But no. Dantirya Sambail was all smiles and twinkles, as if this were some charming inn where he had taken up lodging, and Lord Prestimion were his guest this day.
To Navigorn Prestimion said, “Unlock his shackles.”
After a moment’s hesitation Navigorn obeyed. Prestimion held himself poised and ready in case Dantirya Sambail’s joviality should turn instantly to wrath once his bonds were taken from him. But the Procurator remained where he was on the other side of the room, standing between the long, low couch and a desk of curving contours on which half a dozen books were casually stacked. He seemed utterly at ease. Prestimion knew only too well, though, what roiling fires roared through his kinsman’s soul.
The calm, unflickering pale-green glow flowed steadily from the walls. It swathed and enfolded everything in a cool benign presence. “I’m pleased to see that your chamber is a pleasant one, cousin. There are worse accommodations to be had in these tunnels, I think.”
“Are there, Prestimion? I wouldn’t know about that.—But yes, yes, quite pleasant. The delicate viridescence that comes from the walls. This fine furniture; these charming flagstone floors across which I stroll during my daily walks from that side of the room to this. You could have been far less kind.”
The voice was a purr; but there was no mistaking the rage that lay just beneath.
Prestimion studied Dantirya Sambail with care. He had not looked upon the Procurator’s face since that horrific day at Thegomar Edge, when, with Korsibar already beaten and very likely dead, Dantirya Sambail had presented himself before him with a sword in one hand and a farmer’s hatchet in the other, and challenged him to single combat with the throne as the prize. And had come close to striking him down before Prestimion, although bruised by a flat-sided blow in the ribs, prevailed with a sudden quick thrust of his rapier that cut the tendon of the arm holding the axe, and another that sliced a bloody line across the Procurator’s sword-arm. There were signs that Dantirya Sambail was wearing poultices on those wounds beneath his loose, billowing blouse of golden silk even now, though they must be nearly healed.
The Procurator was splendid in his ugliness: a heavy-bodied man of middle years, with a massive head set atop a thick neck and heavy shoulders. His face was pale, but spotted everywhere with a horde of brilliant red freckles. His hair was orange in hue, rank and coarse, forming a dense fringe around the high curving dome of his forehead. His chin was a powerful jutting one, his nose broad and fleshy, his mouth wide and savage, drawn far out to its corners. It was the face of some dire beast. But out of it stared strangely gentle violet-gray eyes, eyes improbably warm with tenderness and compassion and love. The contrast between the sensitivity of those eyes and the ferocity of his features was the most frightful thing about him: it marked him as a man who encompassed the whole range of human emotion and was willing to take any position at all in the service of his implacable desires.
He stood now in his customary posture, his great head thrust forward, his chest inflated defiantly, his short thick legs splayed apart to provide him with a base of maximum stability. Dantirya Sambail was ever in a mode of attack, even when at rest. In his native continent of Zimroel he had ruled virtually as an independent monarch from the vast city of Ni-moya over a domain of enormous size; but he had not been content with that, it seemed, and hungered for the throne of Majipoor also, or at least the right to name the man who held it. He and Prestimion were distant relatives, third cousins twice removed. They had always pretended to a cordiality between them that neither of them felt.
Some moments went by, and Prestimion did not speak.
Then Dantirya Sambail said, still in that quiet sardonic tone of formidable self-control, “Would you do me the honor, my lord, of telling me how much longer you plan to offer me your hospitality in this place?”
“That has not yet been determined, Dantirya Sambail.”
“There are duties of state awaiting me in Zimroel.”
“Undoubtedly so. But the question of your guilt and punishment must be answered first, before I can allow you to resume them. If ever I do.”
“Ah,” said Dantirya Sambail gravely, as though they were discussing the making of fine wines, or the breeding of bidlak bulls. “The question of my guilt, you say. And my punishment. What is it, then, that I’m guilty of? And what punishment, precisely, do you have in mind for me? Eh, my lord? It would be kind of you to explain these little things to me, I think.”
Prestimion gave Navigorn a quick sidelong glance. “I’d like to speak with the Procurator privately a moment, Navigorn.”
Navigorn frowned. He was armed; Prestimion was not. He shot a glance toward Dantirya Sambail’s discarded fetters. But Prestimion shook his head. Navigorn went out.
If Dantirya Sambail meant to attack him, Prestimion thought, this was the moment. The Procurator was bulkier by far than the relatively slight Prestimion and stood half a head taller. He seemed, though, to have no such madness in mind. He held himself as aggressively as before, but remained where he was, far across the room, his deceptively beautiful amethyst eyes regarding Prestimion with what looked like nothing more than amiable curiosity.
“I’m perfectly willing to believe that I’ve committed dreadful deeds, if you say I have,” said Dantirya Sambail equably, when the cell door had closed. “And if I have, why, then I suppose I should suffer some penalty for them. But why is it that I know nothing about them?”
Prestimion remained silent. He realized that his silence was beginning to extend too far. But this was all even more difficult than he had anticipated.
“Well?” Dantirya Sambail said, after a time. There was an edge on his tone, now. “Will you tell me, cousin, why it is that you’ve put me away down here? For what cause, by what law? I’ve committed no crime that merits any of this. Can it be just on the general suspicion that I’ll make some sort of trouble for you, now that you’re Coronal, that you’ve jailed me?”
Further procrastination was impossible. “It’s well known from one end of the world to the other, cousin,” said Prestimion, “that you’re a perpetual danger to the security of the realm and to the man who sits on the throne, whoever he may be. But that’s not the reason why you’re here.”
“And what is, then?”
“You are imprisoned not for anything you might do, but for things you have done. Namely, acts of treason against the crown and violence against my person.”
A look of total bewilderment crossed Dantirya Sambail’s face at that. He gaped and blinked and lowered his head as though the weight of it was suddenly too much for him to carry. Prestimion had never seen him look so utterly dumfounded. For a moment he felt something very close to sympathy for the man.
Hoarsely the Procurator said, “Are you insane, cousin?”
“Far from it. The peace was breached. Unlawful deeds were done. You happen to be without awareness of the sins of which you’re guilty, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean that they weren’t committed.”
“Ah,” said Dantirya Sambail again, without even the most minimal show of comprehension.
“There are wounds on your body, are there not? One here, and one here?” Prestimion touched his left armpit, and then ran his hand along the inside of his other arm from elbow to wrist.
“Yes,” said the Procurator grudgingly. “I meant to ask you about—”
“You received those wounds at my hands, when you and I fought on the field of battle.”
Dantirya Sambail slowly shook his head. “I don’t have any recollection of that. No. No. Such a thing never happened. You are insane, Prestimion. By the Divine! I’m the prisoner of a madman.”
“On the contrary, cousin. Everything that I tell you here is true. There were acts of treason; there was strife between us; I barely escaped with my life. Any other Coronal would have sentenced you to death for what you did without hesitating as long as a moment. For some unfathomable reason, perhaps growing out of our kinship, such as it is, I find myself unwilling to do that.
But neither can I set you free—at least not without some understanding between us of your unquestioning loyalty henceforth. And would I trust that, even if you gave it?”
Color was coming to Dantirya Sambail’s face now, so that his myriad freckles stood out like the fiery marks of some irascible pox. His fingers were curling fretfully in a gesture of frustration and rising anger. An odd growling sound, distant and indistinct, seemed to be coming from the depths of his huge chest. It reminded Prestimion of nothing so much than the growl of the caged krokkotas in the midnight market of Bombifale. But Dantirya Sambail did not speak. Could not, perhaps, just then.
Prestimion went on: “The situation’s a very strange one, Dantirya Sambail. You have no knowledge of your crimes, that I know. But you should believe me when I tell you that you are guilty of them nevertheless.”
“My memory has been tampered with, is that the story?”
“I’ll not respond to that.”
“Then it has been. Why was that? How could you dare? Prestimion, Prestimion, Prestimion, do you think you’re a god of some sort, and I nothing more than an ant, that you can feel free to hurl me into prison under trumped-up charges, and to meddle with my mind in the bargain?—But enough of this farce. You want my loyalty? You can have as much of it as you deserve. I’ve been incredibly patient, Prestimion, all these days or weeks or months, or however long it is that you’ve had me in this place. Let me out of here, cousin, or there’ll be war between us. I have my supporters, you know, and they’re not few in number.”
“There has already been war between us, cousin. I keep you here to make certain that there never will be again.”
“Without trial? Without so much as lodging a charge against me, except this vague mumbling about treason, and crimes against your person?” Dantirya Sambail had recovered his poise, Prestimion saw. The baffled look was gone from him, and so, too, was the outward show of fury. He had his old terrible calmness back, the calmness that Prestimion knew to hide volcanic forces kept under control by ferocious inner strength. “Ah, Prestimion, you vex me greatly. I would lose my temper, I think, if not for my certain feeling that you’ve taken leave of your senses, and that it’s folly to be angry with a madman.”
A predicament. Prestimion pondered it. Should he tell the Procurator the full truth of the great obliteration? No, no: he would simply be handing Dantirya Sambail an unsheathed blade and telling him to strike. The tale of what had been done to the world’s memory was a secret that must never be revealed.
Nor could he lock Dantirya Sambail up in here indefinitely without bringing him to trial. The Procurator had not been speaking idly when he said he had his supporters. Dantirya Sambail’s power spread far and wide over the other continent. Quite conceivably Prestimion might find himself embroiled before long in a second civil war, this one between Zimroel and Alhanroel, if he went on holding the Procurator without explanation in this seemingly arbitrary and even tyrannical way.
But a man lacking all awareness of his crimes could not be brought fairly to justice for committing them. That was a puzzle of Prestimion’s own making. And he was, he realized, as far from a resolution of it as ever.
The time had come to withdraw, to regroup, to seek the counsel of his friends.
“I had a man who stood by my side to serve me,” Dantirya Sambail was saying. “Mandralisca was his name. Good and true and loyal, he was. Where is he, Prestimion? I’d like him sent to me, if I am to be kept here longer. He tasted my food for me, you know, to be sure there was no poison in it. I miss his wondrous jollity. Send him to me, Prestimion.”
“Yes, and the two of you can sing merry songs together all the night long, is that it?”
It was almost comical to hear Dantirya Sambail calling the poison-taster Mandralisca jolly. Him, that thin-lipped hard-eyed villain, that spawn of demons, that stark skull-and-crossbones of a man?
But Prestimion had no intention of bringing those two scorpions together. Mandralisca too had played an evil role at Thegomar Edge, and had been hauled in, wounded and a prisoner, spewing venom with every breath, after engaging Abrigant in a duel. He was in another cell, much less pleasant than Dantirya Sambail’s, in another part of the tunnels. And there he would stay.
This conversation was leading nowhere. Moving toward the door, Prestimion said, “I bid you farewell, cousin. We’ll speak again another time.”
The Procurator gaped at him. “What? What? Did you come here simply to mock me, Prestimion?”
There was that rumbling krokkotas growl again. There was untrammeled rage on Dantirya Sambail’s face, though the strange eyes were as soft and gentle as ever within the contorted mask of fury. Coolly Prestimion opened the cell door, stepped through, closed it just as Dantirya Sambail began to lurch toward him with upraised arms.
“Prestimion!” the Procurator cried, hammering clangorously against the door as it slammed in his face. “Prestimion! Damn you, Prestimion!”
9
It was rare for any travelers to approach the Castle by the northwestern road, which came up the back side of the Mount by way of the High City of Huine, and thence to the road known as the Stiamot Highway, a wide but poorly maintained thoroughfare, old and rutted, that reached the Castle at the infrequently used Vaisha Gate. The usual way to go was through the gently rising plateau of Bombifale Plain to High Morpin, and up the ten flower-bordered miles of the Grand Calintane Highway to the Castle’s main entrance at the Dizimaule Plaza.
But someone was definitely coming up the northwestern road today—a little group of vehicles, four of them, moving slowly, with a particularly bizarre one at the head of the procession. That one was a sight of such surpassing strangeness that the young guard captain who had been stuck with the dreary assignment of patrolling the Vaisha Gate station gasped in wonder as it came into view, seven or eight turns below him along the winding road. He stood agog a moment, not believing the evidence of his eyes. A huge flat-bed wagon of strange antique design, it was, so broad it filled the width of Stiamot Highway from one shoulder to the other—and that fluid, rippling wall of light surrounding it on all sides with a cold white pulsing glow—that cargo of dimly glimpsed monsters, half hidden behind that shield of dizzying brightness—
The captain of guards at Vaisha Gate was twenty years old, a man of Amblemorn at the foot of Castle Mount. His training had not fitted him for dealing with anything remotely like this. He turned to his subaltern, a boy from Pendiwane in the flatlands of the Glayge Valley. “Who’s the officer of the day today?”
“Akbalik.”
“Find him, fast. Tell him his presence is required out here.”
The boy went sprinting inside. But finding anyone in the virtually infinite maze of the Castle was far from an easy task, even the officer of the day, who was supposed to make himself readily accessible. Some thirty minutes went by before the boy returned, Akbalik in tow. By then the flat-bed wagon had pulled up in the spacious gravel-strewn tract in front of the gate; the three floaters that had accompanied it in its journey up the Mount were parked beside it; and the captain of guards from Amblemorn found himself in the extraordinary situation of standing with drawn sword against no less a figure than the formidable warrior Gialaurys, Grand Admiral of the Realm. Half a dozen grim-faced men, Gialaurys’s companions, were arrayed just behind him, frozen into positions of imminent attack.
Akbalik, the nephew of Prince Serithorn and a man much respected for his common sense and steady nature, took the scene in quickly. With no more than a single startled blink at the cargo of the wagon he said in a crisp voice to the guard captain, “You can put your weapon down, Mibikihur. Don’t you recognize the Admiral Gialaurys?”
“Everyone knows the lord Gialaurys, sir. But look at what he’s got with him! He has no permit to bring wild animals into the Castle. Even the lord Gialaurys needs a permit before he can drive a wagonload of things like this inside!”
Akbalik’s cool gray eyes surveyed the wagon. He had never seen a vehicle so big. N
or had he seen, ever before, such creatures as were being transported in it.
It was difficult to make them out, for they were constrained from leaving the wagon by some kind of bright curtain of energy that completely encircled it—a curtain that was like a sheet of lightning rising from the ground, but lightning that stayed and stayed and stayed. It seemed to Akbalik that lesser energy-walls within the wagon divided the creatures one from another. And those creatures—those revolting, hideous monsters!—
Gialaurys seemed in high fury. He stood with clenched fists, his great-muscled arms rippling with barely contained strength, and the look of rage on his face could have melted rock. “Where is Septach Melayn, Akbalik? I sent word ahead for him to meet me at the gate! Why are you here, and not him?”
Imperturbably Akbalik said, “I came because I was summoned by a guardsman, Gialaurys. A truckload of weird monsters was coming up the highway to the Castle, I was told, and these men here hadn’t been given any instructions to expect such a thing, and they wanted to know what to do.—By the Lady, Gialaurys, what are these beasts?”
“Pets to amuse his lordship,” Gialaurys said. “I captured them for him out Kharax way. More than that is of no immediate to concern to you or anyone else.—Septach Melayn was supposed to receive me here! This cargo of mine needs to be properly stowed, and I charged him with the task of arranging it. I ask you again, Akbalik, where is Septach Melayn?”
“Septach Melayn is here,” came the light, easy voice of the swordsman, appearing just then at the Castle’s gate. “Your message was a little slow getting to me, Gialaurys, and by error I came by way of Spurifon Parapet, which took me somewhat out of the way.” Languidly he strolled through the gate and gave Gialaurys a quick, affectionate tap on the shoulder by way of welcome. Then he stared into the wagon. “These are what were running loose in Kharax?” he said, in a voice congested with astonishment. “These, Gialaurys?”
Lord Prestimion Page 10
