Songs of the Dying Earth

He left the study before she could speak. In truth, he had not expected any great success with the lady Amay, but he had thought the ploy worth trying. In any case, he would have all summer to puzzle out any traps on the strong room doors—and, of course, he would have the help of Hegadil, which would be considerable.

Pondering thus his own prospects, the Protostrator Vespanus walked to the Onyx Tower, and from its highest room contemplated his new domain.

AFTERWORD:

I SEEM to be fairly unique in acquiring my taste for Jack Vance’s fiction as an adult.

Most Vance readers seem to have encountered him when they were young. I did, too, but I must have read the wrong stuff, or I read it badly, or maybe I just didn’t get it.

But then I kept hearing from my writer friends about what a terrific writer Jack Vance was, and how much they admired him. And these were writers whose taste I trusted.

So off I went to read The Demon Princes series. Then the Alastor books, and the Tschai series, Big Planet, and—by and by—The Dying Earth.

And so I developed a grownup’s appreciation for Vance’s glorious high style, his psychological acuity, and for the breadth of his invention.

In the Dying Earth novels and stories, I very much enjoyed the scheming of Vance’s sophisticated, amoral wizards, obsessed with politesse, possessions, and prestige, and I thought to tell a story of a character who had not yet earned a place among the elite. Vespanus is young, insufficiently schooled, and possibly second-rate. In order to take his place among the rulers of the Dying Earth, he must employ his limited powers with subtlety and finesse.

Abrizonde, Pex, and Calabrande are countries of my own invention, though I hope I have invented them in the Vance style. They are populated by Vancean creations such as sendestins and twk-men, callow-fields and miniaturized sorcerers, as well as some of my own inventions such as the Halcyon Detonation.

I was delighted to include such Vancean objects as alidades, altazimuths, and dividing engines, which though used in the story by Calabrandene engineers are actual implements used in our actual world by actual surveyors.

Perhaps reality itself pays occasional homage to Jack Vance.

—Walter Jon Williams

PAULA VOLSKY The Traditions of Karzh (#ulink_885dcd90-f890-5d9b-9a1f-af819bbda0dd)

HERE’S THE story of a lazy and languid lothario who receives the keenest of incentives to apply himself to his studies—the imminent threat of death.

Paula Volsky is the author of the popular The Sorcerer’s Lady series, consisting of The Sorcerer’s Lady, The Sorcerer’s Heir, and The Sorcerer’s Curse. Her other books include The Grand Ellipse, The White Tribunal, The Gates of Twilight, The Curse of the Witch Queen, Illusion, The Luck of Rohan Kru, and The Wolf of Winter. Born in Fanwood, New Jersey, she now lives in Basking Ridge, New Jersey.

The Traditions of Karzh PAULA VOLSKY (#ulink_885dcd90-f890-5d9b-9a1f-af819bbda0dd)

Dhruzen of Karzh, long-time acting master of the manse, surveyed his nephew at length. He beheld a spare and elegantlyclad young man, with black hair framing a pale, lean face, and dark eyes heedlessly content. The sight appeared to please him. His round face pinkened with gratification, his round eyes beamed benevolence.

“Nephew Farnol,” Dhruzen observed, “I wish you a happy birthday. Today you attain the age of one-and-twenty. Let us drink to that accomplishment.”

“Gladly, Uncle.” Farnol of Karzh angled a dutiful inclination of the head.

The two kinsmen touched goblets and drank.

“The wine is to your liking?” Dhruzen inquired with solicitude.

“Excellent.”

“I am glad, for it is yours, as of this day. Indeed, the manse and all of its contents are yours, now that you have come of age. Tell me, Nephew—now that you are master here, what do you intend to do?”

“Do? Why, busy myself with management of the estate, I suppose, and other pursuits. Kaiin offers no end of occupation. My swordplay falls short of perfection; I shall continue the practice bouts. There is the theatre, always in want of patrons; the declamatory competitions, the Vringel Attitudes, the Perambulating Rocks, the Scaum Scullers, the quest to replicate the ancient Golden Light of the Sun—”

“Occupation?” Dhruzen’s lids drooped. “Say rather, diversions, frivolities. Nephew, you squander your force upon trifles. Always you evade the issue of true importance. You speak nothing of magic, whose power measures the eminence of our line. The patriarchs of Karzh all possess some measure of magic. Where is yours?”

“Oh, I have not the aptitude. I cannot hold the simplest of spells in my head, they fly from me like timid birds.” Farnol flexed a careless shrug. “What matter? There are other pursuits equally meritorious.”

“Oh, Nephew—Nephew—Nephew.” Dhruzen shook his curled head in smiling sorrow. “Far be it from me to criticize, but you refuse to acknowledge the essential verity. The master of this manse must possess some measure of thaumaturgical skill. It is a tradition of Karzh. For years, you have neglected your studies, and I—shame upon me—I have indulged your idleness. Now that you have come of age, matters must alter.”

“It is a little late for alteration. Uncle, pray do not trouble yourself,” Farnol counseled easily. “I have not turned out so badly, and no doubt all is for the best.”

“Brave philosophy. I am not without hope, however, that I may yet persuade you to my point of view.” So saying, Dhruzen struck the small gong on the table beside him, and a brazen note resounded.

Into the chamber stepped Gwyllis, household fixture for years beyond count, dry and brittle as an abandoned chrysalis.

“Bring it in,” commanded Dhruzen.

Gwyllis bowed and retired. Moments later, he was back, tottering beneath the weight of a sizable object that he placed with care at the center of the table.

Farnol leaned forward in his chair. He beheld a swirling complexity of interlaced vitreous coils, colorless for the most part, but marked with occasional touches of crimson. At first, the great glass knot appeared randomly formed, but closer inspection revealed elements of structure and design. Here, a subtle pattern of glinting scales. There, the suggestion of a talon. The hint of a snout, the wink of a fang. And visible at the center of the gleaming mass, a compact dark heart, its nature open to conjecture.

“Beguiling, is it not?”

“Indeed.” Farnol looked up to meet his uncle’s happy gaze. A nameless pang assailed him.

“Nephew, you will observe the small leaden casket reposing at the center of the glass knot. Its contents are not without interest to you, but will not be reached save by way of sorcerous art. I invite you to open the casket.”

“Sorcery is quite beyond me. An iron hammer of good weight, fit to shatter the glass impedimenta, should serve just as well.” Farnol spoke with a lighthearted air designed to conceal growing uneasiness.

“Impractical. The importunate blows of a hammer would serve only to reinforce the resolve of the defenders.”

“Defenders?”

“The glass reptiles, Nephew. They appear lifeless, but do not deceive yourself. They brim with righteous defensive zeal. Once roused, their tempers are short and their venom swift.”

“Indeed?” Farnol took a closer look, and now discerned the intricately interlaced, transparent saurians. Crimson color marked their eyes, their claws, and their bulging poison ampoules. Their number was impossible to gauge. “Well. They seem stout guardians. Let them protect their treasure, whatever it may be. I will not disturb them.”

“I urge you to reconsider. The casket at the center of the reptilian knot recommends itself to your attention, for it contains the sole known antidote.”

“Antidote?”

“To the bane that you have just swallowed. It was in the excellent wine. I had feared that you might note the addition of a foreign substance, but your mind seemed set on other things. Perambulating Rocks, perhaps. Or Vringel Attitudes.”

“Poison! Then you have murdered me, Uncle?”

“My dear lad, you must not think it. Do you take me for an ogre? What I have done reflects pure avuncular affection. I offer you an opportunity to honor the traditions of Karzh. If the conditions I impose appear extreme, you may take it as an expression of my absolute confidence in your abilities. Now attend, if you please. The draft that you have swallowed is trifling in its effect, scarcely more than an inconvenience. Three or four days must elapse before internal desiccation occasions anything beyond passing discomfort. Another two or three before desiccation gives way to conflagration, and a full ten days before the inner fires consume heart, mind, and life. But why speak of such unpleasantness? Surely it is irrelevant. You need only apply the most rudimentary of magical spells to loosen the knot, open the casket, and swallow the antidote. No doubt you will complete the task within hours, if not minutes, for how could the legitimate master of the manse fail? Nephew, I know that you will make me proud.” Rising from his chair, Dhruzen clapped his kinsman’s shoulder, and departed.

For some seconds, Farnol of Karzh sat motionless, studying the tangle, then spoke without turning his head. “Gwyllis. Fetch me a hammer, an ax, or a crowbar.”

“Useless, Master Farnol,” returned the ancient servant, in tones treble and tweetling. “Be certain that it is magic alone will serve your purpose. Master Dhruzen has ordered it so.”

“I shall summon a magician from the city.”