“Then you would advise us to put our support behind Duke Svor, I take it,” Septach Melayn said.
“Declined,” said Duke Svor instantly from the far corner of the room, where he was engaged in a study of esoteric charts inscribed on long rolls of tawny parchment. “I have no idea what the proper pairings ought to be, and—”
“We could tell you,” Gialaurys said.
“—and in any event,” Svor continued, “I want no part of your silly brawls. The contending sides will forever be shouting in the Master’s face; let it be someone else’s face.”
Septach Melayn smiled. “Very well, Svor. Let it be so.” Playfully he said to Gialaurys, “And what do you mean, pray tell, by ‘our own man’? Do we have factions here, so that someone can be considered plainly to be Prestimion’s man, and someone might be considered altogether unfriendly to him? Are we not all united in the celebration of the new reign?”
“You talk like a fool,” Gialaurys grunted.
Septach Melayn was unbothered by that. “Surely you’d consider Svor to be our own man, if anyone is; I understand that. But is the Procurator our enemy? Or Admiral Gonivaul?”
“They might be. Either one.”
“I fail to understand you.”
“There’s never a smooth transition from reign to reign. There are always those who have objection, secret or otherwise, to the chosen new Coronal. And may show their objections in unexpected ways.”
“Listen to him!” Septach Melayn cried. “The scholar! The learned historian! Give me examples of such treachery, friend Gialaurys!”
“Well —” Gialaurys pondered for a while, sucking his lower lip deep into his mouth. “When Havilbove became Pontifex,” he said after a long while, “and he said that Thraym would be his Coronal, I understand it that some disgruntled lord who bore no love for Thraym launched a conspiracy to put Dizimaule on the throne instead of him, and very nearly—”
“In fact Lord Kanaba was Havilbove’s Coronal,” said Svor quietly. “Thraym was Coronal three reigns later. Dizimaule lived a thousand years earlier than any of them.”
“So I forget the true names or the order of the kings,” Gialaurys said, with some heat in his tone now. “But it happened all the same, if not with them, then with others. You could look it up. And then there was another case, involving Spurifon, I think, or was it Siminave—”
“All this thinking ill becomes you,” Septach Melayn said, and grinned into the back of his beautifully manicured hand. “I assure you, dear friend, that regardless of the private ambitions of the rejected candidates, the new Coronal is always swept up into office by wholehearted acclamation. It has never been any other way. We are a civilized people on this world.”
“Are we?” said Prestimion, coming into the room just then. “How good to hear you say so, sweet Septach Melayn. What are you discussing, may I ask?”
“Whom to choose to be Master of the Games. I’m told that it’s between Gonivaul and Svor and your dear cousin the Procurator. Gialaurys has been arguing that we can’t trust anybody but ourselves even in something like the games, and wants Svor to be Master so that we can be sure that we’ll be put up against the proper people to fight, and that the verdicts will all come down in our favor.”
Prestimion glanced at Gialaurys. “Is this so? Are you so apprehensive, Gialaurys?”
“Septach Melayn twists my words, as usual, my lord. But if it’s put to me all over again, yes: I would prefer someone I trust as Master to someone that I don’t.”
“And you trust Svor?” Prestimion said, laughing.
“Svor has already said he will not be it. In that case I would like to see the Procurator Dantiya Sambail given the post.”
“The Procurator!” Prestimion cried, bursting into laughter all over again. “The Procurator! You would trust the Procurator, Gialaurys!”
“He’s a cousin of yours, my lord, is he not?” said Gialaurys stolidly. “And therefore would make no decision harmful to you or to your friends, or so I would assume.”
“He is a cousin much removed,” Prestimion answered, as he often did when his relationship to the Procurator was mentioned to him. “And you’ve called me ‘my lord’ twice now in half a minute’s time. That term belongs to Lord Confalume, at least until a new Coronal has been chosen. —As for my cousin the Procurator, he is truly my kinsman, yes. But if you think you might have anything to fear from the one who is chosen Master of the Games, I would suggest that you throw your support to someone other than him.”
“Well, then, Admiral Gonivaul,” said Gialaurys without much grace.
“Agreed,” Septach Melayn said quickly. “Gonivaul will at least be neutral, if there’s any bickering. He cares for nothing and nobody, except, I suppose, for Gonivaul. May we get on now to a discussion of the various events?”
“Will there be wrestling?” Gialaurys asked.
“There’s always wrestling. Farholt would insist on it.”
“Good. I’ll wrestle Farholt.”
Septach Melayn said, “I had thought we’d put Svor up to that job. You could oppose Farquanor in the fencing-matches.”
“Sometimes you fail to be amusing, Septach Melayn,” said Gialaurys.
“But no! No!” Svor put in. “Let’s confuse everyone. Let us bewilder and bedazzle! Seriously. I will indeed face great hulking Farholt in the wrestling, if only to see the look on his face when I come out against him, and we’ll let Gialaurys try his luck with swift-wristed Farquanor in the fencing, and you, Septach Melayn, you can be our lead man next to Prestimion in the two-man chariot races against Korsibar’s team.”
“I intend to be, as a matter of fact,” said Septach Melayn.
“Not the fencing?” Prestimion asked.
“Both,” Septach Melayn said. “If there are no objections. And in the chariot races we can—”
There was a tap at the door. Prestimion opened it and peered into the corridor. A woman wearing the narrow mask that marked the servants of the Pontificate stood there, one of those who had been placed in charge of assisting the guests from Castle Mount.
“Are you the Prince Prestimion?” she asked.
“I am.”
“There is a Vroon here, sir, one Thalnap Zelifor, who asks present audience of you. He says he has information that will be of great use.”
Prestimion’s brows furrowed. Looking back over his shoulder, he said to the others, “Were any of you aware that Thalnap Zelifor was at the Labyrinth?”
“Not I,” said Septach Melayn.
“He’s so small, how could anyone notice him?” Gialaurys said.
“He came in with Gonivaul’s people,” said Svor. “I’ve seen him around once or twice.”
“By the Divine, I have no use of any kind for that one,” Septach Melayn declared. “If you’re wise, Prestimion, you’ll continue to keep him away from you. We have enough sorcerers buzzing about us as it is, haven’t we?”
“He is said to be a seer of exceptional powers,” Gialaurys observed.
“Be that as it may,” said Septach Melayn. “I dislike even the sight of Vroons. And their smell, for that matter. Beyond which, we all know, this little Thalnap Zelifor is a troublesome treacherous man who tacks in every breeze and who may well be a source of peril to us. He has the soul of a spy.”
“But a spy for whom? We have no enemies!” Gialaurys said, with a hearty guffaw. “You explained that to me no more than five minutes ago, is that not so? We are a civilized people on this world, and all of us united in loyalty to those set in authority over us.”
Prestimion held up his hand. “Enough, gentlemen, enough! It’s a sad affair when we must worry about danger from the likes of Thalnap Zelifor. I think we can spare the creature a moment of our time.” To the woman from the Pontificate he said, “Tell the Vroon he can come in.”
Thalnap Zelifor was diminutive even for one of his race: a tiny being hardly more than shin-high to a human. The Vroon, fragile and insubstantial of body, had a multitude of
flexible rubbery limbs and a narrow, tapering head, out of which sprang two blazing golden eyes and a sharp hooked beak of a mouth. From him came the faint, sweet, wistful odor of flowers pressed long ago in a book.
There had been Vroons on Majipoor almost as long as human beings. They were among the first of the various nonhuman races invited to settle there by the Coronal Lord Melikand, to whom it had become apparent that the human population of the immense world could not grow quickly enough to meet all the needs of a developing civilization. That had been many thousands of years ago, almost in the dawn of Majipoor’s history. Vroons had significant and unusual skills: they could link their minds to the minds of others and penetrate deep thoughts, they could move objects about by the power of their inner force alone, and they had given evidence, even in ages less credulous than the present one, of an ability to discern the shape of coming events.
Like most of his people, Thalnap Zelifor claimed to have the gift of second sight, and so far as anyone knew he earned his living primarily by peddling oracles; but no one could ever be quite sure of anything concerning Thalnap Zelifor. At the Castle he was considered to be in the service of Prince Gonivaul the Grand Admiral, but he was just as often found among Korsibar’s hangers-on, and more than once before this he had presented himself with some offer of service to Prestimion. Which had always routinely been declined: Prestimion had never been a man to surround himself with wizards in any significant way. It was surprising to see Thalnap Zelifor popping up yet again.
“Well?” said the prince.
Thalnap Zelifor extended one ropy tentacle. On its tip lay a small, highly polished oval plaque, fashioned of the precious green stone known as velathysite. It glowed brightly, as if lit by an inner fire. Runes so minute that they were almost invisible to the eye were engraved upon the face of it.
“A gift, excellence. A corymbor, it is, that bears inscriptions of power, it has the capacity to bring you aid in a time of trouble. Wear it on a chain at your throat, touch it when need is upon you, and it will give you the solace that you require.”
Septach Melayn snorted. “Gods! Will there never be an end to these fantasies among us? We’ll all drown in this tide of superstitious madness!”
“Gently,” Prestimion said to him. And to the Vroon: “You know I put little faith in such objects as this.”
“I know that, excellence. That is, perhaps, an error on your part.”
“Perhaps so.”
Prestimion bent forward to take the little green amulet from Thalnap Zelifor. He rubbed it gingerly this way and that with his fingertip, staring at it warily all the while, as if he suspected that by handling it in such fashion he might conjure up some unsettling thing before his eyes. But he was smiling also, to say that his show of caution was all pretense; and in any event nothing happened.
Prestimion turned the amulet on edge, commenting admiringly on the fine workmanship of it, and peered briefly at its reverse side, which was blank. Then he tossed it into the air as one might toss a coin, catching it with a quick snap of his wrist and dropping it casually into a pocket of his tunic. “I thank you,” he told the Vroon, with deep formality if not with any particular effort at seeming sincere. “And will the need for this be upon me soon, do you think?”
“Forgive me, excellence, but I do.”
Septach Melayn snorted again, and turned his back.
The Vroon said softly, so softly that it was necessary to strain to hear him, “What I have come to tell you this day, excellence, is for all Majipoor’s sake as much as it is for yours. I know that you yourself have only scorn for me, and for the whole of my profession besides; but I think you have the welfare of the world at your heart nonetheless, and will hear me out if only for that reason.”
“And just how much must I pay you to hear your revelations, Thalnap Zelifor?”
“I assure you, Prince Prestimion, that I have no hope of personal gain in this matter.”
Septach Melayn threw back his head and roared his laughter to the vaulted roof of the chamber. “No cost! The advice is free! And dear even at that price, I would say.”
Prestimion said, “You should ask me for money, Thalnap Zelifor. I’m suspicious of soothsayers who offer their wares for nothing.”
“My lord—”
“That is not my title yet,” said Prestimion.
“Excellence, then. I tell you, I did not come here in the hope of earning a fee. Pay me ten weights, if you feel you must pay something.”
“Barely enough for a platter of sausages and a glass of beer,” Prestimion said. “You value your wisdom very lightly, my friend.” He snapped his fingers at Duke Svor. “Pay him.”
Svor produced a small square copper-hued coin and handed it over.
“Now, then,” said Prestimion.
Thalnap Zelifor said, “What I have to say is this: I looked upon the Great Moon last night, and it was of a scarlet color, as though its face streamed with human blood.”
“He saw the Great Moon,” came scornfully from Septach Melayn, who was still standing with his back to the others, “although it’s on the far side of the world now, where nothing whatsover that might be in the sky can be seen from this hemisphere, and he saw it from the bottom of the Labyrinth, no less, from down here a mile below the surface. Well done, Vroon! Your sight is sharper even than mine!”
“It was by second sight I saw, my good master. That is a different kind of sight from yours.”
Patiently Prestimion said, “And what does it mean, do you think, this show of blood streaming across the face of the Great Moon?”
“A coming war, excellence.”
“War. We have no wars on Majipoor.”
“We will,” said Thalnap Zelifor.
“Pay heed to him, I beg you!” Gialaurys called out, for Prestimion suddenly was displaying signs of annoyance with this game. “He sees things, prince!”
Septach Melayn came forward abruptly, looming over the Vroon as though about to squash him with the heel of his boot, and said, “Who sent you here, little pest?”
“I came of my own accord,” Thalnap Zelifor replied, staring up directly into Septach Melayn’s eyes far above him. “For the benefit and welfare of all. Yours included, my good master.”
Septach Mebayn spat, missing the Vroon by very little, and once more turned away.
In a distant voice Prestimion said, “A war between whom and whom?”
“I can give you no answer to that, excellence. I can tell you only that you do not have a clear path to the throne. There are strong omens of opposition to your candidacy: I read them on every side. The air down here is thick with them. A struggle is brewing. You have a mighty enemy, who waits his time now in secrecy; he will emerge and contend with you for the Castle; all the world will suffer from the strife.”
“Ha!” cried Gialaurys. “You hear him, Septach Melayn?”
Prestimion said, “Do you often have such terrible dreams, Thalnap Zelifor?”
“Not so terrible as this one.”
“Tell me who this mighty enemy of mine might be, so that I may go to him and embrace him as a friend. For whenever I lose someone’s love, I want always to strive to regain it.”
“I am unable to give you any names, excellence.”
“Unable or unwilling?” Duke Svor asked, from his place across the room.
“Unable. I saw no one’s face clearly.”
“Who can it be, this rival, this enemy?” Gialaurys asked musingly. His ever-somber visage was dark with concern. Belief ran deep in Gialaurys’s nature: the predictions of sorcerers were serious matters to him. “Serithorn, maybe? He has such great estates already that he is practically a king: he may fancy himself as a Coronal as well, descended as he is from so many. Or your cousin the Procurator. He’s your kinsman, yes, but we all know what a tricky sort he is. And then, on the other hand, possibly the Vroon’s meaning is that—”
“Stop this, Gialaurys,” Prestimion said. “You’re being too free with these specu
lations. And as ever much too willing to expend your credulity in unworthy places.” Coldly he asked the Vroon, “Is there any other aspect of this revelation you want to share with me?”
“There is nothing else, excellence.”
“Good. Then go. Go.”
Thalnap Zelifor made a gesture among his many tentacles that might have been some bizarre version of the starburst sign, or might simply have been a stirring of his upper limbs. “As you wish, excellence.”
“I thank you for your information, such as it is. And for the amulet.”
“I beg you, excellence, take the warning seriously.”
“I’ll take it as seriously as it deserves,” replied Prestimion, and made a curt gesture of dismissal. The Vroon went out.
As the door closed, Gialaurys slapped his hand down hard against his meaty thigh. “Korsibar!” he exclaimed with sudden explosiveness.
“Of course!”
“What?” said Prestimion.
“The enemy. The rival. Korsibar: he’s the one! If not Serithorn, if not Dantirya Sambail, it must be Korsibar. Don’t you see? It’s not so strange to want to be king, if your father before you was one. And so we have a Coronal’s son, unwilling to allow someone whom he regards as an upstart to take the throne that he sees as rightly belonging to him.”
With a sharpness in his tone that was unusual for him, Prestimion said, “Enough and more than enough, Gialaurys! This is all contemptible nonsense.”
“I would not be so quick to say so.”
“All of it! Nonsense, nonsense, absolute nonsense! The scarlet moon, the secret enemy, the prophecy of war. Who are the demons who provide such dependable word of things to come? Where do they live, what’s the color of their eyes?” He shook his head sadly. “War, on Majipoor! This is not a world where wars are fought. Not one, Gialaurys, not one war ever in all the thousands of years since the Shapeshifters were defeated. And these preposterous guessing games of yours! Serithorn, you think, is hungering for the throne? Oh, no, no, not him, my friend. His blood is quite sufficiently royal as it is, and he has no liking for toil of any kind. My cousin the Procurator? He enjoys making trouble, yes. But not, I think, that kind of trouble. And Korsibar? Korsibar?”