhor stepped through. The doorway dwindled, fused, and became clear crystal behind him.

  The hall was bare and cold, though the walls were rich with colored metals and gorgeous enamel. A mural decorated one wall — men and women in flowing clothes were depicted tending flowers in gardens curiously bright and sunny, playing airy games, dancing.

  Very beautiful, thought Ulan Dhor, but no place to defend himself against attack. Passageways to either side were echoing and empty; ahead was a small chamber with a floor of glimmering floss, which seemed to radiate light. He stepped within. His feet rose from the floor; he floated, lighter than thistle-down. Elai no longer weighed in his arms. He gave an involuntary hoarse call, struggled to return his feet to ground, without success.

  He floated upward like a leaf wafted in the wind. Ulan Dhor prepared himself for the sickening plunge when the magic quieted. But the floors fell past, and the ground level became ever more distant. A marvellous spell, thought Ulan Dhor grimly, thus to rob a man of his footing; how soon would the force relax and dash them to their deaths?

  “Reach out,” said Elai faintly. “Take hold of the bar.”

  He leaned far over, seized the railing, drew them to a landing, and, disbelieving his own safety, stepped into an apartment of several rooms. Crumbled heaps of dust were all that remained of the furniture.

  He lay Elai on the soft floor; she raised her hand to her face and smiled wanly. “Ooh — it hurts.”

  Ulan Dhor watched with a strange sense of weakness and lassitude.

  Elai said, “I don’t know what we will do now. There is no longer a home for me; so shall we starve, for no one will give us food.”

  Ulan Dhor laughed sourly. “We will never lack for food — not while the keeper of a green booth can not see a man in a gray cloak … But there are other things more important — the tablets of Rogol Domedonfors — and they seem completely inaccessible.”

  She said earnestly, “You would be killed. The men in red must fight everyone — as you saw today. And even if you reached the Temple of Pansiu, there are pitfalls, traps, poison stakes, and the ghosts on guard.”