Rhialto the Marvellous Read online

  RHIALTO THE MARVELLOUS. Copyright © 1980, 2012 by Jack Vance

  All rights reserved. For information, address Tom Doherty Associates, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  eISBN 9781468821972

  First eBook Edition : May 2012

  The Murthe, 1979. Fader’s Waft, 1978. Morreion, 1970.

  This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong, and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.

  Digitize: Erik Arendse, Ian Davies, Joel Hedlund, Andreas Irle, Thomas Rydbeck, Format: John A. Schwab, Diff: Charles King, David Reitsema, Tech Proof: Fred Zoetemeyer, Text Integrity: Rob Friefeld, Jesse Polhemus, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Donna Adams, David Reitsema, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Joel Anderson, Paul Rhoads, Comp Review: Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Charles King, Update Verify: Bob Luckin, Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, RTF-Diff: Deborah Cohen, Charles King, Proofread: Kjel Anderson, Karl Barrus, Michel Bazin, Mark Bradford, Ursula Brandt, Patrick Dusoulier, Erec Grim, Lucie Jones, Jason Kauffeld, Robert Melson, Mike Myers, Eric Newsom, Steve Sherman

  Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden

  Rhialto the Marvellous

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  Contents

  Foreword

  I

  The Murthe

  II

  Fader’s Waft

  III

  Morreion

  Foreword

  These are tales of the Twenty-First Aeon, when Earth is old and the sun is about to go out. In Ascolais and Almery, lands to the west of the Falling Wall, live a group of magicians who have formed an association the better to protect their interests. Their number fluctuates, but at this time they are:

  ILDEFONSE, the Preceptor.

  RHIALTO THE MARVELLOUS.

  HURTIANCZ, short and burly, notorious for his truculent disposition.

  HERARK THE HARBINGER, precise and somewhat severe.

  SHRUE, a diabolist, whose witticisms mystify his associates, and sometimes disturb their sleep of nights.

  GILGAD, a small man with large gray eyes in a round gray face, always attired in rose-red garments. His hands are clammy, cold and damp; his touch is avoided by all.

  VERMOULIAN THE DREAM-WALKER, a person peculiarly tall and thin, with a stately stride.

  MUNE THE MAGE, who speaks minimally and manages a household of four spouses.

  ZILIFANT, robust of body with long brown hair and a flowing beard.

  DARVILK THE MIAANTHER, who, for inscrutable purposes, affects a black domino.

  PERDUSTIN, a slight blond person without intimates, who enjoys secrecy and mystery, and refuses to reveal his place of abode.

  AO OF THE OPALS, saturnine, with a pointed black beard and a caustic manner.

  ESHMIEL, who, with a delight almost childish in its purity, uses a bizarre semblance half-white and half-black.

  BARBANIKOS, who is short and squat with a great puff of white hair.

  HAZE OF WHEARY WATER, a hot-eyed wisp with green skin and orange willow-leaves for hair.

  PANDERLEOU, a collector of rare and wonderful artifacts from all the accessible dimensions.

  BYZANT THE NECROPE.

  DULCE-LOLO, whose semblance is that of a portly epicure.

  TCHAMAST, morose of mood, an avowed ascetic, whose distrust of the female race runs so deep that he will allow only male insects into the precincts of his manse.

  TEUTCH, who seldom speaks with his mouth but uses an unusual sleight to flick words from his finger-tips. As an Elder of the Hub, he has been allowed the control of his private infinity.

  ZAHOULIK-KHUNTZE, whose iron fingernails and toenails are engraved with curious signs.

  NAHOUREZZIN, a savant of Old Romarth.

  ZANZEL MELANCTHONES.

  HACHE-MONCOUR, whose vanities and airs surpass even those of Rhialto.

  Magic is a practical science, or, more properly, a craft, since emphasis is placed primarily upon utility, rather than basic understanding. This is only a general statement, since in a field of such profound scope, every practitioner will have his individual style, and during the glorious times of Grand Motholam, many of the magician-philosophers tried to grasp the principles which governed the field.

  In the end, these investigators, who included the greatest names in sorcery, learned only enough to realize that full and comprehensive knowledge was impossible. In the first place, a desired effect might be achieved through any number of modes, any of which represented a life-time of study, each deriving its force from a different coercive environment.

  The great magicians of Grand Motholam were sufficiently supple that they perceived the limits of human understanding, and spent most of their efforts dealing with practical problems, searching for abstract principles only when all else failed. For this reason, magic retains its distinctly human flavor, even though the activating agents are never human. A casual glance into one of the basic catalogues emphasizes this human orientation; the nomenclature has a quaint and archaic flavor. Looking into (for instance) Chapter Four of Killiclaw’s Primer of Practical Magic, ‘Interpersonal Effectuations’, one notices, indited in bright purple ink, such terminology as:

  Xarfaggio’s Physical Malepsy

  Arnhoult’s Sequestrious Digitalia

  Lutar Brassnose’s Twelve-fold Bounty

  The Spell of Forlorn Encystment

  Tinkler’s Old-fashioned Froust

  Clambard’s Rein of Long Nerves

  The Green and Purple Postponement of Joy

  Panguire’s Triumphs of Discomfort

  Lugwiler’s Dismal Itch

  Khulip’s Nasal Enhancement

  Radl’s Pervasion of the Incorrect Chord

  A spell in essence corresponds to a code, or set of instructions, inserted into the sensorium of an entity which is able and not unwilling to alter the environment in accordance with the message conveyed by the spell. These entities are not necessarily ‘intelligent’, nor even ‘sentient’, and their conduct, from the tyro’s point of view, is unpredictable, capricious and dangerous.

  The most pliable and cooperative of these creatures range from the lowly and frail elementals, through the sandestins. More fractious entities are known by the Temuchin as ‘daihak’, which include ‘demons’ and ‘gods’. A magician’s power derives from the abilities of the entities he is able to control. Every magician of consequence employs one or more sandestins. A few arch-magicians of Grand Motholam dared to employ the force of the lesser dai
haks. To recite or even to list the names of these magicians is to evoke wonder and awe. Their names tingle with power. Some of Grand Motholam’s most notable and dramatic were:

  PHANDAAL THE GREAT

  AMBERLIN I

  AMBERLIN II

  DIBARCAS MAIOR (who studied under Phandaal)

  ARCH-MAGE MAEL LEL LAIO (he lived in a palace carved from a single moon-stone)

  THE VAPURIALS

  THE GREEN AND PURPLE COLLEGE

  ZINQZIN THE ENCYCLOPAEDIST

  KYROL OF PORPHYRHYNCOS

  CALANCTUS THE CALM

  LLORIO THE SORCERESS

  The magicians of the 21st Aeon were, in comparison, a disparate and uncertain group, lacking both grandeur and consistency.

  I

  The Murthe

  1

  One cool morning toward the middle of the 21st Aeon, Rhialto sat at breakfast in the east cupola of his manse Falu. On this particular morning the old sun rose behind a curtain of frosty haze, to cast a wan and poignant light across Low Meadow.

  For reasons Rhialto could not define, he lacked appetite for his breakfast and gave only desultory attention to a dish of watercress, stewed persimmon and sausage in favor of strong tea and a rusk. Then, despite a dozen tasks awaiting him in his work-room, he sat back in his chair, to gaze absently across the meadow toward Were Wood.

  In this mood of abstraction, his perceptions remained strangely sensitive. An insect settled upon the leaf of a nearby aspen tree; Rhialto took careful note of the angle at which it crooked its legs and the myriad red glints in its bulging eyes. Interesting and significant, thought Rhialto.

  After absorbing the insect’s full import, Rhialto extended his attention to the landscape at large. He contemplated the slope of the meadow as it dropped toward the Ts and the distribution of its herbs. He studied the crooked boles at the edge of the forest, the red rays slanting through the foliage, the indigo and dark green of the shadows. His vision was remarkable for its absolute clarity; his hearing was no less acute … He leaned forward, straining to hear — what? Sighs of inaudible music?

  Nothing. Rhialto relaxed, smiling at his own odd fancies, and poured out a final cup of tea … He let it cool untasted. On impulse he rose to his feet and went into the parlour, where he donned a cloak, a hunter’s cap, and took up that baton known as ‘Malfezar’s Woe’. He then summoned Ladanque, his chamberlain and general factotum.

  “Ladanque, I will be strolling the forest for a period. Take care that Vat Five retains its roil. If you wish, you may distill the contents of the large blue alembic into a stoppered flask. Use a low heat and avoid breathing the vapor; it will bring a purulent rash to your face.”

  “Very well, sir. What of the clevenger?”

  “Pay it no heed. Do not approach the cage. Remember, its talk of both virgins and wealth is illusory; I doubt if it knows the meaning of either term.”

  “Just so, sir.”

  Rhialto departed the manse. He set off across the meadow by a trail which took him to the Ts, over a stone bridge, and into the forest.

  The trail, which had been traced by night-creatures from the forest on their way across the meadow, presently disappeared. Rhialto went on, following where the forest aisles led: through glades where candole, red meadow-sweet and white dymphne splotched the grass with colour; past stands of white birches and black aspens; beside ledges of old stone, springs and small streams.

  If other creatures walked the woods, none were evident. Entering a little clearing with a single white birch at the center, Rhialto paused to listen … He heard only silence.

  A minute passed. Rhialto stood motionless.

  Silence. Had it been absolute?

  The music, if such it had been, assuredly had evolved in his own brain.

  Curious, thought Rhialto.

  He came to an open place, where a white birch stood frail against a background of dense black deodars. As he turned away, again he thought to hear music.

  Soundless music? An inherent contradiction!

  Odd, thought Rhialto, especially since the music seemed to come from outside himself … He thought to hear it again: a flutter of abstract chords, imparting an emotion at once sweet, melancholy, triumphant: definite yet uncertain.

  Rhialto gazed in all directions. The music, or whatever it might be, seemed to come from a source near at hand. Prudence urged that he turn in his tracks and hurry back to Falu, never looking over his shoulder … He went forward, and came upon a still pool, dark and deep, reflecting the far bank with the exactness of a mirror. Standing motionless, Rhialto saw reflected the image of a woman, strangely pale, with silver hair bound by a black fillet. She wore a knee-length white kirtle, and went bare-armed and bare-legged.

  Rhialto looked up to the far bank. He discovered neither woman, nor man, nor creature of any kind. He dropped his eyes to the surface of the pool, where, as before, the woman stood reflected.

  For a long moment Rhialto studied the image. The woman appeared tall, with small breasts and narrow flanks; she seemed fresh and clean-limbed as a girl. Her face, while lacking neither delicacy nor classic proportion, showed a stillness from which all frivolity was absent. Rhialto, whose expertise in the field of calligynics had earned him his cognomen, found her beautiful but severe, and probably unapproachable, especially if she refused to show herself except as a reflection … And perhaps also for other reasons, thought Rhialto, who had conceived an inkling as to the identity of the woman.

  Rhialto spoke: “Madame, did you call me here with your music? If so, explain how I can help you, though I promise no definite undertaking.”

  The woman showed a cool smile not altogether to Rhialto’s liking. He bowed stiffly. “If you have nothing to say to me, I will intrude no longer upon your privacy.” He performed another curt bow, and as he did so, something thrust him forward so that he plunged into the pool.

  The water was extremely cold. Rhialto floundered to the bank and pulled himself ashore. Whoever or whatever had thrust him into the water could not be seen.

  Gradually the surface of the pool became smooth. The image of the woman was no longer visible.

  Rhialto trudged glumly back to Falu, where he indulged himself in a hot bath and drank verbena tea.

  For a period he sat in his work-room, studying various books from the 18th Aeon. The adventure in the forest had not agreed with him. He felt feverish and ringing noises sounded in his ears.

  Rhialto at last prepared himself a prophylactic tonic which caused him even greater discomfort. He took to his bed, swallowed a soporific tablet, and at last fell into a troubled sleep.

  The indisposition persisted for three days. On the morning of the fourth day Rhialto communicated with the magician Ildefonse, at his manse Boumergarth beside the River Scaum.

  Ildefonse felt sufficient concern that he flew at speed to Falu in the smallest of his whirlaways.

  In full detail Rhialto described the events which had culminated at the still pool in the forest. “So there you have it. I am anxious to learn your opinion.”

  Ildefonse looked frowning off toward the forest. Today he used his ordinary semblance: that of a portly middle-aged gentleman with thin blond whiskers, a balding pate, and a manner of jovial innocence. The two magicians sat under the purple plumanthia arbor to the side of Falu. On a nearby table, Ladanque had arranged a service of fancy pastries, three varieties of tea and a decanter of soft white wine. “Extraordinary, certainly,” said Ildefonse, “especially when taken with a recent experience of my own.”

  Rhialto glanced sharply sidelong toward Ildefonse. “You were played a similar trick?”

  Ildefonse responded in measured tones: “The answer is both ‘yes’ and ‘no’.”

  “Interesting,” said Rhialto.

  Ildefonse selected his words with care. “Before I elaborate, let me ask this: have you ever before heard this, let us say, ‘shadow music’?”

  “Never.”

  “And its purport was — ?”
>
  “Indescribable. Neither tragic nor gay; sweet, yet wry and bitter.”

  “Did you perceive a melody, or theme, or even a progression, which might give us a clue?”

  “Only a hint. If you will allow me a trifle of preciosity, it filled me with a yearning for the lost and unattainable.”

  “Aha!” said Ildefonse. “And the woman? Something must have identified her as the Murthe?”

  Rhialto considered. “Her pallor and silver hair might have been that of a forest wefkin, in the guise of an antique nymph. Her beauty was real, but I felt no urge to embrace her. I daresay all might have changed upon better acquaintance.”

  “Hmmf. Your elegant airs, so I suspect, will carry small weight with the Murthe … When did her identity occur to you?”

  “I became certain as I slogged home, water squelching in my boots. My mood was glum; perhaps the squalm was starting its work. In any case, woman and music came together in my mind and the name evolved. Once home I instantly read Calanctus and took advice. The squalm apparently was real. Today I was finally able to call on you.”

  “You should have called before, though I have had similar problems … What is that irksome noise?”

  Rhialto looked along the road. “Someone is approaching in a vehicle … It appears to be Zanzel Melancthones.”

  “And what is that strange bounding thing behind him?”

  Rhialto craned his neck. “It is unclear … We shall soon find out.”

  Along the road, rolling at speed on four tall wheels, came a luxurious double-divan of fifteen golden-ocher cushions. A man-like creature attached by a chain ran behind in the dust.