Legends

by Robert Silverberg

  “I see the stars so infrequently, Nascimonte, in the place where I must live.”

  The duke chuckled. “Must live! The most powerful man in the world, and yet he’s a prisoner! How ironic that is! How sad!”

  “I knew from the moment I became Coronal that I’d have to live in the Labyrinth eventually,” Valentine said. “I’ve tried to make my peace with that. But it was never my plan to be Coronal in the first place, you know. If Voriax had lived—”

  “Ah, yes, Voriax—” Valentine’s brother, the elder son of the High Counselor Damiandane: the one who had been reared from childhood to occupy the throne of Majipoor. Nascimonte gave Valentine a close look. “It was a Metamorph, was it not, who struck him down in the forest? That has been proven now?”

  Uncomfortably Valentine said, “What does it matter now who killed him? He died. And the throne came to me, because I was our father’s other son. A crown I had never dreamed of wearing. Everyone knew that Voriax was the one who was destined for it.”

  “But he had a darker destiny also. Poor Voriax!”

  Poor Voriax, yes. Struck down by a bolt out of nowhere while hunting in the forest eight years into his reign as Coronal, a bolt from the bow of some Metamorph assassin skulking in the trees. By accepting his dead brother’s crown, Valentine had doomed himself inevitably to descend into the Labyrinth someday, when the old Pontifex died and it became the Coronal’s turn to succeed to the greater title, and to the cheerless obligation of underground residence that went with it.

  “As you say, it was the decision of fate,” Valentine replied, “and now I am Pontifex. Well, so be it, Nascimonte. But I won’t hide down there in the darkness all the time. I can’t.”

  “And why should you? The Pontifex can do as he pleases.”

  “Yes. Yes. But only within our law and custom.”

  “You shape law and custom to suit yourself, Valentine. You always have.”

  Valentine understood what Nascimonte was saying. He had never been a conventional monarch. For much of the time during his exile from power in the period of the usurpation he had wandered the world earning a humble living as an intinerant juggler, kept from awareness of his true rank by the amnesia that the usurping faction had induced in him. Those years had transformed him irreversibly; and after his restoration to the royal heights of Castle Mount he had comported himself in a way that few Coronals ever had before—mingling openly with the populace, spreading a cheerful gospel of peace and love even as the Shapeshifters were making ready to launch their long-cherished campaign of war against the conquerors who had taken their world from them.

  And then, when the events of that war made Valentine’s succession to the Pontificate unavoidable, he had held back as long as possible before relinquishing the upper world to his protégé Lord Hissune, the new Coronal, and descending into the subterranean city that was so alien to his sunny nature.

  In his nine years as Pontifex he had found every excuse to emerge from it. No Pontifex in memory had come forth from the Labyrinth more than once a decade or so, and then only to attend high rites at the castle of the Coronal; but Valentine popped out as often as he could, riding hither and thither through the land as though he were still obliged to undertake the formal grand processionals across the countryside that a Coronal must make. Lord Hissune had been very patient with him on each of those occasions, though Valentine had no doubt that the young Coronal was annoyed by the senior monarch’s insistence on coming up into public view so frequently.

  “I change what I think needs changing,” Valentine said. “But I owe it to Lord Hissune to keep myself out of sight as much as possible.”

  “Well, here you are above ground today, at any rate!”

  “It seems that I am. This is one time, though, when I would gladly have forgone the chance to come forth. But with Hissune off in Zimroel—”

  “Yes. Clearly you had no choice. You had to lead this investigation yourself.” They fell silent. “A nasty mess, this murder,” Nascimonte said, after a time. “Pfaugh! Pieces of the poor bastard strewn all over the altar like that!”

  “Pieces of the government’s Metamorph policy, too, I think,” said the Pontifex, with a rueful grin.

  “You think there’s something political in this, Valentine?”

  “Who knows? But I fear the worst.”

  “You, the eternal optimist!”

  “It would be more accurate to call me a realist, Nascimonte. A realist.”

  The old duke laughed. “As you prefer, majesty.” There was another pause, a longer one than before. Then Nascimonte said, more quietly now, “Valentine, I need to ask your forgiveness for an earlier fault. I spoke too harshly, this afternoon, when I talked of the Shapeshifters as vermin who should be exterminated. You know I don’t truly believe that. I’m an old man. Sometimes I speak so bluntly that I amaze even myself.”

  Valentine nodded, but made no other reply.

  “—And telling you so dogmatically that it had to be one of his fellow Shapeshifters who killed him, too. As you said, it’s out of line for us to be jumping to conclusions that way. We haven’t even started to collect evidence yet. At this point we have no justification for assuming—”

  “On the contrary. We have every reason to assume it, Nascimonte.”

  The duke stared at Valentine in bewilderment. “Majesty!”

  “Let’s not play games, old friend. There’s no one here right now but you and me. In privacy we’re free to speak unvarnished truths, are we not? And you said it truly enough this afternoon. I did tell you then that we mustn’t jump to conclusions, yes, but sometimes a conclusion is so obvious that it comes jumping right at us. There’s no rational reason why one of the human archaeologists—or one of the Ghayrogs, for that matter—would have murdered one of his colleagues. I don’t see why anyone else would have done it, either. Murder is such a very rare crime, Nascimonte. We can hardly even begin to understand the motivations of someone who’d be capable of doing it. But someone did.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, and which race’s motivations are hardest for us to understand, eh? To my way of thinking the killer almost certainly would have to be a Shapeshifter—either a member of the archaeological team, or one who came in from outside for the particular purpose of carrying out the assassination.”

  “So one might assume. But what possible purpose could a Shapeshifter have for killing one of his own kind?”

  “I can’t imagine. Which is why we’re here as investigators,” said Valentine. “And I have a nasty feeling that I’m not going to like the answer when we find it.”

  At dinner that night in the archaeologists’ open-air mess hall, under a clear black sky ablaze now with swirling streams of brilliant stars that cast cold dazzling light on the mysterious humps and mounds of the surrounding ruins, Valentine made the acquaintance of Magadone Sambisa’s entire scientific team. There were seventeen in all: six other humans, two Ghayrogs, eight Metamorphs. They seemed, every one of them, to be gentle, studious creatures. Not by the greatest leap of the imagination could Valentine picture any of these people slaying and dismembering their venerable colleague Huukaminaan.

  “Are these the only persons who have access to the archaeological zone?” he asked Magadone Sambisa.

  “There are the day laborers also, of course.”

  “Ah. And where are they just now?”

  “They have a village of their own, over beyond the last pyramid. They go to it at sundown and don’t come back until the start of work the next day.”

  “I see. How many are there altogether? A great many?”

  Magadone Sambisa looked across the table toward a pale and longfaced Metamorph with strongly inward-sloping eyes. He was her site supervisor, Kaastisiik by name, responsible for each day’s deployment of diggers. “What would you say? About a hundred?”

  “One hundred twelve,” said Kaastisiik, and clamped his little slit of a mouth in a way that demonstrated great regard for his own precision.<
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  “Mostly Piurivar?” Valentine asked.

  “Entirely Piurivar,” said Magadone Sambisa. “We thought it was best to use only native workers, considering that we’re not only excavating the city but to some extent rebuilding it. They don’t appear to have any problem with the presence of non-Piurivar archaeologists, but having humans taking part in the actual reconstruction work would very likely be offensive to them.”

  “You hired them all locally, did you?”

  “There are no settlements of any kind in the immediate vicinity of the ruins, your majesty. Nor are there many Piurivars living anywhere in the surrounding province. We had to bring them in from great distances. A good many from Piurifayne itself, in fact.”

  Valentine raised an eyebrow at that. From Piurifayne?

  Piurifayne was a province of far-off Zimroel, an almost unthinkable distance away on the other side of the Inner Sea. Eight thousand years before, the great conqueror Lord Stiamot—he who had ended for all time the Piurivars’ hope of remaining independent on their own world—had driven those Metamorphs who had survived his war against them into Piurifayne’s humid jungles and had penned them up in a reservation there. Though the old restrictions had long since been lifted and Metamorphs now were permitted to settle wherever they pleased, more of them still lived in Piurifayne than anywhere else; and it was in the subtropical glades of Piurifayne that the revolutionary Faraataa had founded the underground movement that had sent the War of the Rebellion forth upon peaceful Majipoor like a river of seething lava.

  Tunigorn said, “You’ve questioned them all, naturally? Established their comings and goings at the time of the murder?”

  Magadone Sambisa seemed taken aback. “You mean, treat them as though they were suspects in the killing?”

  “They are suspects in the killing,” said Tunigorn.

  “They are simple diggers and haulers of burdens, nothing more, Prince Tunigorn. There are no murderers among them, that much I know. They revered Dr. Huukaminaan. They regarded him as a guardian of their past—almost a sacred figure. It’s inconceivable that any one of them could have carried out such a dreadful and hideous crime. Inconceivable!”

  “In this very place some twenty thousand years ago,” Duke Nascimonte said, looking upward as if he were speaking only to the air, “the King of the Shapeshifters, as you yourself reminded us earlier today, caused two enormous sea-dragons to be butchered alive atop those huge stone platforms back there. It was clear from your words this afternoon that the Shapeshifters of those days must have regarded sea-dragons with even more reverence than you say your laborers had for Dr. Huukaminaan. They called them ‘water-kings,’ am I not right, and gave them names, and thought of them as holy elder brothers, and addressed prayers to them? Yet the bloody sacrifice took place here in Velalisier even so, the thing that to this very day the Shapeshifters themselves speak of as the Defilement. Is this not true? Permit me to suggest, then, that if the King of the Shapeshifters could have done such a thing back then, it isn’t all that inconceivable that one of your own hired Metamorphs here could have found some reason to perpetrate a similar atrocity last week upon the unfortunate Dr. Huukaminaan on the very same altar.”

  Magadone Sambisa appeared stunned, as though Nascimonte had struck her in the face. For a moment she could make no reply. Then she said hoarsely, “How can you use an ancient myth, a fantastic legend, to cast suspicion on a group of harmless, innocent—”

  “Ah, so it’s a myth and a legend when you want to protect these harmless and innocent diggers and haulers of yours, and absolute historical truth when you want us to shiver with rapture over the significance of these piles of old jumbled stones?”

  “Please,” Valentine said, glaring at Nascimonte. “Please.” To Magadone Sambisa he said, “What time of day did the murder take place?”

  “Late at night. Past midnight, it must have been.”

  “I was the last to see Dr. Huukaminaan,” said one of the Metamorph archaeologists, a frail-looking Piurivar whose skin had an elegant emerald hue. Vo-Siimifon was his name; Magadone Sambisa had introduced him as an authority on ancient Piurivar script. “We sat up late in our tent, he and I, discussing an inscription that had been found the day before. The lettering was extremely minute; Dr. Huukaminaan complained of a headache, and said finally that he was going out for a walk. I went to sleep.—Dr. Huukaminaan did not return.”

  “It’s a long way,” Mirigant observed, “from here to the sacrificial platforms. Quite a long way. It would take at least half an hour to walk there, I’d guess. Perhaps more, for someone his age. He was an old man, I understand.”

  “But if someone happened to encounter him just outside the camp, though,” Tunigorn suggested, “and forced him to go all the way down to the platform area—”

  Valentine said, “Is a guard posted here at the encampment at night?”

  “No. There seemed to be no purpose in doing that.”

  “And the dig site itself? It’s not fenced off, or protected in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Then anyone at all could have left the day laborers’ village as soon as it grew dark,” Valentine said, “and waited out there in the road for Dr. Huukaminaan to come out.” He glanced toward Vo-Siimifon. “Was Dr. Huukaminaan in the habit of taking a walk before bedtime?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “And if he had chosen to go out late at night for some reason, would he have been likely to take so long a walk?”

  “He was quite a robust man, for his age,” said the Piurivar. “But even so that would have been an unusual distance to go just for a stroll before bedtime.”

  “Yes. So it would seem.” Valentine turned again to Magadone Sambisa. “It’ll be necessary, I’m afraid, for us to question your laborers. And each member of your expedition, too. You understand that at this point we can’t arbitrarily rule anyone out.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Am I under suspicion too, your majesty?”

  “At this point,” said Valentine, “nobody here is under suspicion. And everyone is. Unless you want me to believe that Dr. Huukaminaan committed suicide by dismembering himself and distributing parts of himself all over the top of that platform.”

  The night had been cool, but the sun sprang into the morning sky with incredible swiftness. Almost at once, early as it was in the day, the air began to throb with desert warmth. It was necessary to get a quick start at the site, Magadone Sambisa had told them, since by midday the intense heat would make work very difficult.

  Valentine was ready for her when she called for him soon after dawn. At her request he would be accompanied only by some members of his security detachment, not by any of his fellow lords. Tunigorn grumbled about this, as did Mirigant. But she said—and would not yield on the point—that she preferred that the Pontifex alone come with her today, and after he had seen what she had to show him he could make his own decisions about sharing the information with the others.

  She was taking him to the Seventh Pyramid. Or what was left of it, rather, for nothing now remained except the truncated base, a square structure about twenty feet long on each side and five or six feet high, constructed from the same reddish basalt from which the great arena and some of the other public buildings had been made. East of that stump the fragments of the pyramid’s upper section, smallish broken blocks of the same reddish stone, lay strewn in the most random way across a wide area. It was as though some angry colossus had contemptuously given the western face of the pyramid one furious slap with the back of his ponderous hand and sent it flying into a thousand pieces. On the side of the stump away from the debris Valentine could make out the pointed summit of the still-intact Sixth Pyramid about five hundred feet away, rising above a copse of little contorted trees, and beyond it were the other five, running onward one after another to the edge of the royal palace itself.

  “According to Piurivar lore,” Magadone Sambisa said, “the people of Velalisier held a great festival every thousand
years, and constructed a pyramid to commemorate each one. So far as we’ve been able to confirm by examining and dating the six undamaged ones, that’s correct. This one, we know, was the last in the series. If we can believe the legend”—and she gave Valentine a meaningful look—“it was built to mark the very festival at which the Defilement took place. And had just been completed when the city was invaded and destroyed by those who had come here to punish its inhabitants for what they had done.”

  She beckoned to him, leading him around toward the northern side of the shattered pyramid. They walked perhaps fifty feet onward from the stump. Then she halted. The ground had been carefully cut away here. Valentine saw a rectangular opening just large enough for a man to enter, and the beginning of a passageway leading underground and heading back toward the foundations of the pyramid.

  A star-shaped marker of bright yellow tape was fastened to a goodsized boulder just to the left of the excavation.

  “That’s where you found the head, is it?” he asked.

  “Not there. Below.” She pointed into the opening. “Will you follow me, your majesty?”

  Six members of Valentine’s security force had gone with Valentine to the pyramid site that morning: the giant warrior-woman Lisamon Hultin, his personal bodyguard, who had accompanied him on all his travels since his juggling days; two shaggy hulking Skandars; a couple of Pontifical officials whom he had inherited from his predecessor’s staff; and even a Metamorph, one Aarisiim, who had defected to Valentine’s forces from the service of the arch-rebel Faraataa in the final hours of the War of the Rebellion and had been with the Pontifex ever since. All six stepped forward now as if they meant to go down into the excavation with him, though the Skandars and Lisamon Hultin were plainly too big to fit into the entrance. But Magadone Sambisa shook her head fiercely; and Valentine, smiling, signaled to them all to wait for him above.