“But he got away even so?”
“He cut Hosmar Varang down from his mount and gave him a deep slice near the armpit that will take a year to repair, and killed Alexid outright and slashed the other two so that they were left counting their fingers and hard pressed to find ten between them. And—entirely untouched, himself—leaped upon Hosmar Varang’s mount, snatching up the loathsome little mongrel Duke Svor whom he loves like a baby, and off they went at high speed into the woods, seeing that the battle was lost and there was no sense in remaining.”
“Four of them against his one, and he prevails? The man is in league with demons. No, he is a demon himself! And Alexid dead?” Korsibar grew more somber at that. He had hunted with Alexid of Strave beside him many times, in the jungles of the south and on the bare purple slopes of the northern mountains: a lean restless man, quick and capable with a javelin. This was suddenly very real, to hear Alexid had perished. “What other losses did we suffer, of men I would know?” Korsibar asked; but then, seeing Farquanor unfolding what seemed to be a considerable list, hastily waved him into silence. “Prestimion, you say, is fled into Arkilon?”
“Into the forest to the west of it. They are all four of them in there, I think, with the other survivors, and thought to be moving farther westward yet.”
“Later today,” said Korsibar, “I will issue a proclamation naming Prestimion as traitor to the realm, with a price of three thousand royals to anyone who brings him in alive.”
“Dead or alive,” amended Farquanor immediately, with a ferocious gleam coming into his cool gray eyes.
“Has it come to that already?” Korsibar asked, pensive a moment. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it has. Well, then. Five thousand silver royals, dead or alive, for Prestimion, and three thousand for any of the other three. Send word to Navigorn that he’s to undertake close pursuit. And Farholt will have a second army, to chase Prestimion up the other side of the world if need be, and we’ll catch him between. This will all be over in another ten days, I think.”
“The Divine favors our cause, lordship,” said Farquanor in his oiliest tone. He made the starburst and withdrew, leaving Korsibar free to return to the bathchamber.
“Pleasing news?” asked red-haired Aliseeva, peering winsomely over the side of the tub.
“It might have been better,” Korsibar said. “But yes: yes. Pleasing news.”
From the royal chamber Count Farquanor made his way at once to the apartments of the Lady Thismet. She had asked him not long before to keep her apprised of news of the rebellion; and this first report of victory would serve as good pretext for other matters he hoped to put before her.
The Lady Melithyrrh admitted him. Thismet was in her nine-sided drawing room of the ice-green jade walls, with an array of golden rings set with various precious stones laid out before her on a low table as though she were choosing between them for the evening’s wear; and she was richly dressed in a dark hooded gown of green velvet hanging in heavy folds, with a high-waisted close bodice and close-fitting sleeves with great puffed wings at her wrists. But her lovely face was taut and drawn, as it so often was these days, with a bitter clenched set to her delicate jaw, and Farquanor saw the glitter of a perpetual anger shining in her eyes. What was it that angered her so?
He said, after a bow, “Navigorn and Kanteverel have clashed with Prestimion before Arkilon, lady. Prestimion’s forces are utterly ruined and your brother’s high cause has triumphed.”
Briefly Thismet’s nostrils flared with excitement and color rose in her face.
“And Prestimion? What of him?” she asked quickly, tensely.
“It was the first thing your royal brother wanted to hear from me too. And the answer is that he is escaped, he is. Off into the forest with Septach Melayn and the rest of that crew, more’s the pity. But his army is dispersed, and the rebellion, I think, at its end even in its beginning.”
She grew quickly calm again, lips curling under, color fading to her usual pallor. “Is it,” she said, without any questioning inflection to her tone. And looked at him blankly for a moment, and turned her attention back to her rings, as though she had no further interest in speaking with him.
But since she had not actually dismissed him, he continued to stand before her, and after a little while said, “I thought the news of our victory would please you, lady.”
“And so it does.” Tonelessly, once again, as though she was speaking in her sleep. “Many men are dead, I suppose, and blood satisfactorily distributed all over the field? Yes, this is very pleasing to me, Farquanor. I do so love to hear of the shedding of blood.”
That was very strange of her. But she had been nothing but strange since this bleak mood had come upon her these many weeks back. Well, then, he thought, enough of battle news. There was the other subject to deal with.
He counted off a few numbers in his mind, drew a deep breath and said, “Thismet, may I speak to you as a friend? For I think we have been friends, you and I.”
She looked up, amazed. “You call me Thismet? I am the Coronal’s sister!”
“You were another Coronal’s daughter, once, and I called you Thismet then, sometimes.”
“When we were children perhaps. What is this, Farquanor? You presume a great deal of a sudden.”
“I mean no offense, lady. I mean only to help you, if I can.”
“To help me?”
The musculature along the width of Farquanor’s shoulders tightened into a rigid iron constriction. Now he must make the leap, or forever despise himself. “It seems to me,” he said, weighing every word and judging its probable impact with all the craft at his command, “that you may have fallen somewhat out of favor in recent months with the Lord Korsibar your brother. Forgive me if I am in error here: but I am not the least observant man in this Castle, and to my way of thinking I see an estrangement lately between you and him.”
Thismet’s eyes flicked upward in a wary glance.
“And if there is?” she asked. “I don’t say that there is, but if it should be so, what then?”
Piously Farquanor said, “It would be a matter for great regret, royal brother and royal sister at odds with each other. And—forgive me, lady, if I speak too close to your soul—I think that something like that must be the case, for I no longer see you at the Coronal’s side at formal functions, nor does he smile when he speaks with you in public, nor do you ever smile these days, but hold yourself always tense and grim. It has been that way with you for more than one season now.”
She looked away, toying with her rings again. In a dull-toned voice she said, “And if the Coronal and I have had some small disagreement, what is that to you, Farquanor?”
“You know how I labored at your side to make Lord Korsibar what he is today. It made me feel a great closeness to the two of you, as I schemed and connived at your behest to nudge him toward the throne. If the result of all my scheming has been only to drive a wedge between brother and sister, the sorrow is on me for it. But I have a solution to propose, lady.”
“Do you?” she said distantly.
It was the moment to make the great attempt. How many times he had rehearsed this in his mind, he could not count. But now at last the words came streaming forth from him.
“If you were to marry me, lady, that could serve to bind up the breach that has opened between you and Lord Korsibar.”
She had put five rings into the palm of her hand, a ruby one and an emerald and a sapphire and one of many-faceted diamond and one of golden-green chrysoprase; and at Farquanor’s words she jerked so convulsively that the rings went clattering forth in a spill of brilliance to the floor.
“Marry you?”
There was no swerving from this now. He was resolved to hold firmly to his course.
“You are without a consort. It is widely said in the Castle that this is much to be regretted, considering your grace and beauty and high birth. And also it is said that of late you seem adrift, all moorings severed, no destination in view
and no way of reaching any, now that so much power has devolved upon your brother and you yourself are left in no fixed position. But how can a woman without a husband, even the Coronal’s sister, find a proper place in the court? A significant marriage is the answer. I offer myself to you.”
She seemed stunned. But he had expected that. This was coming upon her without the slightest preparation. He waited, neither smiling nor scowling, watching the unreadable play of turbulent emotions come and go on her face, seeing the color rise there, the changing glintings of her eyes.
After a time she said, “Do you really have such an elevated opinion of yourself, Farquanor? You think that by marrying you I would raise my status at the court?”
“I leave my ancient royal ancestry out of consideration here. But since you speak so rarely with your brother these days, perhaps you are unaware that I am soon to be made High Counsellor, once old Oljebbin has reconciled himself to the retirement that is being thrust upon him.”
“You have my warmest congratulation.”
“The High Counsellor—and his wife—are second only to the Coronal in the social order of the Castle. Furthermore, as your brother’s most intimate adviser, I’d be in an excellent position to mediate whatever dispute it is that has damaged the affection that should prevail between you. But there’s more to it than that: the High Counsellor is in the plain line of succession to the throne. If Confalume were to die, I might well be named Coronal when Korsibar went to the Labyrinth; which would greatly enhance your own position, not merely the Coronal’s sister now, but the Coronal’s own wife—”
Thismet gave him a disbelieving stare. “This has gone on long enough,” she said, bending now to scoop up her fallen rings with one angry sweep of her hand. Then, looking up fiercely at him, she said, “Successor to my brother? I would not have you even if you were proclaimed successor to the Divine.”
Farquanor gasped as though he had been struck.
“Lady—” he said. “Lady—” And his voice trailed off into inaudibility.
In a tone of savage mockery she said, “Nothing has so amazed me as this present conversation since I was a child and was told of the method by which children are conceived. Marry you? You? How could you have imagined such a thing! And why would I accept? Are we in any way a fitting couple? Do you in truth see yourself as a match for me? How could you possibly be? You’re such a small man, Farquanor!”
He drew himself up as tall as he could. “Not of a size with your brother, say, or Navigorn, or Mandrykarn. But I am no dwarf either, lady. We would look well together, you and I. I remind you that you are not greatly large yourself. You come barely shoulder-high to me, I would say.”
“Do you think I’m speaking of height?” she said. “Well, then, an idiot as well.” She shook her hand in the air at him. “Go. I beg you, go. Quickly, now. I tell you: go. Before you make me say something truly cruel.”
Korsibar was in his private study, an hour later when the Lady Thismet came to him. It was the first meeting she had had alone with him in a very long while, not since she had shared with him the horoscope that Thalnap Zelifor had prepared for her. They had not spoken of that matter since. Plainly he was not going to yield to her request without a battle, and with Prestimion loose in the land and speaking of rebellion, she hesitated to tax him again with the matter just now. But it had not left her mind.
As she entered, he seemed uncertain and ill at ease, as though he feared she had come here to begin some new discussion of her having a throne of her own. Thismet suspected he would have preferred to forbid her his presence entirely, but did not care to impose so substantial a prohibition on his own sister. And in any case it was trouble of a different sort that she planned to make for him today.
He had some maps beside him, and a stack of official reports.
“News from the battlefield?” she asked. “Details of the great victory?”
“You’ve heard, then?”
“Count Farquanor was kind enough to bring me some word of it just now.”
“We’ll have Prestimion back here in chains by Seaday next, is my guess. And then a course of instruction in proper behavior will begin for him that he’ll hew to for the rest of his life.”
He returned to his scrutiny of his charts. She said, after watching him for a moment with displeasure, “Attend to me, Korsibar.”
“What is it, sister?” Without looking up. “I hope you haven’t chosen this moment to renew your demand for—”
“No, nothing to do with that. I want you to dismiss Farquanor and banish him from the Castle.”
Now he did look up indeed, and stared at her in complete astonishment.
“You are ever full of surprises, sister. You want me to dismiss—”
“Farquanor. Yes. That’s what I said, to dismiss him. He’s not deserving of any place in this court.”
Korsibar seemed to grope for words a moment.
“Not deserving of a place?” he said finally. “On the contrary, Thismet. Farquanor’s not a lovable man, but very useful, and I mean to use him. Oljebbin’s finally agreed to step down at the turn of the year, and Farquanor will be High Counsellor. I owe him that much, and ’twill shut him up, to have the thing he’s dreamed of so long.”
“Not shut him up enough,” said Thismet. “He’s just been to see me, Korsibar. Has asked me to marry him.”
“What?” Korsibar blinked and smiled as though in nothing more than mild surprise; and then, as he weighed her words again and the impact of them sank in, the smile turned to laughter, and the laughter to great heavy racking guffaws and a slapping of his thigh until he could get himself under control once again. “Marry you?” he said at last. “Well, well, well: bold little Farquanor! Who’d have thought him capable of it?”
“The man’s a snake. I never want to see his narrow little face again. You refuse me many things, Korsibar, but don’t refuse me this one: send him from the Castle.”
“Ah, no, sister, no, no! It would not do.”
“No?” she said.
“Farquanor is very valuable to me. He’s overreached himself here perhaps: should certainly have discussed this thing with me, at least, before he went sniffing off to you. It is a bold request, I agree. A match beyond his level perhaps. But he’s a shrewd and crafty counsellor. I couldn’t do without him, especially now, with Prestimion still at large out there, perhaps planning some new rampage now that he’s slipped away from Navigorn. I need a man like Farquanor, full of spite and mischief, to lay my plans for me: can’t only have great noble-souled clods around when you’re king, don’t you see?—You could do worse, in any case, than to marry him.”
“I would sooner marry some Liiman peddling sausages on the streets.”
“Oh. Oh. The flashing Thismet eye! The bared teeth! Well, then, reject him, sister, if that’s how you feel about him. By no means would I force him on you.”
“Do you think I haven’t rejected him already? But I want you to get him forever out of my sight.”
Korsibar pressed his fingertips against his temples. “I’ve explained to you how valuable he is to me. If you like, I’ll rebuke him, yes, tell him to put the idea entirely out of his mind forever, send him to you to crawl and snivel a little by way of apologizing for his impudence. But I won’t get rid of him. And you should marry, anyway. It’s time for it, and even a little past the time perhaps. Marry Navigorn, for example. Fine and noble and decent, that one.”
“I’m not interested in marrying anyone.” Thismet altered the tone of her voice, deepening it, putting somewhat of an edge on it. “You know what I want, Korsibar.”
She saw him quail. But she pushed onward all the same. If he would not satisfy her in the one matter, she would harry him on the other.
“Give me a crown,” she said. “Make me Corona in joint reign with you.”
“That thing again?” He clamped his lips and his face grew dark with anger. “You know that that can never be.”
“A simple decree—as
easily as you took the crown the day Prankipin died, you could—”
“No. Never, Thismet. Never. Never!” Korsibar gave her a long, deadly furious look, and then he sprang from his seat and paced in agitation before her. He was bubbling with rage. “By the Divine, sister, don’t plague me with this business of a crown again, or I tell you I’ll marry you to little Farquanor myself! I’ll put your hand in his and proclaim you man and wife before all the world, and if he has to strap you down to have his consummation of you, it’ll be no grief to me. This is a solemn pledge, Thismet. One more word about this lunacy of your being Coronal and you are Farquanor’s bride!”
She stared at him, horror-stricken.
He was silent a time. She saw the anger gradually subsiding in him, but his face now was stony. “Listen closely to me,” Korsibar said, more calmly now. “There is a rebellion in the land against my reign. I must destroy Prestimion, which I will do, which in fact I am well on my way to doing. When that’s done, I’ll stand unchallenged here as Coronal of Majipoor, and when I come fully into my kingship, it will be mine, and mine alone. Do you understand that, Thismet? I will not go before the world and say that I am building another throne at this Castle and that a woman will occupy it as my equal. For you to ask to be joint Coronal is as bizarre as for Farquanor to ask for you in marriage. He will not be your husband unless by your obstinacy you make me give you to him; and you will not be Coronal, not under any circumstances whatever. That is my final word on the subject. Final. And if you will excuse me now, sister, the good Sanibak-Thastimoon waits outside to see me on a matter of high importance, and I would not delay him any longer—”
5
IN THE HOUR of his defeat by Arkilon plain, the skies opened on Prestimion and pelted him with one of the heavy rains of autumn that were so common in these parts. So he rode long and hard under a driving deluge far into the night, accompanied by only a few dozen of his men; and he was soaked to the bone and in a sorry frame of mind indeed when he reached, finally, the forest of Moorwath by Arkilon’s western flank This was the spot he and Septach Melayn had chosen as their gathering-place should the battle at Arkilon go badly for them. In his pre-battle mood of optimism he had never truly foreseen an outcome that might cause him to be spending this night beneath the tall and fat-trunked vakumba-trees of Moorwath; but here he was, lame and wet and weary in the darkness.