The King of Dreams

  If Dinitak Barjazid had been willing to spend just five minutes listening to his uncle’s blandishments, this conversation would not now be happening, Mandralisca knew. A lucky thing for us, he told himself, that the younger Barjazid has the good taste to want to have nothing to do with his disreputable uncle.

  “An unhappy adventure,” he said. “But at least you have it out of your system. And now—perhaps somewhat later than I expected you would—you do at last show up here.”

  “No one regrets the delay more than I do, your grace. But indeed, I am here.” He smiled, revealing a set of nasty snags. “And I have brought with me those certain things to which I alluded in my letter.”

  Mandralisca glanced once more at the bag. “Which are contained in that?”

  “They are.”

  He took that as his cue. “Very well, my friend. Has the point arrived, do you think, at which we can begin discussing our business?”

  “We have already begun our business, your grace,” said Khaymak Barjazid calmly, making no movement toward the bag. Mandralisca gave him some points for that. Barjazid also knew the dangers of overeagerness, and was testing his ability to make Mandralisca wait. It was rare that he found himself outplayed like this.

  Very well. He would allow Barjazid a small victory here. He waited, saying nothing now.

  Again the tongue-tip briefly flickered forth. “You know, I think, that before my lamented brother came into the employ of the Procurator Dantirya Sambail, he operated a guide service in Suvrael, among other enterprises. Prior to that he spent some years at the Castle, serving as an aide to Duke Svor of Tolaghai, a close friend of Prestimion, who was merely Prince of Muldemar then. There was also at the Castle then a certain Vroon, Thalnap Zelifor by name, who—”

  Mandralisca felt a burst of irritation. This was overdoing it. Having seized the advantage, Barjazid was all too evidently reveling in his control of the conversation. “Where is this story heading?” Mandralisca demanded. “Back to Lord Stiamot, is it?”

  “If I might have your indulgence one moment more, sir.”

  Again he allowed himself to subside. There had been a wondrously oily way about Barjazid’s saying that that Mandralisca was forced to admire. This man was a worthy adversary.

  Barjazid continued unruffledly. “If you are aware of these matters already, forgive me. I want only to clarify my own role in my brother’s affairs, with which you may not be familiar.”

  “Go on.”

  “Permit me to remind you that this Thalnap Zelifor, a wizard by trade as people of his race tend to be, was a maker of devices capable of penetrating the secrets of a person’s mind. Prestimion, when he became Coronal, exiled this Vroon for some reason to Suvrael, and placed my brother in charge of escorting him there. Unfortunately the Vroon died en route; but he had been good enough, first, to give my brother some instruction in the art of using his devices, a number of which he had brought with him from the Castle.”

  “None of this is new to me, so far.”

  “But you will not have known that I, since I have a certain gift for mechanical matters, assisted my brother in experimenting with these things and gaining knowledge of their operation. Later, I even designed some improved models of them. All this was in Tolaghai city in Suvrael, many years ago. Then came the episode—perhaps you are aware of it, sir—when Prince Dekkeret, then a very young man and not yet a prince, visited Suvrael about that time, had a rather unfortunate encounter with my brother and his son, and took them both as prisoners to Castle Mount, along with much of the mind-reading equipment.”

  “Your brother told me that, yes.”

  “Likewise you know that my brother, escaping from the Castle, fled to western Alhanroel and made common cause with Dantirya Sambail.”

  “Yes,” said Mandralisca. “I was there when he arrived. I was there, also, when Prestimion, using one of these devices that had been brought to him by your nephew Dinitak, made it possible for an army under Gialaurys and Septach Melayn to locate our camp and kill both the Procurator and your brother, and very nearly myself as well. The mind-reading devices all fell into Prestimion’s hands. I assume he has them locked safely away somewhere at the Castle.”

  “Very likely he does.”

  Mandralisca looked yet again, more pointedly this time, at Khaymak Barjazid’s battered, bulging bag. Enough of this recitation of ancient history: the sly little man was carrying the game too far. Mandralisca would not be toyed with any longer.

  In a brusque, cool tone he said, “This is a sufficient prologue, I think. Many tasks await me today. Show me what you have for me, now.”

  Barjazid smiled. He drew the bag up on his knees and pressed his fingers to its latch. From within he drew a sheaf of parchment sheets, which he unrolled and spread out over the open lid of the bag. “These are the original plans for Thalnap Zelifor’s various instruments of mind control. They have remained in my possession in Suvrael ever since the time when my brother was carried off to the Mount as Dekkeret’s prisoner.”

  “May I see them?” Mandralisca reached forth a hand.

  “Of course, your grace. Here are the sketches for three successive models of the device, each one of greater power than the one before. This is the first. This is the one that my nephew stole and delivered to Lord Prestimion for use against my brother. And this is the one that my brother himself was wearing in the climactic battle when Prestimion broke through his defenses.”

  Mandralisca riffled through the parchment sheets. Barjazid was safe in showing them to him: they made no sense to him whatever.

  “And those?” he said, nodding toward several other sheets still in Khaymak Barjazid’s hands.

  “The designs for later models, still more powerful, of which I spoke a moment ago. In the intervening years I’ve continued to play with the Vroon’s basic concepts. I believe that I have made some important advances in the state of the art.”

  “You only believe?”

  “I have not yet had the opportunity to perform tests.”

  “Out of fear that you’d be detected by Prestimion’s people?”

  “In part, yes. But also—these are very expensive things to manufacture, sir—you must bear in mind that I am not a wealthy man—”

  “I see.” They were being invited to finance the Barjazid’s research. “So the truth is you have no working models, then.”

  “I have this,” Barjazid said, and drew a flimsy-looking metal helmet from the bag. It was a shimmering lacework of delicate red strands interwoven with gold ones, with a triple row of heavier bronze cords running over its crest. Its design was far simpler than that of the one Mandralisca remembered the other Barjazid wearing in the final struggle in the Stoienzar. That was probably due, to some degree, to a greater refinement of the concept. But the thing seemed too simple. It seemed incomplete, unfinished.

  “What can it do?” Mandralisca asked.

  “In its present form? Nothing. The necessary connections are not yet in place.”

  “And if they were?”

  “If they were, the wearer of the helmet could reach out to anyone in the world and place dreams in his mind. Very powerful dreams, your grace. Frightening dreams. Painful dreams, if that were desired. Dreams that could break a person’s will. That could beat him to the ground and make him beg for mercy.”

  “Indeed,” Mandralisca said.

  He ran his fingers slowly over the lacy meshes, exploring them, fondling them. He draped the helmet over his head, spreading it out, noting how light it was, scarcely noticeable. He took it off and folded it and folded it again, until it was small enough to fit within his closed hand. He weighed it on his outstretched palm. He nodded approvingly, but did not say anything. Perhaps a minute went by. Perhaps more.

  Khaymak Barjazid watched the entire performance with what could only be interpreted as mounting anxiety and concern.

  Finally he said, “Do you think you would have use for such a device, your grace?”

  “O
h, yes. Yes, certainly. But will it work?”

  “It can be made to. All of the instruments shown on these plans can be made to work. It merely requires money.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Mandralisca stood up, went to the door, stood staring out into the brightness of the desert morning for a long while. He tossed the Barjazid helmet lightly from hand to hand. What would it be like, he wondered, to be able to send dreams into the mind of one’s enemy? Painful dreams, Barjazid had said. Nightmares. Worse than nightmares. A host of terrifying images. Things fluttering by, dangling on fine metal wires. An endless army of big black beetles marching across the floor, making ugly rustling sounds with their feet. Transparent fingers tickling the channels of the mind. Slow spirals of pure fear congealing and twisting in the tortured brain. And—gradually—a sobbing, a whimpering, a begging for mercy—

  “Come outside with me,” he said to Barjazid over his shoulder, without looking back toward the other man.

  They walked up the ridge to a point where several of the domed palaces of the Lords could be seen in the distance. “Do you know what those buildings are?” Mandralisca asked.

  “They are the dwellings of the Five Lords. The boy who brought me to you told me that.”

  “So you know that they call themselves the Five Lords, do you? What else do you know about them?”

  “That they are the sons of one of Dantirya Sambail’s brothers. That they have lately laid claim to power in certain sectors of central Zimroel. That they have taken upon themselves the title of Lords of Zimroel.”

  “You knew all those things when you wrote me that letter?”

  “All but the part about their calling themselves the Lords of Zimroel.”

  “Why would news of any of these matters have traveled all the way down to Suvrael?”

  “I told you, your grace, I have some skill at making inquiries.”

  “Apparently you do. The Coronal himself, so far as I know, is ignorant of what’s been going on in this part of Zimroel.”

  “But when he finds out—?”

  “Why, there’ll be war, I suppose,” Mandralisca said. He swung about to face the little man. “I propose to speak very directly, now. These five Lords of Zimroel are stupid and vicious men. I despise everything about them. As you get to know them, so will you. Nevertheless, there are millions of people here in Zimroel who regard them as the rightful heirs of Dantirya Sambail and will follow their banner, once it is openly raised, in a war of independence against the Alhanroel government. Which I believe we can win, with your aid.”

  “That would please me greatly. It was Prestimion and his people who destroyed my brother.”

  “You’ll have your revenge, then. Dantirya Sambail tried twice to overthrow Prestimion, but because he was already master of Zimroel he attempted both times to carry the insurrection into Alhanroel. That was a mistake. The Coronal and Pontifex can’t be beaten in their own territory by invaders from Zimroel. Alhanroel is too big to be conquered from outside, and lines of supply can’t be sustained across thousands of miles. But the opposite is also true. No army from the other continent could ever subjugate all of Zimroel.”

  “You intend to establish Zimroel as a separate nation, then?”

  “Why not? Why should we be subservient to Alhanroel? What advantage to us is there in being governed by a king and an emperor who live half a world away from us? I will proclaim one of the five brothers, the most intelligent one, as Pontifex of Zimroel. One of the others will be his Coronal. And we will be free of Alhanroel at last.”

  “There is a third continent,” said Barjazid. “Do you have some plan in mind for Suvrael?”

  “No,” said Mandralisca. The question took him by surprise. He realized that he had given Suvrael no thought at all. “But if it cares to make itself independent too, I suppose that could be managed easily enough. Prestimion’s not such a fool as to try to send an army down into your horrifying deserts, and if he did the heat would kill them all in six months, anyway.”

  An avid glitter appeared in Barjazid’s mismatched eyes. “Suvrael would have its own king, then.”

  “It could. It could indeed.” He saw suddenly what Barjazid was driving at, and a broad grin crossed his face. “Bravo, my friend! Bravo! You’ve named the price for your assistance, haven’t you? Khaymak the First of Suvrael! Well, let it be so. I congratulate you, your highness!”

  “I thank you, your grace.” Barjazid gave him a warm smile of appreciation and fellowship. “A Pontifex of Zimroel…a king of Suvrael…And what role do you see for yourself, Count Mandralisca, once these brothers are established on their thrones?”

  “I? I’ll be privy counsellor, as I am now. They’ll continue to need someone to tell them what to do. And I’ll be the one who tells them.”

  “Ah. Yes, of course.”

  “We understand each other, I think.”

  “I think we do. What’s the next move, then?”

  “Why, you have to build us your devilish machines. That’ll allow us to start making life difficult for Prestimion.”

  “Very good. I propose to set up a workshop right away in Ni-moya, and—”

  “No,” Mandralisca said. “Not Ni-moya. Here is where you’ll do your work, your highness.”

  “Here? I’ll need special equipment—materials—skilled workmen, perhaps. In a remote desert outpost like this, I can’t possibly—”

  “You can and will. A Suvraelinu like you shouldn’t have any problem dealing with desert conditions. We’ll bring in whatever you need from Ni-moya. But you have joined us now, my friend. This is your place, now. Here is where you’ll stay, and live and do your work, until the war is won.”

  “You make it seem as though you don’t trust me, your grace.”

  “I trust no one, my friend. Not even myself.”

  14

  Dekkeret returned to the Castle by the quickest route, taking the Grand Calintane Highway, which terminated in the broad open space paved with smooth green porcelain cobblestones that was the Dizimaule Plaza. His floater passed over the huge starburst in golden tilework that lay at its center and carried him through the great Dizimaule Arch, the main entrance to the Castle, the gateway to the southern wing. The guards stationed in the guardhouse on the arch’s left side waved to him as he passed through, and he acknowledged their salute with a brief, stiff one of his own.

  There was an air of barely suppressed tension in the corridors of the Castle as he made his way inward. The faces of those who greeted him at each checkpoint were tightly drawn and solemn; lips were clamped, eyes were hooded.

  “From the look of them all,” he said to Dinitak, “it would be easy enough to believe that the Pontifex has died in the time it took us to get back here from Normork.”

  “You would know it already, I think,” said Dinitak.

  “I suppose I would.”

  Yes. They would be hailing him as Coronal, would they not, if Confalume had died? People kneeling, making the starburst salute, calling out the traditional cry: “Dekkeret! Lord Dekkeret! All hail Lord Dekkeret! Long life to Lord Dekkeret!” Even though he would not truly become Coronal until the Council had given its assent and Prestimion had formally proclaimed him. But everyone knew who the next Coronal was going to be.

  Lord Dekkeret. How strange that sounded to him! How difficult for his mind to encompass!

  “It’s simply a disquieting time for everyone,” Dinitak said. “It must always be this way, when a change of reign is in the air. The old masters leave the Castle; new ones arrive; nothing will be the same again for anyone who lives here.” They were at the threshold of the Inner Castle now. The Ninety-Nine Steps rose before them. There they paused. Dinitak’s rooms were on this level, far off to the left; Dekkeret lived above, in the suite in the Munnerak Tower that once had been occupied by Prestimion. “I should leave you here,” Dinitak said. “You’ll need to meet with the Council—with the Lady Varaile, too, I imagine—”

  “Thank you for accompanying me to
Normork,” Dekkeret said. “For sitting through those deadly banquets, and all the rest.”

  “No need for thanks. I go where you ask me to go.”

  They embraced quickly, and then Dinitak was gone.

  Dekkeret mounted the ancient, well-worn steps two at a time. Lord Dekkeret, he thought. Lord Dekkeret. Lord Dekkeret. Lord Dekkeret. Astonishing. Unbelievable.

  It had not yet happened, though. No new bulletins had come from the Labyrinth since he had received the message summoning him back from Normork. Septach Melayn, the first member of the Council Dekkeret encountered after entering the Inner Castle, was the one who provided him with that news.

  The long-shanked swordsman was waiting for him in the little square outside the Prankipin Treasury, just at the top of the Ninety-Nine Steps. “You made a fast journey of it, Dekkeret! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

  “I left as soon as I got the message. Where’s Prestimion?”

  “Halfway down the Glayge on his way to the Labyrinth, I expect. Came whistling back from Fa the moment we got the news, spent about three minutes with the Lady Varaile, and turned right around and headed south. Wants to pay his respects to old Confalume, you know, while there’s still the chance. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him on the way up.”

  “Then Confalume is still—”

  “Alive? So far as we know, he is,” said Septach Melayn. “Of course, it takes so damned long for us to find anything out up here of what’s going on down below. Phraatakes Rem says the stroke isn’t a serious one.”

  “Can we trust him? It’s in his interest to maintain as long as he can that his master the Pontifex is still running the show. I know of cases where the death of a Pontifex has been covered up for weeks. Months.”

  Septach Melayn said, with a shrug, “Of that, my lad, what can I say? For my own part, I’d prefer that Confalume go on being Pontifex for the next fifty years. I understand that you might very well hold a different position about that.”