Demon princes 01 05 the.., p.56
Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 56
“Very well then,” said Viole Falushe, “so here we are. You have been making your photographic records, I believe?”
“I have several hundred pictures. More than necessary to cover the superficial aspects of the Palace—that which you display to your guests.”
Viole Falushe seemed amused. “And you are curious as to what else occurs?”
“From a journalistic standpoint.”
“Hm. What do you think of the Palace then?”
“It is remarkably pleasant.”
“You have a reservation?”
“Something is lacking. Perhaps the flaw lies in your servants. They lack depth, they do not seem real.”
“I recognize this,” said Viole Falushe. “They have no traditions. The only remedy is time.”
“They are also without responsibility. After all, they are slaves.”
“Not quite, for they do not realize it. They consider themselves the Fortunate Folk, and such they are. It is precisely this unreality, this sense of faerie, that I have been at pains to develop.”
“And when they age, what then? What becomes of the Fortunate Folk?”
“Some work the farms surrounding the gardens Some are sent elsewhere.”
“To the real world? They are sold as slaves?”
“All of us are slaves in some wise.”
“How are you a slave?”
“I am victim to a terrible obsession. I was a sensitive boy, cruelly thwarted; I daresay Navarth has provided the details. Rather than submit, I was forced, by my sense of justice, to seek compensation—which I am still seeking. I am a man much maligned. The public considers me a voluptuous sybarite, an erotic glutton. The reverse is true. I am—why mince matters3—absolutely ascetic. I must remain so until my obsession is relieved. I am a man cursed. But you are not interested in my personal problems, since naturally they are not for publication.”
“Nevertheless, I am interested. Jheral Tinzy is the source of your obsession?”
“Precisely.” Viole Falushe spoke in a measured voice. “She had blighted my life. She must expunge this blight. Is this not justice? To date she has proved unwilling, incapable.”
“How could she remove the obsession?”
Viole Falushe stirred fretfully in his chair “Are you so unimaginative? We have explored the matter far enough.”
“So Jheral Tinzy is yet alive?”
“Yes indeed.”
“But I understood you to say that she was dead.”
“Life, death—these are imprecise terms.”
“Who then is Drusilla, the girl you left with Navarth? Is she Jheral Tinzy?”
“She is who she is. She made a dreadful mistake. She failed and Navarth failed, for Navarth should have schooled her. She is frivolous and wanton; she trafficked with other men, and she must serve as Jheral Tinzy served. Thus it shall be, forever and ever, until finally there is expiation, until I can feel soothed and whole. By this time there is a terrible score to pay. Thirty years. Think of it!”
Viole Falushe’s voice vibrated and cracked “Thirty years surrounded by beauty, and incapable of enjoying it! Thirty long years.”
“I would not presume to give you advice,” said Gersen, somewhat dryly.
“I need no advice, and naturally, what I tell you is in confidence You would be ungracious to publish it I would be grieved and forced to demand satisfaction.”
“What then may I publish?”
“Whatever you like, so long as I am not injured.”
“What of the other events here? What goes on at the other end of the hall?”
Viole Falushe considered him a moment Gersen could sense but not see the smolder in his eyes. But he spoke in a light voice “This is the Palace of Love I am interested in the subject, even fascinated, through the mechanism of sublimation I have an elaborate program of research under way I explore the emotion in artificial and arbitrary circumstances I do not choose to discuss the matter any further at this time Perhaps five years from now, or ten, I will publish a resume of my findings. They will provide fascinating insights.”
“In regard to the photographs in the foyer—”
Viole Falushe jumped to his feet “No more. We have talked too much, I find myself uneasy. You have provoked this, hence I have arranged a similar uneasiness for you, which will go far to soothe me Thereafter, caution, discretion. Make the most of your time, because shortly you must return to Reality.”
“What of you? You remain here31’
“No I shall also leave the Palace My work here is accomplished, and I have an important mission on Alphanor, which well may change all Be so good as to step into the hall My friend Helaunce awaits you.”
Helaunce, thought Gersen. This would be the white-eyed man Slowly, with Viole Falushe watching him from the screen, Gersen turned and went to the door. The white-eyed man waited in the hall. He carried an object something like a flail, a rod terminating in a set of cords. He appeared to carry no other weapon.
“Remove your clothes,” said Helaunce “You are to be chastised.”
“Best that you confine your chastisement to words,” said Gersen “Revile me all you like, in the meantime let us return to the garden.”
Helaunce smiled “I have my orders Be as difficult as you like, the orders must and will be carried out.”
“Not by you,” said Gersen “You are too thick and too slow.”
Helaunce flourished the flail, the cords made a sinister crackling sound “Quick, or you will make us impatient, and the punishment will be commensurate.”
Helaunce was hard and tough, Gersen noted, obviously a trained fighter—perhaps as well-trained as himself. Helaunce was also thirty pounds heavier If he had a weakness, it was not apparent Gersen suddenly sat down in the hall, put his hands to his face and began to sob.
Helaunce stared in puzzlement “Off with your clothes. Do not sit there.” He came forward, nudged Gersen with his foot “Up.”
Gersen jumped up with Helaunce’s foot clamped to his chest. Helaunce hopped backward, Gersen gave the foot a cruel twist, applying torque to joints where muscles could interpose no protection Helaunce cried out in agony, then fell flat Gersen wrested loose the flail, struck him across the shoulder. The cords hissed, crackled, Helaunce muttered.
“If you can walk,” said Gersen, “be good enough to show me the way.”
There was a step behind him Gersen turned to glimpse a tall shape in black garments Something splashed purple-white light into his brain, Gersen toppled, dazed.
There was half an hour of nightmare Gersen slowly regained control of his faculties. He lay naked in the garden, beside the white palace wall. His clothes were stacked neatly beside him.
So much for that, thought Gersen. The project had failed. Not in disaster, for he still had his life Gersen dressed himself, smiling grimly There had been an attempt to humiliate him. It had not succeeded. He had paid, but pain, like pleasure, has no duration. Pride was an entity more persistent.
Gersen leaned against the wall until his brain cleared. His nerves still throbbed to the terrible flail There were no bruises, no lacerations, no more than a few red welts Gersen was hungry. And here was humiliation indeed he must eat Viole Falushe’s food, walk through the pleasant garden that Viole Falushe’s brain had conceived ... Gersen smiled again, even more wolfishly than before. He had known that his life might not be altogether graceful and easy.
The time was about dusk. The garden had never seemed more beautiful. Fireflies moved in the jasmine bushes, marble urns glowed against dark foliage as if exuding wan light of their own. A troupe of girls from one of the villages came capering past. Tonight they wore loose white pantaloons and carried yellow lanterns. Seeing Gersen, they circled around him singing a gay song, the words of which Gersen could not comprehend. One approached, held her lantern to Gersen’s face. “Why so strange, guest-man? Why so gray? Come frolic, come join us!”
“Thank you,” said Gersen. “I fear tonight I would frolic very poorly indeed.”
“Kiss me,” coaxed the girl. “Am I not beautiful? Why are you so sad? Because you must leave forever and ever the Palace of Love? And we will remain, and always be young and carry our lanterns through the night. Is this why you grieve?”
Gersen smiled. “Yes, I must return to a far world. And I am forlorn at the thought. But do not let me interfere with your joy.”
The girl kissed his cheek. “Tonight is your last night, your last night at the Palace of Love. Tonight you must do all you have neglected so far, never will there be another time!” The girls continued on their way, with Gersen looking after them. “Do all I have neglected? I wish I could ...” He went to a sunken terrace where guests sat dining. Navarth crouched over a bowl of goulash; Gersen joined him. An attendant wheeled forth a cart; Gersen, who had not eaten since morning, served himself.
Navarth finally spoke: “What’s happened? You appear well used.”
“I spent an afternoon with our host.”
“Indeed. You spoke to him face to face?”
“Almost so.”
“And you know then his identity? Mano? Ethuen? Tanzel?”
“I can’t be sure.”
Navarth grunted, and bent once more to the goulash.
“Tonight is the last night,” Gersen said presently.
“So they tell me. I will be glad to go. There is no poetry here. It is as I have always set forth: joy comes of its own free will, it cannot be belabored. Look—a great palace, a magnificent garden with live nymphs and heroes. But where is the dreaming, the myth? Only simple-minded folk find joy here.”
“Your friend Viole Falushe would be sorry to hear you say this.”
“I cannot say less.” Navarth turned Gersen a sudden sharp look. “Did you ask for the girl?”
“I did. I learned nothing.”
Navarth closed his eyes. “I have become an old man, I am ineffectual. Henry Lucas, whatever your name, cannot you act?”
“Today I tried,” said Gersen. “I was not made welcome.”
The two sat in silence. Then Gersen asked, “When do we leave?”
“I know no more than you.”
“We will do what we can.”
14
From The Avatar’s Apprentice in Scroll From The Ninth Dimension:
Struggling to the hill’s crest, Marmaduke searched for the blasted cypress which marked the hut of the symbologist. There stood the tree, haggard and desolate, and a hut nearby.
The symbologist gave him welcome. “A hundred leagues I have come,” said Marmaduke, “to put a single question: Do the colors have souls?”
“Did anyone aver otherwise?” asked the perplexed symbologist. He caused to shine an orange light, then, lifting the swing of his gown, he cavorted with great zest. Marmaduke watched with pleasure, amused to see an old man so spry!
The symbologist brought forth green light. Crouching under the bench he thrust his head between his ankles and turned his gown outside to in, while Marmaduke clapped his hands for wonder.
The symbologist evoked red light, and leaping upon Marmaduke, playfully wrestled him to the floor and threw the gown over his head. “My dear fellow,” gasped Marmaduke, winning free, “but you are brisk in your demonstration!”
“What is worth doing is worth doing well,” the symbologist replied. “Now to expatiate. The colors admit of dual import. The orange is icterine humor as well as the mirth of a dying heron.
“Green is the essence of second-thoughts, likewise the mode of the north wind. Red, as we have seen, accompanies rustic exuberance.”
“And a second import of the red?” Marmaduke asked.
The symbologist made a cryptic sign. “That remains to be seen, as the cat said who voided into the sugar bowl.”
Amused and edified, Marmaduke took his leave, and he was quite halfway down the mountain before he discovered the loss of his wallet.
The last night at the Palace of Love was celebrated by a fete. There was music, intoxicating fumes, a whirl of dancers from the villages. Those who had formed attachments made woeful conversation or indulged in a final frenzy of passion. Others sat quietly, each in his private mood, and so passed the night. One by one the colored lights blinked and dimmed; the folk in “white slipped away through the garden gloom; one by one the guests took themselves to their couches, alone or in the company that pleased them most.
The garden was quiet; dew began to form on the grass. To each of the guests went a servant: “The time has come to leave.”
To grumblings and protests the servants made but one reply:
“These are our orders. The air car waits; those who are not on hand must walk their way back to Kouhila.”
The guests once more were provided new clothing: an austere costume of blue, black and dark green. They were then guided to an area somewhat south of the Palace where a large air car waited. Gersen counted: all here except Pruitt and Drusilla. Ethuen, Mario and Tanzel stood nearby. If one were Viole Falushe, it seemed that now he planned to return to the Oikumene with the others.
Gersen went forward, glanced into the pilot’s compartment. Here sat Helaunce. The guests were filing into the air car. Gersen took Navarth aside. “Wait.”
“Why?”
“No matter.” Tanzel and Ethuen were aboard; now Mario climbed the ladder. Gersen spoke hurriedly. “Go aboard. Make a disturbance. Pound on the bulkhead. Shout. There is an emergency lock between the saloon and the pilot’s compartment. Pull this open. Distract the pilot, try not to incite either Mano, Ethuen or Tanzel. They must not be encouraged to interfere.”
Navarth looked at him blankly. “What is the use of this?”
“No matter. Do as I say. Where is Drusilla? Where is Jheral Tinzy? Why are they not aboard?”
“Yes ... Why are they not aboard? I am truly outraged.” Navarth jumped up the ladder, thrusting aside the Druidess Laidig. “Wait.” he called. “We are not all present. Where is Zan Zu from Endu? We cannot leave without her. I refuse to leave; nothing will remove me.”
“Quiet, old fool,” growled Torrance da Nossa “You do no good.”
Navarth raged back and forth, lie struck on the forward bulkhead, pulled on the handle of the communicating door. Finally Helaunce opened the door and went aft to enforce order. “Old man, sit quietly. It is by order that we now leave. Unless you care to walk the long road alone, sit quiet.”
“Come then, Navarth,” said Lerand Wible. “You achieve nothing. Sit quietly.”
“Very well,” said Navarth. “I have protested; I have done all I can, I can do no more.”
Helaunce returned forward. He backed into the pilot’s compartment, closed the door. Gersen, waiting to the side, struck him over the head with a stone. Helaunce staggered, spun around, he saw Gersen through eyes blinded by blood and gave an inarticulate cry. Gersen struck again; Helaunce fell aside.
Gersen settled himself at the controls. Up rose the air car, up into the light of the rising sun. Gersen searched Helaunce and found two projacs, which he tucked into his own pocket. Slackening speed until the air car only drifted, he slid open the door and rolled Helaunce out and away.
In the saloon, thought Gersen, Viole Falushe must be wondering as to the peculiar course Helaunce was steering. Gersen sought around the ocean and presently spied a small island some twenty miles from the shore. He circled it, and seeing no sign of habitation landed the air car.
He jumped to the ground. Going to the saloon port, he pulled it open and jumped inside. “Everybody out. Quick.” And he gestured with the projacs.
Wible stuttered, “What does this mean?”
“It means everybody out.”
Navarth jumped to his feet. “Come along,” he bawled. “Everybody out.”
Uncertainly the guests filed outside. Mano came to the door. Gersen halted him. “You must remain. Be very careful and do not move, or I will kill you.”
Tanzel came by, and Ethuen, both were intercepted, ordered to sit. Finally the saloon was empty but for Gersen, Mano, Tanzel and Ethuen. Outside Navarth excitedly harangued the group. “Make no interference, you will regret it. This is IPCC business. I know it for a fact.”
“Navarth,” Gersen called from the saloon. “Your assistance, please.”
Navarth climbed back into the saloon. He searched Mano, Tanzel and Ethuen, while Gersen stood vigilantly by. Neither weapons nor clues to the identity of Viole Falushe were discovered. To Gersen’s direction, Navarth tied the three men to chairs, using various oddments of cord, strips of fabric and thongs. Meanwhile the three excoriated Gersen and demanded the basis for his persecution. Tanzel was the most verbose; Ethuen the most acrimonious, and Mano the most enraged. All glared and cursed with equal vigor. Gersen accepted the remarks with equanimity. “I will apologize to two of you later. Those two, aware of their innocence, will cooperate with me. From the third man I expect trouble. I am prepared for it.”
Tanzel asked, “In Jehu’s name, then. what do you wish of us? Name your third man and have done.”
“Vogel Filschner is his name,” said Gersen. “Otherwise known as Viole Falushe.”
“Why pick on us? Go seek him at the Palace.”
Gersen grinned. “Not a bad idea.” He tested the bonds of the three men, tightened here, reknotted there. “Navarth, you sit here, to the side. Watch these three carefully. One of them took Jheral Tinzy from you.”
“Tell me which one.”
“Vogel Filschner. You don’t recognize him?”
“I wish I could.” He pointed to Mano. “This one has his shifty eye.” He indicated Tanzel's hands “This one has a mannerism I remember in Vogel.” He turned to inspect Ethuen. “And this one has a store of spite and clearly is unhappy.”
“Certainly I’m unhappy,” snapped Ethuen “Why should I repice?”
“Watch them well,” said Gersen “We return to the Palace.” Ignoring the outcries of the marooned guests, he took the air car aloft So far so good—but what next? Conceivably his reasoning was awry, conceivably neither Tanzel, nor Mano, nor Ethuen was Viole Falushe Thinking back over the circumstances of the journey to the Palace, he discarded the notion.
