Rhialto the Marvellous

by Jack Vance

  Hache-Moncour muttered abstractedly: “Yes, yes; so it seems.” He turned a long frowning glance towards Sarsem, who avoided his gaze.

  “So much is now settled!” declared Ildefonse. “Let us return to Boumergarth and proceed with our inquiry.”

  Hache-Moncour said sulkily: “I am not well. Raise your web so that I may return to my manse.”

  “Impossible!” said Ildefonse. “All must be present during the deliberations. If you recall, we are trying a case against Rhialto.”

  “But there is no longer a case against Rhialto!” bleated Byzant the Necrope. “The proceedings are now devoid of interest! We must go home to look to our properties!”

  “To Boumergarth, all!” thundered Ildefonse. “I will brook no further reluctance!”

  With poor grace the magicians trooped to the whirlaway and sat in silence during the return flight. Three times Hache-Moncour raised a finger as if to address Ildefonse, but each time caught himself and held his tongue.

  At Boumergarth the magicians filed glumly into the Great Hall and took their places. In the shadows stood the man in black, as if he had never moved.

  Ildefonse spoke: “We now resume consideration of the action brought by Rhialto and its counter-action. Are there any opinions to be heard?”

  The chamber was silent.

  Ildefonse turned to the man in black. “Rhialto, what have you to say?”

  “I have stated my case against Hurtiancz and his conspirators. I now await resolution of the action.”

  Ildefonse said: “The persons present are divided into two categories: Rhialto, the plaintiff, and the defendants who number all the rest of us. In such a case we can only go for guidance to the Blue, and there can be no question as to the findings. Rhialto, as Preceptor, I declare that you have fairly proved your case. I declare that you are entitled to recover your sequestered goods and a stipulated penalty.”

  Rhialto came forward to lounge against the lectern. “I have won a sad and profitless victory, against persons whom I deemed my lesser or greater friends.”

  Rhialto looked around the room. Few returned his gaze. In a flat voice Rhialto continued: “The victory has not been easy. I have known toil, fear, and disappointment. Nevertheless, I do not intend to grind home my advantage. I make the same demand upon each of you, save in one case only: return all my sequestered property to Falu, with the addition of a single IOUN stone from each as penalty.”

  Ao of the Opals said: “Rhialto, your act is both generous and wise. Naturally you have won little popularity with your victory; in fact, I notice both Hurtiancz and Zilifant grinding their teeth. Still, you have incurred no new enmity. I admit my mistake; I accept the penalty and will pay you an IOUN stone with humility. I urge my fellows to do the same.”

  Eshmiel cried out: “Well spoken, Ao! I share your sentiments. Rhialto, who is the one person whom you except from the penalty and why do you do so?”

  “I except Hache-Moncour, whose actions cannot be excused. By his attack upon our law he attacked us all: you are his victims no less than I, though your sufferings would be yet to come.

  “Hache-Moncour must lose all his magic, and all his capacity for magic. This effect was worked upon him by Ildefonse as I spoke to you. The Hache-Moncour you see yonder is not the same man who stood here an hour ago, and even now Ildefonse is calling his servants. They will take him down to the local tannery, where he will be afforded suitable employment.

  “As for me, tomorrow I return to Falu, where my life will continue more or less as before, or so I hope.”

  18

  Shalukhe the Swimmer sat beside the River Ts under the blue aspens which grew along the banks and partly screened Falu from sight. Rhialto, with his household restored to order, came out to join her. She turned her head, took note of his approach, then returned to her contemplation of the river.

  Rhialto seated himself nearby and, leaning back, watched the shiver of dark sunlight along the moving water. Presently he turned his head and studied first the delicate profile, then the graceful disposition of her body. Today she wore sand-colored trousers fitted close at the ankles, loose around the hips, black slippers, a white shirt and a black sash. A red ribbon confined her dark hair. In her own time, reflected Rhialto, she had been a Paragon of Excellence, the Best of the Best, and now who would ever know?

  She became aware of his inspection and turned him a questioning glance.

  Rhialto spoke. “Shalukhe the Swimmer, Furud Dawn-thing: what shall be done with you?”

  The Paragon returned to her contemplation of the river. “I too wonder what to do with myself.”

  Rhialto raised his eyebrows. “Admittedly this era, the last to be known on the world Earth, is in many ways dark and disturbing. Still, you want nothing; you are irked by no enemies; you are free to come and go as you wish. What then troubles you?”

  Shalukhe the Swimmer shrugged. “I would seem captious were I to complain. Your conduct has been courteous; you have treated me with both dignity and generosity. But I am alone. I have watched you at your colloquy, and I was minded of a group of crocodiles basking on a Kuyike River mud-bank.”

  Rhialto winced. “I as well?”

  Shalukhe, preoccupied with her own musings, ignored the remark. “At the Court of the East-Rising Moon I was Paragon, the Best of the Best! Gentlemen of rank came eagerly to touch my hand; when I passed, my perfume evoked sighs of wistful passion and sometimes, after I passed, I heard muffled exclamations, which I took to signify admiration. Here I am shunned as if I were the Worst of the Worst; no one cares whether I leave a perfume in my wake or the odor of a pig-sty. I have become gloomy and full of doubts. Am I so bland, dull and tiresome that I instill apathy everywhere I go?”

  Rhialto leaned back in his seat and stared towards the sky. “Absurdity! Mirage! Dream-madness!”

  Shalukhe smiled a tremulous bitter-sweet smile. “If you had treated me shamefully, and ravished me to your desires, at least I would have been left with my pride. Your courteous detachment leaves me with nothing.”

  Rhialto at last found his voice. “You are the most perverse of all maidens! How often my hands have tingled and twitched to seize you; always I have held back so that you might feel secure and easy! And now you accuse me of cold blood and call me a crocodile! My graceful and poetic restraint you choose to regard as senile disability. It is I who should feel the pangs!”

  Jumping to his feet, Rhialto went to sit beside her; he took her hands. “The most beautiful maidens are also the most cruel! Even now you use a subtle means to rack my emotions!”

  “Oh? Tell me, so that I may do it again.”

  “You are troubled because I seemed to ignore your presence. But, by this reasoning, you would feel equally diminished in your pride had the man been Dulce-Lolo with his expressive feet, or Zilifant, or even Byzant the Necrope. That it was I, Rhialto, who treated you so shabbily seems to be incidental! My own vanity now torments me; am I then so unappealing? Do you feel not the slightest regard for me?”

  Shalukhe the Swimmer at last smiled. “Rhialto, I will say this: were you Dulce-Lolo, or Zilifant, or Byzant, or any other than Rhialto, I would not be sitting here holding your hands so tightly in my own.”

  Rhialto sighed in relief. He drew her close; their faces met. “Confusions and cross-purposes: they are now resolved; perhaps the Twenty-first Aeon now seems a less dismal time.”

  Shalukhe looked sidelong towards the sun where it hung low over the River Ts. “To a certain extent. Still, what if the sun goes out even while we sit here: what then?”

  Rhialto rose to his feet and pulled her up after him; he kissed the upturned face. “Who knows? The sun may totter and lurch still another hundred years!”

  The maiden sighed and pointed. “Ah! Notice how it blinks! It seems tired and troubled! But perhaps it will enjoy a restful night.”

  Rhialto whispered a comment in her ear, to the effect that she should not expect the same. She gave his arm a tug, and the two, close
together, walked slowly back to Falu.

  III

  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 Harbinger 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.