Valentine drew breath deep into his lungs and closed his eyes, and, as the Lady had taught him, let himself slip into waking sleep, into the trance that brought his circlet to life. And sent his mind out toward the dark and bitter soul of the Overlord of the Western Marches, and flooded it with love.
The effort called forth all the strength that was in him. He swayed and braced his legs, and leaned against Carabella, one hand on her shoulder, drawing further energy and vitality from her and pumping it toward Nascimonte. He understood now what price Sleet paid for his blind juggling, for this was draining him of all the stuff of life. Yet he sustained the outpouring of spirit for moment after long moment.
Nascimonte stood frozen, facing half away from him with his body twisted around, his eyes locked on Valentine’s. Valentine held his grip unrelentingly on the other’s soul, and bathed it with compassion until Nascimonte’s iron resentments softened and loosened and dropped from him like a shell, and then into the suddenly vulnerable man Valentine poured a vision of all that had befallen him since his overthrow in Til-omon so long ago, everything compressed into a single dazzling point of illumination.
He broke the contact and, staggering, lurched hard against Carabella, who supported him unflinchingly.
Nascimonte stared at Valentine like one who has been touched by the Divine.
Then he dropped to his knees and made the starburst sign.
“My lord—” he said thickly, deep in his throat, a barely audible sound. “My lord—forgive me—forgive—”
4
That there should be bandits at large in this desert surprised and dismayed Valentine, for there was little history of such anarchy on well-mannered Majipoor. That the bandits should be well-to-do farming folk made paupers by the callousness of the present Coronal dismayed him also. It was not the custom on Majipoor for the ruling class so carelessly to exploit its position. Dominin Barjazid, if he thought he could conduct himself that way and hold his throne for long, was not merely a villain but a fool.
“Will you put down the usurper?” Nascimonte asked.
“In time,” replied Valentine. “But there is much to do before that day arrives.”
“I am yours to command, if I can be of service.”
“Are there other bandits between here and the mouth of the Labyrinth?”
Nascimonte nodded. “Many. It becomes the fashion in this province to run wild in the hills.”
“And have you influence over them, or is your title of duke only irony?”
“They obey me.”
“Good,” said Valentine. “I ask you then to conduct us through these lands to the Labyrinth, and to keep your marauding friends from delaying us in our journey.”
“I will, my lord.”
“But not a word to anyone of what I’ve shown you. Regard me simply as an official of the Lady, on embassy to the Pontifex.”
The faintest glint of suspicion flickered momentarily in Nascimonte’s eyes. Uneasily he said, “I may not proclaim you as true Coronal? Why is that?”
Valentine smiled. “This is my entire army you see here in these few floater-cars. I would not announce war against the usurper until my forces are larger. Hence this secrecy; and hence my visit to the Labyrinth. The sooner I win the support of the Pontifex, the sooner the true campaign begins. How quickly can you be ready to depart?”
“Within the hour, my lord.”
Nascimonte and a few of his men rode with Valentine in the lead floater. The landscape grew steadily more barren: now it was a brown and almost lifeless wasteland, where swirls of dust rose under the harsh hot wind. Occasionally men in rough clothes could be seen riding in bands of three or four, far from the main highway, pausing to peer at the travelers, but there were no incidents. On the third day Nascimonte proposed a shortcut that would save several days in reaching the Labyrinth. Unhesitatingly Valentine agreed, and the caravan plunged off to the northeast over an enormous dry lakebed and then down a tortured land of steep gullies and flat-topped eroded hills, past a range of blunt mountains of a red sandy rock, and finally out into a vast windy tableland that seemed altogether featureless, a mere expanse of grit and pebbles filling the entire horizon. Valentine saw Sleet and Zalzan Kavol exchanging troubled glances as the floaters entered this bleak useless place, and he supposed they were muttering privately about treachery and betrayal, but his own faith in Nascimonte was unshaken. He had touched the bandit chieftain’s mind with his own, through the circlet of the Lady, and what he had sensed in it was not the soul of a traitor.
Another day, and another, and another, on this track through the midst of nowhere, and now Carabella was frowning, and the hierarch Lorivade looked more grim than usual, and Lisamon Hultin at last drew Valentine aside and said, as quietly as she could say anything, “What if this man Nascimonte is a hireling of the false Coronal, who has been paid to lose you in a place where no one will ever find you?”
“Then we are lost and our bones will lie here forever,” said Valentine. “But I give no weight to such fears.”
All the same, a certain edginess grew in him. He remained confident of Nascimonte’s good faith—it seemed unlikely that any agent of Dominin Barjazid would choose so dreary and drawn-out a method of getting rid of him, when a single sword-stroke back at the Metamorph ruins would have accomplished it—but he had no real assurance that Nascimonte knew where he was going. There was no water out here, and even the mounts, able to transform any sort of organic matter into fuel, were—so said Shanamir—growing thin and slack-muscled on the scattered scrawny weeds that now were their entire fare. If anything went wrong in this place there would be no hope of rescue. But Valentine’s touchstone was Autifon Deliamber: the wizard had a hearty and expert skill at self-preservation, and Deliamber looked unworried, altogether tranquil, as the drab days passed.
And at length Nascimonte halted the caravan at a place where two lines of steep bare hills converged to confine them in a high-walled narrow canyon. He said to Valentine, “Do you think we have lost our way, my lord? Come, let me show you something.”
Valentine and some of the others followed him to the head of the canyon, a distance of some fifty paces. Nascimonte stretched his arms toward the immense valley that began where the canyon opened.
“Look,” he said.
The valley was more desert, a giant fan-shaped expanse of pale tawny sand, spreading outward and extending northward and southward for at least a hundred miles. And precisely in the middle of that valley Valentine saw a darker circle, itself of colossal size, that rose a short way above the flat valley floor. He recognized it from an earlier time, when he had seen it from the far side: it was the giant mound of brown earth that covered the Labyrinth of the Pontifex.
“We will be at the Mouth of Blades the day after tomorrow,” said Nascimonte.
There were seven mouths all told, Valentine remembered, arranged equidistantly around the enormous structure. When he had come as emissary from Voriax he had entered by way of the Mouth of Waters, on the opposite side, where the River Glayge descended through the fertile northeastern provinces from Castle Mount. That was the genteel way to reach the Labyrinth, used by high officials when they had dealings with the ministers of the Pontifex; on all other sides the Labyrinth was surrounded by far less agreeable country, the least agreeable of all being the desert through which Valentine now advanced. But there was comfort in knowing that even if he must approach through this land of deadness he would leave the Labyrinth by its happier side.
The area covered by the Labyrinth was huge, and since it was constructed on many levels, spiraling down and down and piling tier upon tier in the bowels of the planet, its actual population was incalculable. The Pontifex himself occupied only the innermost sector, to which scarcely anyone ever gained admission. In the zone surrounding that was the domain of the governmental ministers, a multitude of mysterious dedicated souls who spent all their lives toiling underground at tasks that defied Valentine’s understanding, record-ke
eping and tax-decreeing and census-taking and such. And around the governmental zone there had developed, over thousands of years, the protective outer skin of the Labyrinth, a maze of circular passageways inhabited by millions of shadowy figures, bureaucrats and merchants and beggars and clerks and cutpurses and who knew what else, a world unto itself, where the kindly warmth of the sun was never felt, where the cool clean shafts of the moon could not penetrate, where all the beauty and wonder and joy of giant Majipoor had been exchanged for the pallid pleasures of a life underground.
The floater-cars followed the line of the outer mound for an hour or so, and came at last to the Mouth of Blades.
This was no more than a timber-roofed opening giving access to a tunnel disappearing into the earth. A line of ancient rusty swords was set in concrete across its front, forming a barrier more symbolic than actual, since they were spaced far apart. How long, Valentine wondered, does it take to turn swords rusty in this dry desert climate?
The guardians of the Labyrinth waited just within the entrance.
There were seven of them—two Hjorts, a Ghayrog, a Skandar, a Liiman, and two humans—and all were masked after the universal manner of the officials of the Pontifex. The mask too was mainly symbolic, a mere strip of some glossy yellow stuff angled across the eyes and bridge of the nose of the humans and in equivalent places on the others, but it created an effect of great strangeness about these people, as it was meant to do.
The guardians stolidly confronted Valentine and his party in silence. Deliamber said quietly to him, “They will ask a price for admission. All this is traditional. Go up to them and state your business.”
To the guardians Valentine said, “I am Valentine, brother to the late Voriax, son of the Lady of the Isle, and I have come to seek audience with the Pontifex.”
Not even so bizarre and provocative an announcement as that stirred much reaction from the masked ones. The Ghayrog said only, “The Pontifex admits no one to his presence.”
“Then I would have audience with his high ministers, who can bear my message to the Pontifex.”
“They will not see you either,” replied one of the Hjorts.
Valentine said, “In that case I will make application to the ministers of the ministers. Or to the ministers of the ministers of the ministers, if I must. All I ask of you is that you grant admission to the Labyrinth for my companions and me.”
The guardians conferred solemnly among themselves, in low droning tones, evidently going through some ritual of a purely mechanical sort, since they barely seemed to be listening to one another. When their mutterings died away the Ghayrog spokesman swung about to face Valentine and said, “What is your offering?”
“Offering?”
“The entry-price.”
“Name it and I’ll pay it.” Valentine signaled to Shanamir, who carried a purse of coins. But the guardians looked displeased, shaking their heads, several of them actually turning away as Shanamir produced some half-royal pieces.
“Not money,” the Ghayrog said disdainfully. “An offering.”
Valentine was baffled. In confusion he looked toward Deliamber, who moved his tentacles, waving several of them up and down, in a rhythmic tossing gesture. Valentine frowned. Then he understood. Juggling!
“Sleet—Zalzan Kavol—”
From one of the cars they brought clubs and balls. Sleet, Carabella, and Zalzan Kavol stationed themselves before the guardians and, at a signal from the Skandar, began to juggle. Motionless as statues, the seven masked ones watched. The entire proceeding seemed so preposterous to Valentine that he was hard put to keep a straight face, and several times had to choke back giggles; but the three jugglers performed their routines austerely and with the utmost dignity, as though this were some crucial religious rite. They went through three complete patterns of interchange and stopped with one accord, bowing stiffly to the guardians. The Ghayrog nodded almost imperceptibly—the only acknowledgment of the performance.
“You may enter,” he said.
5
They drove the floaters between the blades and into a sort of vestibule, dark and musty, that opened into a wide sloping roadway. A short distance down that and they intersected a curving tunnel, the first of the rings of the Labyrinth.
It was high-roofed and brightly lit, and could well have been a market street in any busy city, with stalls and shops and pedestrian traffic and vehicles of all shapes and sizes floating along. But a moment’s careful inspection made it clear that this was no Pidruid, no Piliplok, no Ni-moya. The people in the streets were eerily pale, with a ghostly look that told of lifetimes spent away from the rays of the sun. Their clothing was curiously archaic in style, and of dull, dark colors. There were many masked individuals, servants of the pontifical bureaucracy, unremarkable in the context of the Labyrinth and moving in the crowds without attracting the slightest attention for their maskedness. And, thought Valentine, everyone, masked and maskless alike, had a tense and drawn expression, a strange haunted look about the eyes and mouth. Out in the world of fresh air, under the warm and cheerful sun, people on Majipoor smiled freely and easily, not only with their mouths but with their eyes, their cheeks, their entire faces, their whole souls. Down in this catacomb souls were of a different sort.
Valentine turned to Deliamber. “Do you know your way around in this place?”
“Not at all. But guides should be easily come by.”
“How?”
“Halt the cars, get out, stand around, look befuddled,” the Vroon said. “You’ll have guides aplenty in a minute.”
It took less than that. Valentine, Sleet, and Carabella left their car, and instantly a boy no more than ten, who had been running along the street with some younger children, whirled about and called, “Show you the Labyrinth? One crown, all day!”
“Do you have an older brother?” Sleet asked.
The boy glared at him. “You think I’m too young? Go on, then! Find your own way around! You’ll be lost in five minutes!”
Valentine laughed. “What’s your name?”
“Hissune.”
“How many levels must we go, Hissune, before we reach the government sector?”
“You want to go there?”
“Why not?”
“They’re all crazy, there,” the boy said, grinning, “Work, work, shuffle papers all day long, mumble and mutter, work hard and hope you’ll get promoted even deeper down. Talk to them and they don’t even answer you. Minds all mumbly from too much work. It’s seven levels under. Courts of Columns first, Hall of Winds, Place of Masks, Court of Pyramids, Court of Globes, the Arena, and then you get to the House of Records. I’ll take you there. Not for one crown, though.”
“How much?”
“Half a royal.”
Valentine whistled. “What would you do with so much money?”
“Buy my mother a cloak, and light five candles to the Lady, and get my sister the medicine she needs.” The boy winked. “And maybe a treat or two for myself.”
During this exchange a goodly crowd had gathered—at least fifteen or twenty children no older than Hissune, some younger ones, and some adults, all clustered together in a tight semicircle and watching tensely to see if Hissune got the job. None of them called out, but out of the corner of his eye Valentine saw them straining for his attention, standing on tiptoes, trying to look knowledgeable and responsible. If he refused the boy’s offer, he would have fifty more the next moment, a wild clamor of voices and a forest of waving hands. But Hissune seemed to know his business, and his blunt, coolly cynical approach had charm.
“All right,” Valentine said. “Take us to the House of Records.”
“All these cars yours?”
“That one, that, that—yes, all.”
Hissune whistled. “Are you important? Where are you from?”
“Castle Mount.”
“I guess you’re important,” the boy conceded. “But if you come from Castle Mount, what are you doing on the Blades si
de of the Labyrinth?”
The boy was clever. Valentine said, “We’ve been traveling. We’ve just come from the Isle.”
“Ah.” Hissune’s eyes widened just for an instant, the first breach in his jaunty streetwise coolness. Doubtless the Isle was a virtually mythical place to him, as far off as the farthest stars, and despite himself be showed awe at finding himself in the presence of someone who had actually been there. He moistened his lips. “And how shall I call you?” he asked after a moment.
“Valentine.”
“Valentine,” the boy repeated. “Valentine from Castle Mount. Very nice name.” He clambered into the first floater-car. As Valentine got in beside him Hissune said, “Really? Valentine?”
“Really.”
“Very nice name,” he said again. “Pay me half a royal, Valentine, and I’ll show you the Labyrinth.”
Half a royal, Valentine knew, was outrageous, several days’ pay for a skilled artisan, and yet he made no objection: it seemed improper for someone of his station to be haggling with a child over money. Hissune, perhaps, had calculated the same thing. In any event the fee turned out to be a worthwhile investment, for the boy proved expert in the twists and turns of the Labyrinth, guiding them with surprising swiftness toward the lower and inner coils of the place. Down they went, down and around, making unexpected turns and shortcuts through narrow, barely manageable alleyways, descending on hidden ramps that seemed to make transit across implausible gulfs of space.
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