eyes, and advanced upon unsteady legs to enter his house.
A concerned-looking household servant intercepted him.
“Bid my uncle meet me at once in the dining hall,” he commanded. The servant bowed and retired.
Farnol tottered through fire to reach the dining hall. The great glass knot still sat on the table. At its center, the leaden casket offering life — provided his uncle had spoken the truth; with Uncle Dhruzen, always open to question.
As if on cue, Dhruzen of Karzh walked into the room, closely attended by old Gwyllis. He checked at sight of his nephew, and a smirk of soft benevolence creased his face.
“My dear lad, such a joyous happening! Here you are, back home again, and looking so well!”
A grim smile twisted Farnol’s lips. He said nothing.
“You have come home, no doubt, fully prepared to honor the sorcerous traditions of House Karzh. Eh, Nephew?”
“Yes,” said Farnol.
“Really.” Unpleasant surprise flashed across Dhruzen’s countenance, dissolving swiftly into avuncular affection. “Well. I expected no less. Justify my confidence in you, Nephew. Display your sorcerous mastery.”
“
The glassy coils began to writhe. A hissing chorus of inexpressible detestation arose. The undulations waxed in vigor, the hissing swelled to a hysterical crescendo, and the knot tore itself apart, its five component glass reptiles flinging themselves from the table top and shooting off in all directions. Farnol scarcely noted the vitreous lizards. Their disengagement exposed a small leaden casket. He opened it and discovered a flask. Drawing the cork, he drained the contents at a gulp. Dizziness assailed him, a weakness in his limbs, and a profound internal chill. Shuddering, he dropped into the nearest chair. He could hardly stir, and his vision was clouded, but not extinguished. He could watch.
The five glass reptiles, desperate to flee one another, were hurling themselves about the dining hall in mounting frenzy. Overturning furniture, caroming off walls, clawing woodwork, spraying venom, and hissing wildly, they had transformed the room into an arena. With a spryness exceptional in one of his years, Gwyllis had sought refuge atop the table. Dhruzen of Karzh’s corpulence precluded similar prudence. As one of the lizards sped straight toward him, crimson eyes glittering and tail lashing, Dhruzen seized the nearest chair, raised it, and brought it down with force. Easily evading the blow, the lizard launched itself in a prodigious spring, struck Dhruzen’s chest like a missile from a catapult, knocked him to the floor, and drove little venomous fangs into his neck.
Dhruzen of Karzh commenced to jerk, twitch, and spasm. His back arched, his slippered heels drummed the floor, a froth bubbled upon his lips. His face turned an ominous shade of green, and presently he expired. All this Farnol watched with interest and mild compunction.
His own internal fires were abating. The heat and pain were dwindling, and a cool, fresh sense of renewal was stealing along his veins. He felt his strength returning, and he managed to rise from his chair. Catching Gwyllis’ eye, he gestured, and the old servant understood at once. Gwyllis gingerly climbed down from the table. Together, the two of them flung the dining hall casements wide.
Perceiving escape from intolerable propinquity, the glass reptiles sprinted for the open windows. One after another, they leaped from the second story, shattering themselves to fragments upon the marble terrace below.
“You have recovered, Master Farnol?” Gwyllis tweetled.
Farnol considered. “Yes,” he decided, “I believe I have. It would seem that Uncle Dhruzen spoke truly of that antidote. When you have fully recovered your own equanimity, Gwyllis, please effect Uncle Dhruzen’s removal.”
“Gladly. And then, sir? May I take the liberty of asking what you will do next?”
“Do?” The answer came with ease, as if it had been waiting a lifetime. “I shall continue working to build my sorcerous knowledge. I seem to have acquired the knack, and it is, after all, a tradition of Karzh.”
“Welcome home, Master Farnol.”
“Thank you, Gwyllis.”
Many years ago, when I was a youngster growing up in New Jersey, my parents often exchanged grocery bags full of used paperback books with friends and fellow-readers. Whenever a new bagful entered the house, I would sift through the contents in search of anything and everything interesting. One such scan turned up a few old issues of
Much time has passed. There have been many other fantasy and science fiction writers to enjoy, admire (and envy!) My judgment has matured. But the sense of amazement and delight that Vance’s stories awoke in me remains intact, as strong now as it was decades ago. And when I am asked (as writers invariably are) who influenced me, there are several names on the list, but the name that always pops out fast and first is Jack Vance.
Jeff VanderMeer
THE FINAL QUEST OF THE WIZARD SARNOD
World Fantasy Award-winning writer and editor Jeff VanderMeer is the author of such novels as
