Songs of the Dying Earth. Gardner Dozois

with rolling eyes, a full beard, and a prominent overbite.

      Then there was a scene of frantic motion, as the leering man began to dash around the room with incredible speed. He laid hands upon the very room itself and took it apart piece by piece, the whole disassembly taking place in just a few seconds, after which there was nothing left but the figure of the leering man and walls of transparent crystal.

      “Allow me,” said Vespanus, peering into the crystal bottle, “to introduce my madling, Hegadil.”

      Hegadil bowed elaborately as Amay stared first at the madling, and then at Vespanus, standing in her husband’s study.

      “I thought it best to discover whether you were trustworthy,” Vespanus said. “While you were asleep, I had Hegadil construct a duplicate of your bedchamber inside the bottle. As he has a talent for impersonation, I also ordered him to adopt my form and see whether you would attack me once you found yourself at liberty. Alas, my lady, you failed that test…”

      “I am chastened!” Amay said quickly. “I reconsider!”

      “I am not so foolish as to trust you again,” Vespanus said. “Come, Hegadil!”

      Hegadil stepped through the wall of the crystal bottle, and flew to the ring on Vespanus’ finger.

      “Farewell, my lady,” Vespanus said. “I leave you to contemplate your long and doubtless tedious future.”

      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

      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

      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