Sorcerers of Majipoor m-4

by Robert Silverberg

  Where to begin the campaign, though? For that she needed the advice of someone whose range of vision was far broader than her own. Who better than this cold-blooded magus, who served her brother and at times herself? He was the one. He could tell her the path to follow.

  He was waiting for her to respond. He knew the nature of the game she had invited him to play with her: that was obvious.

  He said, once more, “Is that not true, lady? You think he should be king.” Thismet smiled and drew a deep breath, and the strength to speak out came flooding into her, and boldly she said, “Yes! I will be honest with you, Sanibak-Thastimoon: that is precisely what I believe! It makes no sense to me that Prestimion should be my father’s choice instead of Korsibar. Prestimion in place of his own son—his magnificent kingly son—”

  She paused. What joy, what relief, finally to have let it all pour forth!

  Sanibak-Thastimoon said nothing.

  “Custom. Law. I know these things,” said Princess Thismet. “But even so—” She shook her head. “There’s such a thing as a higher justice in the world, justice that goes beyond mere custom. And by the law of that justice it’s right that Korsibar be Coronal. That seems utterly clear to me.”

  Again she looked questioningly to the Su-Suheris. The four green alien eyes that faced her remained implacably enigmatic.

  “Yes,” he said, after an eternity. “I do agree, lady.”

  Her first convert, her first ally. It was a moment for exhilaration and exultation. She could almost have embraced him. Almost.

  But there was another matter too, even more delicate than the other, to thrash out with him.

  Thismet breathed deeply once more and said, “The two thrones of my dream. What of that, Sanibak-Thastimoon? My brother beckoned me to take the other throne for myself. But even if Korsibar should somehow become Coronal—I have no idea how, but there must be a way—there’d be no place in the government for me. The sister of the Coronal is without rank in her own right. It was you that told me, remember, that I was destined for greatness, long before I ever dreamed this dream. But in the waking world what throne would there be for me to have?”

  “There is greatness in helping one’s brother to attain a throne. There is power to be had by standing beside one’s brother as he sits upon the throne. You take your dream of two thrones too literally perhaps, lady.”

  “Perhaps I do,” Thismet said.

  She looked toward the richly tiled wall of the chamber as if she were able to see clear through it, and upward also through each of the rings of the Labyrinth, beyond all those ancient subterranean structures—the Court of Pyramids and the Place of Masks and the Hall of Winds and all the rest of them—outward into the open, and off toward the colossal bulk of Castle Mount bestriding the world far to the north. And abruptly all the exhilaration that had possessed her just a moment before departed from her, and she came crashing down out of her joy, and the world went dark for her as though there had been a sudden eclipse.

  These fantasies of her dream, she realized, were mere foolish phantoms. None of the things her wanton sleeping mind had imagined would ever come to pass. It was absurd to think that they could. There would be no great position in the realm for her, no, and none for her brother either. The Prince of Muldemar would be king. That was as good as signed and sealed; the inevitability of Prestimion’s rule fell like a sword across her soul.

  The pattern that her life would surely take once the new reign had begun rose bleakly before her: a soft, empty comfort-swaddled life, a meaningless existence of baths and manicures and massages and jeweled idleness, far from the levers of power in the land. Had she been born for nothing more than that? What a sad waste, then!

  She knew she must fight it. But how? How?

  After a time she said, in a steely tone, “In any event there is no justice in the world, is there, Sanibak-Thastimoon? I know as well as you that it’ll be Prestimion who becomes Coronal, and not Korsibar.”

  “That is something that might reasonably be expected, lady,” said Sanibak-Thastimoon placidly.

  “And when the throne goes to Prestimion, Korsibar and I leave the Castle, he to his estate and I to mine; or I might become wife to some powerful prince, I suppose. But there’ll be no power in that for me, will there? I will be a great lady, yes, but I am that now; after Prestimion is king I will be a wife, at best. A wife, Sanibak-Thastimoon.” She spoke the word as though it were an imprecation. “I’ll have no voice in anything of any importance outside my own house, and perhaps not even there. It’ll be little better for my brother. Our family’s influence in this castle ends in the moment when Prestimion puts the crown upon his head.”

  “The great prince you might marry,” the Su-Suheris said, “might well be that same Lord Prestimion, princess, if it is indeed Prestimion who is to be Coronal. And then your power and influence would by no means be at an end.”

  That suggestion brought a sudden half-smothered gasp of astonishment from the Lady Melithyrrh, who had been standing to one side throughout this entire interchange. She looked toward Thismet, who silenced whatever Melithyrrh might have been about to say with a furious glare and replied, “Are you seriously proposing, Sanibak-Thastimoon, that I give myself in marriage to the very man who is going to take the throne from my brother? The one who’s destined to push him into obscurity?”

  “I merely raised the possibility, lady.”

  “Well, see that you raise it never again, if you’d like to keep both those pretty heads attached to that neck of yours.” Thismet’s eyes flashed him a look of fiery ferocity. Strength and determination were gathering in her again.—“There is another possibility,” she said, less severely, in a new and deeper voice.

  “Yes, lady?” said Sanibak-Thastimoon, with the most extreme patience. “And what is that?”

  Her heart was beating in an astounding thunderous way. Thismet felt herself swaying with an odd vertigo, for she knew she stood now at a precipitous brink. But she compelled herself to maintain an outward appearance of calmness. Moistening her lips thoughtfully, she said, “You agree with me, you say, that Korsibar is better fitted for the throne. Very well. My intention is to see that he attains it.”

  “And how will you achieve that?” asked the Su-Suheris.

  “Consider this, if you will. What the dream was telling me, let me propose, is that what I must do is go to Korsibar and strongly urge him to put himself forth before our father as a candidate for the throne—now, while everything is still in flux: before the old Pontifex dies, before Prestimion is formally named. And our father will yield to him, I think, if Korsibar only makes his case strong enough; and then Korsibar will be Coronal; and in gratitude my brother will name me as one of his High Counsellors, so that I may have some role after all in governing the world. Would you not say that that’s a plausible interpretation of my dream?” And again, when the Su-Suheris offered no reply: “Would you not say so?”

  He nodded, one head after another. And blandly he said, “I will not deny that it is, lady.”

  Thismet smiled. “It must be, beyond all question,” she said all in a rush. She was ablaze now, flushed and panting. “There can be no other road to greatness for me—is there? How can there be?—but through Korsibar. And it’s a known fact that I’m destined for great things. You’ve told me so yourself. Or do you retract that prophecy now?”

  “I retract none of it, lady,” said the Su-Suheris quietly. “Tour future is displayed in your stars, and obscurity and retirement play no part in the pattern of what is beyond any doubt to come. That is quite certain.—The same is true of your brother’s horoscope. ‘You will shake the world, Prince Korsibar.’ Those were my words to him, some months ago. Did he never share them with you?”

  “No,” said Thismet, with some surprise. “I heard nothing about that from him.”

  “Nevertheless, I did make it known to him. And in recent days your father’s own oracles have independently told him the same thing.”

&
nbsp; “Well, then,” she said, “it all becomes clear. The omens converge and confirm one another: all lines lead us to the throne. Tradition will give way to reason; the better man will be chosen. I’ll speak with Korsibar this very day.”

  But then a curious expression passed across both Sanibak-Thastimoon’s faces, as if his heads had exchanged glances with one another, though she had not seen his eyes move at all.

  Thismet said, “Do you see anything unwise in that?”

  “I think it might be wiser, lady, to speak with his friends first, before you bring the matter directly to him.”

  “Mandrykarn, you mean? Venta? Navigorn?”

  “No, not those. They would be worse than useless. I mean the other ones, those two ill-matched brothers, the giant and the little snake. They’ll serve the purpose better, I suspect.”

  Thismet contemplated that for a moment.

  “Farholt and Farquanor,” she said. “Yes. Yes, perhaps so.” To Melithyrrh she said, “I’ll go to my sitting-room now, I think. Send for the brothers; tell them to wait upon me there.”

  6

  Korsibar said, “We are agreed, then.” He looked to the list in his hand, then to the assembled lords. They had gathered that day in the room of the Labyrinth’s imperial sector known as the Old Banquet Hall, which was cut at angles that diminished and swelled curiously from one end to the other, and had many a strangely painted drapery on the wall to enhance the effect of discomforting illusions of distance. “The footraces and the dueling with batons, first. Following which, the hurdles and hoops and the hammer-throw, both for the men and the women. The archery contest next, and then the mounted jousting; and after that the mock battle, and then the boxing and the wrestling matches, with the chariot-racing to come at the very end. Which will be followed by the ceremonial parade upward through the various levels from the Arena to the Court of Globes, where the Master of the Games will award the prizes in the presence of Lord Confalume. And then—”

  “It was my understanding that we would have the wrestling earlier in the program,” said Gialaurys testily. He had only just arrived in the hall minutes before. “So it says here on the slip of paper that you see in my hand. The wrestling after the batons, and before the hurdles.”

  Korsibar looked with an uncertain frown toward Farholt, who had played a closer role in the planning than he had. “That was before,” said Farholt, stepping forward and taking Korsibar’s list from him. “It was changed just two hours past, while you were still lingering over your midday ale.” Farholt tapped the list and offered Gialaurys a defiant glowering stare. “The lighter sports first, and then the things for sturdier folk.”

  “I was not consulted,” Gialaurys said. “I would rather have it the earlier way.” There was a rumble of something close to menace in his voice. He moved a couple of paces closer to the heavy-sinewed Farholt, who bristled visibly and drew himself up to his fullest height. They were the two most sizable figures in the group, both of them mountainous in bulk, Farholt the taller man but Gialaurys of a greater thickness of body, even, than the other. “I prefer to win my wreath sooner rather than later.”

  “And are you so sure of winning, then?” Farholt asked. “What if it goes against you, and then you must sit sorrowfully through all the rest of the games with the mark of defeat on you, while wreaths are won by others all around?”

  Fury gleamed in Gialaurys’s eyes. “So that’s why you’d prefer to hold back the wrestling closer to the end, Farholt?”

  “That was no decision of mine,” Farholt retorted. His face, always somewhat florid, had turned a bright red. “But if you mean to suggest—”

  “One moment, friends,” said Prestimion, moving between the two big men just as it was beginning to seem that the gathering heat of their words would lead to actual strife right here and now. Dwarfed though he was by their huge forms looming above him, he pressed them each lightly on the chest with his fingertips and pushed them gently apart. “Please, let there be peace in this place, where a Pontifex lies dying close at hand. This is too small a matter for such quarreling. What do you say here, Prince Korsibar?”

  “I say that if there’s a disagreement, let the Master of the Games decide.”

  “A good point.” Prestimion glanced in the direction of the Grand Admiral Prince Gonivaul, who had been chosen to be Master that morning by a slender margin over the only other candidate, the Procurator Dantirya Sambail.

  The Admiral, one of the senior peers of the land, was linked by ties of blood to the family of Amyntilir, the Pontifex who had held sway three reigns prior to Prankipin. Prince Gonivaul was a tight-faced man of stubborn and parsimonious nature, whose sumptuous private domain lay not far outside the burnt-orange sandstone walls of many-spired Bombifale, which was by general agreement deemed the most beautiful of the cities of Castle Mount. He was long and narrow through the jaw, very much like his famous ancestor, and showed scarcely anything but hair above the shoulders, for a dense and coarse black beard thick as fur covered him cheek and jowl, upward almost to the lower lids of his eyes and the other way deep and heavy down his throat to vanish into his collar; and the hair of his head, of the same thick, rank kind and worn very long, descended across his forehead nearly to his eyebrows. His title of Grand Admiral was a purely ceremonial one; the commerce of the ports lay in his official jurisdiction, but so far as anyone knew, he had never gone to sea, not even for the journey to Zimroel that most of the princes of the Mount undertook at least once in their lives.

  Prestimion said, “Good Admiral and Master, you’ve heard Prince Korsibar. Will you give us a ruling in this?”

  Gonivaul grunted in his beard. His brows lowered and his cheeks screwed upward into a squint until his eyes had all but disappeared within the dark fur that covered so much of his face; and for an inordinate time he seemed lost in what was plainly meant to pass for thought. At long last he said, “Which is the later of the two lists?”

  “Mine,” Farholt said instantly. “There is no disputing that.”

  Gonivaul took the slip from him, and the other from Gialaurys, and studied them both another endless while. Then at length the Admiral said, “We have room for compromise here. The wrestling is moved to the middle of the games, between the hammer-throw and the archery.”

  Farholt quickly signaled his acceptance; but from Gialaurys there came a grumbling sound, and there might have been something more from him had Prestimion not silenced him with a hiss.

  * * *

  Once the wrangling was over and the preliminary planning for the games completed, servitors entered the room with refreshments for the assembled lords. Others of the Labyrinth’s highborn guests who had played no part in the planning session came in now also, for there was to be a general festivity here today in celebration of the impending commencement of the games.

  The various princes and dukes and counts moved apart about the hall by twos and threes, gathering by the quaint and curious bits of ancient statuary that were scattered throughout it. They were, supposedly, portraits of Pontifexes and Coronals of ages gone by. While waiting for the wine to be served, the guests studied one statue and another, touching them, tracing the outline of a sharp nose or an outthrust chin, speculating on the identities of those whom they were meant to represent. “Arioc,” said Gialaurys, pointing at a particularly preposterous-looking one. No, said Duke Oljebbin, that was Stiamot, the conqueror of the Shapeshifters, which led to an extensive dispute between him and Prince Serithorn, who was pleased to count Stiamot among his numerous royal ancestors. Then the scrawny little Farquanor, huge Farholt’s brother, identified a statue of a tall man imbued with sublime dignity and nobility as being that of one of his ancestors, the Pontifex Guadeloom, bringing a skeptical chuckle from Prince Gonivaul, and so it went from one to another.

  “That was done well, your passing that disagreement so quickly to the Admiral,” Korsibar said to Prestimion. They stood together at one sharp angle of the seven-sided room beneath a broad sky-blue arch
touched with borders of red autumn fire. “Those are two devilish short-tempered men, and they have no tolerance for one another at all. Let the one say ‘spring’ and the other will instantly say ‘winter’; let one say ‘black’ and from the other will come ‘white’; and so on through the dictionary for sheer love of contrariness. When they come together in the wrestling, it’ll be a spectacle indeed.”

  “My cousin of Ni-moya expressed the belief the other day that it might be just such a way between you and me as it is between Farholt and Gialaurys,” said Prestimion, smiling a little, though barely drawing back his lips. “That is to say, he thinks that we are contrary to the essence; that there’s an innate tension between us that creates automatic conflict; that you might be expected to oppose a certain thing only because I was the one who had advocated it.”

  “Ah, no, Prestimion,” returned Korsibar, smiling also, and with rather more warmth to it. “Do you really believe that to be so?”

  “It was the Procurator that said it.”

  “Yes, but you and I know that it isn’t like that with us at all. Do you feel a tension as you stand here beside me? I’m not aware of any. And why should there be? There’s no rivalry where rivalry isn’t possible.” Korsibar clapped his hands to a passing servitor. “Hoy, some wine here!” he called. “The good strong Muldemar wine, from the prince’s own vineyard!”

  Many others around the room were watching them closely. Among them was Count Iram of Normork, a slender red-haired man famous for his prowess in chariot-racing: a kinsman of Prince Serithorn’s, he was related also to Lord Confalume’s family by marriage. Iram plucked at Septach Melayn’s sleeve and said, cocking an eyebrow toward Korsibar and Prestimion, “How strained their smiles are, how hard they work at seeming friendly to each other! And look how gingerly they clink their wine-bowls! As though both of them fear that there’d be an explosion if they were to hit them together a trifle too hard.”