Songs of the Dying Earth

Eunepheos seemed not to hear. “Sarimance the Aspurge, your invocations showed imagination and a truly commendable degree of respect to those who are your betters. You are skilful, strategic and inspiring, if somewhat unforgiving.”

Sarimance bowed. “Great lords, my relentlessness is inspired by your own discipline and dedication. We can only dream of the time when you were among us and thank you for gifting us with your presence here today.”

Again there was no acknowledgment from Eunepheos or the remembrance cases.

“Amberlin the Lesser,” the triple voice said. “Today you have surprised us with the selections you chose for such an important occasion. But you have shown a sense of novelty and the unruly, and there is about you an insouciance and irreverence that we like. In short, you have remembered that since we too are wizards of great power, if only as remembrances, for us magic and magical display are easy and second nature. What is missing from our lives are the elements of absurdity and genuine surprise. You have provided these things in ample measure — and are therefore our winner!”

Sarimance immediately cried out. “What! Great lords, I protest—!”

He vanished in a puff of smoke.

Tralques actually thought to flee, but only managed two steps before he too disappeared, this time in a twist of light.

Two new scintillants appeared among the thousands on the ceiling of the chamber.

Amberlin, utterly dumbfounded, went to give thanks, but instead found himself on the riverbank outside the Copsy Door at Venta-Valu with Diffin standing to one side, visibly trembling with what seemed a mixture of relief and fear.

“Oh, master, it is so good to see you,” the lanky creature said.

Amberlin managed to regain his composure. “Diffin, why are you here?”

“Master, I was looking out through the Clever Window as I promised I would when, just like that, it darkened over and a sharp, very frightening face appeared. It said that you had won a great contest of wizards and that the Anto brothers were never to be seen again. Nor were the wizards Sarimance or Tralques to be relied upon as referees in any future employment that I might care to seek.”

“I see. Anything more?”

“Nothing, great one. Though I might add that the lillobays and quentians have been freshly watered and that the Holding Book is back in the east tower and seems much happier, so far as books of power can indicate such things, with how the new Diffin comports himself.”

“Very well,” Amberlin said, adjusting his robes. “Let us take a day or two to see how the new Diffin comports himself.”

And together they set off to where the towers of the manse Furness stood glinting in the light of the old red sun.

Afterword:

Jack’s work had an enormous impact on me as a teenager. I first encountered it when I was fifteen with “The Dragon Masters” in the August 1962 issue of Galaxy magazine, and thereafter quickly tried to find everything by him that I could. He went straight to the top of a small list of distinctive SF and fantasy voices I was discovering at the time, among them Ray Bradbury, J.G. Ballard, Cordwainer Smith and Philip K. Dick. He seemed to be doing something very special, or, perhaps more to the point, seemed to be doing familiar things in a very special way.

While I didn’t discover The Dying Earth until ten years later, that linked collection confirmed everything I already loved and admired about Jack’s work: the elegance and euphony of the writing, the distinctive cadences and rhythms, the sheer inventiveness and antiquarian caste, the way less was so often more and how the standard writing corollary of ‘Show Don’t Tell’ effectively became: ‘Don’t Just Show, Suggest.’