The Mountains of Majipoor

by Robert Silverberg

  It would be an extremely long time, Harpirias suspected, before the wild Metamorphs of the mountains returned to trouble King Toikella’s people again.

  He walked over to Korinaam and rested his hand lightly on the Shapeshifter’s thin shoulder.

  “You did very well,” Harpirias said quietly. “You were magnificent. Perfect. If the mountain-guide business ever falls off, you could set up shop as a sorcerer and make a fortune.”

  Korinaam only shrugged.

  “Are you very tired?” Harpirias asked.

  “What do you think?” His voice carried a freight of anger and embarrassment and, above all else, a deadly, numbing weariness.

  “Rest, then. Rest as long as you like. But first tell the king that I’ve done what I promised. That his enemies have run away, that the war is over. It’s safe for him to send his men across the canyon to set free those hajbaraks.”

  17

  When the details of the treaty had been worked out at last, one of Harpirias’s Ghayrog soldiers, who fancied himself something of a calligrapher, inscribed its text in duplicate on broad scrolls of bleached leather that Ivla Yevikenik had provided. It was very fine leather, almost of the quality of parchment. Although the treaty was in fact extremely concise, a mere six clauses, the job of lettering it out took three full days, much to Harpirias’s annoyance. That seemed an inordinate time to waste on such a frill. But the Ghayrog was quite particular about his craft.

  “And what good will all this pretty lettering do, anyway?” Harpirias demanded of Korinaam when the finished copies were at last brought to him. “The king can’t read a single word of Majipoori. What’s written here isn’t going to seem any more important to him than bird-scratchings in the snow. Shouldn’t we at least have drawn up a copy of it in Othinor also?”

  “There is no written Othinor language,” Korinaam observed, a trifle smugly.

  “None at all?”

  “Have you seen many books in your wanderings through the village, prince?”

  Harpirias flushed. “Even so—a treaty that can’t be read by one of the signatories—doesn’t that seem awfully unilateral to you, Korinaam?”

  The Shapeshifter gave Harpirias what might have been a malicious look. He had recovered much of his aplomb in the time that had passed since his performance in the high country; but some residue of resentment for what Harpirias had forced him to do unmistakably remained.

  “Ah, prince, have no fear! The king will admire and respect the copy that we give him! He’ll hang it on his throne-room wall and stroke it fondly from time to time, and why should it matter whether he can read it or not? All that really concerns you—is it not so?—is getting the hostages back; and that much has been agreed upon. Once you have them and have left this place behind you, what further value does the treaty have, to you or to the king?”

  “To me, none. But presumably it has some for the king. It gives him, after all, the thing he most wishes, which is protection for the people of this valley against further incursions by the forces of the government of Majipoor.”

  “Yes. That is surely true.” Korinaam laughed harshly. “What bold soul would dare defy the sacred clauses of this treaty? If at some time in years to come a future Coronal should be so venturesome as to send an army in here, why, whoever occupies Toikella’s throne at that time will simply need to take the treaty down from the wall and wave it in the face of the commanding officer of the invading force, and that officer will immediately order his troops to withdraw! Is that not so, prince? For that has always been the way the people of Majipoor treat those who have less power than they. Tell me, prince: is that not so?”

  Harpirias let the Shapeshifter’s heavy sarcasm pass. Undoubtedly Korinaam had his own Piurivar axes to grind; but Harpirias had no desire to fight Lord Stiamot’s war all over again ten thousand years later. Whatever unpleasantnesses the human settlers of Majipoor had imposed on Korinaam’s ancestors long ago were ancient history now, and had been atoned for, insofar as atonement for the taking of a world was possible at all, by the reconciliation of the races that had begun in the time of Valentine Pontifex. Whatever grievances Korinaam persisted in holding were no affair of Harpirias’s. Finishing this business with the Othinor was all that interested him now.

  He studied the parchment. It was, he had to admit, very nicely lettered indeed. As for the text, he was quite proud of it: crisp in style, efficient and straightforward in setting forth the obligations of the respective signatory parties. No ambiguities or equivocations so far as he could tell, nothing that could be misconstrued or misinterpreted. The Coronal Lord of Majipoor agreed to respect the sovereignty of His Royal Highness the King of the Othinor, and to avoid any further unwanted incursions upon his domain, the king’s domain being defined as beginning at such-and-such a parallel of north latitude on the continent of Zimroel and extending to the planetary pole, et cetera, et cetera. For his part, His Highness the King of the Othinor undertook immediately to release from custody the nine paleontologists who had accidentally intruded upon the sovereign territory of the Kingdom of the Othinor, and to return to them such scientific specimens as they had collected, et cetera, et cetera.

  Nothing was said about continued paleontological research in this area. The king almost certainly would have boggled at that, considering that the main thing he wanted from this treaty was a promise that he would never be troubled by contact with Majipoori citizens again. The scientists, once they were freed, could always petition the Coronal to negotiate an agreement with Toikella permitting them to resume their exploration in Othinor territory. But Harpirias hoped that some ambassador other than himself would be the one who got the job of negotiating that agreement.

  Nor was there any clause covering repatriation to the civilized parts of Majipoor of the children that had been born of Majipoor fathers and Othinor mothers. Best not to touch on that subject at all, Harpirias thought, though he did feel some private discomfort about it. The children would be Othinor, and that was that.

  “‘And so,’” he read, coming to the bottom of the sheet, “‘we the Coronal Lord Ambinole herewith signify our approval and solemnly make our royal pledge—’”

  Harpirias looked up from his reading.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “The way it’s worded here, the signature of the Coronal himself is called for. That’s not what I—”

  “I asked the Ghayrog to make a slight change,” said Korinaam blandly.

  “You did what?”

  “King Toikella has never grasped the fact that you are merely an ambassador. He continues to believe that he has been host to the person of Lord Ambinole.”

  “But I told you a thousand times to let him know that—”

  “I appreciate your concern, prince. Nevertheless, at this point the primary object, is it not, is to maintain the cooperation of the king until the hostages are freed and we have safely withdrawn from his territory? At this stage of things the king can only react badly to the revelation of your true identity. Even now, with the treaty completely negotiated and ready for signing, such a revelation might have explosive effects.”

  “I’ll give him explosive effects!” Harpirias exclaimed. “He’s seen what our energy-throwers can do. If he refuses to release those men, after all the talking that’s gone on here—”

  “You can order your soldiers to do great damage, oh, yes, certainly. But I remind you that the hostages remain in his custody to this moment. If he has them put to death, even while your troops are demonstrating the power of their energy-throwers—what have you accomplished then, prince? Sign the document with the name of Lord Ambinole, I implore you.”

  “I will not. I draw the line at fraud.”

  “Fraud is a very small sin. I call it to your attention once more that our main purpose—”

  “Is the release of the hostages. Right. But what happens when the signed text of the treaty reaches Castle Mount? What will the Coronal say, when he sees that I’ve forged his name? No, no, Kori
naam. I’ll sign as Harpirias of Muldemar. As you’ve already pointed out, King Toikella can’t read anyway. Let him interpret the signature any way he wants.”

  Which was where the discussion ended; for at that moment a messenger from the king arrived, bearing word that the grand feast of celebration, at which the treaty would be formally signed and the hostages brought forth, was ready to begin in the royal banqueting hall.

  It seemed to Harpirias that a great many months had gone by since that other grand feast in the royal hall, the one on his first night here, welcoming him to the land of the Othinor. But he knew it could opt be nearly that long a time: some number of weeks, yes, but surely not months. The sky these days still remained light far into the evening and the heavy snows of winter had not yet begun. Yet he could understand now why the hostages had lost track of time here, had even forgotten what year it was. In this valley one day faded imperceptibly into the next. Twoday, Threeday, Seaday, Starday, who could tell which was which? There were no calendars here. The only clock was the clock of the heavens: the sun, the stars, the moons.

  In the feasting hall everything was exactly as it had been that other time. The heavy white rugs of steetmoy fur had been unpacked and spread on the floor; the great tables of rough planks laid over trestles made of hajbarak bones had been assembled; the innumerable bowls and plates and tureens brimming with food had been set out. The king was on his high throne and an assortment of his wives and daughters lounged at its base.

  Everything was the same, yes. In the intervening weeks only Harpirias had changed; for now the dense, smoky air of the great room seemed perfectly natural to him, and the odors rising from the dishes of food, rather than rousing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, actually stirred his appetite, for he had grown accustomed to the dry stringy meats and fiery sauces of these people, to their baked roots and roasted nuts, their bitter beer, their acrid, glutinous soups and stews. The dissonant screeing and skirling of the king’s musicians was familiar to him now also, and when occasionally some bawdy words would drift to him out of the group of Othinor warriors standing against the side wall, he would sometimes grin with comprehension, for in the course of his nights with Ivla Yevikenik he had learned more than a little of the Othinor language.

  The dancing before the meal was very much the same as before, too: the wives of the king, first, and then a ponderous solo for Toikella himself, and then Harpirias invited to join him on the floor. This time, though, Harpirias called Ivla Yevikenik out of the group of royal princesses to accompany him. The girl’s eyes gleamed with pleasure as she came forward to dance with him; and Toikella too, in his own dark and somber way, appeared pleased at the honor being paid his daughter.

  After the dancing came the dining, and along with it the drinking, round upon round of formal toasting in long, orotund outbursts of Othinor oratory. Harpirias was skilled enough in the ways of high ceremonial dinners on Castle Mount to understand the art of keeping his consumption of the potent Othinor beer as low as was diplomatically permissible: a sip where the others took a gulp, all the while pretending to be swilling the stuff down as lustily as everybody else. The wisdom of that tactic was confirmed when the beer mugs were cleared away and two bowls of finely polished stone were ostentatiously laid out on a long narrow table that had been set up at the foot of the throne. A high official of the court now entered, bearing a tall alabaster vessel, from which he carefully poured into each of the bowls a clear, bright fluid: a brandy or liqueur of some sort, evidently.

  Sounds of awe and surprise could be heard around the room. Harpirias guessed that this must be some very special beverage indeed, something consumed only on the most momentous of ceremonial occasions: the coronation of a king, say, or the birth of a royal heir. Or the consummation of a treaty with a fellow monarch, Harpirias supposed.

  Slowly and majestically Toikella descended from his throne, walked to the table that held the bowls, picked one of them up in both his hands. The king looked strangely grim and tense. All this evening the king had seemed uncharacteristically bleak and edgy and withdrawn, even during the dancing, even during the noisiest part of the feasting; but now his expression was positively funereal. Which was very much out of keeping with the presumable joyousness of the moment.

  What was bothering him? What had become of his natural exuberance, his colossal profligate vitality?

  He stared across at Harpirias, then at the bowl that remained at the table. The meaning was clear enough; Harpirias rose, went to the table, lifted his bowl in both hands as Toikella had done. Then he waited. Toikella’s great bulk loomed oppressively over him. Harpirias felt dwarfed by the king, disturbingly overshadowed. And the king’s black glare bothered him most of all.

  Was there poison in his bowl? Was that why Toikella had turned so edgy as he waited for Harpirias to take the fatal draught?

  But that was nonsense, Harpirias knew. Both bowls had been filled from the same vessel. Toikella would not be planning a joint suicide as the climax of this evening’s festivities.

  The king raised his bowl to his lips. Harpirias did the same. For a moment the king’s eyes met those of Harpirias across the rim of the bowl: they had a baleful look, a look of barely contained anger. Something is very wrong here, Harpirias thought. He glanced over uncertainly at Ivla Yevikenik. She smiled and nodded; she mimed lifting the bowl and drinking. Would she betray him? No. No. The bowl must be safe.

  He took a tentative sip.

  The stuff was like liquid fire. Harpirias felt it burning a track to the bottom of his gut. He gasped, steeled himself, cautiously took a second sip. Toikella had already drained his bowl: no doubt he was expected to do likewise. The second jolt was easier. Already Harpirias could feel his head beginning to swim a little. Much still remained in the bowl. Would it be a dire loss of face if he failed to drink it all down? He was the personal representative of the Coronal, after all. In Toikella’s eyes he was the Coronal. He could not allow himself to disgrace the honor of Majipoor before these barbarians.

  He gulped and gulped again, and a third gulp gave him the last of the brandy. It hit with a frightful impact. His shoulders quivered violently, almost convulsively. His head throbbed and whirled. For a moment he swayed and thought he would fall; but then he steadied himself and planted his feet firmly on the floor.

  By the Lady, would the king fill those bowls again?

  No, he would not. The Divine be thanked, Toikella was content with a single draught of the stuff!

  “Treaty,” the king said gruffly. He still looked grim. “Now we sign.”

  “Yes,” said Harpirias. He fought back another shiver, another wobble. “Now we sign.”

  The two parchment scrolls were produced and arrayed side by side on the table before the throne. A chair made of bone was brought for the king, and another for Harpirias, and they too sat side by side, looking out at the assembled grandees of the Othinor. Korinaam stood just behind Harpirias in his role as interpreter and adviser, and Mankhelm took up the same position in back of the king.

  Toikella, seizing one scroll in his immense paws and holding it high, scrutinized it line by line as though he could actually read it; then, with a grunt, he put it down, picked up the other copy, and began to give it the same survey. Harpirias noted with some satisfaction that the king was reading this one upside down.

  “Everything good?” Harpirias asked him.

  “Everything good, yes. We sign.”

  Korinaam handed Harpirias a stylus that had already been inked. The Shapeshifter leaned forward and said, in a low cutting voice, “You see the place where you must sign, do you not, your lordship?”

  “I have no intention of signing the name of—”

  “Sign, lordship. Quickly. You must. There is no alternative.”

  In quick angry strokes Harpirias wrote in at the bottom of the scroll the name that was required of him there: Ambinole Coronal Lord. It seemed monstrous to him, almost blasphemous. He stared at the fraudulent signature for an i
nstant; and then, before Korinaam could object, he added underneath, Harpirias of Muldemar, on Lord Ambinole’s behalf. Let King Toikella make of that whatever he would—or could.

  He gave the signed scroll to the king, and received the other in return. Toikella had painstakingly inscribed a bold, jagged, illiterate scribble in the lower left corner. Opposite it Harpirias once more wrote the Coronal’s name, and once more added his own beneath.

  It was done. The treaty was signed.

  “Goszmar,” Harpirias said. “The hostages, now.”

  “Goszmar,” Toikella grunted, nodding brusquely. And signaled; and the feasting-hall door was thrown open, and the nine prisoners of the ice-cave came marching uncertainly in, the wild-eyed figure of Salvinor Hesz leading the group.

  He rushed to Harpirias and fell to his knees. “Are we really free?”

  Harpirias indicated the two scrolls before him on the table. “Everything’s signed and sealed. We’ll leave here first thing in the morning.”

  “Free! Free at last! And the fossils—I saw them sitting outside the hall, prince, the whole collection! Will they be returned also?”

  “The Othinor wall provide porters to carry them to the floaters that we have parked outside the village,” Harpirias said.

  “Free! Free! Can it really be?” In a desperate frenzy the paleontologists embraced one another. Some seemed almost manic with glee; some seemed to be having trouble believing that their captivity was ending.

  Harpirias said, “Give these men meat and drink. This is their celebration too!”

  Toikella acceded with a surly wave of his hand. More beer was poured; more platters of meat were brought. But Harpirias saw that the king had drawn aside and stood sulkily watching, taking no part in the festivity.

  Was Toikella planning some treachery as the culmination of the feast? Did that account for his strange brooding mood, for the air of tension that had surrounded him all evening?

  Harpirias said quietly to Ivla Yevikenik, “Your father—what troubles him tonight?”