The Jack Vance Treasury Page 2
But in presenting such marvelous worlds as Aerlith, Tschai and Big Planet, Durdane, Koryphon and Halma, Blue World, Sirene, Lyonesse and the Dying Earth, and introducing us to unforgettable characters like Cugel, Madouc and Adam Reith, the indomitable Kirth Gersen, the mad poet Navarth and the Demon Princes themselves, Vance does more. Among his many keen, irreverent and wryly fond observations on the human condition, he serves up moments of exquisite seeing: Ghyl Tarvoke’s reverie at the fading light in Undle Square or as he gazes across the mudflats of ancient Ambroy, Glinnes Hulden’s meditations as avness—“that melancholy dying-time of day”—settles over the Welgen Fens, or Kirth Gersen’s wonderful, madcap lapse of discipline when he chooses to carry out Lens Larque’s grand scheme himself. In there, too, is the finely rendered bittersweetness of childhood and youth, the rapture of first love, the wisdoms and quirks of age and custom, the bathos and irony of schemes gone awry, the expansiveness of spirit that causes glasses to be lifted in the celebration of a shared moment.
These are exotic mysteries, yes, but—as one would expect from a seasoned world traveler like Vance—they are also ways of taking us on journeys, of putting us into situations where our humanity becomes the thing in focus, measured against alien overlords, exotic worlds and different cultures, defined and tested by what we have become among the stars, in faerie realms or at the end of time. As Ursula Le Guin puts it so well in The Left Hand of Darkness: “It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” This is so true of what Vance achieves repeatedly in his oeuvre. Here is an author who savours the journey, the encounter, the mystery, and returns to such things again and again in his storytelling.
Given how loved Vance’s work is, for a career retrospective like this we might have sought out appreciations and testimonials to help commemorate the occasion, over and above George Martin’s kind and generous foreword. They would have been readily forthcoming. So, too, we might have included some appropriately positive critical appraisals of the man’s career. Again, these would have been heartfelt and in no short supply; Vance’s work remains fertile territory in that regard and is sure to reward patient study.
And while the author himself has never liked to discuss his work or have it analyzed too closely, the clues are there. Think, for instance, of what some would make of the title similarity between Vance’s 1950 Dying Earth story “Guyal of Sfere” and the 1928 Jeffrey Farnol novel Guyfford of Weare that sits on his bookshelf, or how just the title “Liane the Wayfarer” from the same Vance book invites all sorts of expeditions among other Farnol novels on the same shelf like John O’ the Green: A Romance and Beltane the Smith: A Romance of the Greenwood. But it’s the Romantic spirit that is the main thing here, some likeness of seeing and sensibility that made the young Vance respond to someone like Farnol. As for artists and storytellers everywhere, everything is grist to the mill.
Nor would a new interview have been out of place or much made of existing interview data, such as when Vance says that “Sail 25”, “Dodkin’s Job” and “Ulward’s Retreat” are among his favorite stories, or that, in giving advice on technique, he urges writers to take out as many adjectives and adverbs as possible on any rewrite (interestingly, very close to the same advice offered by his equally acclaimed contemporary, mystery writer Tony Hillerman). It would have even been appropriate to mention the roads not taken, projects planned and abandoned, the tantalizing might-have-beens, since, where fans and favorite writers are concerned, how can anything ever be enough? Many will feel a definite pang to learn that Vance planned further Maske novels to succeed Maske: Thaery and that Pharism: Alastor 458 sits in tantalizing miniature as a few scrawled notes in one of his multi-colored journals. So too Miro Hetzel had further outings planned, and for a time even Milton Hack, the man from Zodiac, waited in the interstellar wings for the worlds to beat a path to his door. The list goes on.
Suffice to say that there is ample material for such ongoing appraisal: whether it’s fathoming the significance of something like the VLON symbol for Vance as for his cherished creation, Howard Alan Treesong, or considering the impact on the author of that small Mesopotamian relief, or reckoning the significance of quotes in the scrapbook, much loved by Vance, such as this from Robert Louis Stevenson—
On we rode, the others and I,
Over the mountains blue, and by
The Silver River, the sounding sea,
And the robber woods of Tartary.
—or this uncredited piece on the same page, often quoted at dinner:
I can not stand where once I stood. It takes a
life to learn
That none may steer his course to shear the trail
of light astern.
What an evocative leitmotif these things make where the Vance oeuvre is concerned, especially when taken alongside the words given to family stalwart Vaidro Droad at the end of Maske: Thaery:
“While we are alive we should sit among colored lights and taste good wines, and discuss our adventures in far places; when we are dead, the opportunity is past.”
But it is our intention that this be a book for the stranger as much as for the aficionado, and so we stand properly cautioned by Vance’s dictum given to Baron Bodissey in The Killing Machine that “when erudition comes in, poetry departs.” So, too, his closing envoi to The Dogtown Tourist Agency regarding process that: “The master chef slaughters no chickens in the dining room” cautions us to step back and let the featured stories speak for themselves.
With this and the good Baron’s aphorism in mind, that is what we have done: brought together a selection of stories that celebrate and commemorate the work of this particular romantic spirit, who as a boy dug underground tunnels and secret chambers, who lay in a field and watched his kite idling overhead, who as a “somewhat taciturn merchant seaman” sat at the bow of a freighter playing his cornet, who, in time, went on to become the writer of the rather special stories presented here. This time we will let them give us the man.
“The Miracle Workers,” “The Moon Moth,” “The Dragon Masters” and “The Last Castle” are works of a piece from a time when Jack produced polished and mature mid-length planetary adventures for a thriving magazine market. All four stories are essential Vance and highlight themes the author returned to again and again in the novel-length planetary romances and which culminated in the Tschai, Durdane, Alastor and Cadwal books among others, and, arguably, Jack’s finest single novel, Emphyrio.
“The Miracle Workers” was the lead story for the July 1958 issue of Astounding Science Fiction. It featured an apt and evocative cover by the late Kelly Freas and was nominated for a Hugo Award for Best Novelette the following year. “The Moon Moth,” published in Galaxy Magazine in August 1961, remains one of Jack’s most admired and reprinted stories, turning as it does on a truly classic xenological conundrum—how to catch a criminal in a society where everyone goes masked. Rather than simply focusing on the determination and ingenuity of its protagonist in classic space opera fashion, Vance reminds us how important it may be to have a sense of irony among the stars.
“The Dragon Masters” appeared in Galaxy Magazine in August 1962, accompanied by a striking cover and what, for many, became definitive text illustrations by the late Jack Gaughan. It won the Hugo Award for Best Short Fiction in 1963. “The Last Castle” appeared in Galaxy Science Fiction in April 1966, again with an evocative cover and interior art by Gaughan, and won both the 1967 Hugo for Best Novelette and the 1967 Nebula Award for Best Novella.
The Dying Earth stories are also quintessential Vance and are generously represented here. From the original 1950 linked collection The Dying Earth we have “Liane the Wayfarer” and “Guyal of Sfere.” From its more formally structured sequel The Eyes of the Overworld (1966) comes “The Overworld”, our first introduction to Cugel the Clever, possibly Jack’s single most loved character and certainly his own favorite. This opening tale originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction for December 1965. From the same engaging story suite is “The Sorcerer Pharesm”, originally published in that magazine’s April 1966 issue. From Cugel’s Saga, the 1983 linked collection that brought Cugel’s adventures to a welcome if (knowing our wayward hero) probably temporary happy ending, there is “The Bagful of Dreams”, which first appeared in Flashing Swords in 1977. From the final Dying Earth collection Rhialto the Marvelous comes “Morreion”, which originally appeared in Flashing Swords in 1973.
Between July 1948 and February 1958, Jack published ten stories in various magazines featuring the fortunes of his earliest and most urbane interstellar effectuator, Magnus Ridolph. “The Kokod Warriors”, one of the best in the series, appeared in Thrilling Wonder Stories for October 1952 and in key aspects anticipates The Dogtown Tourist Agency from 1975. There is an intriguing alien species under scrutiny, an exotic planetary dilemma to be faced, and a biter-bit conclusion that ensures Ridolph continues to enjoy the perquisites of his chosen profession.
“Sail 25” first appeared as “Gateway to Strangeness” in Amazing Fact and Science Fiction for August 1962. Arthur C. Clarke’s solar sail story “The Wind from the Sun” appeared in 1963, and Cordwainer Smith’s Instrumentality sailships were already plying the starways around that time. Given completion as opposed to publication dates, it’s hard to say who got there first, but Vance’s story is certainly among the contenders for the title.
“The Gift of Gab” was published in Astounding Science Fiction in September 1955 and features another intriguing xenological mystery. Like other stories from this period, it might as easily have been given to Magnus Ridolph to solve, but its success as a standalone highlights the fact that Vance’s professional effectuators, whether Ridolph, Milton Hack or Miro Hetzel, were very much the means to an end: a way of presenting encounters with alien species and alien mind-sets in exotic otherworldly settings.
“Noise”, from Startling Stories for August 1952, is a haunting, bittersweet tale that shows in miniature the sort of evocative mise-en-scène used to such memorable effect in the novels. For the modern reader there may be a few dated touches, but Howard Charles Evans’ experiences on that forlorn multi-sunned world will quite likely stay with the reader no less than they do for the beleaguered star-traveler himself.
“The Men Return” first appeared in Infinity Science Fiction in July 1957 and in many ways is one of Jack’s most ambitious stories. How to render a pocket of non-causality? Vance’s answer, of course, was to throw language at it and leave it to our readily seconded imaginations to do the rest. “The New Prime” first saw print as “Brain of the Galaxy” in Worlds Beyond for February 1951 and reminds us of the importance of humility—and, yet again, irony—in human affairs. “The Mitr”, published in the debut issue of Vortex Science Fiction in 1953, is a subtle, understated story of loss and reflection that grows more touching on every reading and stands in striking, even shocking, contrast to the more elaborate, action-oriented stories presented here.
“The Secret” has an interesting publishing history. Originally intended for Damon Knight’s Worlds Beyond, the manuscript was lost with that magazine’s demise. A subsequent version, written five years later and mailed off to another prospective market, failed to arrive. The story finally turned up in the UK publication Impulse for March 1966 without Jack’s knowledge.
Eighteen stories then, giving a representative and worthy cross-section. Not for everyone, certainly, not every reader’s mug of Blue Ruin, Saskadoodle or Pink-eye Punch. But for those eager to experience one of the most effective, cherished and influential voices in all science fiction and fantasy for the first time, this will be an ideal place to start. For those who already treasure this voice, who know full well how this particular druithine, like his own creation, Sessily Veder, in Araminta Station, has been “impelled to pluck the highest fruit from the Tree of Life,” why, no doubt you’re nodding and smiling already, eager to set off for the wilds of Old Caraz once more or the robber woods of Tartary or wherever else the journey takes us.
—Terry Dowling and Jonathan Strahan
Sydney and Perth, August 1 2006
The Dragon Masters
Chapter I
The apartments of Joaz Banbeck, carved deep from the heart of a limestone crag, consisted of five principal chambers, on five different levels. At the top were the reliquarium and a formal council chamber: the first a room of somber magnificence housing the various archives, trophies and mementos of the Banbecks; the second a long narrow hall, with dark wainscoting chest-high and a white plaster vault above, extending the entire width of the crag, so that balconies overlooked Banbeck Vale at one end and Kergan’s Way at the other.
Below were Joaz Banbeck’s private quarters: a parlor and bedchamber, then next his study and finally, at the bottom, a workroom where Joaz permitted none but himself.
Entry to the apartments was through the study, a large L-shaped room with an elaborate groined ceiling, from which depended four garnet-encrusted chandeliers. These were now dark; into the room came only a watery gray light from four honed-glass plates on which, in the manner of a camera obscura, were focused views across Banbeck Vale. The walls were paneled with lignified reed; a rug patterned in angles, squares and circles of maroon, brown and black covered the floor.
In the middle of the study stood a naked man, his only covering the long fine brown hair which flowed down his back, the golden torc which clasped his neck. His features were sharp and angular, his body thin; he appeared to be listening, or perhaps meditating. Occasionally he glanced at a yellow marble globe on a nearby shelf, whereupon his lips would move, as if he were committing to memory some phrase or sequence of ideas.
At the far end of the study a heavy door eased open. A flower-faced young woman peered through, her expression mischievous, arch. At the sight of the naked man, she clapped her hands to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The naked man turned—but the heavy door had already swung shut.
For a moment he stood deep in frowning reflection, then slowly went to the wall on the inside leg of the L. He swung out a section of the bookcase, passed through the opening. Behind him the bookcase thudded shut. Descending a spiral staircase he came out into a chamber rough-hewn from the rock: Joaz Banbeck’s private workroom. A bench supported tools, metal shapes and fragments, a bank of electromotive cells, oddments of circuitry: the current objects of Joaz Banbeck’s curiosity.
The naked man glanced at the bench, picked up one of the devices, inspected it with something like condescension, though his gaze was as clear and wondering as that of a child.
Muffled voices from the study penetrated to the workroom. The naked man raised his head to listen, then stooped under the bench. He lifted a block of stone, slipped through the gap into a dark void. Replacing the stone, he took up a luminous wand, and set off down a narrow tunnel, which presently dipped to join a natural cavern. At irregular intervals luminous tubes exuded a wan light, barely enough to pierce the murk. The naked man jogged forward swiftly, the silken hair flowing like a nimbus behind him.
Back in the study the minstrel-maiden Phade and an elderly seneschal were at odds. “Indeed I saw him!” Phade insisted. “With these two eyes of mine, one of the sacerdotes, standing thus and so, as I have described.” She tugged angrily at his elbow. “Do you think me bereft of my wits, or hysterical?”
Rife the seneschal shrugged, committing himself neither one way nor the other. “I do not see him now.” He climbed the staircase, peered into the sleeping parlor. “Empty. The doors above are bolted.” He peered owlishly at Phade. “And I sat at my post in the entry.”
“You sat sleeping. Even when I came past you snored!”
“You are mistaken; I did but cough.”
“With your eyes closed, your head lolling back?”
Rife shrugged once more. “Asleep or awake, it is all the same. Admitting that the creature gained access, how did he leave? I was wakeful after you summoned me, as you must agree.”
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br /> “Then remain on guard, while I find Joaz Banbeck.” Phade ran down the passage which presently joined Bird Walk, so called for the series of fabulous birds of lapis, gold, cinnabar, malachite and marcasite inlaid into the marble. Through an arcade of green and gray jade in spiral columns she passed out into Kergan’s Way, a natural defile which formed the main thoroughfare of Banbeck Village. Reaching the portal, she summoned a pair of lads from the fields. “Run to the brooder, find Joaz Banbeck! Hasten, bring him here; I must speak with him.”
The boys ran off toward a low cylinder of black brick a mile to the north.
Phade waited. With the sun Skene at its nooning, the air was warm; the fields of vetch, bellegarde, spharganum, gave off a pleasant odor. Phade went to lean against a fence. Now she began to wonder about the urgency of her news, even its basic reality. “No!” she told herself fiercely. “I saw! I saw!”
At either side tall white cliffs rose to Banbeck Verge, with mountains and crags beyond, and spanning all the dark sky flecked with feathers of cirrus. Skene glittered dazzling bright, a minuscule flake of brilliance.
Phade sighed, half-convinced of her own mistake. Once more, less vehemently, she reassured herself. Never before had she seen a sacerdote; why should she imagine one now?
The boys, reaching the brooder, had disappeared into the dust of the exercise pens. Scales gleamed and winked; grooms, dragon masters, armorers in black leather moved about their work.
After a moment Joaz Banbeck came into view. He mounted a tall thin-legged Spider, urged it to the full extent of its head-jerking lope, pounded down the track toward Banbeck Village.
Phade’s uncertainty grew. Might Joaz become exasperated, would he dismiss her news with an unbelieving stare? Uneasily she watched his approach. Coming to Banbeck Vale only a month before she still felt unsure of her status. Her preceptors had trained her diligently in the barren little valley to the south where she had been born, but the disparity between teaching and practical reality at times bewildered her. She had learned that all men obeyed a small and identical group of behaviors; Joaz Banbeck, however, observed no such limits, and Phade found him completely unpredictable.