Mazirian the Magician by Jack Vance Page B

landlord’s forehead and revile the crowd, much to the landlord’s discomfiture, since it was his own voice. Another displayed a green glass bottle from which the face of a demon peered and grimaced; another a ball of pure crystal which rolled back and forward to the command of the sorcerer who owned it, and who claimed it to be an earring of the fabled master Sankaferrin.
    Liane had attentively watched all, crowing in delight at the bottled imp, and trying to cozen the obedient crystal from its owner, without success.
    And Liane became pettish, complaining that the world was full of rock-hearted men, but the sorcerer with the crystal earring remained indifferent, and even when Liane spread out twelve packets of rare spice he refused to part with his toy.
    Liane pleaded, “I wish only to please the witch Lith.”
    â€œPlease her with the spice, then.”
    Liane said ingenuously, “Indeed, she has but one wish, a bit of tapestry which I must steal from Chun the Unavoidable.”
    And he looked from face to suddenly silent face.
    â€œWhat causes such immediate sobriety? Ho, Landlord, more wine!”
    The sorcerer with the earring said, “If the floor swam ankle-deep with wine — the rich red wine of Tanvilkat — the leaden print of that name would still ride the air.”
    â€œHa,” laughed Liane, “let only a taste of that wine pass your lips, and the fumes would erase all memory.”
    â€œSee his eyes,” came a whisper. “Great and golden.”
    â€œAnd quick to see,” spoke Liane. “And these legs — quick to run, fleet as starlight on the waves. And this arm — quick to stab with steel. And my magic — which will set me to a refuge that is out of all cognizance.” He gulped wine from a beaker. “Now behold. This is magic from antique days.” He set the bronze band over his head, stepped through, brought it up inside the darkness. When he deemed that sufficient time had elapsed, he stepped through once more.
    The fire glowed, the landlord stood in his alcove, Liane’s wine was at hand. But of the assembled magicians, there was no trace.
    Liane looked about in puzzlement. “And where are my wizardly friends?”
    The landlord turned his head. “They took to their chambers; the name you spoke weighed on their souls.”
    And Liane drank his wine in frowning silence.

    Next morning he left the inn and picked a roundabout way to the Old Town — a gray wilderness of tumbled pillars, weathered blocks of sandstone, slumped pediments with crumbled inscriptions, flagged terraces overgrown with rusty moss. Lizards, snakes, insects crawled the ruins; no other life did he see.
    Threading a way through the rubble, he almost stumbled on a corpse — the body of a youth, one who stared at the sky with empty eye-sockets.
    Liane felt a presence. He leapt back, rapier half-bared. A stooped old man stood watching him. He spoke in a feeble, quavering voice: “And what will you have in the Old Town?”
    Liane replaced his rapier. “I seek the Place of Whispers. Perhaps you will direct me.”
    The old man made a croaking sound at the back of his throat. “Another? Another? When will it cease …” He motioned to the corpse. “This one came yesterday seeking the Place of Whispers. He would steal from Chun the Unavoidable. See him now.” He turned away. “Come with me.” He disappeared over a tumble of rock.
    Liane followed. The old man stood by another corpse with eye-sockets bereft and bloody. “This one came four days ago, and he met Chun the Unavoidable … And over there behind the arch is another still, a great warrior in cloison armor. And there — and there —” he pointed, pointed. “And there — and there — like crushed flies.”
    He turned his watery blue gaze back to Liane. “Return, young man, return — lest your body lie here in