Puiras, a man spare and loose-jointed, with a bony face and lank black hair, gave a dour nod. ' 'Except for a single matter. When I have accomplished all this, what else?"

Rhialto, drawing on his cloth-of-gold gauntlets, glanced sidewise at his servant. Stupidity? Zeal? Churlish sarcasm? Puiras' visage offered no clue. Rhialto spoke in an even voice. "Upon completion of these tasks, your time is your own. Do not tamper with the magical engines; do not, for your life, consult the portfolios, the librams or the compendiary. In due course, I may instruct you in a few minor dints; until then, be cautious!"

"I will indeed."

Rhialto adjusted his six-tiered black satin hat, donned his cloak with that flourish which had earned him his soubriquet "the Marvellous." "I go to visit Ildefonse. When I pass the outer gate impose the boundary curse; under no circumstances lift it until I signal. Expect me at sunset: sooner, if all goes well."

Making no effort to interpret Puiras' grunt, Rhialto sauntered to the north portal, averting his eyes from the wreckage of his wonderful aviary. Barely had he passed the portal by, when Puiras activated the curse, prompting Rhialto to jump hastily forward. Rhialto adjusted the set of his hat. The ineptitude of Puiras was but one in a series of misfortunes, all attributable to the archveult Xexamedes. His aviary destroyed, the way-post shattered, old Funk dead! From some source compensation must be derived!

4

Idefonse lived in a castle above the River Scaum: a vast and complex structure of a hundred turrets, balconies, elevated pavilions and plea-saunces. During the final ages of the 21st Aeon, when Ildefonse had served as preceptor, the castle had seethed with activity. Now only a single wing of this monstrous edifice was in use, with the rest abandoned to dust, owls and archaic ghosts.

Ildefonse met Rhialto at the bronze portal. "My dear colleague, splendid as usual! Even on an occasion like that of today! You put me to shame!" Ildefonse stood back the better to admire Rhialto's austerely handsome visage, his fine blue cloak and trousers of rose velvet, his glossy boots. Ildefonse himself, for reasons obscure, presented himself in the guise of a jovial sage, with a bald pate, a lined countenance, pale blue eyes, an irregular yellow beard—conceivably a natural condition which vanity would not let him discard.

"Come in, then," cried Ildefonse. "As always, with your sense of drama, you are last to arrive!"

They proceeded to the great hall. On hand were fourteen sorcerers: Zilifant, Perdustin, Herark the Harbinger, Haze of Wheary Water, Ao of the Opals, Eshmiel, Kilgas, Byzant the Necrope, Gilgad, Vermou-lian the Dream-walker, Barbanikos, the diabolist Shrue, Mune the Mage, Hurtiancz. Ildefonse called out, "The last of our cabal has arrived: Rhialto the Marvellous, at whose manse the culminating stroke occurred!"

Rhialto doffed his hat to the group. Some returned the salute; others: Gilgad, Byzant the Necrope, Mune the Mage, Kilgas, merely cast cool glances over their shoulders.