Jack Vance - Demon Princes 05 - The Book of Dreams.pdf

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The Book of Dreams - Demon
Princes 05
Jack Vance
The Demon Princes Series
Star King
The Killing Machine
ThePalaceofLove
The Face
The Book of Dreams
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From The Book of Dreams
Raise your eyes, stranger, to that age-worn rampart which confronts all else there stand the paladins,
stern, grave, serene Each is one, each is all.
At the center is Immir of the graces. He controls certain sleights of magic, he is master of ploys and plots
and awful surprises He is Immir the unpredictable and claims no single color.
At Immir’s right hand stands Jeha Rais, who is tall in majesty and whose color is black. He is sagacious
and always first to notice a far event, for which he construes eventualities. Then he points his finger, to
direct the gaze of the other paladins. He is without qualm and advocates decisiveness Sometimes he is
known as “Jeha the Inexorable “
He wears a black garment, supple and close as his skin, a black cape and a black morion, fixed at the
crest with an orb of crystal in a silver star-blaze.
At Immir’s left hand stands Lons Hohenger, whose color is the red of new blood. He is the feroce,
impulsive and reckless, and ever reluctant to leave the slaying grounds, though of all the paladins he can
be most generous. He lusts after fair women and they deny him at great risk to their dignity. Should they
make complaint or give chiding, his redress is even more fulsome. When finally he leaves the bed their
voices are still and they look longingly after him.
Green Mewness stands beside Loris Hohenger. Expert in skills is Mewness. He can fling a bridge or
topple a tower; he is patient, cunning, and if the road is closed to right and left, he finds a way between.
His memory is exact; he never forgets a face or a name and he knows the ways of a hundred worlds.
Soft men of wealth think him ingenuous in his dealings, to their ultimate consternation.
Yellow Spangleway is wry, astonishing, and ignores every precedent. He is antic and droll, and able in
the acting of roles. All the paladins, save only one, laugh to see his capers; when the time is appropriate
all-save only one-dance to his musics, for Spangleway can elicit sweet sounds from a dangling pig, should
he so choose to turn his skills. Never think to match Spangleway jape for jape, since his knife is even
keener than his wit. In battle, the enemy cries out: “Where is the laggard Spangleway?” or: “Aha! The
coward Spangleway takes to his heels’” only to have him on their necks from a new direction, or in some
shocking guise.
Beside Jeha Rais stands gentle Rhune Fader the Blue. In battle, though he is dauntless and first to succor
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a hard-pressed paladin, he is also first to urge mercy and forbearance. He is slim, tall, clear of feature,
and handsome as the summer sunrise; he is skilled in the arts and graces and sensitive to beauty in all
things, especially the beauty of shy maidens upon whom he casts a glamour. Alas, in the battle councils
the voice of Rhune Fader carries little weight.
Beside blue Rhune, and a little apart, stands eerie white Eia Panice, whose hair, eyes, long teeth, and
skin are white. He wears a full casque of white metal and little of his face can be seen: a high-bridged
hooked nose, a harsh chin, gleaming eyes. In the councils he speaks, for the most part, either “yea” or
“nay,” but more often than not his word decides the issue, for he seems to know the ways of Destiny.
Alone among the paladins he is unmoved by the droll contrivances of Spangleway. Indeed, on those
occasions when his grim smile is seen, then is the time for all who can to depart and never look back lest
they discover the limpid gaze of Eia Panice fixed into their own.
So then, stranger, go your way. When at last you make your homecoming, wherever it may be among
the sparkling worlds, bring report of those who stand brooding yonder.
From The Demon Princes-Caril Carphen:
... we turn the focus of our attention upon Howard Alan Treesong, his wry exploits and the incredible
virtuosity of his organizational genius. At the outset let me, in all candor, confess my awe and perplexity: I
do not know where to start. He is possibly the greatest rogue of all (if, in that perfervid ambience
surrounding the Demon Princes, such niceties of comparison carry any shred of conviction).
Certainly he is attended by the most extravagant contradictions. His cruelty is wanton and horrid, so that
his occasional magnanimities are cast into sharp relief. Judged by the elaborate methodicalness of his
programs, he would seem passionless, absolutely logical. Against a different perspective, he is seen to be
volatile and as frivolous as a circus clown. He is a mystery, and his ultimate purposes cannot even be
guessed.
Howard Alan Treesong! A name of magic, instilling dread and wonder! What, precisely, is known of
him? The few nodes of fact are made ambiguous by a luminous dust of rumor. He is declared to be the
most solitary person alive; by other reports he is the ultimate ruler of all criminals.
His person is said to be unremarkable: tall, thin, with well-shaped if gaunt features and pale gray eyes of
exceptional clarity. His expression is often described as droll and his manner vivacious. He dresses most
usually in ordinary garments, without ostentation. By all accounts he enjoys the company of beautiful
women, none of whom seems to profit from the association either spiritually or financially. To the
contrary, the romances of which anything is known all end tragically, if not worse.
The events which finally brought Howard Alan Treesong to bay ran an erratic course-twisting, forking,
making confused halts and unlikely linkages-a consequence of the mystery in which Treesong shrouded
himself. According to the few extant descriptions, Treesong stood rather taller than ordinary with a
luminous gaze, a broad forehead, a narrow jaw and chin, and a foxy rueful mouth. His manner was
usually described as gracious with a metallic undertone.
Almost every account mentioned a “curious field of suppressed energy,” or “unpredictable
extravagance,” and in one case the word “madness” was used.
Treesong’s obsession with mystery extended far. No photographs, representations, or likenesses were
known to exist, on or off the public record. His origins were unknown; his private life was as secret as
the far end of the universe; he regularly disappeared from public notice for years on end.
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Treesong’s zone of operations encompassed the Oikumene; he rarely ventured Beyond. He was known
to have used for himself the title “Lord of the Overmen.” (Note: The allusion is perhaps explained in a
paragraph from an interview in which Treesong stated “Men exploit animals to their needs and think
nothing of the process. So-called criminals exploit the ordinary rich to their needs in the same manner,
employing equal morality, hence criminals are properly to be known as ‘Overmen ‘”)
Gersen picked up the track of Howard Alan Treesong essentially by dint of abstract reasoning-pure
deduction in the classical pattern-using information supplied by one Walter Koedelin, an old-time
associate and now a Senior Officer of the IPCC. (Note: Inter-world Police Coordinating Company
originally a small bureau, collecting and collating information for the various police organizations of the
Oikumene, gradually expanding, diversifying, and undertaking special missions, at last to become the
largest and most efficient law-enforcement agency of the human universe) The two met inSailmakerBeach
, to the north of Avente, the metropolis of Alphanor, first among Rigel’s Concourse of Worlds.
Chancy’s Tea House at the top ofSailmakerBeach overlooked a thousand small houses, shops, taverns,
and a small plaza used by a hundred kinds of people. Each structure was washed a different color: pale
blue, pale green, lavender, pink, white, yellow, and each cast a stark black shadow to the crackling
Rigel-glare. Far below could be seen a small crescent of beach. Beyond, theThaumaturgeOcean , soft
dark blue, extended to the horizon, where floated pinnacles of white cumulus.
At a table shaded under a dense growth of dark green memaris sat Kirth Gersen and Walter Koedelin, a
sandy-haired, pink- skinned man somewhat more stocky than Gersen, with a short- nosed, big-jawed
face. Like Gersen, he wore spaceman’s dark blue and gray, the costume for folk who hoped to avoid
attention. The two men drank rum punch and discussed Howard Alan Treesong.
In the company of Gersen, Koedelin spoke without restraint.
“What is he up to now? That’s a real puzzle. Ten years ago he called himself ‘Lord of the Overmen.’”
“In effect, ‘King of Thieves.’”
“Exactly. He licensed every illicit act from Far Edge to Tangiers Old Socco. One time Howard walked a
backstreet in Bugtown, on Arcturus IV, and a mugger jumped out. Howard asked: ‘Are you registered
with the Organization?’
“’No, I am not.’
“’Then you’ll not get a cent from me, and I’m also turning you in for a fink.’”
Koedelin drained his goblet of rum punch and looked up at the dark green foliage from which depended
strips of pink blossoms.
“Splendid place for microphones. I wonder who is listening to us.”
“No one, according to Chancy.”
“It’s hard to be certain nowadays. Still, the Organization isn’t all that strong around here.”
Gersen raised his hand. “Two more of the same.... So, Treesong is no longer Lord of the Overmen?”
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“Hardly that. But he gave up detail work to sublords quite some time ago. Howard only looks in from
time to time and runs his eye over the books.”
“Benign fellow. So what is he up to now?”
Koedelin hesitated, calculating his response, then made a fatalistic gesture and drew himself forward.
“There’s no harm in telling you, although if the story gets wide circulation we’ll be embarrassed. It may
not even be true.” Koedelin looked right and left.
“Don’t let it go any further.”
“Certainly not.”
“IPCC administration is rather loose-that you know. There is a board of directors and a presiding
officer, who is now Artur Sanchero. Five years ago his confidential aide died in an accident.
A close friend recommended a man named Jethro Cope for the job, and after the usual background
check Cope was hired. Cope proved very efficient, so much so that Sanchero had less and less work to
do. And now began a strange process. The directors began to die- by disease, by accidents, by murder
and suicide.
“Sanchero, or more accurately Jethro Cope, recommended new directors who were thereupon voted
into office. Jethro Cope always handled the vote and counted the ballots. He put seven men into the
IPCC board of directors and needed only six more to achieve a voting majority. He probably would
have gotten them had not one of the new directors, who called himself Bemus Carlisle, encountered an
agent who recognized him to be Sean McMurtree of Dublin, Ireland, a high-class blackmailer.
“To make a long story short, McMurtree was quietly expunged, but not before he mentioned a name.
Can you guess the name he mentioned?”
“Howard Alan Treesong.”
“Quite right. The agents went looking for Jethro Cope, but he was gone and never returned.”
“What of the other six new directors?”
“Three were killed. One disappeared. Two are still there. They have no record; they claim innocence,
and the other directors won’t vote them out.”
“Very noble, very corrupt, or very frightened.”
“Take your choice.”
“To be Lord of the Overmen and Chief of the IPCC-both and at the same time-that’s like a beautiful
dream, no matter which side you’re on.”
“Alas, indeed. Treesong is a sly devil. I’d still like to carve up his liver.”
“What of photographs?”
“Not one to be found.”
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