“No floaters,” said Valentine. “We’ll enter Khyntor on foot.” He heard Sleet’s familiar gasp of horror, saw the familiar exasperated look on Sleet’s face. Lisamon Hultin was red-faced with annoyance; Zaizan Kavol wore a brooding scowl; Carabella too was showing alarm. But no one dared to remonstrate with him. No one had for some time now. It was not so much that he was Pontifex now, he thought: the exchange of one gaudy title for another was really a trivial matter. It was, rather, as though they regarded him as moving deeper and deeper each day into a realm they could not enter. He was becoming incomprehensible to them. As for himself, he felt beyond all trifling concern with security: invulnerable, invincible.
Deliamber said, “Which bridge shall we take, your majesty?” There were four in view: one of brick, one of stone arches, one that was slender and gleaming and transparent, as though it had been made of glass, and one, the closest at hand, that was an airy thing of light swaying cables. Valentine looked from one to another, and at the distant square-topped towers of Khyntor far across the river. The bridge of stone arches, he observed, seemed to be shattered in midspan. One more task for the Pontifex, he thought, remembering that the title he bore had meant, in ancient times, “builder of bridges.” He said, “I knew the names of these bridges once, good Deliamber, but I have forgotten them. Tell them to me again.”
“That is the Bridge of Dreams to our right, your majesty. Nearer to us is the Bridge of the Pontifex, and next to it is Khyntor Bridge, which appears to be damaged beyond use. The one upstream is the Bridge of the Coronal.”
“Why, then, let us take the Bridge of the Pontifex!” said Valentine.
Zaizan Kavol and several of his fellow Skandars led the way. Behind them marched Lisamon Hultin; then Valentine, at an unhurried pace, with Carabella by his side; Deliamber and Sleet and Tisana walked just behind them, with the rest of the small party bringing up the rear. The crowd, growing larger all the time, followed alongside, keeping back of its own accord.
As Valentine was nearing the threshold of the bridge, a thin, dark-haired woman in a faded orange gown detached herself from the onlookers and came rushing toward him, crying, “Majesty! Majesty!” She managed to get within a dozen feet of him before Lisamon Hultin stopped her, catching her by one arm and swinging her off her feet as though she were a child’s doll. “No—wait—” the woman murmured, as Lisamon seemed about to hurl her back into the throng. “I mean no harm—I have a gift for the Pontifex—”
“Put her down, Lisamon,” Valentine said calmly.
Frowning suspiciously, Lisamon released her, but remained close beside the Pontifex, poised at her readiest. The woman was trembling so that she could barely keep her footing. Her lips moved, but for a moment she did not speak. Then she said, “You are truly Lord Valentine?”
“I was Lord Valentine, yes. I am Valentine Pontifex now.”
“Of course. Of course. I knew that. They said you were dead, but I never believed that. Never!” She bowed. “Your majesty!” She was still trembling. She seemed fairly young, though it was hard to be certain, for hunger and hardship had etched deep lines in her face, and her skin was even paler than Sleet’s. She held forth her hand. “I am Millilain,” she said. “I wanted to give you this.” What looked like a dagger of bone, long, slender, tapering to a sharp point, lay in her palm.
“An assassin, see!” Lisamon roared, and moved as if to pounce once again.
Valentine held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “What do you have there, Millilain?”
“A tooth—a holy tooth—a tooth of the water-king Maazmoorn—”
“Ah.”
“To guard you. To guide you. He is the greatest of the water-kings. This tooth is precious, your majesty.” She was shaking now. “I thought at first it was wrong to worship them, that it was blasphemy, that it was criminal. But then I returned, I listened, I learned. They are not evil, the water-kings, your majesty! They are the true masters! We belong to them, we and all others who live on Majipoor. And I bring you the tooth of Maazmoorn, your majesty, the greatest of them, the high Power—”
Softly Carabella said, “We should be moving onward, Valentine.”
“Yes,” he said. He put forth his hand and gently took the tooth from the woman. It was perhaps ten inches long, strangely chilly to the touch, gleaming as though with an inner fire. As he wrapped his hand about it he thought, only for a moment, that he heard the sound of far-off bells, or what might have been bells, though their melody was like that of no bells he had ever heard. Gravely he said, “Thank you, Millilain. I will treasure this.”
“Your majesty,” she whispered, and went stumbling away, back into the crowd.
He continued on, slowly across the bridge into Khyntor.
The crossing took an hour or more. Long before he reached the far side Valentine could see that a crowd had gathered over there to await him: and it was no mere mob, he realized, for those who stood in the vanguard were dressed identically, in uniforms of green and gold, the colors of the Coronal. This was an army, then—the army of the Coronal Lord Sempeturn.
Zalzan Kavol looked back, frowning. “Your majesty?” he said.
“Keep going,” said Valentine. “When you reach the front row of them, step back and let me through, and remain at my side.” He felt Carabella’s hand closing in fear on his wrist.
“Do you remember,” he said, “early in the war of restoration, when we were coming into Pendiwane, and found a militia of ten thousand waiting for us at the gate, and there were just a few dozen of us?”
“This is not Pendiwane. Pendiwane was not in rebellion against you. There was no false Coronal waiting at the gate for you, but only a fat terrified provincial mayor.”
“It is all the same,” Valentine said.
He came to the bridge’s end. The way was blocked there by the troops in green and gold. An officer in the front line whose eyes were glittering with fear called out hoarsely, “Who are you that would enter Khyntor without leave of Lord Sempeturn?”
“I am the Pontifex Valentine, and I need no one’s leave to enter a city of Majipoor.”
“The Coronal Lord Sempeturn will not have you come farther on this bridge, stranger!”
Valentine smiled. “How can the Coronal, if Coronal he be, gainsay the word of the Pontifex? Come, fellow, stand aside!”
“That I will not do. For you are no more Pontifex than I.”
“Do you deny me? I think your Coronal must do that with his own voice,” said Valentine quietly.
He began to walk forward, flanked by Zalzan Kavol and Lisamon Hultin. The officer who had challenged him threw uncertain glances at the soldiers to his right and left in the front line; he drew himself up rigidly, and so did they; their hands went ostentatiously to the butts of the weapons they carried. Valentine continued to advance. They stepped back half a pace, and then half a pace more, while continuing to glare sternly at him. Valentine did not halt. The front line was melting away to this side and that, now, as he marched steadfastly into it.
Then the ranks opened and a short stocky man with rough reddish cheeks emerged to face Valentine. He was clad in a Coronal’s white robe over a green doublet, and he wore the starburst crown, or a reasonable likeness of it, in his great wild tuft of black hair.
He held up both hands with his palms outstretched and cried loudly, “Enough! No farther, impostor!”
“And by whose authority do you issue such orders?” Valentine asked amiably.
“My own, for I am the Coronal Lord Sempeturn—”
“Ah, you are the Coronal, and I am an impostor? I had not understood that. And by whose will are you Coronal, then, Lord Sempeturn?”
“By the will of the Divine, who has appointed me to rule in this time of a vacancy on Castle Mount!”
“I see,” said Valentine. “But I know of no such vacancy. There is a Coronal, Lord Hissune by name, who holds office by legitimate appointment.”
“An impostor can make no legitimate appointments,” Se
mpeturn rejoined.
“But I am Valentine who was Coronal before him, and who now is Pontifex—by will of the Divine also, so it is generally believed.”
Sempeturn grinned darkly. “You were an impostor when you claimed to be Coronal, and you are an impostor now!”
“Can that be so? Was I acclaimed wrongly, then, by all the princes and lords of the Mount, and by the Pontifex Tyeveras, may he rest always at the Source, and by my own mother the Lady?”
“I say you deceived them all, and the curse that has descended on Majipoor is best proof of that. For the Valentine who was made Coronal was a dark-complected man, and look at you—your hair is bright as gold!”
Valentine laughed. “But that is an old story, friend! Surely you know of the witchery that deprived me of my body and put me into this one!”
“So you say.”
“And so the Powers of the realm agreed.”
“Then you are a master of deceit,” said Sempeturn. “But I will waste no more time with you, for I have urgent tasks. Go: get you back into Hot Khyntor, and board your ship and sail yourself off down the river. If you are found in this province by this hour tomorrow you will regret it most sorely.”
“I will leave soon enough, Lord Sempeturn. But first I must ask a service of you. These soldiers of yours—the Knights of Dekkeret, do you call them?—we have need of them to the east, on the borders of Piurifayne, where the Coronal Lord Hissune is assembling an army. Go to him, Lord Sempeturn. Place yourself under his command. Do what he asks of you. We are aware of what you have accomplished in gathering these troops, and we would not deprive you of leadership over them: but you must make yourself part of the greater effort.”
“You must be a madman,” Sempeturn said.
“I think otherwise.”
“Leave my city unguarded? March off thousands of miles to surrender my authority to some usurper?”
“It is necessary, Lord Sempeturn.”
“In Khyntor I alone decide what is necessary!”
“That must change,” said Valentine. He slipped easily into the waking trance, and sent forth the merest tendril of his mind toward Sempeturn, and played with him, and brought a frown of confusion from the red-faced man. He sent into Sempeturn’s mind the image of Dominin Barjazid, wearing the body that once had been his own, and said, “Do you recognize that man, Lord Sempeturn?”
“He—he—he is the former Lord Valentine!”
“No,” said Valentine, and hurled a full jolt of his mental force at the false Coronal of Khyntor.
Sempeturn lurched and nearly fell, and clutched at the men in green and gold about him, and the color of his cheeks deepened until it was the purple of overripe grapes.
“Who is that man?” Valentine asked.
“He is the brother of the King of Dreams,” whispered Sempeturn.
“And why does he wear the features of the former Lord Valentine?”
“Because—because—”
“Tell me.”
Sempeturn sagged until his knees were bent and his quivering hands hung almost to the ground.
“Because he stole the Coronal’s body during the time of the usurpation, and wears it yet—by the mercy and dispensation of the man he would have overthrown—”
“Ah. And who am I, then?”
“You are Lord Valentine,” Sempeturn said miserably.
“Wrong. Who am I, Sempeturn?”
“Valentine—Pontifex—Pontifex of Majipoor—”
“Indeed. At last. And if I am Pontifex, who is Coronal?”
“Whoever—you—say, your majesty.”
“I say he is Lord Hissune, who waits for you in Ni-moya, Sempeturn. Go: gather your knights, take your army east, serve your Coronal as he wishes. Go, Sempeturn! Go!” He sent one last thrust of force toward Sempeturn, who reeled and swayed and shook, and at last fell to his knees.
“Majesty—majesty—forgive me—”
“I will spend a night or two in Khyntor,” said Valentine, “and see to it that all is in order here. And then I think I must move on toward the west, where more work awaits me.” He turned and saw Carabella staring at him as though he had sprouted wings or horns. He smiled at her and lightly blew her a kiss. This is thirsty work, he thought. A good bowl or two of wine, now, if they have any in Khyntor, eh?
He glanced down at the dragon-tooth that he had held in his hands all this time and ran his fingers lightly over it, and heard once more the sound of bells, and thought that he felt the stirring of mighty wings within his soul. Carefully he wrapped the tooth in a piece of colored silk that he took from Carabella, and handed it to her, saying, “Guard this well, my lady, until I ask you for it again. I will have some great use for it, I think.” He looked into the crowd and caught sight of the woman Millilain who had given the tooth to him. Her eyes were fixed on his; and they blazed with a frightening intensity, as though she were staring with awe and rapture at some godlike being.
WHAT SOUNDED LIKE a loud argument seemed to be going on just outside the door of his bedchamber, Hissune realized. He sat up, scowled, blinked groggily. Through the great window to his left he saw the red daybreak glow of the sun low on the eastern horizon. He had been awake far into the night preparing for the arrival this day of Divvis, and he was hardly pleased to be roused from sleep so soon after sunrise.
“Who’s out there?” he growled. “What in the name of the Divine is all that racket?”
“My lord, I have to see you at once!” Alsimir’s voice. “Your guards say you must not be awakened under any circumstances, but I absolutely must speak with you!”
Hissune sighed. “I seem to be awake,” he said. “You may as well come in.”
There was the sound of unbolting of the doors. After a moment Alsimir entered, looking greatly agitated.
“My lord—”
“What’s going on?”
“The city is under attack, my lord!”
Suddenly Hissune was fully awake. “Attack? By whom?”
“Strange monstrous birds,” Alsimir said. “With wings like those of sea dragons, and beaks like scythes, and claws that drip poison.”
“There are no birds of such a kind.”
“These must be same evil new creatures of the Shapeshifters that began entering Ni-moya shortly before dawn from the south, a great hideous flock, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Already they have taken fifty lives or more, and it will get much worse as the day goes on.” Alsimir went to the window. “See, my lord, there are some of them now, circling above the old palace of the duke—”
Hissune stared. A swarm of ghastly shapes soared and hovered in the clear morning sky: huge birds, bigger than gihornas, bigger even than miluftas and far more ugly. Their wings were not bird-wings but rather the sort of black leathery things, supported on outstretched fingerlike bones, that sea dragons had. Their beaks, wickedly sharp and curved, were flaming red, and their long outstretched claws were bright green. Fiercely they dived in quest of prey, swooping and rising and swooping again, while in the streets below people ran desperately for cover. Hissune watched one unwary boy of ten or twelve years, with schoolbooks under his arm, emerge from a building directly into the path of one of the creatures: it swept downward until it was no more than nine or ten feet above the ground, and its claws flicked out in a quick powerful assault that slashed through his tunic and ripped a bloody track up his back. As the bird swung swiftly upward again the boy went sprawling, hands slapping the pavement in wild convulsions. Then, almost at once, he was still, and three or four of the birds plummeted like stones from the sky, falling upon him and at once beginning to devour him.
Hissune muttered a curse. “You did well to awaken me. Have any countermeasures been taken yet?”
“We have some five hundred archers heading for the rooftops already, my lord. And we’re mobilizing the long-range energy-throwers as fast as we can.”
“Not enough. Not nearly enough. What we have to avoid is a general panic in the city—twenty milli
on frightened civilians running around trampling each other to death. It’s vital to show them that we’re bringing the situation under control right away. Put five thousand archers up on the roofs. Ten thousand, if we have them. I want everybody who knows how to draw a bow up there taking part in this—all over the city, highly visible, highly reassuring.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And issue a general command to the citizens to stay indoors until further orders. No one is to go outside: no one, regardless of how urgent he thinks his business is, while the birds are still a menace. Also: have Stimion send word downriver to Divvis that we’re having a little trouble here and he’d better be on guard if he’s still planning to enter Ni-moya this morning. And I want you to send for that old man who runs that rare-animal zoo in the hills, the one I spoke with last week—Ghitain, Khitain, something like that. Tell him what’s been going on this morning, if he doesn’t already know, and bring him here under careful guard, and have someone collect a few of the dead birds and bring them here too, for him to examine.” Hissune turned to the window again, glowering. The boy’s body was wholly hidden by the birds, nine or ten of them now, that fluttered greedily about it. His schoolbooks lay scattered in a pathetic sprawl nearby. “Shapeshifters!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Sending monsters to make war on children! Ah, but we’ll have them pay dearly for this, Alsimir! We’ll feed Faraataa to his own birds, eh? Go, now: there’s much that needs doing.”
More detailed reports arrived in a steady stream as Hissune had his hasty breakfast. More than a hundred deaths now were attributed to the aerial onslaught, and the number was mounting rapidly. And at least two more flocks of the birds had entered the city, making, so far as anyone had been able to reckon, at least fifteen hundred of the creatures so far.
But already the rooftop counterattack was producing results: the birds, on account of their great size, were slow and graceless fliers and made conspicuous targets for the archers—of whom they showed virtually no fear. So they were being picked off fairly easily, and eliminating them seemed mainly a matter of time, even if new hordes of them were still en route from Piurifayne. The streets of the city had largely been cleared of civilians, for word of the attack and of the Coronal’s orders to stay indoors had by now spread to the farthest suburbs. The birds circled morosely over a silent, deserted Ni-moya.
Valentine Pontifex Page 39
