“Grand processional’s the wrong term, of course. He’s simply traveling privately through Balimoleronda on his way back from the Castle to Zimroel, I suppose.”
“From his imprisonment at the Castle?” asked Serithorn mildly. “He is, am I to understand, a fugitive on the run?”
“Terms like ‘imprisonment’ and ‘fugitive’ are ones that I wish you’d reserve for your conversations with Prestimion. But I can tell you, at least, that the Coronal is indeed trying to locate Dantirya Sambail. And, since Bailemoona is, as I recall, south of Castle Mount, Prestimion’s evidently not going to find him by going due east. I thank you on his behalf. Your report has been very useful.”
“I do try to be of help.”
“You have been. I’ll see to it that the Coronal is told of all this as quickly as possible.” Rising to his full considerable height, Septach Melayn stretched first his arms and then his legs, and said to Serithorn, “You’ll forgive me, I hope, for seeming restless. This has been a taxing day for me. Are there any other matters for us to discuss?”
“I think not.”
“I’m to the gymnasium, then, to work off the day’s stresses by belaboring some hapless new guardsman from Tumbrax with my saber.”
“A good idea. I’m going in that direction myself: shall I accompany you?”
They went out together. Serithorn, ever the soul of affability, provided Septach Melayn with a series of diverting gossipy tidbits as they made their way through the maze of the Inner Castle, past such ancient structures as the Vildivar Balconies and Lord Arioc’s Watchtower and Stiamot Keep, toward the Ninety-Nine Steps that led downward into the surrounding regions of the great amorphous conglomeration that was the Castle.
Their route brought them after a while near the awesomely unsightly pile of black stone that Prankipin, early in his days as Coronal, had inflicted on the Castle to serve as the office of the Ministers of the Treasury. As they approached it Septach Melayn caught sight of a curiously ill-matched pair coming toward the building from the opposite direction: a tall, strikingly handsome dark-haired woman, accompanied by a much shorter and stockier man who was elaborately overdressed in what seemed like a glittering parody of appropriate court costume, all sequins and flash and grotesquely intricate brocaded fabric. He, too, was of striking appearance, but in a very different way—inordinately ugly, with his most notable feature being the carefully coif-fed mountain of silver hair rising upright from his wide forehead.
It was no great task for Septach Melayn to recognize these two instantly: they were the financier Simbilon Khayf, no doubt on his way toward some maneuver of chicanery involving the Treasury, and his daughter Varaile. The last time he had seen them, some months back, it had been in Simbilon Khayf’s grand mansion in Stee, that time when he had been decked out in the coarse linen robes of a merchant, and had worn a brown wig and a false beard over his own golden hair, and had played the role of a country bumpkin to help Prestimion penetrate the mystery of that other and insane Lord Prestimion who was harassing the shipping of Stee. Septach Melayn was more grandly dressed today, in his true capacity of High Counsellor of the Realm. But after all the other complicated transactions of this day, he had no wish now to deal with the coarse and vulgar Simbilon Khayf. “Shall we turn to the left here?” he said quietly to Serithorn.
Too late. They were still fifty feet from Simbilon Khayf and his daughter, but the banker had spied them already and was shouting his greetings.
“Prince Serithorn! By all that’s holiest, Prince Serithorn, how splendid it is to see you again! And look! Look, Varaile, this is the great Septach Melayn, the High Counsellor himself! Gentlemen! Gentlemen! What a pleasure!” Simbilon Khayf came rushing toward them so hastily that he nearly tripped over his own brocaded robe. “You surely must meet my daughter, gentlemen! It’s her first visit to the Castle, and I promised her the sight of greatness, but I never imagined that we would so swiftly encounter this evening a pair of lords of the magnitude and significance of Serithorn of Samivole and the High Counsellor Septach Melayn!”
He thrust Varaile forward. Her eyes rose, up and up, toward those of Septach Melayn, and a little gasp of surprise escaped her lips. Softly she said, “Ah, but I believe we have already met.”
An awkward moment. “It is not the case, my lady. There must be some mistake!”
Her eyes did not leave his. And now she smiled. “I think not,” she said. “No. No. I know you, my lord.”
4
“And there we were,” Septach Melayn said, “right out in front of Lord Prankipin’s Treasury, her and me and Serithorn and that impossible simpering father of hers. Of course I denied any possibility that she and I could have had a previous meeting. It seemed the only thing to do.”
“And how did she react to that?” asked Prestimion.
They were in Prestimion’s private apartments in Lord Thraym’s Tower. It was Prestimion’s first day back from the east country. The long and fruitless journey had left him very weary; and he had barely had time to bathe and change his garments before Septach Melayn had come rushing in with his report on all that had taken place here in his absence. What a lot of stuff it was, too! This Hjort wizard of Abrigant’s who claimed to be able to turn trash into precious metal, for one, and then the alleged sighting of Dantirya Sambail down by Bailemoona, and Confalume apparently complaining that his Coronal was snubbing him, and new tales of widespread unrest and cases of greatly disturbed minds in this city and that—
Prestimion was hungry for more details on all of those things right away. And yet Septach Melayn seemed to be obsessed with this trivial episode involving the daughter of Simbilon Khayf.
“She knew I was lying,” he said. “That was easy enough to see. She kept staring at my eyes, and measuring my height against her own, and it was obvious that she was thinking, Where have I seen eyes like that before, and a man as tall and thin as this one is? Her mind could easily supply the wig and the false beard, and she’d have her answer. I thought for a moment she was going to hold her ground and insist that she knew me from somewhere. But her father, who may be coarse and vulgar but who’s very far from stupid, realized what was about to happen and obviously didn’t want his daughter to get involved in contradicting the High Counsellor to his face, and so he called her off. She was wise enough to take the hint.”
“For the moment, yes. But she suspects the truth, and that’s bound to lead to further complications.”
“Oh, she doesn’t just suspect the truth,” said Septach Melayn lightly. He smiled and made a graceful little two-handed flourish of his wrists. Prestimion knew that gesture of Septach Melayn’s very well. It meant that he had taken some unilateral action for which he was asking to be excused, but which he did not regret in any way. “I sent for her the next day and told her the tale of the whole masquerade straight out.”
Prestimion’s jaw gaped. “You did?”
“I had to. One simply can’t lie to a woman of that quality, Prestimion. And in any case she definitely hadn’t been fooled at all by my denials.”
“You told her who your two companions were also, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, well done, Septach Melayn! Well done! What did she say, then, when she found out that she had entertained the Coronal of Majipoor, and the High Counsellor and the Grand Admiral too, in her father’s sitting-room?”
“Say? A little murmur of surprise. Turned very red. Looked quite flustered. And, I think, also amused and rather pleased about it all.”
“Was she, now? Amused! Pleased!” Prestimion rose and paced about, pausing by the window overlooking the airy bridge of shining pink agate, reserved for the Coronal’s use alone, that led across the Pinitor Court to the royal offices and the adjacent ceremonial rooms of Inner Castle. “I wish I could say the same. But I tell you, Septach Melayn, I find nothing very agreeable about the thought that Simbilon Khayf has been made aware that I was secretly sniffing around in Stee wearing some kind of comic-opera dis
guise and pretending to be a thick-headed peddler of business machines. What sort of use, I wonder, is he going to put that bit of information to?”
“None, Prestimion. He doesn’t know a thing about it, and he’s not going to find out.”
“No?”
“No. I made her promise not to tell her father a word.”
“And she’ll keep that promise, of course.”
“I think she will. I gave her a good price for her silence. She and Simbilon Khayf are going to be invited to the next court levee and formally presented to you. At which time he’ll be decorated with the Order of Lord Havilbove, or some such meaningless honor.”
A croaking sound of disbelief escaped from Prestimion. “Are you serious? You’re actually asking me to permit that loathsome clown to set foot in the royal chambers? To let him come before the Confalume Throne?”
“I am always serious, Prestimion, in my way. Her lips now are sealed. The Coronal and his friends were having a little adventure in Stee, and no one needs to know about it, and she will abide by her part of the agreement if you abide by yours. As you sit upon the throne they’ll approach you reverently and make starbursts to you, and you’ll smile and graciously acknowledge their homage, and that will be that. For the rest of his life Simbilon Khayf will glow with rapture over having been received at court.”
“But how can I—”
“Listen to me, Prestimion. It’s a shrewd arrangement on three counts. The first is that you want our prank in Stee covered up, and this will accomplish that. The second is that Simbilon Khayf has been lending money to half the princes of the Castle, and sooner or later one of them looking for easier terms or an extension of a loan is going to feel impelled to wangle a court invitation on his behalf, which you will grant, even though you think Simbilon Khayf’s a despicable boor, because the request will come from somebody influential and useful like Fisiolo or Belditan or my cousin Dembitave. This way, at least, you give Simbilon Khayf the access to court that he’s bound to get anyway, eventually, under terms that are advantageous to yourself.”
Prestimion threw Septach Melayn a black look. But Septach Melayn’s argument had some logic to it, he conceded grudgingly, repugnant though it all was to him.—“And the third count? You said there were three.”
“Well, you want to see Varaile again, don’t you? Here’s your chance. She might as well be a million miles away, living down there in Stee. You may never visit Stee again in your life. But if she’s right here in residence at the Castle as one of the royal ladies-in-waiting, a position which you could readily offer her while chatting with her after the throne-room reception—”
“Wait a moment,” said Prestimion. “You move along a little too quickly, my friend. What makes you think I’m so eager to see her again?”
“But you do, isn’t that so? You found her very attractive while we were in Stee.”
“How would you know that?”
Septach Melayn laughed. “I’m not blind to such things, Prestimion. Or deaf, either. You couldn’t stop staring at her. The sound of your pupils dilating could be heard halfway across the room.”
“This is exceedingly impertinent, Septach Melayn. She’s a good-looking woman, yes. That’s obvious to anyone, even you. But for you to leap from there to the assumption that—that I’m—”
His voice trailed off into an incoherent sputter.
“Ah, Prestimion,” said Septach Melayn, smiling warmly at him from across the room. “Prestimion, Prestimion, Prestimion!” The look in his eyes was sly and knowing, and his tone was certainly not that of subject to monarch, nor even that of a High Counsellor to the Coronal he served, but the gentle, intimate one used between two friends who had seen in many a midnight together.
Prestimion felt the light-hearted rebuke. There was no way he could refute it. For he had stared at Varaile, that time in Stee, with intense fascination. Had responded to her beauty with an undeniable quiver of approbation. Of desire, even.
Had dreamed of her, and more than once.
“We are getting into a region,” said Prestimion after a considerable while, “where I’m uncertain of the meaning of my own feelings. I pray you, Septach Melayn, put this subject aside for now. What we need to discuss is this tale of Serithorn’s that has to do with the whereabouts of Dantirya Sambail.”
“Navigorn will give you the latest news of that. He’s on his way over right now.—You’ll permit Simbilon Khayf and his daughter to be received from the throne? I gave my word you would, you know.”
“Yes, Septach Melayn! Yes. Yes. So be it. Where’s Navigorn, now?”
“This is the district where he’s most likely to be,” said Navigorn. He had brought a map with him to the meeting, a hemiglobe of fine white porcelain overpainted in blue, yellow, pink, violet, dull green, and brown to indicate major geographical features. It was the sort of map that was equipped to display special information in bright patterns of light, and Navigorn brought that function to life now with a touch of his hand.
Points of red fire, connected by lines of brilliant green, sprang up on its face along the lower quadrant of the continent of Alhanroel. “Here’s Bailemoona, south of the Labyrinth and very slightly to the east,” he said, indicating the brightest of the red dots. “The sighting there was incontrovertible. Not only was someone who looks just like Dantirya Sambail seen in the vicinity of Serithorn’s estate around the time of the game-poaching, but one of the Procurator’s men told Serithorn’s gamekeeper that the meat he was stealing was being taken for the benefit of Dantirya Sambail.”
“There were plenty of incontrovertible sightings of him in the east-country, too,” Abrigant pointed out. “All over the place, as a matter of fact. They were all planted by the Procurator’s sorcerers to fool us. What makes you think that this isn’t the same wizardy sort of stuff?”
Navigorn merely scowled. Prestimion looked in appeal toward Maundigand-Klimd, who said, “There’s no question the Procurator was in the east country for a time. I believe that he actually was seen by villagers in the Vrambikat district. But most of the reports that drew us onward were illusions born of enchantments and dreams, not genuine eyewitness sightings. While we ran hither and thither after them, he was doubling back into central Alhanroel, leaving us to chase fantasies of his making all over the wilderness area. The Bailemoona report, I think, is different: authentic.”
Abrigant looked unconvinced. “This is assertion without demonstration. You simply tell us that one set of reports was illusion and this other one is real. But you offer no proof.”
It was the left head of the Su-Suheris that had spoken before. Now the other head said calmly, “I have a certain gift of second sight. The Bailemoona reports have the ring of truth to me, and so I choose to give them credence. You are not obligated to agree.”
Abrigant began to make some grumbling reply; but Navigorn said, with a sharp note of testiness in his voice, “May I continue?” He traced a line with his hand over the illuminated places on the map. “There have been additional sightings, some of them more trustworthy than others—here, here, here, and here. You’ll note that the general direction is southerly. That’s the only sensible direction for him to go in anyway, because he’s got nothing to his north or west except the desert that surrounds the Labyrinth, not a useful choice, and he wouldn’t have anything to gain by going back into the east-country. But there’s a clear line of march here that’s taking him toward the southern coast.”
“What cities are those?” Abrigant asked, indicating the red dots strung like glowing beads along the lines of green that stretched southward across the land.
“Ketheron up here,” said Navigorn. “Then Arvyanda. This is Kajith Kabulon, where the rain never ceases falling. Once he makes his way through its jungles, he emerges on the southern coast, where he can get a ship heading toward Zimroel in any one of a hundred ports.”
“Which are the main ones?” Gialaurys asked.
“Due south of the rain-forest country,” Nav
igorn said, “we have Sippulgar, first. Continuing on westward along the coast from there, he would come to Maximin, Karasat, Gunduba, Slail, and Porto Gambieris—this, this, this, this, and this.” He spoke in a brusque, commanding tone. He had prepared himself well for this meeting: a way of atoning, perhaps, for his negligence in allowing Dantirya Sambail to slip free in the first place. “Aside from Sippulgar, none of these has direct shipping connections with Zimroel, but in any of them, or their neighbors farther along the north shore of the Stoienzar peninsula, he could book a passage on a coasting vessel that would carry him up to Stoien city, to Treymone, even to Alaisor. In any of those he’d be able to arrange for the voyage across to Piliplok, and from there upriver to Ni-moya.”
“No, not so easily,” said Gialaurys. “You may recall that I’ve placed all ports from Stoien to Alaisor under close surveillance. There’s no way that anyone as unusual-looking as he is could slip past even the dullest-witted customs official. We’ll extend the blockade eastward now as far as Sippulgar. Farther, even, if you want me to, Prestimion.”
Prestimion, studying the map with care, made no immediate reply. “Yes,” he said, after a good deal of time had gone by. “I also think that we’d do well to set up military patrols along a line beginning just north of Bailemoona and running westward as far as Stoien city.”
“That is to say, along the route of the klorbigan fence,” said Septach Melayn, and began to laugh. “How very appropriate. For that’s what he is, isn’t he? Ugly as a klorbigan, and five times as dangerous!”
Prestimion and Abrigant began to laugh also. Gialaurys, looking vexed, said, “I pray you, what are you talking about here?”
“Klorbigans,” said Prestimion, still chuckling, “are fat, lazy, clumsy burrowing animals of south-central Alhanroel with great pink noses and enormous hairy feet. They live on bark and tree roots, and in their native district they eat only certain wild species that are of no use to anyone but themselves. About a thousand years ago, though, they began migrating north into the areas where the farmers grow stajja and glein, and they discovered that they liked the taste of stajja tubers every bit as much as we do. Suddenly there were half a million klorbigans digging up the stajja crop all over the middle of Alhanroel. The farmers couldn’t kill the beasts fast enough. Whoever was Coronal at that time finally hit on the idea of a special kind of fence that runs right along the middle of the continent. It’s just a couple of feet high, so any animal that’s even slightly less sluggish than a klorbigan can step right over it, but it goes down six or seven feet underground, which apparently keeps them from burrowing beneath it.”