Lord Prestimion

by Robert Silverberg

  Vologaz Sar looked uncertain and just a trifle alarmed. “And that is—?”

  Septach Melayn smiled. One could focus on matters of high politics only so long. He was determined to put the tensions of this meeting behind him as quickly as he could. “The name of the merchant,” he said, “who provided you with the fabric for that delightful robe.”

  Two more appointments remained on his afternoon calendar, and then he was free.

  The first was with Akbalik, whom Prestimion, just before his departure for the east-country, had named as a special emissary to far Zimroel, with the thought of posting a reliable man in Ni-moya to look out for signs of unrest among the followers of Dantirya Sambail. Akbalik was ready now to begin his journey. He had come to the Coronal’s office today so that Septach Melayn, as regent, could sign his official papers of rank.

  Somewhat to Septach Melayn’s surprise, Akbalik had the new knight-initiate Dekkeret with him, the big, husky protégé whom Prestimion had discovered during his trip to Normork. Evidently this was Dekkeret’s first visit to this suite of royal power, for he looked about in undisguised wonder at the magnificent central room, the great palisander desk, the huge window looking out into the infinite sky, the marvelous inlaid patterns of rare woods that formed a huge starburst pattern in the floor.

  Septach Melayn threw Akbalik an interrogatory frown. No one had told him that Akbalik would be bringing Dekkeret here. Akbalik said, with a gesture toward the young man, “I’d like to take him with me to Zimroel. Do you think the Coronal would mind?”

  Wickedly Septach Melayn said, “Ah, have you two become such good friends so soon?”

  Akbalik did not seem amused. “It’s nothing like that, and you know it, Septach Melayn.”

  “What is it, then? Is the boy in need of a holiday already? He’s only begun his training here.”

  “This would be part of his training,” said Akbalik. “He’s asked if he could accompany me, and I think it might be a good thing for him. It’s healthy for a young initiate to acquire some understanding of what it’s really like out there beyond Castle Mount, you know. To experience an ocean voyage, to get a feel for the true size of the world. To see such a spectacular place as Ni-moya, also. And to observe how the machinery of the government actually works across such immense distances as we have to deal with.”

  Turning toward Dekkeret, Septach Melayn said, “Immense distances, yes. Do you realize, boy, that you’ll be away nine months, maybe a year? Can you spare that much time from your studies, do you think?”

  “Lord Prestimion said in Normork that I was to have accelerated training. A trip like this would surely accelerate it, sir.”

  “Yes. I suppose it would.” Septach Melayn shrugged. Would Prestimion mind, he wondered, if the boy were to vanish into Zimroel for a year? How was he supposed to know? For the thousandth time he cursed Prestimion for having loaded all this decision-making on him. Well, it had been Prestimion’s idea to make him regent: so be it, he must act as he saw fit. Why not let the boy go? It would be on Akbalik’s head, not his. And Akbalik was right: it was always useful for a young man to learn something of the real world.

  Dekkeret was staring at him in earnest supplication. Septach Melayn found something charmingly innocent and sweet about that eager imploring look. He could remember a time when he had been eager and earnest himself, long ago, before he had chosen instead to mask himself in an air of lazy debonair frivolity that by now was no mask, but the very essence of his character. As he looked at the boy it was easy enough to see those qualities of seriousness and strength that had attracted Prestimion’s interest.

  So be it, he thought. Let him go to Zimroel.

  “Very well. Your papers are ready, Akbalik. I’m adding the name of the knight-initiate Dekkeret here—so—and initialing the page.”

  Already he found himself envying the boy. To get away from the Castle—to go roving off into the far regions of the realm—to escape all this politicking for a while and get the good fresh air of some other place into your lungs—!

  He glanced toward Dekkeret and said, “And allow me, if you will, to offer a small suggestion. If you’re not kept too busy in Ni-moya all the time, you and Akbalik should allow yourself a little excursion up north into the Khyntor Marches while you’re over there, and do a bit of steetmoy-hunting.—You know about steetmoy, don’t you, boy?”

  “I’ve seen garments made from their fur, yes.”

  “Wearing a stole made of steetmoy fur’s not quite the same thing as looking a living steetmoy in the eye. Most dangerous wild animal in the world, so far as I know, the steetmoy. Beautiful thing: that thick fur, those blazing eyes. Went hunting them myself, once, the time Prestimion and I went to Zimroel. You hire yourself some professional hunters in Ni-moya and you head far up north, into the Marches—cold, snowy place, like nothing you’ve ever seen, all misty forests and wild lakes and a sky like an iron plate, and you track down a pack of steetmoy, not an easy thing, white animals against the white ground, and go for them at close range, a poniard in one hand and a machete in the other—”

  The boy’s eyes were aglow with excitement. But Akbalik seemed less delighted.

  “You were worried, I thought, that he would be skimping on his training by going with me to Zimroel. Now, suddenly, you’ve got him running up to Khyntor and chasing after steetmoy in the snow. Oh, my friend, you never can manage to be serious very long, can you?”

  Septach Melayn reddened. He had, he realized, allowed himself to be carried away. “That will be part of his training too,” he said huffily, and stamped his seal onto Akbalik’s papers. “Here. A good journey to you both. And let him go to Khyntor for a week, Akbalik,” he added, as they went out. “What harm could it do?”

  Prince Serithorn of Samivole was the only one left for him to see, now, and then he could go to the gymnasium over in the east wing for his daily late-afternoon fencing-match with one of the officers of the guard. Septach Melayn practiced a different weapon each day—rapier, two-handed sword, basket-hilt saber, Narabal small-sword, singlestick baton, Ketheron pike—and each with a different partner, for he learned a man’s basic moves so quickly that it was a dull business for him to fence with anyone more than two or three times. His opponent today was a new young guardsman from Tumbrax, Mardileek by name, said to be a good man with the saber, who came with a recommendation from Duke Spalirises himself. But there was Serithorn to deal with first.

  The prince had added himself to Septach Melayn’s appointments list only that morning. Ordinarily one could not get to see the regent on such short notice; but Serithorn, as the senior peer of the realm at the Castle, was an exception to that rule as to all others. Besides, Septach Melayn, like everyone else, found Serithorn a congenial and appealing character, and never mind that after much to-ing and fro-ing he had eventually thrown his support to Korsibar in the civil war. It was hard to hold a grudge against Serithorn for anything for long. And the war was not even ancient history, now: it was no history at all.

  Usually Serithorn was late for appointments. But today, for some reason, he was precisely on time. Septach Melayn wondered why. As usual, Serithorn was simply and unostentatiously dressed, a plain russet cloak of many folds over a somber purple tunic, and simple leather boots lined with red fur. The wealthiest private citizen of Majipoor did not need to trumpet his wealth. Where another man might have chosen as his headgear some showy wide-brimmed deep-felted hat trimmed with metal braid and scarlet tiruvyn feathers, Prince Serithorn was content to wear an odd stiff-sided yellow cap, high and square, that a Liiman sausage-peddler would have spurned. He took it off now and tossed it on the desk—the Coronal’s desk—as casually as if he were in his own sitting-room.

  “I understand that my nephew’s just been here. A splendid fellow, Akbalik. A credit to the family. Prestimion’s shipping him off to Zimroel, I hear. Whatever for, I wonder?”

  “Simply to get some notion of how the Zimroelu feel about their new Coronal, I’d imagin
e. It’s a good idea, wouldn’t you say, for Prestimion to keep himself up to date on the general run of sentiment over there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.” Then, indicating the tall stack of documents piled by the edge of the desk, Serithorn said, “You’ve been working hard, haven’t you, for such a light-hearted fellow? Laboring away mightily at all this dreary paper! I commend you for your newfound industriousness, Septach Melayn.”

  “The compliment’s undeserved, Prince Serithorn. These documents are all still in need of attention from me.”

  “But nevertheless you’ll give it, I’m sure you will! Only a matter of time.—How very admirable you are, Septach Melayn! I have, you know, a light spirit very much like yours; but here you are toiling heroically at your regency day after day, whereas I’ve never been able to force myself to deviate into seriousness for any span of time longer than three minutes running. My congratulations are sincere.”

  Septach Melayn shook his head. “You overestimate me, I think. And much underestimate yourself. Some men are secretly foolish, and conceal their flaws behind an air of great gravity, or much bluster. But you are secretly deep, affecting frivolity. And have had vast influence in the realm. I happen to know that it was you who induced Lord Confalume to pick Prestimion as his successor.”

  “I? Ah, you’re deceived in that, my friend. Confalume spotted Prestimion’s ability all on his own. I merely added my approval when he asked.” Serithorn lifted an eyebrow. A blithe smile crossed his smooth face.—“Secretly deep, you think? Flattering of you to say so, very flattering. But entirely untrue. You may have secret depths, dear friend: quite likely you do. But I’m frivolous through and through. Always have been, always will be.” Serithorn’s wide, clear eyes contemplated Septach Melayn in a mordant way that seemed to negate everything that he had just said. There were layers upon unfathomable layers of wiliness here, thought Septach Melayn.

  But he refused to offer any challenge. With an ingratiating little laugh he replied, “The fact is, I think, that each of us overestimates the other. You’re frivolous through and through, you say? Very well: I consent to accept your opinion of yourself. As for me, I propose to stipulate that I’m a mere idle-spirited mocker, lazy and gay of heart, overly fond of silks and pearls and fine wines, whose only worthwhile qualities are a certain skill at swordplay and a deep loyalty to his friends. Can we agree with that evaluation also? Do we have a treaty on this, Serithorn?”

  “We do. You and I are of one sort, Septach Melayn. Piffling frothy triflers, both of us. And so you have my deepest sympathy for having been forced by Prestimion to cope with all this bureaucratic nonsense. Your soul’s far too sprightly and buoyant for this sort of work.”

  “This is true. Next time the Coronal goes traveling, I’ll go with him and you can be regent.”

  “Me? But I invoke our treaty! I’m no more qualified for sitting behind that desk than you are. No, no, no, let some more solid citizen of the realm have the post. If I had wanted to do the sweaty work of a Coronal, I’d have seen to it long ago that I had the glory and homage that goes with it. But never for a moment did I crave the crown, Septach Melayn, and that mountain of papers on this desk is exactly the reason why.”

  He was, Septach Melayn knew, being completely serious now. Serithorn was by no means the lightweight he claimed to be; but he had ever been content to exercise his will at one remove, standing close to the throne but never seated upon it. The blood of many kings ran in his veins: no one in the world had loftier lineage, not that that in itself could have made him Coronal. Intelligence and shrewdness were different matters, though, and Serithorn had those in abundance. He was of kingly quality in all respects but one, which was his utter and wholehearted desire not to bear the burden of power.

  According to Prestimion, who had heard the story from his mother, Lord Prankipin decades ago had actually asked Serithorn to be his successor as Coronal when he became Pontifex, but Serithorn had said, “No, no, give the job to Prince Confalume.” The tale had the ring of truth to it. There could be no other reason why Serithorn had not had the throne. And here they all were, so many years later, and Confalume was Pontifex himself after a long and splendid run as Coronal and Serithorn had never been anything more than a private citizen, welcome in all the halls of power but wielding none himself, a cheerful, easy-hearted man whose unlined features and easy stance made him appear twenty or thirty years younger than he really was.

  “Well,” said Septach Melayn, after a time. “Now that that’s settled, will you tell me whether there’s some special reason for this visit? Or is it purely social?”

  “Oh, your company’s pleasant enough, Septach Melayn. But this, I think, is a matter of business.” A quick lowering of his brows furrowed Serithorn’s forehead, and a slight darkening was evident in his tone.—“Could you be kind enough to supply me, do you think, with some sort of summary of whatever it is that has been taking place in recent months between Prestimion and the Procurator of Ni-moya?”

  Septach Melayn felt a band of muscles go tight across his midsection. A blunt question like that was very far indeed from Serithorn’s customary brand of frivolity. Caution seemed appropriate.

  “I think,” he said, “that you had better take that matter up with Prestimion himself.”

  “I would do just that, if only Prestimion happened to be here. But he’s chosen to go wandering around interminably in the east-country, hasn’t he? And you sit here in his place.—I’ve got no desire to be troublesome, Septach Melayn. In fact, I’m trying to be helpful. But I lack so much basic information that I can’t properly evaluate the nature of the crisis, if ‘crisis’ is the proper term for what we have. For instance, during the coronation week a story was going around that Dantirya Sambail was, for some reason, being held prisoner in the Sangamor tunnels.”

  “I could provide you with an official denial of that, I suppose.”

  “You could, but don’t put yourself to the bother. I had the story direct from Navigorn, who said Prestimion had made him the Procurator’s special custodian. Navigorn was pretty puzzled about that assignment, I can tell you. As were we all.—Shall we agree to accept it as a legitimate fact that Prestimion was in fact keeping Dantirya Sambail in the tunnels during the coronation and shortly afterward as well, presumably for some good and proper reason about which I am not at present making inquiries?”

  “Be it so stipulated, Serithorn.”

  “Good. Note that I used the past tense. Was keeping. The Procurator’s free now, isn’t he?”

  “I do wish you’d address all these questions to Prestimion,” said Septach Melayn uncomfortably.

  “Yes, I’m sure that you do.—Please, Septach Melayn. Stop trying to parry me at every step: this isn’t a duel. The fact is that Dantirya Sambail has escaped. And Prestimion’s somewhere between here and the Great Sea, yes, he and Gialaurys and Abrigant and a whole troop of soldiers, wandering around in the hope of recapturing him. Yes. Yes. I know that that’s so, Septach Melayn. No need to deny it. Now: forget that I ever asked you for details of the quarrel between Prestimion and the Procurator. Only confirm for me that there is a quarrel. They are in fact bitter enemies, is that not so?”

  “Yes,” Septach Melayn said, with a nod and a slow sigh of resignation. “They are.”

  “Thank you.” Serithorn took a folded paper from his robe. “If Prestimion hasn’t learned it already, I think it would be helpful to him for you to get word to him that he’s almost certainly looking in the wrong place.”

  “Is he, now?” said Septach Melayn, eyes widening, though only for a moment.

  Serithorn smiled. “I am, you know, a landowner of some considerable extent. I constantly receive reports from my estate managers in various parts of the world. This one comes from a certain Haigin Hartha, in Bailemoona city in the province of Balimoleronda. A very odd business, actually. A party of strange men—Haigin Hartha doesn’t say how many—was discovered poaching the gambilak herds on my lands outside Bai
lemoona. When my gamekeeper objected, one of the poachers told him that the meat was wanted on behalf of Dantirya Sambail, the Procurator of Ni-moya, who was making a grand processional in this region. Another of the poachers—am I boring you, Septach Melayn?”

  “Hardly.”

  “You seemed inattentive.”

  “Thoughtful, rather,” said Septach Melayn.

  “Ah. To continue, then: another of the poachers then struck the first one in the face, and said to my gamekeeper that the first man’s story was completely untrue, a sheer fantasy that the gamekeeper should wipe from his mind immediately, and that they were simply taking the meat on their own account. He offered my man fifty crowns in payment, and, since the alternative appeared to be to be murdered on the spot, the gamekeeper accepted the offer. The poachers went off with their catch. Later in the day, Haigin Hartha—he is my estate manager in Bailemoona, you will recall—heard from a friend that someone with the highly distinctive features of Dantirya Sambail had been seen that morning traveling with a group of men on the outskirts of Bailemoona city. My manager’s friend wondered whether Haigin Hartha might be expecting a formal visit from the Procurator at our estate, which, as you might expect, Haigin Hartha found a very unsettling idea. And then, no more than ten minutes later, the gamekeeper came in with his account of the poachers and the bribe. What do you make of all this, Septach Melayn?”

  “It all seems clear enough. I wonder about the poacher who struck the other one, though. Whether he might have been tall and lean, with a death’s-head sort of face, all angles and planes and mean murderous dark eyes.”

  “The Procurator’s poison-taster, is that the man you’re speaking of? A disagreeable piece of work, that one.”

  “Mandralisca, yes. He’d be traveling with Dantirya Sambail.—Is there more to the story?”

  “Nothing else. Haigin Hartha concludes his message by saying that he never heard from the Procurator one way or the other about a visit, and inquires as to whether he is supposed to expect one. Naturally, he is not. Why, I wonder, would a Procurator of Ni-moya be making a grand processional through Balimoleronda province, or any other place in Alhanroel?”