Demon Princes by Jack Vance

Author:Jack Vance [Vance, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Spatterlight Press LLC
Published: 2012-10-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII

Avis rara, black mascara

Will you stay to dine with me?

Amanita botulina

Underneath my upas tree.

This dainty tray of cloisonné

Contains my finest patchouli.

Aha, my dear! What have we here?

A dead mouse in the potpourri.

With mayonnaise the canapés,

Ravished from a sturgeon’s womb;

With silver prong we guide along

The squeaking oyster to his doom.

A samovar of hangdog tea:

A cup, or are you able?

Antimony, macaroni

On my hemlock table.

— Navarth

“There are many varieties of love,” said Viole Falushe in a pleasant husky voice. “The range is wide, and all have contributed to the creation of the Palace. Not all of my guests discover this, and not every phase is yielded to them. For some the Palace will seem little more than a holiday resort. Others will be haunted by what has been described as unnatural beauty! This is everywhere: in every detail, every view. Others will revel in ardor, and here I must offer information.”

Gersen studied Viole Falushe with a rapt intensity. The tall masked figure stood spare, straight, arms at sides: Gersen turned his head this way and that, trying to identify the figure, but the chandelier hanging directly above the man distorted his contours.

“The people at the Palace of Love are amiable, gay and beautiful, and fall into two categories,” said Viole Falushe. “The first are servants. They are pleased to obey every wish of my guests, every whim or caprice. The second class, the happy people who inhabit the Palace, are as independent in their friendships as I myself. They are to be identified by their garments, which are white. Hence, your choice is wide.”

Gersen sought around the table, trying to find Tanzel, or Mario or Ethuen and thus eliminate them from suspicion. In this effort he was unsuccessful. Among the forty were a dozen persons who might be any of the three. He turned back to listen to Viole Falushe.

“Are there restrictions? A person who went mad and began to kill would naturally be restrained. Then again, all of us here cherish our privacy, one of our most delightful prerogatives. Only the most thoughtless person would intrude where he was not wanted. My personal apartments are sufficiently secluded; you need not apprehend an accidental intrusion; this is almost impossible.” Viole Falushe turned his head slowly, looked around the room. No one spoke; the room was heavy with expectancy.

Viole Falushe spoke on. “So now: the Palace of Love! At times in the past I have arranged small dramas of which the participants were never aware. I have contrived moods in artful sequence. I have employed tragic contrasts to heighten the delectation. On this occasion there will be no such program. You will be free to do as you like, to create your own drama. I advise restraint. The rare jewels are the most precious. The degree of austerity I myself practice would astound you. My great pleasure is creation: of this I never tire. Some of my guests have complained of a gentle melancholy which hangs in the air; I agree that the mood exists.

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