Nor were the Piurivars themselves much in evidence—now and then a well-worn trail leading into the jungle, or a few flimsy wickerwork huts visible just off the road, or a party of half a dozen pilgrims heading on foot up toward the shrine at the fountain. They were, said Deliamber, a folk that lived by hunting and fishing, and collecting wild fruits and nuts, and a certain amount of agriculture. Possibly their civilization had once been more advanced, for ruins had been discovered, especially on Alhanroel, of large stone cities thousands of years old that might have dated from early Piurivar times before the starships arrived—although, Deliamber said, there were some historians who maintained that the ruins were those of ancient human settlements, founded and destroyed in the turbulent pre-Pontifical period twelve to thirteen thousand years ago. At any rate the Metamorphs, if they had ever had a more complex way of life, now preferred to be forest-dwellers. Whether that was retrogression or progress Valentine could not say.
By mid-afternoon the sound of Piurifayne Fountain could no longer be heard behind them, and the forest was more open, more thickly settled. The road was unmarked, and, unexpectedly, it forked in a place where no clues were to be had to anything beyond. Zalzan Kavol looked for guidance to Deliamber, who looked to Lisamon Hultin.
“Damn my gut if I could say,” the giantess boomed. “Pick one at random. We’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of getting to Ilirivoyne on it.”
But Deliamber had a better idea, and knelt down in the mud to cast an inquiry-spell. He took from his pack a couple of cubes of a wizardy incense. Shielding them from the rain with his cloak, he ignited them to create a pale brown smoke. This he inhaled, while waving his tentacles in intricate curlicues.
The warrior-woman snorted and said, “It’s only a fraud. He’ll wiggle his arms for a while and then he’ll make a guess. Fifty-fifty for Ilirivoyne.”
“The left fork,” Deliamber announced eventually.
It was good sorcery or else lucky guessing, for shortly signs of Metamorph occupation increased. There were no more isolated scatterings of lonely huts, but now little clumps of wickerwork dwellings, eight or ten or more close together every hundred yards, and then even closer. There was much foot traffic too, mainly aboriginal children carrying light burdens in slings dangling from their heads. Many stopped as the wagon went by, and stared and pointed and made little chittering sounds between their teeth.
Definitely they were approaching a large settlement. The road was crowded with children and older Metamorphs, and dwellings were numerous. The children were an unsettling crew. They seemed to be practicing their immature skills at transformation as they walked along, and took many forms, most of them bizarre: one had sprouted legs like stilts, another had tentacular Vroonish arms that dangled almost to the ground, a third had swollen its body to a globular mass supported by tiny props. “Are we the circus entertainers,” Sleet asked, “or are they? These people sicken me!”
“Peace,” Valentine said softly.
In a grim voice Carabella said, “I think some of the entertainments here are dark ones. Look.”
Just ahead were a dozen large wicker cages by the side of the road. Teams of bearers, having apparently just put them down, were resting beside them. Through the bars of the cages small long-fingered hands were thrust, and some prehensile tails coiling in anguish. As the wagon drew alongside, Valentine saw that the cages were full of forest-brethren, jammed three and four together, on their way to Ilirivoyne for—what? To be slaughtered for food? To be tormented at the festival? Valentine shivered.
“Wait!” Shanamir blurted, as they rode past the final cage. “What’s that in there?”
The last cage was bigger than the others, and what it held was no forest-brother, but rather some other sort of captive, a being of obvious intelligence, tall and strange, with dark blue skin, fierce and desolate purple eyes of extraordinary intensity and luminosity, and a wide, thin-lipped slash of a mouth. Its clothing—a fine green fabric—was ripped and tattered, and splotched with dark stains, possibly blood. It gripped the bars of its cage with terrible force, shaking and tugging at them, and cried out hoarsely at the jugglers for help in an odd, totally unfamiliar accent. The wagon went on.
Chilled, Valentine said to Deliamber, “That is no being of Majipoor!”
“No,” Deliamber said. “None that I’ve seen before.”
“I saw one once,” Lisamon Hultin put in. “An offworlder, native to some star close by here, though I forget the name of it.”
“But what would offworlders be doing here?” Carabella asked. “There’s little traffic between the stars these days, and few ships come to Majipoor.”
“Still, some do,” Deliamber said. “We’re not yet totally cut off from the starlanes, though certainly we’re considered a backwater in the commerce of the worlds. And—”
“Are you all mad?” Sleet burst out in exasperation. “Sitting here like scholars, discussing the commerce between the worlds, and in that cage is a civilized being crying for help, who probably will be stewed and eaten at the Metamorph festival? And we pay no attention to its cries, but ride blithely onward into their city?” He made a tormented sound of anger and went rushing forward to the Skandars on the driver’s seat. Valentine, fearing trouble, went after him. Sleet tugged at Zalzan Kavol’s cloak. “Did you see it?” he demanded. “Did you hear? The offworlder in the cage?”
Without turning, Zalzan Kavol said, “So?”
“You’ll ignore its cries?”
“This is no affair of ours,” the Skandar replied evenly. “Shall we liberate the prisoners of an independent people? They must have some reason for arresting that being.”
“Reason? Yes, to cook him for dinner! And we’ll be in the next pot. I ask you to go back and release—”
“Impossible.”
“At least let’s ask of it why it’s caged! Zalzan Kavol, we may be riding blithely to our deaths! Are you in such a hurry to reach Ilirivoyne that you’ll ride right past someone who may know something about conditions here, and who is in such a plight?”
“What Sleet says has wisdom in it,” Valentine remarked.
“Very well!” Zalzan Kavol snorted. He pulled the wagon to a halt. “Go and investigate, Valentine. But be quick about it.”
“I’ll go with him,” Sleet said.
“Stay here. If he feels he needs a bodyguard, let him take the giantess.”
That seemed sensible. Valentine beckoned to Lisamon Hultin, and they got down from the wagon and strode back toward the place of the cages. Instantly the forest-brethren set up a frantic screeching and a banging on their bars. The Metamorph bearers—armed, Valentine noticed now, with effective-looking short dirks of polished horn or wood—unhurriedly formed themselves into a phalanx in the road, keeping Valentine and Lisamon Hultin from a closer approach to the large cage. One Metamorph, plainly the leader, stepped forward and waited with menacing calmness for inquiries.
Valentine said quietly to the giantess, “Will he speak our language?”
“Probably. Try it.”
“We are a troupe of roving jugglers,” Valentine said in a loud, clear voice, “come to perform at the festival we hear you hold at Ilirivoyne. Are we near Ilirivoyne now?”
The Metamorph, half a head taller than Valentine, though much flimsier of build, seemed amused.
“You are in Ilirivoyne,” was the cool, remote reply.
Valentine moistened his lips. These Metamorphs gave off a thin, sharp odor, acrid but not disagreeable. Their strangely sloped eyes were frighteningly expressionless. He said, “To whom would we go to make arrangements for performing in Ilirivoyne?”
“The Danipiur interviews all strangers who come to Ilirivoyne. You will find her at the House of Offices.”
The Metamorph’s frosty self-contained manner was disconcerting. After a moment Valentine said, “One thing more. We see that in that large cage you keep a being of an unfamiliar sort. May I ask, for what purpose?”
“Punishment.”
r /> “A criminal?”
“So it is said,” the Metamorph replied distantly. “Why does this concern you?”
“We are strangers in your land. If strangers are placed in cages here, we might prefer to find employment somewhere else.”
There was a flicker of some emotion—amusement? contempt?—around the Metamorph’s mouth and nostrils. “Why should you fear such a thing? Are you criminals?”
“Hardly.”
“Then you will not be caged. Pay your respects to the Danipiur and address further questions to her. I have important tasks to complete.”
Valentine looked toward Lisamon Hultin, who shrugged. The Metamorph walked away. There was nothing more to do but return to the wagon.
The bearers were lifting the cages and fastening them to poles laid across their backs. From the large cage came a roar of anger and despair.
13
Ilirivoyne was neither a city nor a village, but something intermediate, a forlorn concentration of many low, impermanent-looking structures of withes and light woods, arranged along irregular unpaved streets that seemed to stretch for considerable distances into the forest. The place had a makeshift look, as though Ilirivoyne might have been located elsewhere a few years ago and might be in an altogether other district a few years hence. That it was festival-time in Ilirivoyne was signaled, apparently, by fetish-sticks of some sort planted in front of almost every house, thick shaven stakes to which bright ribbons and bits of fur had been attached; also on many streets scaffolding had been erected, as for performances, or, thought Valentine uneasily, for tribal rites of some darker kind.
Finding the House of Offices and the Danipiur was simple. The main street opened into a broad plaza bordered on three sides by small domed buildings with ornately woven roofs, and on the fourth by a larger structure, the first three-story building they had seen in Ilirivoyne, with an elaborate garden of globular thick-stemmed gray-and-white shrubs in front of it. Zalzan Kavol drew the wagon into a clearing just outside the plaza.
“Come with me,” the Skandar said to Deliamber. “We’ll see what we can arrange.”
They were inside the House of Offices a long while. When they emerged, a female Metamorph of great presence and authority was with them, doubtless the Danipiur, and the three stood together by the garden in elaborate conversation. The Danipiur pointed; Zalzan Kavol alternately nodded and shook his head; Autifon Deliamber, dwarfed between the two tall beings, made frequent graceful gestures of diplomatic conciliation. Finally Zalzan Kavol and the Vroon returned to the wagon. The Skandar’s mood seemed brighter.
“We’ve come just in time,” he announced. “The festival has already begun. Tomorrow night is one of the major holidays.”
“Will they pay us?” Sleet asked.
“So it would seem,” said Zalzan Kavol. “But they will supply us with no food, and no lodging either, for Ilirivoyne is without hostelries. And there are certain specified zones of the city that we may not enter. I have had friendlier welcomes in other places. But also less friendly ones now and then, I suppose.”
Crowds of solemn, silent Metamorph children trailed after them as they moved the wagon from the plaza to an area just back of it where they could park. In late afternoon they held a practice session, and though Lisamon Hultin did her formidable best to clear the young Metamorphs from the scene and keep them away, it was impossible to prevent them from slipping back, emerging between trees and out of bushes to stare at the jugglers. Valentine found it unnerving to work in front of them, and he was plainly not the only one, for Sleet was tense and uncharacteristically awkward, and even Zalzan Kavol, the master of masters, dropped a club for the first time in Valentine’s memory. The silence of the children was disturbing—they stood like blank-eyed statues, a remote audience that drained energy and gave none in return—but even more troublesome was their trick of metamorphosis, their way of slipping from one shape to another as casually as a human child might suck its thumb. Mimicry was their apparent purpose, for the forms they took were crude, half-recognizable versions of the jugglers, such as the older Metamorphs had attempted earlier at Piurifayne Fountain. The children held the forms only briefly—their skills seemed feeble—but in the pauses between routines Valentine saw them now sprouting golden hair for him, white for Sleet, black for Carabella, or making themselves bearish and many-armed like the Skandars, or trying to imitate faces, individual features, expressions, everything done in a distorted and unflattering way.
The travelers slept crammed aboard the wagon that night, one packed close upon the other, and all night, so it seemed, a steady rain fell. Valentine only occasionally was able to sleep; he dropped into light dozes, but mainly he lay awake listening to Lisamon Hultin’s lusty snoring or the even more grotesque sounds coming from the Skandars. Somewhere in the night he must have had some real sleep, for a dream came to him, hazy and incoherent, in which he saw the Metamorphs leading a procession of prisoners, forest-brethren and the blue-skinned alien, up the road toward Piurifayne Fountain, which erupted and rose above the world like a colossal white mountain. And again toward morning he slept soundly for a time, until Sleet woke him by shaking his shoulder a little before dawn.
Valentine sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What is it?”
“Come outside. I have to talk.”
“It’s still dark!”
“Even so. Come!”
Valentine yawned, stretched, got creakily to his feet. He and Sleet picked their way carefully over the slumbering forms of Carabella and Shanamir, went warily around one of the Skandars, and down the steps of the wagon. The rain had stopped, but the morning was dark and chilly, and a nasty fog rose from the ground.
“I have had a sending,” Sleet said, “From the Lady, I think.”
“Of what sort?”
“About the blue-skinned one, in the cage, that they said was a criminal going to be punished. In my dream he came to me and said he was no criminal at all, but only a traveler who had made the error of entering Shapeshifter territory, and had been captured because it’s their custom to sacrifice a stranger in Piurifayne Fountain at festival-time. And I saw how it is done, the victim bound hand and foot and left in the basin of the Fountain, and when the explosion comes he is hurled far into the sky.”
Valentine felt a chill that did not come from the morning mist. “I dreamed something similar,” he said.
“In my dream I heard more,” Sleet went on. “That we are in danger too, not perhaps from sacrifice but in danger all the same. And if we rescue the alien, he will help us to safety, but if we leave him to die, we will not leave Piurivar country alive. You know I fear these Shapeshifters, Valentine, but this dream is something new. It came to me with the clarity of a sending. It ought not to be dismissed as more fears of foolish Sleet.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Rescue the alien.”
Valentine said uneasily, “And if he really was a criminal? By what right do we meddle in Piurivar justice?”
“By right of sending,” said Sleet. “Are those forest-brethren criminals too? I saw them also go into the Fountain. We are among savages, Valentine.”
“Not savages, no. But strange folk, whose way is not like the ways of Majipoor.”
“I’m determined to set the blue-skinned one free. If not with your help, then by myself.”
“Now?”
“What better time?” Sleet asked. “It’s still dark. Quiet. I’ll open the cage; he’ll slip off into the jungle.”
“You think the cage is unguarded? No, Sleet. Wait. This makes no sense. You’ll jeopardize us all if you act now. Let me try to find out more about this prisoner and why he’s caged, and what’s intended for him. If they do mean to sacrifice him, they’d do it at some high point of the festival. There’s time.”
“The sending is on me now,” Sleet said.
“I dreamed a dream something like yours.”
“But not a sending.”
“Not a sending, no. Still,
enough to let me think your dream holds truth. I’ll help you, Sleet. But not now. This isn’t the moment for it.”
Sleet looked restless. Clearly in his mind he was already on the way to the place of the cages, and Valentine’s opposition was thwarting him.
“Sleet?”
“Yes?”
“Hear me. This is not the moment. There is time.”
Valentine looked steadily at the juggler. Sleet returned his gaze with equal steadfastness for a moment; then, abruptly, his resolve broke and he lowered his eyes.
“Yes, my lord,” he said quietly.
During the day Valentine tried to gain information about the prisoner, but with little success. The cages, eleven holding forest-brethren and the twelfth holding the alien, now had been installed in the plaza opposite the House of Offices, stacked in four tiers with the alien’s cage alone on high, far above the ground. Piurivars armed with dirks guarded them.
Valentine approached, but he was only halfway across the plaza when he was stopped. A Metamorph told him, “This is forbidden for you to enter.”
The forest-brethren began frantically to rattle their bars. The blue-skinned one called out, thickly accented words that Valentine could barely understand. Was the alien saying, “Flee, fool, before they kill you too!” or was that only Valentine’s heightened imagination at work? The guards held a tight cordon around the place. Valentine turned away. He attempted to ask some children nearby if they could explain the cages to him; but they looked at him in obstinate silence, giving him cool blank-eyed stares and murmuring to one another and making little partial metamorphoses that mimicked his fair hair, and then they scattered and ran as though he were some sort of demon.
All morning long Metamorphs entered Ilirivoyne, swarming in from the outlying forest settlements. They brought with them decorations of many sorts, wreaths and buntings and draperies and mirror-bedecked posts and tall poles carved with mysterious runes; everyone seemed to know what to do, and everyone was intensely busy. No rain fell after sunrise. Was it by witchcraft, Valentine wondered, that the Piurivars provided a rare dry day for their high holiday, or only coincidence?