Majipoor Chronicles

by Robert Silverberg

  “If I take you,” said Barjazid in a voice altogether lacking in resonance but yet not weak, “you will first sign a quitclaim absolving me of any responsibility to your heirs, in the event of your death.”

  “I have no heirs,” Dekkeret replied.

  “Kinfolk, then. I won’t be hauled into the Pontifical courts by your father or your elder sister because you’ve perished in the desert.”

  “Have you perished in the desert yet?”

  Barjazid looked baffled. “An absurd question.”

  “You go into that desert,” Dekkeret persisted, “and you return alive. Yes? Well then, if you know your trade, you’ll come out alive again this time, and so will I. I’ll do what you do and go where you go. If you live, I live. If I perish, you’ll have perished too, and my family will have no lien.”

  “I can withstand the power of the stealers of dreams,” said Barjazid. “This I know from ample tests. How do you know you’ll prevail over them as readily?” Dekkeret helped himself to a new serving of Barjazid’s tea, a rich infusion brewed from some potent shrub of the sandhills. The two men squatted on mounds of haigus-hide blankets in the musty back-room of a shop belonging to Barjazid’s brother’s son: it was evidently a large clan. Dekkeret sipped the sharp, bitter tea reflectively and said, after a moment, “Who are these dream-stealers?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Shapeshifters, perhaps?”

  Barjazid shrugged. “They have not bothered to tell me their pedigree. Shapeshifters, Ghayrogs, Vroons, ordinary humans—how would I know? In dreams all voices are alike. Certainly there are tribes of Shapeshifters loose in the desert, and some of them are angry folk given to mischief, and perhaps they have the skill of touching minds along with the skill of altering their bodies. Or perhaps not.”

  “If the Shapeshifters have closed two of the three routes out of Tolaghai, the Coronal’s forces have work to do here.”

  “This is no affair of mine.”

  “The Shapeshifters are a subjugated race. They must not be allowed to disrupt the daily flow of life on Majipoor.”

  “It was you who suggested that the dream-stealers were Shapeshifters,” Barjazid pointed out acidly. “I myself have no such theory. And who the dream-stealers are is not important. What is important is that they make the lands beyond Khulag Pass dangerous for travelers.”

  “Why do you go there, then?”

  “I am not likely ever to answer a question that begins with why,” said Barjazid. “I go there because I have reason to go there. Unlike others, I seem to return alive.”

  “Does everyone else who crosses the pass die?”

  “I doubt it. I have no idea. Beyond question many have perished since the dream-stealers first were heard from. At the best of times that desert has been perilous.” Barjazid stirred his tea. He began to appear restless. “If you accompany me, I’ll protect you as best I can. But I make no guarantees for your safety. Which is why I demand that you give me legal absolution from responsibility.”

  Dekkeret said, “If I sign such a paper it would be signing a death warrant. What would keep you from murdering me ten miles beyond the pass, robbing my corpse, and blaming it all on the dream-stealers?”

  “By the Lady, I am no murderer! I am not even a thief!”

  “But to give you a paper saying that if I die on the journey you are not to be blamed—might that not tempt even an honest man beyond all limits?”

  Barjazid’s eyes blazed with fury. He gestured as though to bring the interview to an end. “What goes beyond limits is your audacity,” he said, rising and tossing his cup aside. “Find another guide, if you fear me so much.”

  Dekkeret, remaining seated, said quietly, “I regret the suggestion. I ask you only to see my position: a stranger and a young man in a remote and difficult land, forced to seek the aid of those he does not know to take him into places where improbable things happen. I must be cautious.”

  “Be even more cautious, then. Take the next ship for Stoien and return to the easy life of Castle Mount.”

  “I ask you again to guide me. For a good price, and nothing more about signing a quitclaim to my life. How much is your fee?”

  “Thirty royals,” Barjazid said.

  Dekkeret grunted as though he had been struck below the ribs. It had cost him less than that to sail from Piliplok to Tolaghai. Thirty royals was a year’s wage for someone like Barjazid; to pay it would require Dekkeret to draw on an expensive letter of credit. His impulse was to respond with knightly scorn, and offer ten; but he realized that he had forfeited his bargaining strength by objecting to the quitclaim. If he haggled now over the price as well, Barjazid would simply terminate the negotiations.

  He said at length, “So be it. But no quitclaim.”

  Barjazid gave him a sour look. “Very well. No quitclaim, as you insist.”

  “How is the money to be paid?”

  “Half now, half on the morning of departure.”

  “Ten now,” said Dekkeret, “and ten on the morning of departure, and ten on the day of my return to Tolaghai.”

  “That makes a third of my fee conditional on your surviving the trip. Remember that I make no guarantee of that.”

  “Perhaps my survival becomes more likely if I hold back a third of the fee until the end.”

  “One expects a certain haughtiness from one of the Coronal’s knights, and one learns to ignore it as a mere mannerism, up to a point. But I think you have passed the point.” Once again Barjazid made a gesture of dismissal. “There is too little trust between us. It would be a poor idea for us to travel together.”

  “I meant no disrespect,” said Dekkeret.

  “But you ask me to leave myself to the mercies of your kinfolk if you perish, and you seem to regard me as an ordinary cutthroat or at best a brigand, and you feel it necessary to arrange my fee so that I will have less motivation to murder you.” Barjazid spat. “The other face of haughtiness is courtesy, young knight. A Skandar dragon-hunter would have shown me more courtesy. I did not seek your employ, bear in mind. I will not humiliate myself to aid you. If you please—”

  “Wait.”

  “I have other business this morning.”

  “Fifteen royals now,” said Dekkeret, “and fifteen when we set forth, as you say. Yes?”

  “Even though you think I’ll murder you in the desert?”

  “I became too suspicious because I didn’t want to appear too innocent,” said Dekkeret. “It was tactless for me to have said the things I said. I ask you to hire yourself to me on the terms agreed.”

  Barjazid was silent.

  From his purse Dekkeret drew three five-royal coins. Two were pieces of the old coinage, showing the Pontifex Prankipin with Lord Confalume. The third was a brilliant newly minted one, bearing Confalume as Pontifex and the image of Lord Prestimion on the reverse. He extended them toward Barjazid, who selected the new coin and examined it with great curiosity.

  “I have not seen one of these before,” he said. “Shall we call in my brother’s son for an opinion of its authenticity?”

  It was too much. “Do you take me for a passer of false money?” Dekkeret roared, leaping to his feet and looming ferociously over the small man. Rage throbbed in him; he came close to striking Barjazid.

  But he perceived that the other was altogether fearless and unmoving in the face of his wrath. Barjazid actually smiled, and took the other two coins from Dekkeret’s trembling hand.

  “So you too have little liking for groundless accusations, eh, young knight?” Barjazid laughed. “Let us have a treaty, then. You’ll not expect me to assassinate you beyond Khulag Pass, and I’ll not send your coins out to the money changer’s for an appraisal, eh? Well? Is it agreed?”

  Dekkeret nodded wearily.

  “Nevertheless this is a risky journey,” said Barjazid, “and I would not have you too confident of a safe return. Much depends on your own strength when the time of testing comes.”

  “So be it. When d
o we leave?”

  “Fiveday, at the sunset hour. We depart the city from Pinitor Gate. Is that place known to you?”

  “I’ll find it,” Dekkeret said. “Till Fiveday, at sunset.” He offered the little man his hand.

  5

  FIVEDAY was three days hence. Dekkeret did not regret the delay, for that gave him three more nights with the Archiregimand Golator Lasgia; or so he thought, but in fact it happened otherwise. She was not at her office by the waterfront on the evening of Dekkeret’s meeting with Barjazid, nor would her aides transmit a message to her. He wandered the torrid city disconsolately until long after dark, finding no companionship at all, and ultimately ate a drab and gritty meal at his hotel, still hoping that Golator Lasgia would miraculously appear and whisk him away. She did not, and he slept fitfully and uneasily, his mind obsessed by the memories of her smooth flanks, her small firm breasts, her hungry, aggressive mouth. Toward dawn came a dream, vague and unreadable, in which she and Barjazid and some Hjorts and Vroons performed a complex dance in a roofless sandswept stone ruin, and afterward he fell into a sound sleep, not awakening until midday on Seaday. The entire city appeared to be in hiding then, but when the cooler hours came he went round to the Archiregimand’s office once again, once again not seeing her, and then spent the evening in the same purposeless fashion as the night before. As he gave himself up to sleep he prayed fervently to the Lady of the Isle to send Golator Lasgia to him. But it was not the function of the Lady to do such things, and all that did reach him in the night was a bland and cheering dream, perhaps a gift of the blessed Lady but probably not, in which he dwelled in a thatched hut on the shores of the Great Sea by Til-omon and nibbled on sweet purplish fruits that squirted juice to stain his cheeks. When he awakened he found a Hjort of the Archiregimand’s staff waiting outside his room, to summon him to the presence of Golator Lasgia.

  That evening they dined together late, and went to her villa again, for a night of lovemaking that made their other one seem like a month of chastity. Dekkeret did not ask her at any time why she had refused him these two nights past, but as they breakfasted on spiced gihornaskin and golden wine, both he and she vigorous and fresh after having had no sleep whatever, she said, “I wish I had had more time with you this week, but at least we were able to share your final night. Now you’ll go to the Desert of Stolen Dreams with my taste on your lips. Have I made you forget all other women?”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Good. Good. You may never embrace a woman again; but the last was the best, and few are so lucky as that.”

  “Were you so certain I’ll die in the desert, then?”

  “Few travelers return,” she said. “The chances of my seeing you again are slight.”

  Dekkeret shivered faintly—not out of fear, but in recognition of Golator Lasgia’s inner motive. Some morbidity in her evidently had led her to snub him those two nights, so that the third would be all the more intense, for she must believe that he would be a dead man shortly after and she wanted the special pleasure of being his last woman. That chilled him. If he were going to die before long, Dekkeret would just as soon have had the other two nights with her as well; but apparently the subtleties of her mind went beyond such crass notions. He bade her a courtly farewell, not knowing if they would meet again or even if he wished it, for all her beauty and voluptuary skills. Too much that was mysterious and dangerously capricious lay coiled within her.

  Not long before sunset he presented himself at Pinitor Gate on the city’s southeastern flank. It would not have surprised him if Barjazid had reneged on their agreement, but no, a floater was waiting just outside the pitted sandstone arch of the old gate, and the little man stood leaning against the vehicle’s side. With him were three companions: a Vroon, a Skandar, and a slender, hard-eyed young man who was obviously Barjazid’s son.

  At a nod from Barjazid the giant four-armed Skandar took hold of Dekkeret’s two sturdy bags and stowed them with a casual flip in the floater’s keep. “Her name,” said Barjazid, “is Khaymak Gran. She is unable to speak, but far from stupid. She has served me many years, since I found her tongueless and more than half dead in the desert. The Vroon is Serifain Reinaulion, who often speaks too much, but knows the desert tracks better than anyone of this city.” Dekkeret exchanged brusque salutes with the small tentacular being. “And my son, Dinitak, will also accompany us,” Barjazid said. “Are you well rested, Initiate?”

  “Well enough,” Dekkeret answered. He had slept most of the day, after his unsleeping night.

  “We travel mainly by darkness, and camp in heat of day. My understanding is that I am to take you through Khulag Pass, across the wasteland known as the Desert of Stolen Dreams, and to the edge of the grazing lands around Ghyzyn Kor, where you have certain inquiries to make among the herdsmen. And then back to Tolaghai. Is this so?”

  “Exactly,” Dekkeret said.

  Barjazid made no move to enter the floater. Dekkeret frowned; and then he understood. From his purse he produced three more five-royal pieces, two of them old ones of the Prankipin coinage, the third a shining coin of Lord Prestimion. These he handed to Barjazid, who plucked forth the Prestimion coin and tossed it to his son. The boy eyed the bright coin suspiciously. “The new Coronal,” said Barjazid. “Make yourself familiar with his face. We’ll be seeing it often.”

  “He will have a glorious reign,” said Dekkeret. “He will surpass even Lord Confalume in grandeur. Already a wave of new prosperity sweeps the northern continents, and they were prosperous enough before. Lord Prestimion is a man of vigor and decisiveness, and his plans are ambitious.”

  Barjazid said, with a shrug, “Events on the northern continents carry very little weight here, and somehow prosperity on Alhanroel or Zimroel has a way of mattering hardly at all to Suvrael. But we rejoice that the Divine has blessed us with another splendid Coronal. May he remember, occasionally, that there is a southern land also, and citizens of his realm dwelling in it. Come, now: time to be traveling.”

  6

  THE PINITOR GATE marked an absolute boundary between city and desert. To one side there was a district of low sprawling villas, walled and faceless; to the other was only barren waste beyond the city’s perimeter. Nothing broke the emptiness of the desert but the highway, a broad cobbled track that wound slowly upward toward the crest of the ridge that encircled Tolaghai.

  The heat was intolerable. By night the desert was perceptibly cooler than by day, but scorching all the same. Though the great blazing eye of the sun was gone, the orange sands, radiating the stored heat of the day toward the sky, shimmered and sizzled with the intensity of a banked furnace. A strong wind was blowing—with the coming of the darkness, Dekkeret had noticed, the flow of the wind reversed, blowing now from the heart of the continent toward the sea—but it made no difference: shore-wind or sea-wind, both were oppressive streams of dry baking air that offered no mercies.

  In the clear arid atmosphere the light of the stars and moons was unusually bright, and there was an earthly glow as well, a strange ghostly greenish radiance that rose in irregular patches from the slopes flanking the highway. Dekkeret asked about it. “From certain plants,” said the Vroon. “They shine with an inner light in the darkness. To touch such a plant is always painful and often fatal.”

  “How am I to know them by daylight?”

  “They look like pieces of old string, weathered and worn, sprouting in bunches from clefts in the rock. Not all the plants of such a form are dangerous, but you would do well to avoid any of them.”

  “And any other,” Barjazid put in. “In this desert the plants are well defended, sometimes in surprising ways. Each year our garden teaches us some ugly new secret.”

  Dekkeret nodded. He did not plan to stroll about out there, but if he did, he would make it his rule to touch nothing.

  The floater was old and slow, the grade of the highway steep. Through the broiling night the car labored unhurriedly onward. There was little conversat
ion within. The Skandar drove, with the Vroon beside her, and occasionally Serifain Reinaulion made some comment on the condition of the road; in the rear compartment the two Barjazids sat silently, leaving Dekkeret alone to stare with growing dismay at the infernal landscape. Under the merciless hammers of the sun the ground had a beaten, broken look. Such moisture as winter had brought this land had long ago been sucked forth, leaving gaunt, angular fissures. The surface of the ground was pockmarked where the unceasing winds had strafed it with sand particles, and the plants, low and sparsely growing things, were of many varieties but all appeared twisted, tortured, gnarled, and knobby. To the heat Dekkeret gradually found himself growing accustomed: it was simply there, like one’s skin, and after a time one came to accept it. But the deathly ugliness of all that he beheld, the dry rough spiky uncaring bleakness of everything, numbed his soul. A landscape that was hateful was a new concept to him, almost an inconceivable one. Wherever he had gone on Majipoor he had known only beauty. He thought of his home city of Normork spread along the crags of the Mount, with its winding boulevards and its wondrous stone wall and its gentle midnight rains. He thought of the giant city of Stee higher on the Mount, where once he had walked at dawn in a garden of trees no taller than his ankle, with leaves of a green hue that dazzled his eyes. He thought of High Morpin, that glimmering miracle of a city devoted wholly to pleasure, that lay almost in the shadow of the Coronal’s awesome castle atop the Mount. And the rugged forested wilds of Khyntor, and the brilliant white towers of Ni-moya, and the sweet meadows of the Glayge Valley—how beautiful a world this is, Dekkeret thought, and what marvels it holds, and how terrible this place I find myself in now!

  He told himself that he must alter his values and strive to discover the beauties of this desert, or else it would paralyze his spirit. Let there be beauty in utter dryness, he thought, and beauty in menacing angularity, and beauty in pockmarks, and beauty in ragged plants that shine with a pale green glow by night. Let spiky be beautiful, let bleak be beautiful, let harsh be beautiful. For what is beauty, Dekkeret asked himself, if not a learned response to things beheld? Why is a meadow intrinsically more beautiful than a pebbled desert? Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder; therefore re-educate your eye, Dekkeret, lest the ugliness of this land kill you.