Sorcerers of Majipoor m-4

by Robert Silverberg

  Prestimion began to lunge forward, heading for the gate. But he had taken no more than three steps before Gialaurys caught him about the chest and held him back.

  “My lord? Where are you going?”

  “This has to be stopped, Gialaurys.”

  “Then tell me so, and I will stop it. You are not to be put at risk here, my lord.” He released Prestimion and ran in thunderous steps to the gate, where he forced his way into the muddled throng and came to Septach Melayn’s side. Prestimion saw them conferring in the midst of the battle. The confusion continued another few moments more, until the order to withdraw had reached all of Prestimion’s men. Then, suddenly, the clangor and shouting ceased; the Estotilaup men went rushing back within their gate and slammed it shut, and Gialaurys and Septach Melayn returned at the head of Prestimion’s troops. Svor was huddled between them, looking pale and wan, for he was not built to a warrior’s scale and lacked all appetite for bloodshed.

  “They will not admit us except we make them do it,” Svor reported.

  “On this they are resolved. Men have died already today to keep us out of this place, and many more will perish on both sides, I think, if we make a further attempt.”

  “Then we will give it over for now,” said Prestimion, with a sharp glare of warning meant for Septach Melayn. “The next time we come here, they will roll out a precious carpet of Makroposopos for me to tread upon as I enter. But for now I want no warfare made against my own people, is that clear? We will win their acceptance by the force of our righteousness, or else not at all.” And he gave orders to draw back and march on to Simbilfant, which was the next city in their circuit of the Mount. Two men of their company had been killed, one of Muldemar and one of Amblemorn, and four wounded, in the skirmish; of the men of Estotilaup there were at least five seen dead or dying on the field.

  “This troubles me,” said Gialaurys quietly to Septach Melayn as they returned to their floaters. “Can it be that he has no stomach for battle?” And Septach Melayn frowned and nodded, and replied that he had the same concern.

  But Svor had overheard, and he laughed and said, “Him? Is a fighter, no doubting it! And will slash and slaughter with the best of you, when the time comes. Is not yet the time, is what he thinks. Is not fully reconciled within his soul either, to the knowledge that he will reach the throne only by sailing on a river of blood.”

  “Just as I say,” replied Gialaurys. “No love for battle.”

  “No love for it, but a good willingness, when battle’s the only way,” Svor said. “Wait and see. I know the man at least as well as you. When battle’s the only way, even I will have a sword in my hand.”

  “You?” cried Septach Melayn with a great guffaw.

  “You will instruct me,” said Svor solemnly.

  * * *

  Matters went better for them at Simbilfant of the famous vanishing lake, which was a busy mercantile city through which much wine of Muldemar traditionally was shipped and held Prestimion in high favor. Word had already reached there of Prestimion’s claim to the crown, and the hegemon of the town, which was what their mayor was called, had a great banquet waiting for him, and green-and-gold banners everywhere, and two thousand men in arms ready to join his forces, with the promise of many more afterward. And, just as though he were a visiting Coronal, they staged a disappearance of the vanishing lake for him, rolling aside the great boulders that blocked the volcanic sluices beneath it so that the whole lake seemed to go gurgling down into the depths of the planet, leaving a bare gaping crater of sulfurous yellow rock ringed around with white granite ridges, only to come roaring back with tremendous force an hour later.

  “This is like making a grand processional,” said Prestimion, “and here I am not even crowned yet.”

  The reception was friendly also at nearby Ghrav, though not quite so warm or eager—it was plain that the mayor felt himself caught between Prestimion and Korsibar as between the two grinding-stones of a mill, and did not care for it. But he was hospitable enough, and, in a cautious way, sympathetic to Prestimion’s claim. Then they moved along toward Arkilon, where four million people clustered in a wide green valley flanked by low, wooded hills. There was a notable university there; it was a city of unworldly scholars and archivists and book-publishers, and there was no reason to expect much in the way of opposition there. But as they approached it under the brightness of a hot autumn sun, the sharp-eyed Septach Melayn pointed to the hilltop on the side closest to the Mount, and all up and down that hillside were troops of the Coronal’s force, like a horde of ants spilling everywhere over the sloping contours.

  “They are ten men for every one of ours, I would hazard,” said Septach Melayn. “The whole western garrison is here, and some men from other districts too, it would seem. And they hold the high ground. Are we prepared for this?”

  “Is Korsibar?” Gialaurys asked. “He’s brandishing a fist at us with this army. But will he do anything more than brandish?”

  “Send forth a messenger,” said Prestimion, looking soberly up at that huge hilltop force. “Call him forth. We’ll have a parley.”

  A herald duly went forth, and by twilight time riders came down from the hill to meet with Prestimion at an agreed point midway between the two armies. But Korsibar was not among them. The two chief lords who appeared were Navigorn of Hoikmar, in a grand and formidable warlike costume of stiff and glossy black leather tipped with scarlet plumes, and Kanteverel of Bailemoona, looking rather less belligerent in a loose flowing tunic of orange and yellow stripes, fastened about the waist with an ornate golden chain. Prestimion was surprised and in no way pleased to see the easygoing good-natured Kanteverel here at the head of Korsibar’s garrison-force. The round smooth face of the Duke of Bailemoona seemed strangely bleak now, with none of its customary good humor.

  “Where is Korsibar?” Prestimion said at once.

  Stonily Navigorn replied, looking down at Prestimion from his considerable height, “Lord Korsibar is at the Castle, where he belongs. He charges us bring you back with us so that you can defend your recent actions before him.”

  “And what actions are those, pray tell?”

  It was Kanteverel who replied, speaking calmly as always, but not showing now the warm easy smile that was his hallmark, “You know what they are, Prestimion. You can’t run all over the foothill towns proclaiming yourself Coronal and levying troops without getting Korsibar’s attention, you know. What do you think you’re up to, anyway?”

  “Korsibar knows that already. I don’t recognize him as Coronal, and I offer myself before all the world as the legitimate holder of the throne.”

  “For the love of the Lady, be reasonable, Prestimion!” Kanteverel said, letting a flicker of his old cajoling smile show. “Tour position’s absurd. No one ever named you king. However Korsibar may have come to the crown, there’s no question he’s Coronal now, which everyone concedes.” And Navigorn said, speaking over Kanteverel with a haughty crackle in his voice, “You are Prince of Muldemar, Prestimion, and nothing more, and never will be more. Lord Korsibar has the blessing of the Pontifex Confalume, who confirmed him in his kingship at the Labyrinth according to all the ancient laws.”

  “Confalume’s his father. How does that fit with the ancient laws? And in any case Confalume doesn’t know what he’s doing. Korsibar’s had his conjurers wrap a mass of spells around Confalume’s mind that make him into a doddering senile idiot.”

  That drew laughter from Kanteverel. “You, Prestimion, telling us that this has all been achieved by sorcery? Next we’ll hear you’ve hired a staff of mages yourself!”

  “Enough. I have business in Arkilon,” Prestimion said coolly. He glanced toward the great army on the hill. “Do you mean to prevent me?”

  “You have business at the Castle,” said Navigorn. He spoke firmly enough, though his look was an uneasy one, as though he disliked this situation and regretted the collision that both factions knew was coming. “When you were set free at Dantir
ya Sambail’s request, it was under his pledge of your good behavior, for which he made himself personally responsible. Now the Procurator is gone to Ni-moya, we hear; and your good behavior, it seems, consists of raising armies to bring civil war in the world. Your freedom is revoked, Prestimion. I order you in Lord Korsibar’s name to come with us at once.”

  There was a moment of uncertain silence. Prestimion had been accompanied to the meeting only by Septach Melayn, Svor, Gialaurys, and five men-at-arms. With Navigorn and Kanteverel were the lords Sibellor of Banglecode and Malarich Merobaudes, and five men-at-arms also. The men of the two groups shifted about warily. Was there to be a scuffle right here on the field of parley? There had never been anything but friendship among them; but where was that friendship now? Prestimion stared levelly at Navigorn, whose dark face was a stony mask, and then threw a quick glance at Septach Melayn, who smiled and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Prestimion wondered whether Navigorn might indeed have some wild idea of trying to seize him here. It would be a fool’s act, if so. The advantage, if it came to that, lay with him. His companions at the parley were the stronger; his troops, if he needed them, were not far away.

  “I have no intention of going with you,” said Prestimion after a little. “You knew that when you came out here. Let’s waste no more breath on these formalities, Navigorn. We’ll need it for what is to follow.”

  “And what is that?” Navigorn asked.

  “How can I say? I tell you only that Lord Korsibar is not Lord Korsibar to me, but only Prince Korsibar, and I reject his authority over me. I would like now to end this meeting.”

  “As you wish,” said Navigorn bleakly, and made no move to apprehend him as Prestimion turned to return to his own lines.

  As they walked away, Prestimion said to Septach Melayn, “This is not going to be quite like a grand processional after all, is it? We will have the war, it seems, sooner than we bargained for.”

  “Sooner than Korsibar bargains for either,” Gialaurys said. “If Navigorn and Kanteverel are the best generals he can find at short notice, we’ll beat them into surrender this very day.”

  “Kanteverel’s here only to wheedle,” said Svor. “Navigorn’s the general, and he’s the one will call the tune, if there’s to be a battle today.”

  “What is the plan?” Septach Melayn asked.

  “We continue on to Arkilon,” said Prestimion. “They’ll have to come down the hill to stop us. If they do, we make them regret that they tried.”

  4

  Lord Korsibar was in his great bath of alabaster and chalcedony, disporting himself in the warm bubbling water with his sister’s handmaiden, the red-haired Aliseeva of the milky skin, when word was brought to him that Count Farquanor was waiting outside with important news. There had been a military engagement at Arkilon, it seemed, and Farquanor had had word from the field.

  “I will be back quickly,” Korsibar told the girl. He robed himself and went out into the antechamber, where mosaic sea-dragons were inscribed on the white-tiled walls in many fine bits of blue and green and red glass, and saw at once from the look of smugness on little Farquanor’s lean and wolfish face that the news must be good.

  “Well?” he said at once. “Is Prestimion taken?”

  “Escaped into the open country, my lord. Navigorn was too merciful, I think. But the rebel force has suffered great losses and is in severe retreat.”

  “Septach Melayn dead, at least? Gialaurys?”

  Farquanor said, with apology in his voice, “None of those, lordship, nor Svor either. But a multitude of casualties for them—I have some names, but the only one I know is that of Gardomir of Amblemorn—and the back of the resistance broken. The war is over in its very first encounter, it would seem.”

  ’Tell me,” said Korsibar.

  Farquanor ran his hand down the long sharp blade of his nose that sprang so startlingly from his brow. “Here is the valley of Arkilon,” he said, drawing pictures in the air. “The city, here. The Vormisdas hill, where our troops are situated, here. Prestimion over here on the plain, with a raggle-taggle army that he has put together out of Amblemorn and Vilimong and some other places, and a bunch of wine-makers from Muldemar at the center of it. There is a parley; Navigorn delivers the message; Prestimion defies it, as we all expected. And then—”

  Prestimion, he said, having turned his back on Navigorn after the parley, had attempted to continue his march through the flatlands toward Arkilon. Navigorn had brought his army quickly down from its hilltop position, a battalion of small floaters at the center that were equipped with low-caliber energy-throwers, flanked by two squadrons of mounted spearsmen, and the mass of the infantry held back to the rear. Prestimion had no cavalry at all, and his troops were more of a casual aggregation than a trained army; the best he could do was give an order to scatter and surround, so that there would be no center for Navigorn’s floaters to attack, and try to throw Navigorn’s men into confusion by coming upon them from every side at once.

  But that was of no avail. The early ferocity of Prestimion’s onslaught took Navigorn by surprise, but Navigorn’s men were better armed and better skilled, and very much more numerous; and after a few difficult moments they fought the rebel forces off with great success. The floaters held their formation, the spearsmen prevented any serious incursion into their ranks by the rebels, and even before the royal infantrymen had had a chance to reach the field, the tide of the battle had become clear and Prestimion’s men were in unruly retreat, fleeing helter-skelter, some toward Arkilon and others back in the direction of Ghrav and some off in a third direction entirely.

  “But Prestimion and his three minions got safely away?” Korsibar asked when Farquanor paused.

  “Alas, yes. Navigorn had given orders that none of them be harmed, only captured. It was too kind of him, lordship. Had someone like my brother Farholt had charge of the day, I think we’d have seen a different result. Surely Farholt would—”

  “Spare me the advertisement of your brother’s virtues,” said Korsibar unsmilingly. “Capturing them would have been sufficient. But they failed even at that?”

  “They had Septach Melayn held in close quarters in the middle of the field for a time, with Hosmar Varang, the captain of the spearsmen, giving him great menace, and Earl Alexid of Strave, on foot, penning him up from the other side with two other men.”

  “But he got away even so?”

  “He cut Hosmar Varang down from his mount and gave him a deep slice near the armpit that will take a year to repair, and killed Alexid outright and slashed the other two so that they were left counting their fingers and hard pressed to find ten between them. And—entirely untouched, himself—leaped upon Hosmar Varang’s mount, snatching up the loathsome little mongrel Duke Svor whom he loves like a baby, and off they went at high speed into the woods, seeing that the battle was lost and there was no sense in remaining.”

  “Four of them against his one, and he prevails? The man is in league with demons. No, he is a demon himself! And Alexid dead?” Korsibar grew more somber at that. He had hunted with Alexid of Strave beside him many times, in the jungles of the south and on the bare purple slopes of the northern mountains: a lean restless man, quick and capable with a javelin. This was suddenly very real, to hear Alexid had perished. “What other losses did we suffer, of men I would know?” Korsibar asked; but then, seeing Farquanor unfolding what seemed to be a considerable list, hastily waved him into silence. “Prestimion, you say, is fled into Arkilon?”

  “Into the forest to the west of it. They are all four of them in there, I think, with the other survivors, and thought to be moving farther westward yet.”

  “Later today,” said Korsibar, “I will issue a proclamation naming Prestimion as traitor to the realm, with a price of three thousand royals to anyone who brings him in alive.”

  “Dead or alive,” amended Farquanor immediately, with a ferocious gleam coming into his cool gray eyes.

  “H
as it come to that already?” Korsibar asked, pensive a moment. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it has. Well, then. Five thousand silver royals, dead or alive, for Prestimion, and three thousand for any of the other three. Send word to Navigorn that he’s to undertake close pursuit. And Farholt will have a second army, to chase Prestimion up the other side of the world if need be, and we’ll catch him between. This will all be over in another ten days, I think.”

  “The Divine favors our cause, lordship,” said Farquanor in his oiliest tone. He made the starburst and withdrew, leaving Korsibar free to return to the bathchamber.

  “Pleasing news?” asked red-haired Aliseeva, peering winsomely over the side of the tub.

  “It might have been better,” Korsibar said. “But yes: yes. Pleasing news.”

  * * *

  From the royal chamber Count Farquanor made his way at once to the apartments of the Lady Thismet. She had asked him not long before to keep her apprised of news of the rebellion; and this first report of victory would serve as good pretext for other matters he hoped to put before her.