Lord Valentine's Castle: Book One of the Majipoor Cycle

by Robert Silverberg

  “Why do you think you would have lost me,” she asked, “if the Skandar had insisted on letting you go?”

  He smiled. “I thank you for that, too. And now I should go down to the cabbage-tree grove, and tell Shanamir to return the mounts that he’s stolen for us.”

  4

  In the next few days the landscape began to grow surpassingly strange, and Valentine had more cause for gladness that he and Shanamir had not tried to proceed by themselves.

  The district between Dulorn and the next major city, Mazadone, was relatively thinly populated. Much of it, according to Deliamber, was a royal forest preserve. That bothered Zalzan Kavol, for jugglers would not find employment in forest preserves, nor, for that matter, in low-lying swampy farmland occupied mainly by rice paddies and lusavender-seed plantations; but there was no choice but to follow the main forest highway, since nothing more promising lay to the north or south. On they went, in generally humid and drizzly weather, through a region of villages and farms and occasional thick stands of the fat-trunked comical cabbage trees, short and squat, with massive white fruits sprouting directly from their bark. But as Mazadone Forest Preserve drew closer, the cabbage trees gave way to dense thickets of singing ferns, yellow-fronded and glassy of texture, that emitted piercing discordant sounds whenever they were approached, shrill high-pitched bings and twangs and bleeps, nasty screeches and scrapes. That would not have been so bad—the unmelodious song of the ferns had a certain raucous charm, Valentine thought—but the fern thickets were inhabited by bothersome small creatures far more disagreeable than the plants, little toothy winged rodents known as dhiims that came flapping up out of hiding every time the proximity of the wagon touched off the fern-song. The dhiims were about the length and breadth of a small finger, and were covered by fine golden fur; they arose in such numbers that they clouded the air, and swarmed about indignantly, sometimes nipping with their tiny but effective incisors. The thickly furred Skandars up front in the driver’s seat largely ignored them, merely swatting at them when they clustered too close, but the usually stolid mounts were bothered, and balked in the traces several times. Shanamir, sent out to placate the animals, suffered half a dozen painful bites; and as he scurried back into the wagon a good many dhiims entered with him. Sleet took a frightening nip on his cheek near his left eye, and Valentine, beset by dozens of infuriated creatures at once, was bitten on both arms. Carabella methodically destroyed the dhiims with a stiletto used in the juggling act, skewering them with single-minded determination and great skill, but it was an ugly half hour before the last of them was dead.

  Beyond the territory of the dhiims and the singing ferns, the travelers entered into a region of curious appearance, a broad open area of meadows out of which rose hundreds of black granite needles just a few feet wide and perhaps eighty feet high, natural obelisks left behind by some unfathomable geological event. To Valentine it was a region of delicate beauty; to Zalzan Kavol it was merely one more place to pass quickly through, en route to the next festival where jugglers might be hired; but to Autifon Deliamber it seemed something else, a place giving sign of possible menace. The Vroon leaned forward, staring keenly for a long moment through the wagon’s windows at the obelisks. “Wait,” he called finally to Zalzan Kavol.

  “What is it?”

  “I want to check something. Let me out.”

  Zalzan Kavol grunted impatiently and tugged on the reins. Deliamber scrambled from the wagon, moving in his supple ropy-limbed Vroonish glide toward the odd rock formations, disappearing among them, coming occasionally into view as he zigzagged from one thin pinnacle to the next.

  When he returned, Deliamber looked glum and apprehensive.

  “See there,” he said, pointing. “Do you make out vines far up, stretched from that rock to that, and from that to that, and on over to there? And some small animals crawling about on the vines?”

  Valentine could just barely discern a network of slender glossy red lines high on the pinnacles, forty or fifty feet or more above the ground. And yes, half a dozen apelike beasts moving from obelisk to obelisk like acrobats, swinging freely by hands and feet.

  “It looks like birdnet vine,” said Zalzan Kavol in a puzzled tone.

  “It is,” Deliamber said.

  “But why do they not stick to it? What are those animals, anyway?”

  “Forest-brethren,” the Vroon answered. “Do you know of them?”

  “Tell me.”

  “They are troublesome. A wild tribe, native to central Zimroel, not usually found this far west. The Metamorphs are known to hunt them for food or perhaps for sport, I’m not sure which. They have intelligence, though of a low order, something greater than dogs or droles, less than civilized folk. Their gods are dwikka-trees; they have some sort of tribal structure; they know how to use poisoned darts, and cause problems for wayfarers. Their sweat contains an enzyme that makes them immune to the stickiness of birdnet vine, which they employ for many purposes.”

  “If they annoy us,” Zalzan Kavol declared, “we will destroy them. Onward!”

  Once past the region of the obelisks they saw no further traces of forest-brethren that day. But on the next, Deliamber once again spied ribbons of birdnet vine in the treetops, and a day after that the travelers, now deep in the forest preserve, came upon a grove of trees of truly colossal mass, which, the Vroonish wizard said, were dwikkas, sacred to the forest-brethren. “This explains their presence so far from Metamorph territory,” said Deliamber. “These must be a migrating band, come west to pay homage in this forest.”

  The dwikkas were awesome. There were five of them, set far apart in otherwise empty fields. Their trunks, covered with bright red bark that grew in distinct plates with deep fissures between, were greater in diameter than the long axis of Zalzan Kavol’s wagon; and though they were not particularly tall, no higher than a hundred feet or so, their mighty limbs, each as thick as the trunk of an ordinary tree, spread out to such a distance that whole legions might take shelter under the dwikka’s gigantic canopy. On stalks as thick as a Skandar’s thigh sprouted the leaves, great leathery black things the size of a house, that drooped heavily, casting an impenetrable shade. And from each branch hung suspended two or three elephantine yellowish fruits, bumpy irregular globes a good twelve or fifteen feet in width. One of them had recently fallen, it appeared, from the nearest tree—perhaps on a rainy day when the ground was soft, for its weight had dug a shallow crater in which it lay, split apart, revealing large glistening many-angled black seeds in the mass of scarlet pulp.

  Valentine could understand why these trees were gods to the forest-brethren. They were vegetable monarchs, imperious, commanding. He was quite willing to sink to his knees before them himself.

  Deliamber said, “The fruit is tasty. Intoxicating, in fact, to the human metabolism and to some others.”

  “To Skandars?” asked Zalzan Kavol.

  “To Skandars, yes.”

  Zalzan Kavol laughed. “We’ll try it. Erfon! Thelkar! Gather pieces of the fruit for us!”

  Nervously Deliamber said, “The talismans of the forest-brethren are embedded in the ground before each tree. They’ve been here recently, and might return, and if they find us desecrating the grove, they will attack, and their darts can kill.”

  “Sleet, Carabella, stand guard to the left. Valentine, Shanamir, Vinorkis, over there. Cry out if you see even one of the little apes.” Zalzan Kavol gestured at his brothers. “Collect the fruit for us,” he ordered. “Haern, you and I will defend the situation from here. Wizard, remain with us.” Zalzan Kavol took two energy-throwers from a rack and gave one to his brother Haern.

  Deliamber clucked and muttered in disapproval. “They move like ghosts, they come out of nowhere—”

  “Enough,” said Zalzan Kavol.

  Valentine took up a lookout position fifty yards ahead of the wagon, and peered warily beyond the last of the dwikka-trees into the dark, mysterious forest. He expected to have a fatal dart come wi
nging toward him at any moment. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Erfon Kavol and Thelkar, carrying a big wicker basket between them, made their way toward the fallen fruit, pausing every few steps to look in all directions. When they reached it, they began cautiously to edge around to the far side of it.

  “What if a bunch of forest-brethren are sitting behind that thing right now,” Shanamir asked, “having a little feast? Suppose Thelkar stumbles over them and—”

  A tremendous and terrifying whoop and a roar, such as might come from an outraged bull bidlak interrupted in its mating, erupted from the vicinity of the dwikka-fruit. Erfon Kavol, looking panic-stricken, came galloping back into view and rushed toward the wagon, followed a moment later by an equally daunted Thelkar.

  “Beasts!” cried a ferocious voice. “Pigs and fathers of pigs! Rape a woman enjoying her lunch, will you? I’ll teach you to rape! I’ll fix you, so you’ll never rape again! Stand your ground, hairy animals! Stand, I say, stand!”

  Out from behind the dwikka-fruit came the largest human woman Valentine had ever seen, a creature so vast she was a proper companion to these trees, and seemed perfectly in scale with them. She stood close to seven feet tall, perhaps more, and her gigantic body was a mountain of flesh rising on legs as sturdy as pillars. A close-fitting shirt and gray leather trousers were her garments, and the shirt was open nearly to the waist, revealing huge jouncing globes of breasts the size of a man’s head. Her hair was a mop of wild orange curls; her blazing eyes were pale piercing blue. She carried a vibration-sword of imposing length, which she swung about her with such force that Valentine, a hundred feet away, could feel the breeze it stirred. Her cheeks and breasts were smeared with the scarlet juice of the dwikka-fruit’s meat.

  In weighty strides she thundered toward the wagon, crying rape and demanding vengeance.

  “What is this?” Zalzan Kavol asked, looking as bemused as Valentine had ever seen him. He glared at his brothers. “What did you do to her?”

  “We never touched her,” said Efron Kavol. “We were looking for forest-brethren back there, and Thelkar came upon her unexpectedly, and stumbled, and caught her arm to steady himself—”

  “You said you never touched her,” Zalzan Kavol snapped.

  “Not that way. It was only an accident, a stumble.”

  “Do something,” Zalzan Kavol said hastily to Deliamber, for the giant woman was almost upon them now.

  The Vroon, looking pale and cheerless, stepped in front of the wagon and lifted many tentacles toward the apparition that towered, almost Skandar-high, above him.

  “Peace,” Deliamber said mildly to the onrushing giantess. “We mean you no harm.” As he spoke he gestured with manic purposefulness, casting some sort of pacifying spell that manifested itself as a faint bluish glow in the air before him. The huge woman appeared to respond to it, for she slowed her advance and managed to come to a halt a few feet from the wagon.

  There she stood, sullenly whipping the vibration-sword back and forth at her side. After a moment she pulled her shirt together in front, fastening it inadequately. Glowering at the Skandars, she indicated Erfon and Thelkar and said in a deep booming voice, “What were those two planning to do to me?”

  Deliamber replied, “They had simply gone to collect pieces of the dwikka-fruit. See the basket they were carrying?”

  “We had no idea you were there,” Thelkar murmured. “We walked around behind the fruit to check for hidden forest-brethren, is all.”

  “And fell upon me like the oaf you are, and would have violated me if I hadn’t been armed, eh?”

  “I lost my footing,” Thelkar insisted. “There was no intention of molesting you. I was on guard for forest-brethren, and when instead I encountered someone of your size—”

  “What? More insults?”

  Thelkar took a deep breath. “That is to say—it was unexpected when I—when you—”

  Erfon Kavol said, “We had no thought—”

  Valentine, who had been observing all of this in gathering amusement, now came over and said, “If they were minded for rape, would they have attempted it in front of so large an audience? We are of your kind here. We wouldn’t have tolerated it.” He indicated Carabella. “That woman is as fierce in her way as you are in yours, my lady. Be assured that if these Skandars had tried to do you any injury, she alone would have prevented it. It was a simple misunderstanding, nothing more. Put down your weapon and feel no peril among us.”

  The giantess looked somewhat soothed by the courtliness and charm of Valentine’s speech. Slowly she lowered the vibration-sword, allowing it to go inert, and fastened it at her hip.

  “Who are you?” she asked querulously. “What is all this procession traveling here?”

  “My name is Valentine, and we are traveling jugglers, and this Skandar is Zalzan Kavol, the master of our troupe.”

  “And I am Lisamon Hultin,” the giantess responded, “who hires as bodyguard and warrior, though there’s been little of that lately.”

  “And we are wasting time,” said Zalzan Kavol, “and should be on our way, if we are properly forgiven for having intruded on your repose.”

  Lisamon Hultin nodded brusquely. “Yes, be on your way. But are you aware this is dangerous territory?”

  “Forest-brethren?” Valentine asked.

  “All over the place. The woods are thick with them, just ahead.”

  “And yet you feel no fear of them?” Deliamber remarked.

  “I speak their language,” Lisamon Hultin said. “I have negotiated a private treaty with them. Do you think I’d dare be munching on dwikka-fruit otherwise? I may be fat but not between the ears, little sorcerer.” She stared at Zalzan Kavol. “Where are you bound?”

  “Mazadone,” replied the Skandar.

  “Mazadone? Is there work for you in Mazadone?”

  “We hope to learn that,” Zalzan Kavol said.

  “There’s nothing for you there. I come from Mazadone just now. The duke is lately dead and three weeks of mourning have been decreed in the entire province. Or do you jugglers perform at funerals?”

  Zalzan Kavol’s face darkened. “No work in Mazadone? No work in the whole province? We have expenses to meet! We have already gone unpaid since Dulorn! What will we do?”

  Lisamon Hultin spat out a chunk of dwikka-fruit pulp. “That’s no sorrow of mine. Anyway, you can’t get to Mazadone.”

  “What?”

  “Forest-brethren. They’ve blocked the road a few miles ahead. Asking tribute of wayfarers, I think, something absurd like that. They won’t let you through. Lucky if they don’t fill you with their darts.”

  “They’ll let us through!” Zalzan Kavol exclaimed.

  The warrior-woman shrugged. “Not without me, they won’t.”

  “You?”

  “I told you, I speak their language. I can buy you a way through, with a little haggling. Are you interested? Five royals ought to do it.”

  “What use do forest-brethren have for money?” the Skandar asked.

  “Oh, not for them,” she said airily. “Five for me. I’ll offer other things to them. Deal?”

  “Absurd. Five royals is a fortune!”

  “I don’t bargain,” she said evenly. “There is honor in my profession. Good luck on the road ahead.” She favored Thelkar and Erfon Kavol with a frigid stare. “If you wish, you may have some of the dwikka-fruit before you go. But better not be munching on it when you meet the brethren!”

  She turned with massive dignity and walked to the great fruit beneath the tree. Drawing her sword, she hacked off three large chunks and shoved them disdainfully toward the two Skandars, who somewhat uneasily nudged them into the wicker basket.

  Zalzan Kavol said, “Into the wagon, all of you! We have a long way to Mazadone!”

  “You won’t travel far today,” said Lisamon Hultin, and released a gale of derisive laughter. “You’ll be back here soon enough—if you survive!”

  5

  The poisoned darts of
the forest-brethren preoccupied Valentine for the next few miles. Sudden horrible death held no appeal for him, and the woods were thick and mysterious, with vegetation of a primordial sort, fern-trees with silvery spore-sheaths and glassy-textured horsetails a dozen feet high and thickets of bunch-fungus, pale and pocked with brown craters. In a place of such strangeness anything might happen, and probably would.

  But the juice of the dwikka-fruit eased tensions mightily. Vinorkis sliced up one huge chunk and passed cubes of it around: it was piercingly sweet of flavor and granular in texture, dissolving quickly against the tongue, and whatever alkaloids it contained went swiftly through the blood to the brain, faster than the strongest wine. Valentine felt warm and cheerful. He slouched back in the passenger cabin, one arm around Carabella, the other around Shanamir. Up front, Zalzan Kavol evidently was more relaxed as well, for he stepped up the pace of the wagon, pushing it to a rollicking speed not much in keeping with his dour, cautious practices. The usually self-contained Sleet, slicing up more dwikka-fruit, began to sing a rowdy song:

  Lord Barhold came to Belka Strand

  With crown and chain and pail.

  He meant to force old Gornup’s hand

  And make him eat his—

  The wagon pulled suddenly to a halt, so suddenly that Sleet lurched forward and came close to falling into Valentine’s lap, and a slab of soft wet dwikka-fruit smacked into Valentine’s face. Laughing and blinking, he wiped himself clean. When he could see again, he found that everyone was gathered at the front of the wagon, peering out between the Skandars on the driver’s seat.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Birdnet vine,” said Vinorkis, sounding quite sober. “Blocking the road. The giantess told the truth.”