“Let him come in, Nilgir Sumanand.”
The major-domo stepped aside to allow someone to enter. “I hail the great lord Septach Melayn,” his visitor said obsequiously, and executed a profound, if clumsy, bow.
Septach Melayn felt a wince of distaste. The man who stood before him was a Hjort! That was something he hadn’t anticipated: a big-bellied stubby-legged Hjort with gleaming bulgy eyes like those of some unpleasant fish and dull gray skin that was erupting everywhere with smooth rounded protrusions as big as good-sized pebbles. Septach Melayn did not care for Hjorts. He knew that was wrong of him, that Hjorts were citizens too, and usually decent ones, and could not help it that they looked so hideous. There had to be a whole world full of Hjorts somewhere in the universe and its people would surely think he was hideous. But he was uncomfortable in their company, all the same. They irritated him. This one, who was dressed with particular resplendence in tight red trousers, a dark-green doublet with scarlet trim, and a short cloak of purple velveteen, seemed to glory in his own ugliness. He showed no special awe at finding himself in the private office of the Coronal Lord, or in the presence of the High Counsellor Septach Melayn.
As a private citizen of aristocratic background, Septach Melayn could feel any way about outworlders that he pleased. But as regent for the Coronal of Majipoor he knew he must show respect for citizens of every sort, be they Hjorts or Skandars or Vroons or Liimen, Su-Suheris or Ghayrogs or anything else. He bade the Hjort welcome—Taihjorklin was his name—and asked him to fill him in on the details of his researches, since the absent Abrigant had not provided him with much to go on.
The Hjort clapped his pudgy hands and two assistants appeared, both of them Hjorts as well, rolling a large four-wheeled tray on which was stacked a great assemblage of implements, charts, scrolls, and other impedimenta. He seemed prepared for an extensive demonstration.
“You must understand, my lord, that all things are interwoven and become separate again, and that if one can fathom the rhythm of the separation, one may replicate the interweaving. For the sky gives and the land receives; the stars give and the flowers receive; the ocean gives and the flesh receives. The mingling and combining are aspects of the great chain of existence; the harmony of the stars and the harmony of—”
“Yes,” Septach Melayn cut in. “Prince Abrigant has explained all these philosophical matters to me already. Be kind enough to show me how you go about making metal out of charcoal.”
The Hjort seemed only slightly disconcerted by Septach Melayn’s brusqueness. “We have, my lord, approached our task through the use of various scientific techniques, to wit, calcinations, sublimations, dissolutions, combustions, and the joining of elixirs. I am prepared to elaborate upon the specific efficacy of each of these techniques, if it should please you, my lord.” Hearing no such request, he went on, choosing relevant exhibits from his tray as he spoke: “All substances, you must realize, are made up of metal and non-metal in varying proportions. Our task is to increase the proportion of the one by reducing the proportion of the other. In our processes we employ both waters corrosive and waters ardent as our catalysts. Our chief reagents are green vitriol, sulfur, orpiment, and a large group of active salts, primary among them sal hepatica and sal ammoniac, though there are many others. The first step, my lord, is calcination, the reduction of the matters used to a basic condition. This is followed by solution, the action of the liquor distilled from our reactive substances upon the dry substances, after which we induce separation and then conjunction, by which I mean—”
“Show me the metal that your process produces, if you will,” said Septach Melayn, not in an unkindly way.
“Ah.” Taihjorklin’s balloon-like throat membranes expanded in an unsettling fashion. “Of course. The metal, my lord.”
The Hjort turned and took from the tray a delicate strand of bright wire, no thicker than a hair and no longer than a finger, which he presented to Septach Melayn with a grand flourish.
Septach Melayn scrutinized it coolly. “I would have expected an ingot, at the least.”
“There will be ingots aplenty in good time, my lord.”
“But at present, this is what you have?”
“What you see represents no small achievement, your lordship. But the process is only rudimentary at this point. We have established general principles; now we are ready to move on. Much equipment remains to be purchased before we can proceed to the stage of large-scale production. We require, for instance, proper furnaces, stills, sublimatories, scorifying pans, crucibles, beakers, lamps, refluxatory extractors—”
“All of which will cost a large amount of money, I take it?”
“Some considerable funding will be required, yes. But there can be no doubt of success. Ultimately we will draw any required quantity of metal from base substances, in the same way as plants draw nourishment from air and water and soil. For one is all, and all is one, and if you have not the one, then all is nothing, but with proper guidance the highest descends to the lowest and the lowest will rise to the highest, and then the total achievement is within our grasp. We are in command, let me assure you, my lord, of the element that enables all. Which element, I tell you, my lord, is none other than dry water, which has been sought by so many for so long, but which we alone have succeeded in—”
“Dry water?”
“The very same. Repeated distillation of common water, six, seven hundred distillations, removes its moist quality, provided certain substances of great dryness are added to the substratum at particular phases of the process. Permit me to show you, my lord.” Taihjorklin reached behind him and took a beaker from the tray. “Here, your lordship, is dry water itself: do you see it? This brilliant white substance, as solid as salt.”
“That scaly crust, you mean, along the side of the beaker?”
“None other. It is a pure element: the quality of dryness residing in first matter. From such elements as this can be rendered the elixir of transmutation, which is a transparent body, lustrous red in its emanation, by which—”
“Yes. Thank you,” said Septach Melayn, settling back in his chair.
“My lord?”
“I will report the details of today’s meeting to the Coronal immediately upon his return. One is all, I will tell him. All is one. You are the master of calcination and combustion, and the mystery of dry water is a mere elementary riddle to you, and with proper governmental funding of a certain considerable scope you assert that you can bring forth from the sands of Majipoor an infinite supply of valuable metals. Do I have it correctly, Ser Taihjorklin? Very well. I will make my report, and the Coronal will deal with it as he sees fit.”
“My lord—I have only begun to explain—”
“Thank you, Ser Taihjorklin. We will be in touch.”
He rang for Nilgir Sumanand. The Hjort and his assistants were ushered from the room.
Pfaugh, thought Septach Melayn, when they were gone. One is all! All is one!
The whole bizarre swarm of sorcerers and exorcists and geomancers and haruspicators and thaumaturges and warlocks and superstition-mongering seers of all the other kinds that had been spreading across the world since he was a boy had seemed bad enough to him. But one transmuter of metals, it seemed, could generate more nonsense than any seven wizards!
All that was Prestimion’s problem, though—when and if Prestimion deigned to come back from the east-country. He and Abrigant could hire a thousand transmuters a week, if that was what they cared to do. That would not be an issue for Septach Melayn.
His own problem was that the regency was driving him crazy. Perhaps slaying a few more assassins would help to calm his nerves. He reached for his sword. Glared at the new horde of enemies that had come bursting into the room.
“What, six of you at once! Your audacity knows no limits, vermin! But let me teach you some fine points of the art of swordsmanship, eh? See, this is known as calcination! This is the combustion of sublimation! Ha! My rapier is dipped in d
ry water! Its merciless tip turns the one into all, and the all into one. So! Thus I transmute you! So! So! So!—”
His afternoon schedule was a busy one. Vologaz Sar was the first caller, his majesty the Pontifex’s official delegate at the Castle: a cheerful, airy-spirited man of late middle years, fair-skinned and with a look of fleshy good health about him, who seemed delighted to have escaped the gloomy depths of the Labyrinth after a lifetime in Pontifical service. He came originally from Sippulgar, that sunny city of golden buildings on Alhanroel’s distant Aruachosian coast, and like many southerners he had an easy, genial manner that Septach Melayn found pleasing. But today Vologaz Sar seemed troubled to some extent by Lord Prestimion’s continued absence from the Castle. He expressed puzzlement over the fact that a newly seated Coronal would spend so much time traveling about, and so little at his own capital.
“I understand Lord Prestimion has gone east this time,” he said. “That seems quite unusual. A Coronal would want to show himself to his people, yes, but who is there to show himself to in the east-country?”
They were drinking the smooth blue wine of the southland, which its makers rarely exported to other provinces. It had been very kind of Vologaz Sar to bring such a delightful gift, thought Septach Melayn. The Pontifical delegate was a man of taste and distinction in every respect. His manner of dress showed as much. Vologaz Sar had chosen impeccable garb, a long cotton robe of brilliant white, elegantly embroidered with abstract patterns in the amusing Stoienzar style, over a rich undertunic of dark purple silk, and hose of a paler purple hue. A black velvet mantle lay across his shoulders. The golden Labyrinth emblem on his breast that marked him as a member of the Pontifical staff was decorated with three tiny emeralds of great depth of color. Septach Melayn found the total effect greatly satisfactory. Such attention to detail of dress always drew his admiration.
He refreshed their bowls and said, choosing his words with care, “His journey east is not exactly a formal processional. He has special business of a delicate kind to handle there.”
The Pontifical delegate nodded gravely. “Ah. I see.” But did he? How could he? Vologaz Sar was much too polished, of course, to pursue the inquiry in that direction. He simply said, after just the slightest pause: “And when he returns, what then? Does other special business await him that will take him elsewhere again?”
“None that I’ve been told of. Is it a source of great concern to the Pontifex that Lord Prestimion’s been away so much?”
“Great concern?” said Vologaz Sar lightly. “Oh, no, great concern is not quite the right phrase.”
“Well, then—?”
For a moment or two there was silence. Septach Melayn sat back, smiling, and waited impassively for his majesty’s representative to come to his point.
After a time Vologaz Sar said, with a minute but perceptible intensifying of tone, “Has the notion of Lord Prestimion’s making a trip to the Labyrinth to offer his respects to his imperial majesty been discussed yet?”
“We have it on our agenda, yes.”
“With any specific date in mind, may I ask?”
“None as yet,” said Septach Melayn.
“Ah. I see.” Vologaz Sar took a reflective sip of his wine. “It’s custom of long standing, of course, for the new Coronal to pay a call on the Pontifex fairly early in his reign. To receive his formal blessing, and to set forth whatever legislative plans he may have in mind. Perhaps this has been overlooked, it being so many years since the last change among the Powers of the Realm.” Yet again his tone deepened and darkened ever so slightly, though it remained cordial and light. “The Pontifex is the senior monarch, after all, and, of course, is in a technical sense the father of the Coronal as well.—I understand from Duke Oljebbin that Confalume has been heard lately to remark on the fact that he’s had rather little contact of any sort with Lord Prestimion thus far.”
Septach Melayn began to comprehend.
“Is his majesty displeased, would you say?”
“That might be too strong a term. But he is certainly perplexed. He has the greatest affection for Lord Prestimion, you understand. I scarcely need point out that when he was Coronal he looked upon Prestimion virtually as a son. And now, to be so completely ignored—the constitutional issues aside, you understand, it’s a matter of simple courtesy, is it not?”
All very pleasantly put. But they were verging into regions of high diplomacy, Septach Melayn saw. He refreshed the wine-bowls once again.
“No discourtesies are intended, I assure you. The Coronal’s had certain unusually difficult matters to deal with here at the outset of his reign. He felt that it was necessary to address them immediately, before allowing himself the pleasure of the ceremonial visit to his imperial father the Pontifex.”
“Matters so difficult that he chooses not even to bring them to the Pontifex’s attention? They are supposed to be ruling jointly, as of course you are aware.” It was beyond question a rebuke, but uttered very blandly.
“I’m not in a position to offer illumination here,” said Septach Melayn, studiedly matching blandness with blandness, though he understood that combat on the highest level was under way. “This is a matter between Lord Prestimion and the Pontifex.—His majesty is well, I take it?”
“Quite well, yes. He’s remarkably vigorous for a man of his years. I think Lord Prestimion can expect a lengthy reign as Coronal before his own time of succession to the Labyrinth arrives.”
“The Coronal will be overjoyed to hear that. He feels the greatest fondness for his majesty.”
Vologaz Sar’s posture shifted in a way that signaled that they were entering the crux of the matter, though there was no further alteration in the honeyed tone of his voice. “I will tell you in all confidence, Septach Melayn, that the Pontifex has been in something of a grim mood these days. I could not tell you why: he seems unable to explain it himself. But he prowls the imperial sector of the Labyrinth in apparent confusion, as though he’s never seen the place before. He sleeps badly. I’m told that he brightens greatly when told that he has visitors, but then shows obvious disappointment when the visitors are brought to him, as though he’s perpetually expecting someone who never arrives. I’m not necessarily implying that that person is Lord Prestimion. The whole hypothesis is pure guesswork. Obviously it wouldn’t be reasonable for him to expect the Coronal to arrive without prior notice. It may simply be that the move from the Castle to the Labyrinth has depressed the Pontifex. After forty years as Coronal, living up here in the bright splendor of the Castle amid crowds of high lords and courtiers, suddenly to find oneself forced into the Labyrinth’s dark depths—well, he’d not be the first Pontifex to feel the strain of that. And Confalume such a hearty, outgoing man, as well. He’s changed enormously in just these few months.”
“A visit from Lord Prestimion might cheer him, then, do you think?”
“No question of it,” said Vologaz Sar.
Septach Melayn proffered the last of the blue wine, and he and his guest toasted one another graciously.
The visit was plainly ending, and it had been altogether amiable throughout. But no ambiguities lurked behind Vologaz Sar’s suave politeness. Prestimion had been avoiding Confalume—had since the day of his accession been running the government, in fact, as though he were sole monarch of the world—and Confalume was aware of it, and was annoyed. And now commanded—that was the only word, commanded—Prestimion to get himself down to the Labyrinth post-haste and bend his knee to the senior monarch as the law required.
Prestimion was not going to be pleased about that. Confalume, Septach Melayn knew, was the one person in all the world whom Prestimion did not want to face.
Septach Melayn well understood—and Prestimion, when he returned, would also, though Confalume himself did not—what process must be going on in Confalume’s mind these days. Prestimion’s deliberate shirking of his ceremonial duties at the Labyrinth was only a secondary issue. The visitors for whom Confalume unconsciously longe
d, and whose perpetual non-arrival brought him such incomprehensible distress, were Thismet and Korsibar, the children of his blood, the children of whose very existence he no longer had any knowledge. Their absence somehow throbbed in him like the pulsations of an amputated limb.
It was a strange kind of misery, and one that would wring Prestimion’s heart. Prestimion had scarcely been the cause of the deaths of Korsibar and Thismet in the civil war—their dooms were something that they had brought upon themselves—but beyond any doubt it was Prestimion who had stolen Confalume’s memories of his lost son and daughter from him, a theft that Prestimion must surely look upon as a deed of a fairly monstrous sort, and it was that guilty awareness that led Prestimion now to keep his distance from the sad old man that the once-great Confalume had become.
Well, there was no help for it, Septach Melayn thought. All acts have consequences that can never be indefinitely avoided; and Prestimion must live with the thing he had brought about. It was impossible for him to stay away from the Labyrinth forever. Confalume was Pontifex and Prestimion was Coronal and it was high time that the rituals of their relationship were properly observed.
“I’ll convey all that you’ve said today to Lord Prestimion as soon as he returns,” said Septach Melayn, as he showed the Pontifical delegate to the door.
“You have his majesty’s gratitude for that.”
“And you’ll have mine,” said Septach Melayn, “if you’ll share one bit of information with me in return.”