The Eyes of the Overworld

by Jack Vance

  “Next,” declared the elder, “the obsequies must be proclaimed, and the magic cusps transferred to Bubach Angh that most deserving squire of Grodz. Who, again, will go to notify this squire?”

  “Again,” said Cugel, “I offer my services, if only to requite in some small manner the hospitality I have enjoyed at Smolod.”

  “Well spoken!” intoned the elder. “So, then, at speed to Grodz; return with that squire who by his faith and dutiful toil deserves advancement.”

  Cugel bowed, ran off across the barrens toward Grodz. As he approached the outermost fields he moved cautiously, skulking from tussock to copse, and presently found that which he sought: a peasant turning the dank soil with a mattock.

  Cugel crept quietly forward, struck down the loon with a gnarled root. He stripped off the best garments, the leather hat, the leggings and foot-gear; with his knife he hacked off the stiff straw-colored beard. Taking all and leaving the peasant lying dazed and naked in the mud he fled on long strides back toward Smolod. In a secluded spot he dressed himself in the stolen garments. He examined the hacked-off beard with some perplexity, and finally, by tying up tufts of the coarse yellow hair and tying tuft to tuft, contrived to bind enough together to make a straggling false beard for himself. That hair which remained he tucked up under the brim of the flapping leather hat.

  Now the sun had set; plum-colored gloom obscured the land. Cugel returned to Smolod. Oil lamps flickered before the hut of Radkuth Vomin, where the obese and misshapen village women wailed and groaned.

  Cugel stepped cautiously forward, wondering what might be expected of him. As for his disguise: it would either prove effective or it would not. To what extent the violet cusps befuddled perception was a matter of doubt; he could only hazard a trial.

  Cugel marched boldly up to the door of the hut. Pitching his voice as low as possible, he called, “I am here, revered princes of Smolod: Squire Bubach Angh of Grodz, who for thirty-one years has heaped the choicest of delicacies into the Smolod larders. Now I appear, beseeching elevation to the estate of nobility.”

  “As is your right,” said the Chief Elder. “But you seem a man different to that Bubach Angh who so long has served the princes of Smolod.”

  “I have been transfigured — through grief at the passing of Prince Radkuth Vomin and through rapture at the prospect of elevation.”

  “This is clear and understandable. Come then — prepare yourself for the rites.”

  “I am ready as of this instant,” said Cugel. “Indeed, if you will but tender me the magic cusps I will take them quietly aside and rejoice.”

  The Chief Elder shook his head indulgently. “This is not in accord with the rites. To begin with you must stand naked here on the pavilion of this mighty castle, and the fairest of the fair will anoint you in aromatics. Then comes the invocation to Eddith Bran Maur. And then —”

  “Revered,” stated Cugel, “allow me one boon. Before the ceremonies begin, fit me with the magic cusps so that I may understand the full portent of the ceremony.”

  The Chief Elder considered. “The request is unorthodox, but reasonable. Bring forth the cusps!”

  There was a wait, during which Cugel stood first on one foot then the other. The minutes dragged; the garments and the false beard itched intolerably. And now at the outskirts of the village he saw the approach of several new figures, coming from the direction of Grodz. One was almost certainly Bubach Angh, while another seemed to have been shorn of his beard.

  The Chief Elder appeared, holding in each hand a violet cusp. “Step forward!”

  Cugel called loudly, “I am here, sir.”

  “I now apply the potion which sanctifies the junction of magic cusp to right eye.”

  At the back of the crowd Bubach Angh raised his voice. “Hold! What transpires?”

  Cugel turned, pointed. “What jackal is this that interrupts solemnities? Remove him: hence!”

  “Indeed!” called the Chief Elder peremptorily. “You demean yourself and the dignity of the ceremony.”

  Bubach Angh crouched back, momentarily cowed.

  “In view of the interruption,” said Cugel, “I had as lief merely take custody of the magic cusps until these louts can properly be chastened.”

  “No,” said the Chief Elder. “Such a procedure is impossible.” He shook drops of rancid fat in Cugel’s right eye. But now the peasant of the shorn beard set up an outcry: “My hat! My blouse! My beard! Is there no justice?”

  “Silence!” hissed the crowd. “This is a solemn occasion!”

  “But I am Bu —”

  Cugel called, “Insert the magic cusp, lord; let us ignore these louts.”

  “A lout, you call me?” roared Bubach Angh. “I recognize you now, you rogue. Hold up proceedings!”

  The Chief Elder said inexorably, “I now invest you with the right cusp. You must temporarily hold this eye closed to prevent a discord which would strain the brain, and cause stupor. Now the left eye.” He stepped forward with the ointment, but Bubach Angh and the beardless peasant no longer would be denied. “Hold up proceedings! You ennoble an impostor! I am Bubach Angh, the worthy squire! He who stands before you is a vagabond!”

  The Chief Elder inspected Bubach Angh with puzzlement. “For a fact you resemble that peasant who for thirty-one years has carted supplies to Smolod. But if you are Bubach Angh, who is this?”

  The beardless peasant lumbered forward. “It is the soulless wretch who stole the clothes from my back and the beard from my face.”

  “He is a criminal, a bandit, a vagabond —”

  “Hold!” called the Chief Elder. “The words are ill-chosen. Remember that he has been exalted to the rank of prince of Smolod.”

  “Not altogether!” cried Bubach Angh. “He has one of my eyes. I demand the other!”

  “An awkward situation,” muttered the Chief Elder. He spoke to Cugel: “Though formerly a vagabond and cutthroat, you are now a prince, and a man of responsibility. What is your opinion?”

  “I suggest a hiding for these obstreperous louts. Then —”

  Bubach Angh and the beardless peasant, uttering shouts of rage, sprang forward. Cugel, leaping away, could not control his right eye. The lid flew open; into his brain crashed such a wonder of exaltation that his breath caught in his throat and his heart almost stopped from astonishment. But concurrently his left eye showed the reality of Smolod, the dissonance was too wild to be tolerated; he stumbled and fell against a hut. Bubach Angh stood over him with mattock raised high, but now the Chief Elder stepped between.

  “Do you take leave of your senses? This man is a prince of Smolod!”

  “A man I will kill, for he has my eye! Do I toil thirty-one years for the benefit of a vagabond?”

  “Calm yourself, Bubach Angh, if that be your name, and remember the issue is not yet entirely clear. Possibly an error has been made — undoubtedly an honest error, for this man is now a prince of Smolod, which is to say, justice and sagacity personified.”

  “He was not that before he received the cusp,” argued Bubach Angh, “which is when the offense was committed.”

  “I cannot occupy myself with casuistic distinctions,” replied the elder. “In any event, your name heads the list and on the next fatality —”

  “Ten or twelve years hence?” cried Bubach Angh. “Must I toil yet longer, and receive my reward just as the sun goes dark? No, no, this cannot be!”

  The beardless peasant made a suggestion: “Take the other cusp. In this way you will have at least half of your rights, and so prevent the interloper from cheating you totally.”

  Bubach Angh agreed. “I will start with my one magic cusp; I will then kill that knave and take the other, and all will be well.”

  “Now then,” said the Chief Elder haughtily, “this is hardly the tone to take in reference to a prince of Smolod!”

  “Bah!” snorted Bubach Angh. “Remember the source of your viands! We of Grodz will not toil to no avail.”

  “Very w
ell,” said the Chief Elder. “I deplore your uncouth bluster, but I cannot deny that you have a measure of reason on your side. Here is the left cusp of Radkuth Vomin. I will dispense with the invocation, anointment and the congratulatory paean. If you will be good enough to step forward and open your left eye — so.”

  As Cugel had done, Bubach Angh looked through both eyes together and staggered back in a daze. But clapping his hand to his left eye he recovered himself, and advanced upon Cugel. “You now must see the futility of your trick. Extend me that cusp and go your way, for you will never have the use of the two.”

  “It matters very little,” said Cugel. “Thanks to my friend Firx I am well content with the one.”

  Bubach Angh ground his teeth. “Do you think to trick me again? Your life has approached its end: not just I but all Grodz goes warrant for this!”

  “Not in the precincts of Smolod!” warned the Chief Elder. “There must be no quarrels among the princes: I decree amity! You who have shared the cusps of Radkuth Vomin must also share his palace, his robes, appurtenances, jewels and retinue, until that hopefully remote occasion when one or the other dies, whereupon the survivor shall take all. This is my judgment; there is no more to be said.”

  “The moment of the interloper’s death is hopefully near at hand,” rumbled Bubach Angh. “The instant he sets foot from Smolod will be his last! The citizens of Grodz will maintain a vigil of a hundred years, if necessary!”

  Firx squirmed at this news and Cugel winced at the discomfort. In a conciliatory voice he addressed Bubach Angh. “A compromise might be arranged: to you shall go the entirety of Radkuth Vomin’s estate: his palace, appurtenances, retinue. To me shall devolve only the magic cusps.”

  But Bubach Angh would have none of it. “If you value your life, deliver that cusp to me this moment.”

  “This cannot be done,” said Cugel.

  Bubach Angh turned away, spoke to the beardless peasant, who nodded and departed. Bubach Angh glowered at Cugel, then went to Radkuth Vomin’s hut and sat on the heap of rubble before the door. Here he experimented with his new cusp, cautiously closing his right eye, opening the left to stare in wonder at the Overworld. Cugel thought to take advantage of his absorption and sauntered off toward the edge of town. Bubach Angh appeared not to notice. Ha! thought Cugel. It was to be so easy then! Two more strides and he would be lost into the darkness! Jauntily he stretched his long legs to take those two strides. A slight sound — a grunt, a scrape, a rustle of clothes — caused him to jerk aside; down swung a mattock blade, cutting the air where his head had been. In the faint glow cast by the Smolod lamps Cugel glimpsed the beardless peasant’s vindictive countenance. Behind him Bubach Angh came loping, heavy head thrust forward like a bull. Cugel dodged, ran with agility back into the heart of Smolod. Slowly and in vast disappointment Bubach Angh returned, to seat himself once more. “You will never escape,” he told Cugel. “Give over the cusp and preserve your life!”

  “By no means,” replied Cugel with spirit. “Rather fear for your own sodden vitality, which goes in even greater peril!”

  From the hut of the Chief Elder came an admonitory call. “Cease the bickering! I am indulging the exotic whims of a beautiful princess and must not be distracted.”

  Cugel, recalling the oleaginous wads of flesh, the leering slab-sided visages, the matted verminous hair, the wattles and wens, the evil odors, which characterized the women of Smolod, marveled anew at the power of the cusps. Bubach Angh was once more testing the vision of his left eye. Cugel composed himself on a bench and attempted the use of his right eye, first holding his hand before his left …

  Cugel wore a shirt of supple silver scales, tight scarlet trousers, a dark blue cloak. He sat on a marble bench before a row of spiral marble columns overgrown with dark foliage and white flowers. To either side the palaces of Smolod towered into the night, one behind the other, with soft lights accenting the arches and windows. The sky was a soft dark blue, hung with great glowing stars; among the palaces were gardens of cypress, myrtle, jasmine, sphade, thyssam; the air was pervaded with the perfume of flowers and flowing water. From somewhere came a wisp of music: a murmur of soft chords, a sigh of melody. Cugel took a deep breath, rose to his feet. He stepped forward, moved across the terrace. Palaces and gardens shifted perspective; on a dim lawn three girls in gowns of white gauze watched him over their shoulders.

  Cugel took an involuntary step forward, then recalling the malice of Bubach Angh, paused to check on his whereabouts. Across the plaza rose a palace of seven stories, each level with its terrace garden, with vines and flowers trailing down the walls. Through the windows Cugel glimpsed rich furnishings, lustrous chandeliers, the soft movement of liveried chamberlains. On the pavilion before the palace stood a hawk-featured man with a cropped golden beard in robes of ocher and black, with gold epaulettes and black buskins. He stood one foot on a stone griffin, arms on bent knee, gazing toward Cugel with an expression of brooding dislike. Cugel marveled: could this be the pig-faced Bubach Angh? Could the magnificent seven-tiered palace be the hovel of Radkuth Vomin?

  Cugel moved slowly off across the plaza, and now came upon a pavilion lit by candelabra. Tables supported meats, jellies, pastries of every description; and Cugel’s belly, nourished only by driftwood and smoked fish, urged him forward. He passed from table to table, sampling morsels from every dish, and found all to be of the highest quality.

  “Smoked fish and lentils I may still be devouring,” Cugel told himself, “but there is much to be said for the enchantment by which they become such exquisite delicacies. Indeed a man might do far worse than spend the rest of his life here in Smolod.”

  Almost as if Firx had been anticipating the thought, he instantly inflicted upon Cugel’s liver a series of agonizing pangs, and Cugel bitterly reviled Iucounu the Laughing Magician and repeated his vows of vengeance.

  Recovering his composure, he sauntered to that area where the formal gardens surrounding the palaces gave way to parkland. He looked over his shoulder to find the hawk-faced prince in ocher and black approaching, with manifestly hostile intent. In the dimness of the park Cugel noted other movement and thought to spy a number of armoured warriors.

  Cugel returned to the plaza and Bubach Angh followed, once more to stand glowering at Cugel in front of Radkuth Vomin’s palace.

  “Clearly,” said Cugel aloud, for the benefit of Firx, “there will be no departure from Smolod tonight. Naturally I am anxious to convey the cusp to Iucounu, but if I am killed then neither the cusp nor the admirable Firx will ever return to Almery.”

  Firx made no further demonstration. Now, thought Cugel, where to pass the night? The seven-tiered palace of Radkuth Vomin manifestly offered ample and spacious accommodation for both himself and Bubach Angh. In essence however the two would be crammed together in a one-roomed hut, with a single heap of damp reeds for a couch. Thoughtfully, regretfully, Cugel closed his right eye, opened his left.

  Smolod was as before. The surly Bubach Angh crouched before the door to Radkuth Vomin’s hut. Cugel stepped forward, kicked Bubach Angh smartly. In surprise and shock, both Bubach Angh’s eyes opened, and the rival impulses colliding in his brain induced paralysis. Back in the darkness the beardless peasant roared and came charging forward, mattock on high, and Cugel relinquished his plan to cut Bubach Angh’s throat. He skipped inside the hut, closed and barred the door.

  He now closed his left eye, opened his right. He found himself in the magnificent entry hall of Radkuth Vomin’s palace, the portico of which was secured by a portcullis of forged iron. Without, the golden-haired prince in ocher and black, holding his hand over one eye, was lifting himself in cold dignity from the pavement of the plaza. Raising one arm in noble defiance Bubach Angh swung his cloak over his shoulder, marched off to join his warriors.

  Cugel sauntered through the palace, inspecting the appointments with pleasure. If it were not for the importunities of Firx, there would be no haste in trying the perilous journey bac
k to the Valley of the Xzan.

  Cugel selected a luxurious chamber facing to the south, doffed his rich garments for satin nightwear, settled upon a couch with sheets of pale blue silk, and instantly fell asleep.

  In the morning there was a degree of difficulty remembering which eye to open, and Cugel thought it might be well to fashion a patch to wear over that eye not currently in use.

  By day the palaces of Smolod were more grand than ever, and now the plaza was thronged with princes and princesses, all of utmost beauty.

  Cugel dressed himself in handsome garments of black, with a jaunty green cap and green sandals. He descended to the entry hall, raised the portcullis with a gesture of command and went forth into the plaza.

  There was no sign of Bubach Angh. The other inhabitants of Smolod greeted him with courtesy and the princesses displayed noticeable warmth, as if they found him of good address. Cugel responded politely, but without fervor: not even the magic cusp could persuade him against the sour wads of fat, flesh, grime and hair which were the Smolod women.

  He breakfasted on delightful viands at the pavilion, then returned to the plaza to consider his next course of action. A cursory inspection of the parklands revealed Grodz warriors on guard. There was no immediate prospect of escape.

  The nobility of Smolod applied themselves to their diversions. Some wandered the meadows; others went boating upon the delightful waterways to the north. The Chief Elder, a prince of sagacious and noble visage, sat alone on an onyx bench, deep in reverie.

  Cugel approached; the Chief Elder aroused himself and gave Cugel a salute of measured cordiality. “I am not easy in my mind,” he declared. “In spite of all judiciousness, and allowing for your unavoidable ignorance of our customs, I feel a certain inequity has been done, and I am at a loss as how to repair it.”

  “It seems to me,” said Cugel, “that Squire Bubach Angh, though doubtless a worthy man, exhibits a lack of discipline unfitting the dignity of Smolod. In my opinion he would be all the better for a few years more seasoning at Grodz.”