“Let us now go upstairs,” said Prestimion, “and join my mother and some other friends for dinner, and then afterward some brandy awaits us that I think you’ll find rewarding.”
The name of Korsibar had not yet been mentioned that evening. At dinner, with the great table in the banquet hall set for eighteen, and one rich course after another steadily arriving, the talk was all of hunting and the coming grape-harvest and the new season’s exhibition of soul-paintings, and not a syllable spoken concerning the change in government. Nor was it to be until very much later, many hours after dinner, when the original smaller group from the wine-tasting was gathered once more in the glass-paneled study where a century’s worth of Muldemar brandy was racked in lovely hand-blown globelets, and Prestimion had served a generous portion of his hundred-year-old stock to all.
“What news is there from the Castle?” he asked, very mildly, with no edge to his voice whatever, and addressing his question to no one in particular.
There was a long silence in the room. The three guests variously studied the contents of their brandy glasses or sipped at their drinks in extreme concentration. Prestimion smiled pleasantly, waiting for a reply as though he had asked something utterly innocent, a question about the weather perhaps.
“It is a very busy time there,” said Oljebbin finally, when the lack of response was beginning to become significant.
“Is it, now?”
“The housecleaning that always takes place when the regime changes,” said the duke. He seemed uncharacteristically uncomfortable at being the center of attention. “You can imagine it: the bureaucrats scuttling around, securing their places if they feel in danger of losing them, or striving for upward movement while all is still in flux.”
“And in which category do you place yourself, my lord Oljebbin?” asked Svor, taking a maidenly sip of his brandy. Oljebbin stiffened. “The High Counsellor is something more than a bureaucrat, would you not say, my lord Svor? But as a matter of fact I have been reconfirmed in my office by the new Coronal.”
“Well! We should drink to that!” cried Septach Melayn, and lifted his drink with a reckless flourish. “To the High Counsellor Oljebbin, once and again!”
“Oljebbin!” they all called, brandishing their brandybowls. “Oljebbin! The High Counsellor!” And drank deep to cover the inanity of that hollow toast.
Prestimion said afterward, “And the Coronal? He settles easily and well into his new duties, I hope?”
Again an uneasy silence. Again, great attention paid to the brandy-bowls.
Serithorn, upon receiving an urgent glare from Oljebbin, said somewhat restively, “He’s getting accustomed to the job bit by bit. It is, of course, a heavy burden.”
“The heaviest he’s ever lifted, and then some,” grunted Gialaurys. “Man should be careful what he picks up, if he knows not how strong he really be.”
Prestimion poured another round of brandy all around: newer stuff dealt out with a free hand.
“Of course the people welcome Korsibar’s ascent,” he said as they tipped back their bowls once more. “I saw, all the way up the Glayge, how quick they were to put his portrait out and celebrate his coming. He is very well received, I think.” And flashed his eyes from one to another of the visitors, quickly, as if to let them know that there were deeper currents to the bland stream of his conversation. But they already understood that.
Gonivaul, who looked flushed with excess of food and drink wherever his reddening face could be seen through his dense thatches of hair and beard, said in a thickened voice, “It is a honeymoon time for him now. Every new Coronal is accorded that. But when his decrees begin to fall upon the land, the common folk may be singing different songs.”
“Not only the common folk,” said Serithorn, reaching out to have his bowl filled yet again. He was growing flushed also, and inflamed about the eyes.
“Oh?” asked Septach Melayn. “Is there reason for such men as yourselves to be apprehensive?”
Serithorn shrugged. “Any great change such as this must be weighed and analyzed carefully, my lord Septach Melayn. Lord Korsibar is, after all, one of us. We have no reason to doubt that we’ll enjoy the same privileges under him that we’ve known before. But one never knows what reforms and rearrangements a new Coronal has in mind. None of us has ever experienced a change of Coronal before, let me remind you.”
“How true,” said Prestimion. “What a strange time this is for us all. —Let me introduce you to our special aromatic brandy, now, shall I? We store it six years in keppinongwood casks after it’s distilled, with a couple of ganniberries dropped into it to add a little spice.” He gestured to Septach Melayn, who brought out fresh drinking-bowls, and a new round went to each of them. Prestimion watched carefully as they drank, as if concerned that they appreciate it to the fullest. Then he said bluntly, “And you, my lords? How do you find the changes, personally? Tell me, are you fully contented with them?” Oljebbin looked warily to Serithorn, and Serithorn to Gonivaul, and the Grand Admiral to Oljebbin. Whose turn was it to make the awkward answer to the embarrassing question?
There were no clear replies, only temporizing mumbles.
Prestimion pressed onward. “And the mode of Korsibar’s accession: how did that strike you? Is it a good idea, do you think, for Coronals to elect themselves?”
Oljebbin let air escape slowly from his lips. This was coming down to the heart of the matter at last, and he was not in any way pleased by it. But he said nothing. Nor did Gonivaul.
Serithorn it was who spoke at last, after another endless while: “Does my lord Prestimion intend to have us speak treason here?”
Prestimion’s eyebrows rose. “Treason? What treason? I asked a straightforward question of political philosophy. I solicited your opinions on an issue of governmental theory. Should members of the government not hold beliefs concerning constitutional matters, and feel free to speak of them among friends? And certainly you’re among friends here, Prince Serithorn!”
“Yes. So loving a friend that he’s filled me full of great wine and fine food and splendid brandy until I’m near to bursting,” Serithorn said. He arose and yawned elaborately. “And more than ready for sleep also, I think. Perhaps it would be better to discuss these constitutional matters and issues of philosophy in the morning. If you’ll excuse me, prince—”
“Wait, Serithorn!” cried Gonivaul in a ferocious voice.
The usually cool and aloof Grand Admiral was on his feet, wobbling more than a bit from too much drink, holding himself erect with evident effort. His eyes were blazing, his face as hot and blustery as the irascible Count Farholt’s might have been in full wrath. Swinging about on Serithorn and half spilling his liquor as he did so, he said hoarsely, slurring his words a little, “We’ve been sitting here all night drinking Prestimion’s wines and playing these little games with him. Now the time of truth’s at hand, and you’ll stay for it.” And, looking toward Prestimion: “Well, prince? Where are we heading here? Are you telling us that it’s your intention not to abide by the crowning of Korsibar, and asking us where we will stand if you rise against him?”
Oljebbin instantly went as tense as a metal rod. He sat bolt upright and blurted, “You’re drunk, Gonivaul. For the love of the Divine, sit down, or—or—”
“Be quiet,” Gonivaul said. “We are entitled to know. Well, Prestimion? Give me an answer!”
Oljebbin, aghast, rose unsteadily to his feet and took a few weaving steps in Gonivaul’s direction as though meaning to silence him by direct force. Serithorn caught him by the hand and pulled him back to his seat. Then, to Prestimion, Serithorn said, “Very well, prince. I wish we had not reached this point, but I suppose it was where we were meant to go. I too would like to hear your answer to the Admiral’s question.”
“Good,” said Prestimion. “You will have it.” And calmly: “My position on Korsibar is precisely what you would suppose it to be. I regard him as an illegitimate Coronal, wrongfully come to power.”
r />
“And mean to overthrow him?” Gonivaul asked.
“I would like to see him overthrown, yes. Yes. His rule will bring disaster upon us all, so I do believe. But putting him aside isn’t something that can be done with the waving of a wand.”
“Are you asking for our help, then?” said Serithorn. “Be straightforward with us.”
“I have never been anything other than straightforward with you, Prince Serithorn. And I remind you that I haven’t ever said I intend to make any move against Korsibar. But if there should be an uprising—if there should be one, I say—I would put all my energies and resources to it. I would like to think that you three would do the same.”
Prestimion’s eyes traveled from Gonivaul to Serithorn, from Serithorn to Oljebbin.
Slowly and uncomfortably Serithorn said, “You know that we share your distaste for the methods by which Korsibar reached the throne. We are men who love the old traditional ways, we three. We find it hard to approve of his unconscionable and, as you say, illegitimate acts.”
“Indeed,” said Oljebbin.
“Hear, hear!” Gonivaul cried, slumping back heavily into his chair.
“So I may think of you as being with me?” Prestimion asked.
“With you in what?” said Serithorn at once. “In disapproval of Korsibar’s usurpation? Absolutely! We deplore it.” Oljebbin nodded vociferously at that, and Gonivaul also. “Of course,” Serithorn went on, “we must move cautiously at present. Power resides with Korsibar, and he’s understandably on his guard in this transitional time. We’ll do nothing hasty or rash.”
“I understand,” said Prestimion. “But when the moment arrives, if it does—”
“Everything in my power to return this world to the proper path. I promise you that with all my heart.”
“I also,” said Oljebbin.
“And I,” Gonivaul said. “You know that, Prestimion. I will do my duty. At whatever risk to my personal position. What—ever—risk. What—ever.” His tongue was thick; he stumbled over his words. He sank back in his seat and closed his eyes. A moment later he seemed to be snoring.
“Perhaps this is enough for now,” Prestimion said quietly to Svor and Septach Melayn.
He got to his feet. “My lords—the time has come, I think, to conclude our brandy-tasting. My lords—?”
Gonivaul was deep in sleep. Oljebbin appeared to be nearly as far gone, and Serithorne, though still awake and in command of himself, was visibly struggling as he made his way toward the door. At Prestimion’s suggestion, Gialaurys raised the Grand Admiral to his feet and guided him from the room. Septach Melayn offered his assistance to the wobbly Oljebbin, and Prestimion instructed Taradath with a quick gesture to give Prince Serithorn such aid as he might need.
He and Svor remained after the others had gone, for one last drop of brandy before making an end to the evening.
“What do you think, my wily friend?” Prestimion said. “Are they with me or aren’t they?”
“Oh, with you, with you, by all means!”
“You think? Truly?”
Svor smiled and held up one hand. “Oh, yes, Prestimion, they are definitely with you, these three great and long-established lords. They said so themselves, and so it must be true. You heard them. That is, they are with you so long as they sit here in your house and drink your brandy. Once they’re back in the Castle, it might be a different story, I suspect.”
“I think so also. But will they betray me, do you think?”
“I doubt that. They’ll wait and see what you do, and keep all their options open. If you move against Korsibar, and seem to have a chance of winning, they’ll join you: but not until you’re plainly on your way to victory. And if you don’t appear to stand a chance, why, they’ll deny under oath that they ever said a word to you about lifting a finger on your behalf. Or so it seems to me.”
“And to me,” said Prestimion.
Dawn promised a flawless early-morning day, and indeed the promise was fulfilled, but it was many hours after the dawn before any of Prestimion’s guests presented themselves. They breakfasted at a time best fitted for lunch, and in the afternoon, under warm emerald sunlight, they hunted happily in the Muldemar preserve, bringing down a host of bilantoons and sigimoins and other such small animals, which were carried off by Prestimion’s people to be prepared for that evening’s dinner. That night there was no mention of the subjects that had arisen the evening before, but only of light and easy things, as befitted wealthy lords enjoying a brief holiday in the countryside.
A day more and they were gone, back to the Castle. An hour after the last of them had left came an outrider to Muldemar House to announce that the Procurator of Ni-moya was approaching, and then shortly the Procurator himself, with an entourage of some fifty or sixty folk, or perhaps even a few more than that.
Prestimion felt only amusement at such cool audacity. “At least it wasn’t five hundred,” he remarked upon going to the gate to greet Dantirya Sambail and discovering him in the midst of this unexpected horde. “But I think we can find room for them all. Are you making a grand processional, cousin?”
“That would be premature of me, cousin. No one has yet offered me a crown.” The Procurator was richly dressed, as usual, bare-headed but with a gleaming and costly jerkin of black leather, covered all over with bright diamond-shaped sequins that rose almost to his chin, and a breastplate of gold chased with silver, on which were inscribed loose curvilinear symbols of some sort unknown to Prestimion. “But I won’t be taxing your resources unduly,” he said as they went within. “This will be only a brief visit I expect to be on my way in the morning.”
“So soon?” Prestimion said. “Why, feel free to stay as long as you wish!”
“That is as long as I wish. I have a considerable journey ahead of me, which is why I come upon you with all this great number. I’m on my way back to Ni-moya.”
“Before the coronation ceremony?”
“The Coronal has graciously excused me from attending, on account of the length of the voyage. I haven’t been home for three years or thereabouts, you know, and I miss the place. Lord Korsibar believes it would be a good idea for me to make myself visible in Zimroel right now, by way of carrying the word of what’s been happening here. Korsibar isn’t well known on the other continent, you understand. I’m to vouch for his merits among my people.”
“Which you’ll do most loyally, with all your heart and soul, I know,” said Prestimion. “Well, come join me below, and let me try you with the new vintage, and one or two older ones. We had quite a grand feast here the other evening, Oljebbin and Gonivaul and Serithorn and I. A pity you missed it.”
“I think it was Gonivaul that passed me on the road, a little way back.”
“It was an interesting evening that we had.”
“Interesting? Those three?” Dantirya Sambail let out a gust of scornful laughter. “But in your position you need all the friends you can find, I suppose.” He turned to one of his servants and whispered something: the man ran off, and returned an instant later with a member of the Procurator’s following, a lean, swarthy, hawk-nosed tight-jacketed man. Prestimion was sure he had seen him somewhere before. “Where’s this wine of yours, Prestimion?” Dantirya Sanibail asked.
“The best is in the cellar.”
“Let’s be for it, then. Come along with us, Mandralisca.”
Mandralisca. Prestimion remembered now. The poison-taster, the quick-eyed green-jacketed batons-man of the Labyrinth games on whom Prestimion had wagered five crowns with Septach Melayn. He was an evil-faced man, grim and bleak, with thin, austere lips and hardangled cheekbones. The taster was staring coldly and 1evelly at Prestimion, as though assessing the probability that the prince had prepared a deadly draught for his master.
Prestimion felt a hot surge of fury run through him. For all his tight control, his voice was like a whiplash as he said, “We have no need of this man, Procurator.”
“He goes everywhere w
ith me. He is my—”
“Poison-taster, yes. So I have already been told. Do you mistrust me that much, cousin?”
Dantirya Sambail’s pale fleshy cheeks went crimson. “This is my ancient custom, ever to have him taste for me first.”
“My ancient custom,” said Prestimion, “is to open my house only to those I love. And very rarely do I poison any of those.”
His eyes met Dantirya Sambail’s squarely, and remained locked against them a long, moment, radiating anger and injured pride and searing contempt. Neither man spoke. Then the Procurator, as though having made some inward calculation, looked away, and smiled, and said in a soft conciliatory voice, “Well, then, Prestimion. I would not give offense to my dear kinsman. For you I will dispense with my ancient custom, and so be it.” He made a flicking gesture with his left hand, and the poison-taster, after throwing a chilly inquiring glance at Dantirya Sambail and one of utter malevolence at Prestimion, went slinking away.
“Come, now,” Prestimion said. “To the cellar, and I’ll let you have a bowl or two of our finest.”
Together they descended into the dark catacomb.
“You made reference upstairs to the position I am in,” Prestimion said, opening a flask and pouring. He was more tranquil now, and at his ease with the Procurator. “And what position would that be?”
“An indecently uncomfortable one, I would think. Crown snatched right out from under your nose: makes a man look a fool before fifteen billion people.” Dantirya Sambail drank heartily and smacked his lips. “At least you’ve got your vineyards to support you, though! Fill this again, will you?”
“So you are more trusting now, after the first taste? What if it’s a slow-acting poison?”
“Then you and I will go from the world in one and the same hour,” said Dantirya Sambail, “for I saw you drink of the identical stuff you gave me. But I never doubted you, cousin.”