Lord Prestimion

by Robert Silverberg

  “And do they work?”

  “I doubt it, my lord. But people have faith in them. Nearly everyone I saw in the market was wearing one. There are other devices available, too, for the same purpose, at least seven or eight sorts, all of them guaranteed by their vendors to provide complete security. Most of them are crude, primitive things that make me embarrassed for my profession. They are what you might expect savages to use. But the fear is very widespread.—Do you remember, my lord, in the days when Prankipin was dying and dire omens were being read into every cloud and every bird that passed overhead, how all manner of strange new cults sprang up in the world?”

  “I do remember, yes. I saw the Beholders dancing the Procession of their Mysteries in Sisivondal once.”

  “Well, they dance it again. All the masks and idols and holy implements of an unholy kind are being brought forth. These little amulets here are but a sample of the whole. My lord, sorcery is my profession, and I do not doubt the existence of the powers of the invisible world, as I know that you often do. But to me these things are abominations. They bespeak an insanity of a sort themselves, as troublesome as the one they pretend to cure.”

  Prestimion nodded somberly. He prodded the little heads again, turning over two or three of them that had landed upside-down, and was stunned to find himself looking at his own face.

  “I wondered when you would notice that one, my lord,” said Maundigand-Klimd.

  “Astonishing. Absolutely astonishing!” Prestimion picked it up and examined it closely. It gave him the shudders. A likeness of great fidelity, it was: a miniature screaming Lord Prestimion, hardly bigger than the ball of his thumb. “I suppose there’s a Septach Melayn somewhere in the batch, too, and a Gialaurys, and maybe a Lady Varaile, eh? And is this Su-Suheris here supposed to represent you, Maundigand-Klimd? What do they think: that our faces will be more powerful in warding off the madness than those of ordinary folk?”

  “It is a reasonable expectation, lordship.”

  “Ah. Maybe so.” Septach Melayn was here, yes. They had rendered him very well, down to the insouciant grin—even in the midst of a madman’s scream—and bold, flashing blue eyes. He saw no Varailes, though, and was very glad of that. He pushed the pile of amulets away from him. “How I hated all this credulous foolishness, Maundigand-Klimd! This pathetic faith in the worth of magic, in talismans and images, in spells and powders, exorcisms, abracadabras, the conjuring up of fiends and demons, the using of rohillas and ammatepilas and veralistias and all of that. What a waste of time, and money, and hope! I saw Lord Confalume utterly devoured by these follies, so befuddled by the whisperings of this magus and that that when a real crisis came upon him, he was completely unable to deal with—” He halted, unwilling even with Maundigand-Klimd to speak of the Korsibar revolt. “Well, I know as well as you do that some of it works, Maundigand-Klimd. But most of what passes for magic among us is nothing more than simple idiocy. I had hoped that the tide of superstition would begin to recede a little during my reign. And instead—instead—a new wave of this nonsense sweeping up over us, just when—” He paused again. “I’m sorry, Maundigand-Klimd. I know that you’re a believer. I’ve given you offense.”

  “You’ve given none, my lord. I am no more of a ‘believer,’ as you put it, than you are yourself. I live not by faith but by empirical test. There are things that are self-evidently true, and other things that are false. What I practice is the true magic, which is a form of science. I have as much contempt for the other sort as you do, which is why I brought you these things today.”

  “Thinking that I’ll issue an ordinance prohibiting them? I can’t do that, Maundigand-Klimd. It’s never wise to try to legislate against people’s irrational beliefs.”

  “I understand that, lordship. I only wanted to call to your attention the fact that the madness is bringing forth a secondary level of insanity, which in itself will have harmful consequences for your reign.”

  “If I knew what needed to be done, I’d be doing it.”

  “Beyond doubt that is so.”

  “But what—what? Is there anything you can suggest?”

  “Not at this moment, my lord.”

  Prestimion detected a curious inflection in Maundigand-Klimd’s voice, as though he might be leaving something of significance unspoken. Prestimion stared up at the two heads, at the four opaque green eyes. The Su-Suheris was an invaluable counsellor, and even, to a degree, a cherished friend. There were times, though, when Prestimion found Maundigand-Klimd unreadable, incomprehensible, and this was one of them. If there was some hidden subtext here, he was uncertain of what it was.

  But then one possibility presented itself to him. It was a disagreeable one, but it needed to be pursued.

  He said, “You and I have already discussed Septach Melayn’s notion that the madness has been caused by the world-wide obliteration of memory that I imposed, the day of the victory over Korsibar at Thegomar Edge. I think you know that I’m reluctant to accept that theory.”

  “Yes, my lord. I do.”

  “I can tell from the way you say it that you don’t agree with me. What are you holding back, Maundigand-Klimd? Do you have certain knowledge that I did bring the madness on that way?”

  “Not certain knowledge, my lord.”

  “But you think it’s very probable, do you?”

  All this while it had been Maundigand-Klimd’s left head, usually the more loquacious of the pair, that had been speaking. But it was the other one that replied now:

  “Yes, my lord. Very probable indeed.”

  Prestimion closed his eyes a moment, drew in his breath sharply. The blunt statement came as no surprise. In recent weeks he had been veering more and more, in his own thoughts, toward the likelihood that he and he alone was responsible for the new darkness that had begun to descend upon the world. But it stung him deeply, all the same, to have the shrewd and capable Maundigand-Klimd lend his support to that idea.

  “If the madness was caused by magic,” he said slowly, “then it can only be healed by magic, would you not say?”

  “That could be so, my lord.”

  “Is what you’re telling me, then, that one possible way to fix things is to call Heszmon Gorse and his father down out of Triggoin, and all the rest of the mages who took part in casting the spell that day, and have them cast a reverse spell that would restore everyone’s knowledge of the civil war?”

  Maundigand-Klimd hesitated, something that Prestimion had rarely seen him do.

  “I am not sure, my lord, that such a thing would be effective.”

  “Good. Because it’s never going to happen. I’m not happy about the apparent consequences of what I did, but it’s a safe bet that I’m not going to try anything like it again. Among other things, I don’t have any desire to let everyone know that their new Coronal began his reign by hoodwinking the entire planet into thinking his accession had been peaceful. But also I see great risks in suddenly restoring the old sequence of events. People have spent the past couple of years living with the false history that I had my mages instill in their minds at the end of the civil war. For better or worse, they accept it as the truth. If I take all that away now, it might just cause an upheaval even worse than what’s going on now. What do you say about that, Maundigand-Klimd?”

  “I agree completely.”

  “Well, then: the problem remains. There’s a plague loose in the world, and a lot of bad magic is springing up as a result, a mess of chicanery and fraud which you and I both despise.” Prestimion, glowering at the little ceramic heads that Maundigand-Klimd had spilled all over his desk, began to scoop them back into their sack. “Since the plague was brought on by magic, it needs to be dealt with by a countermagic—good magic, true magic, as you say. Your kind of magic. Very well. Please work something out, my friend, and tell me what it is.”

  “Oh, Lord Prestimion, if only it were that easy! But I will see what I can do.”

  The Su-Suheris went out. Prestimion, when he was
gone, fished about in the sack until he had found the Lord Prestimion head and the Septach Melayn, and dropped them in a pocket of his tunic.

  Septach Melayn was waiting for him in the gymnasium, restlessly pacing up and down and flicking his baton through the air, bringing an ominous hum from the slender wand of nightflower wood at every motion of his supple wrist. “You’re late,” he said. He pulled a second baton from the rack and tossed it to Prestimion. “A lot of important decrees to sign this morning, was it?”

  “A visit from Maundigand-Klimd,” said Prestimion, laying the baton aside and drawing the little heads from their pocket. “He brought me these. Charming, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, indeed! Your portrait and mine, if I’m not mistaken. What are they meant for?”

  “Amulets to conjure with. To keep the madness away, supposedly. Maundigand-Klimd tells me that the midnight market’s full of stuff like this, all of a sudden. They’re selling the way sausages would in the middle of the Valmambra. He bought a whole bag of them. Not just your face and mine, but all sorts, even a Ghayrog and a Hjort and a Su-Suheris. Something for everyone. All the old cults are starting up again, too, he says: big business all over again for the whole magus crowd.”

  “A pity,” said Septach Melayn. He took the portrait of himself from Prestimion and balanced it in the palm of his hand. “A little on the grisly side, I’d say. But so cleverly done! Look, I’m grinning and shrieking at one and the same time. And I seem to be winking a little, too. I’d love to meet the artist who designed it. Perhaps I could get him to do a full-scale portrait, you know?”

  “You are a madman,” said Prestimion.

  “You may very well be right. May I keep this?”

  “If it amuses you.”

  “It certainly does. And now, please, my lord, pick up your baton. Our exercise hour is long overdue. On your guard, Prestimion! On your guard!”

  3

  At the beginning of the week following, word was brought to Prestimion as he breakfasted that his brother Abrigant had returned to the Castle from the south-country in the middle of the night, and was requesting immediate audience.

  Prestimion had arisen at dawn. The hour was not much past that now. Varaile still slept; Abrigant must not have been to bed at all. Why such urgency?

  “Tell him that I’ll meet with him in the Stiamot throne-room in thirty minutes,” Prestimion said.

  Hardly had he settled into his seat there when Abrigant came bursting in, looking as though he had not taken the trouble even to change his clothing since his arrival. He was bronzed and weatherworn from his travels, and the brown cloak that he wore above threadbare green leggings was patched and soiled. Over his left cheekbone there was a bruise of considerable size, plainly not a recent one but still quite livid.

  “Well, brother, welcome back to—” Prestimion began, but he got no further along than that with his greeting.

  “Married, are you?” Abrigant blurted. His expression was fierce and challenging. “For that is what I hear, that you’ve taken a queen. Who is she, Prestimion? And why didn’t you wait until I could attend the ceremony?”

  “These are very straightforward words when spoken to a king by his younger brother, Abrigant.”

  “There was a time once when I made a grand starburst to you and a deep bow, and you told me that that was much too much obeisance between brother and brother. Whereas now—”

  “Now you go too far in the other direction. We haven’t seen each other for many months; and here you are, charging in like a wild bidlak, not even a smile or a friendly embrace, immediately asking me to explain my actions to you as though you were Coronal and I a mere—”

  Again Abrigant cut him off. “The groom who received me when I arrived told me that you have a consort now, and that her name is Varaile. Is this true? Who is this Varaile, brother?”

  “She is the daughter of Simbilon Khayf.”

  If Prestimion had struck him across the face, Abrigant would not have looked more astounded. He recoiled visibly. “The daughter of Simbilon Khayf? The daughter of Simbilon Khayf? That puffed-up arrogant fool is a member of our family now, Prestimion? Brother, brother, what have you done?”

  “Fallen in love, is what I’ve done. What you’ve done is to behave like a belligerent boor. Calm yourself, Abrigant, and let’s begin this conversation again, if you will.—The Coronal Lord welcomes the Prince of Muldemar to the Castle after his long journey, and bids him be seated. Sit there, Abrigant. There. Good. I don’t like to have people looming up over me, you know.” Abrigant seemed totally nonplussed, but Prestimion could not tell whether it was from the rebuke or from his bland admission of having married Simbilon Khayf’s daughter. “You look as though you’ve had an arduous trip. I hope it was a fruitful one.”

  “Yes, it was. Very much so.” Abrigant’s words came as if through clenched teeth.

  “Tell me about it, then.”

  But Abrigant would not be turned from his course. “This marriage, brother—”

  Summoning all the patience he could manage, Prestimion said, “She is a splendid queenly woman. You’ll not doubt the wisdom of my choice when you meet her. As for her father, I assure you that I’m no more enamored of him than you are, but there’s no cause for dismay. He’s caught the madness that’s running about the world, and has been locked away where he can’t offend anyone with his vulgar ways. In the matter of my not holding the wedding off until you got back here, I shouldn’t have to justify that to you; but I ask you to bear in mind that I had no assurance you’d keep your promise about giving up your quest for Skakkenoir within six months. For all I knew, you’d be gone two or three years—or forever.”

  “You had my solemn pledge. Which I kept to the very letter of the word. It was six months exactly from the day we parted that I began my homeward trip.”

  “Well, you have my gratitude for that, at least. The expedition was successful, you say?”

  “Oh, yes, Prestimion. Quite successful. I have to tell you that it would have been a far greater success if you hadn’t sworn me to that six-month limit, but there’s much to report even so.—He’s really gone mad, has he? A raving imbecile, eh? What a perfect fate for him! I hope you’ve got him chained up among all those hideous beasts Gialaurys brought back from Kharax for you.”

  “You said there was much to report,” Prestimion reminded him. “It would be kind of you to begin, brother.”

  He had commenced the trip, Abrigant said—still obviously thunderstruck by the news of Prestimion’s marriage, but making a visible effort to put it out of mind—by heading eastward from Sippulgar along the Aruachosian coast of the Inner Sea. But that was such a vile sweltering place, where the air was so wet and thick that one could hardly breathe, and the wasps and ants were the size of mice and the very worms had wings and jaws, that they were driven inland soon after crossing over into the province of Vrist. The last glimpse of the sea that they had was at the dreary Vristian port of Glystrintai; after that, they found themselves in much less humid country, largely uninhabited—a hot, primordial-looking plateau of wrinkled crags and congealed lava, of pink lakes in which gigantic snakes lay coiled, of turbulent rivers inhabited by monstrous sluggish mud-colored fish, bigger than a man, that seemed to have wandered out of a much earlier era.

  In this sun-baked prehistoric land of broad vistas and distant horizons a terrible silence prevailed day after day, broken only by the occasional skreeking cries of sinister-looking predatory birds, bigger even than the khestrabons or surastrenas they had seen in the east-country, that went soaring by high overhead. The travelers felt almost as though they were the first explorers of some virgin planet.

  But then they spied smoke on the horizon—campfires—and they came the next day to a land of jet-black hills laced with dazzling outcrops of brilliant white quartz, where thousands of Liimen living in the middle of nowhere were mining gold. “True gold this time?” said Prestimion. “After golden bees and golden hills and walls of golden stone,
a place where the actual metal itself is found?”

  “The metal itself,” Abrigant said. “These are the mines of Sethem province, where naked Liimen work like slaves under the murderous sun. Here. See for yourself.” And he reached into a burlap knapsack that he had brought into the throne-room with him and pulled forth three square thin plates of gold, each about the size of the palm of his hand, on which geometric symbols had been marked with punches. “They gave me these,” said Abrigant. “I don’t know what they’re worth. The miners didn’t seem to care. They just do their work, as though they were machines.”

  “The mines of Sethem,” Prestimion said. “Well, the stuff had to come from somewhere. I never gave it a thought.”

  The image came to him of long lines of Liimen at work in that barren stony landscape: strange uncomplaining rough-skinned beings, with broad flat heads shaped like hammers and three fiery eyes glowing like smoldering coals in the craters of their deeply recessed eye-sockets. Who had assembled them and brought them there? What thoughts went through their minds as they plodded through their days of unthinkable toil?

  The gold lay hidden in the quartz, the merest dusting of it scattered thinly through the rocky veins. The Liimen mined it, Abrigant said, by building fires on the black stony outcrops and hurling cold water and vinegar against the heated rock to fracture it so that the ore could be extracted from the fissures thus created. Some worked on the surface of the hills, others in deep tunnels that were too low-roofed for them to stand in, so that they had to writhe along the ground, seeing their way with lamps fastened to their foreheads. Eventually great mounds of ore-bearing rock were collected. Then a different group would set to work with stone sledgehammers to break that up into smaller pieces, which yet other workers took and ground down in mills operated by great handles, two or three Liimen to a handle, until it came to the consistency of flour.

  The final phase was to spread the processed quartz out on slanting boards and pour water over it to flush away the dross, a task repeated again and again until only pure particles of gold remained. This then was smelted for days on end in a kiln, along with salt and tin and hoikka bran, and eventually pure gleaming nuggets came forth, which were beaten into the thin plates that Abrigant had been given.