Within that band lay the nine Inner Cities—Gabell, Chi, Haplior, Khresm, Banglecode, Bombifale, Guand, Peritole, and Tentag—and the nine High Cities—Muldemar, Huine, Gossif, Tidias, Low Morpin, High Morpin, Sipermit, Frangior, and Halanx. These were the metropolises best known to Valentine from his youth. Halanx, a city of noble estates, was the place of his birth; Sipermit was where he had lived during the reign of Voriax, for it was close by the Castle; High Morpin was his favorite holiday resort, where he had often gone to play on the mirror-slides and to ride the juggernauts. So long ago, so long ago! Often now, as his invading force floated up the roadways of the Mount, he looked into the sun-dappled distance, into the cloud-shrouded heights, hoping for a glimpse of the high country, a quick view of Sipermit, of Halanx, of High Morpin somewhere far ahead.
But it was still too soon to expect such things. From Amblemorn the road took them between Bimbak East and Bimbak West, and then on a dogleg detour around the impossibly steep and jagged Normork Crest to Normork itself, of the celebrated stone outer wall built—so legend had it—in imitation of the great wall of Velalisier. Bimbak East welcomed Valentine as legitimate monarch and liberator. The reception at Bimbak West was distinctly less cordial, although there was no show of resistance: its people plainly had not made up their minds where their advantage lay in the strange struggle now unfolding. And at Normork the great Dekkeret Gate was closed and sealed, perhaps for the first time since it had been erected. That seemed unfriendly, but Valentine chose to interpret it as a declaration of neutrality, and passed Normork by without making any attempt to enter. The last thing he cared to do now was divert his energies by laying siege to an impregnable city. Easier by far, he thought, simply not to regard it as his enemy.
Beyond Normork the route crossed Tolingar Barrier, which was no barrier at all, but only an immense park, forty miles of manicured elegance for the amusement of the citizens of Kazkas, Stipool, and Dundilmir. Here it was as if every tree, every bush, had been clipped and wired and pruned into the most shapely of shapes. There was not a branch askew, not a limb out of proportion. If all the billion people who dwelled on Castle Mount had served as gardeners in Tolingar Barrier, they could not have achieved such perfection with round-the-clock toil. It had been accomplished, Valentine knew, by a program of controlled breeding, four thousand years and more in the past, beginning in the reign of Lord Havilbove and continuing through the reigns of three of his successors: these plants were self-shaping, self-pruning, unendingly monitoring themselves for symmetry of form. The secret of such horticultural wizardry had been lost.
And now the army of restoration was entering the level of the Free Cities.
It was possible here, at Bibiroon Sweep atop Tolingar Barrier, to look back down the slopes for a view that was still comprehensible, though already unimaginably mighty. Lord Havilbove’s wondrous park coiled like a tongue of green just below, curving off toward the east, and beyond it, mere gray dots, lay Dundilmir and Stipool, with just the finest suggestion of the secretive bulk of walled Normork visible at the side. Then there was the stupefying downward glide of the land toward Amblemorn and the sources of the Glayge. And, hazy as dream-fog on the horizon, the outlines, more likely than not painted by the imagination alone, of the river and its teeming cities, Nimivan, Mitripond, Threiz, South Gayles. Of Makroprosopos and Pendiwane there was not even a hint, though Valentine saw the natives of those cities staring long and hard, and pointing with vehemence, telling one another that that hummock or this nub was their home.
Shanamir said, standing beside Valentine, “I imagined that you could see all the way to Pidruid from Castle Mount! But we can’t even see the Labyrinth. Is there a longer view from higher up?”
“No,” Valentine said. “Clouds conceal everything below the Guardian Cities. Sometimes, up there, one can forget that the rest of Majipoor exists.”
“Is it very cold up there?” the boy asked.
“Cold? No, not cold at all. As mild as it is here. Milder, even. A perpetual springtime. The air is soft and easy, and flowers always bloom.”
“But it reaches so far into the sky! The mountains of the Khyntor Marches are not nearly so high as this—they’re not even a patch on Castle Mount—and yet I’ve been told that snow falls on the March peaks, and sometimes remains all summer long. It should be black as night at the Castle, Valentine, and cold, cold as death!”
“No,” Valentine said. “The machines of the ancients create an unending springtime. They have roots deep in the Mount, and suck out energy—I have no idea how—and transform it into warmth, light, good sweet air. I’ve seen the machines in the depths of the Castle, huge things of metal, enough metal to build a city with, and giant pumps, and enormous brass tubes and pipes—”
“When will we be there, Valentine? Are we close?”
Valentine shook his head. “Not even halfway.”
8
The most direct route upward through the Free Cities lay between Bibiroon and Upper Sunbreak. That was a wide, gently rising shoulder of the Mount, where the slope was so easy that little time would be wasted on switchbacks. As they neared Bibiroon, Valentine learned from Gorzval the Skandar, who was serving as quartermaster, that the army was running low on fresh fruit and meat. It seemed wisest to reprovision at this level, before tackling the ascent to the Guardian Cities.
Bibiroon was a city of twelve million, arrayed in spectacular fashion along a hundred-mile ridge that seemed to hang suspended over the face of the Mount. There was only one approach to it—from the Upper Sunbreak side, through a gorge so steep and narrow that a hundred warriors could defend it against a million. Not at all to Valentine’s surprise, the gorge was occupied when he came to it, and by somewhat more than a hundred warriors.
Ermanar and Deliamber went forward to parley. A short while later they returned with the news that Duke Heitluig of Chorg, of whose province Bibiroon was the capital, was in command of the troops in the gorge and was willing to speak with Lord Valentine.
Carabella said, “Who is this Heitluig? Do you know him?”
Valentine nodded. “Distantly. He belongs to the family of Tyeveras. I hope he holds no grudge against me.”
“He could win much grace with Dominin Barjazid,” said Sleet darkly, “by striking you down in this pass.”
“And suffer for it in all his sleeping hours?” Valentine asked, laughing. “A drunkard he may be, but not a murderer, Sleet. He is a noble of the realm.”
“As is Dominin Barjazid, my lord.”
“Barjazid himself did not dare to slay me when he had the chance. Am I to expect assassins wherever I parley? Come: we waste time in this.”
On foot Valentine went to the mouth of the gorge, accompanied by Ermanar, Asenhart, and Deliamber. The duke and three of his followers were waiting.
Heitluig was a broad-shouldered, powerful-looking man with thick, coarsely curling white hair and a florid, fleshy face. He stared intently at Valentine, as though searching the features of this fair-haired stranger for some hint of the presence of the soul of the true Coronal. Valentine saluted him as was fitting for a Coronal greeting a provincial duke, bland stare and outturned palm, and immediately Heitluig was in difficulties, obviously unsure of the proper form of response. He said after a moment, “The report is that you are Lord Valentine, changed by witchery. If that is so, I bid you welcome, my lord.”
“Believe me, Heitluig, it is so.”
“There have been sendings to that effect. And also contrary ones.”
Valentine smiled. “The sendings of the Lady are the trustworthy ones. Those of the King are worth about as much as you might expect, considering what his son has done. Have you had instructions from the Labyrinth?”
“That we are to recognize you, yes. But these are strange times. If I am to mistrust what I hear from the Castle, why should I give faith to orders out of the Labyrinth? They might be forgeries or deceptions.”
“Here we have Ermanar, high servitor to your great-uncle the
Pontifex. He is not here as my captive,” said Valentine. “He can show you the Pontifical seals that give him authority.”
The duke shrugged. His eyes continued to probe Valentine’s. “This is a mysterious thing, that a Coronal should be changed this way. If such a thing can be true, anything can be true. What is it you want in Bibiroon—my lord?”
“We need fruit and meat. We have hundreds of miles yet to go, and hungry soldiers are not the best kind.”
With a twitch of his cheek, Heitluig said, “Surely you know you are at a Free City.”
“I know that. But what of that?”
“The tradition is ancient, and perhaps forgotten by others. But we of the Free Cities hold that we are not required to provide goods for the government, beyond the legally specified taxes. The cost of provisions for an army the size of yours—”
“—will be borne entirely by the imperial treasury,” said Valentine crisply. “We are asking nothing from Bibiroon that will cost Bibiroon as much as a five-weight piece.”
“And the imperial treasury marches with you?”
Valentine let a flicker of anger show. “The imperial treasury resides at Castle Mount, as it has since Lord Stiamot’s day, and when I have reached it and have hurled down the usurper I’ll make full payment for what we purchase here. Or is the credit of the Coronal no longer acceptable in Bibiroon?”
“The credit of the Coronal still is, yes,” said Heitluig carefully. “But there are doubts, my lord. We are thrifty people here, and great shame would come upon us if it developed that we had extended credit to—to one who made false claims upon us.”
Valentine struggled for patience.
“You call me ‘my lord,’ and yet you talk of doubts.”
“I am uncertain, yes. I admit that.”
“Heitluig, come off and talk alone with me a moment.”
“Eh?”
“Come off ten steps! Do you think I’ll slit your throat the moment you leave your bodyguard? I want to whisper something to you that you might not want me to say in front of others.”
The duke, looking baffled and uneasy, nodded grudgingly and let Valentine lead him away. In a low voice Valentine said, “When you came to Castle Mount for my coronation, Heitluig, you sat at the table of the kin of the Pontifex, and you drank four or five flasks of Muldemar wine. Do you remember? And when you were properly sozzled you stood up to dance, and tripped over the leg of your cousin Elzandir, and went sprawling on your face, and would have fought Elzandir on the spot if I had not put my arm around you and drawn you aside. Eh? Does any of that strike an echo in you? And would I know any of that if I were some upstart out of Zimroel trying to seize Lord Valentine’s Castle?”
Heitluig’s face was scarlet. “My lord—”
“Now you say it with some conviction!” Valentine clasped the duke warmly by the shoulder. “All right, Heitluig. Give me your aid, and when you come to the Castle to celebrate my restoration, you’ll have five flasks more of good Muldemar. And I hope you’ll be more temperate than the last time.”
“My lord, how can I serve you?”
“I told you. We need fruit and fresh meat, and we’ll settle the bill when I’m Coronal again.”
“So be it. But will you be Coronal?”
“What do you mean?”
“The army that waits above is not a small one, my lord. Lord Valentine—I mean, he who claims to be Lord Valentine—is summoning citizens by the hundreds of thousands to the defense of the Castle.”
Valentine frowned. “And where is this army assembling?”
“Between Ertsud Grand and Bombifale. He’s drawing on all the Guardian Cities and every city above them. Rivers of blood will run down the Mount, my lord.”
Valentine turned away and closed his eyes a moment. Pain and dismay lashed his spirit. It was inevitable, it was not in the least surprising, it was entirely as he had expected from the start. Dominin Barjazid would allow him to march freely through the lower slopes, then would make a fierce defense in the upper reaches, using against him his own royal bodyguard, the knights of high birth with whom he had been reared. In the front lines against him—Stasilaine, Tunigorn, Mirigant his cousin, Elidath, Divvis his brother’s son—
For an instant Valentine’s resolve wavered once more. Was it worth the turmoil, the bloodshed, the agony of his people, to make himself Coronal a second time? Perhaps it had been the will of the Divine that he be cast down. If he thwarted that will, perhaps, he would accomplish only some terrible cataclysm on the plains above Ertsud Grand, and leave scars on the souls of all people, that would fill his nights with dark accusing dreams of lacerating guilt and make his name accursed forever.
He could turn back now, he could resign from the confrontation with the forces of the Barjazid, he could accept the verdict of destiny, he could—
No.
This was a struggle he had fought and won within himself before, and he would not fight it again. A false Coronal, mean and petty and dangerous, held the highest seat of the land and ruled rashly and illegitimately. This must not be allowed to remain the case. Nothing else mattered.
“My lord?” Heitluig said.
Valentine looked back at the duke. “The idea of war makes me ache, Heitluig.”
“There is no one who relishes it, my lord.”
“Yet a time comes when war must happen, lest even worse things befall. I think we are at such a time now.”
“So it seems.”
“Do you accept me as Coronal, Heitluig?”
“No pretender would have known of my drunkenness at the coronation, I think.”
“And will you fight beside me above Ertsud Grand?”
Heitluig regarded him steadily. “Of course, my lord. How many troops of Bibiroon will you require?”
“Say, five thousand. I want no enormous army up there—merely a loyal and brave one.”
“Five thousand warriors are yours, my lord. More if you ask for them.”
“Five thousand will do, Heitluig, and I thank you for your faith in me. Now let’s see about the fresh fruit and meat!”
9
The stay at Bibiroon was brief, just long enough for Heitluig to gather his forces and supply Valentine with the necessary provisions, and then it was on upward, upward, upward. Valentine rode in the vanguard, with his dear friends of Pidruid close at his side. It delighted him to see the look of awe and wonder in their eyes, to see Shanamir’s face aglow with excitement, to hear Carabella’s little indrawn gasp of ecstasy, to notice even gruff Zalzan Kavol muttering and rumbling in astonishment, as the splendors of Castle Mount unrolled before them.
And he—how radiant he felt at the thought of coming home!
The higher they went, the sweeter and more pure became the air, for they were drawing ever closer to the great engines that sustained the eternal springtime of the Mount. Soon the outlying districts belonging to the Guardian Cities were in view.
“So much—” Shanamir murmured in a thickened voice. “So grand a sight—”
Here the Mount was a great gray shield of granite that rolled heavenward in a gentle but inexorable sweep, disappearing into the white billow of clouds that cloaked the upper slopes. The sky was a dazzling electric blue, deeper in tone than in Majipoor’s lowlands. Valentine remembered that sky, how he had loved it, how he had loathed going down into the ordinary world of ordinary colors beyond the Mount. His breast tightened at the sight of it now. Every hill and ridge seemed outlined with a sparkling halo of mysterious brightness. The dust itself, blowing along the edge of the highway, appeared to glitter and shine. Satellite towns and lesser cities could be seen dotting the distant landscape, shimmering like places of awesome magic, and, high above, several of the major urban centers now came in view. Ertsud Grand lay straight ahead, its huge black towers just visible on the horizon, and to the east was a darkness that probably was the city of Minimool; Hoikmar, famed for its quiet canals and byways, could barely be perceived at the extreme westernmost edge of the
landscape.
Valentine blinked away the unexpected and troublesome moistness that suddenly was welling in his eyes. He tapped Carabella’s pocket-harp and said, “Sing to me.”
She smiled and took up the little harp. “We sang this in Til-omon, where Castle Mount was only a storybook place, a romantic dream—”
There is a land in the far-off east
That we shall never see,
Where marvels sprout on mighty peaks,
Bright cities three by three.
On Castle Mount where Powers dwell,
And heroes sport all day—
She halted, strummed a quick fretful discord, put down the harp. She turned her face from him.
“What is it, love?” Valentine asked.
Carabella shook her head. “Nothing. I forget the words.”
“Carabella?”
“It’s nothing, I said!”
“Please—”
She looked toward him, biting at her lip, her eyes tear-flooded. “It’s so wondrous here, Valentine,” she whispered. “And so strange—so frightening—”
“Wondrous, yes. Frightening, no.”
“It’s beautiful. I know. And bigger than I ever imagined, all these cities, these mountains that are part of the big mountain, everything marvelous. But—but—”
“Tell me.”
“You’re coming home, Valentine! All your friends, your family, your—your lovers, I suppose—Once we’ve won the war, you’ll have them around you, they’ll sweep you away for banquets and celebrations, and—” She paused. “I promised myself I would not say any of this.”
“Say it.”
“My lord—”
“Not so formal, Carabella.” He took her hands. Shanamir and Zalzan Kavol, he noticed, had moved to another part of the floater-car and sat with their backs to them.
She said in a rush of words, “My lord, what happens to the little juggler-girl from Til-omon when you are back among the princes and ladies of Castle Mount?”