Thismet wondered whether Prestimion might feel any corresponding pull himself that came from her. It seemed to her that she detected the signs of that—the movements of his eyes, the shifts of color in his face. It gave her a moment’s giddy pleasure.
Which gave way to anger, turned against herself. What absurdity this was! Every atom of her being must be devoted from this time onward to preventing this man from attaining the very power whose mere prospect was so deplorably unsettling her. For him to be drawn to her might be useful to her purpose; for her to be drawn at all to him, nothing but wild folly.
“You know Sanibak-Thastimoon, I think?” Thismet asked, inclining her head slightly in the direction of the Su-Suheris standing just behind her. “Magus to my brother, and occasionally to me as well?”
“I know of him, yes. We have not actually spoken.”
Sanibak-Thastimoon bowed to Prestimion, lowering his right head rather more than his left.
Thismet said, “In recent days he has been peering long and hard at the stars, prince, seeking omens for the new reign. He tells me now that he’s found auguries that will be of considerable interest to you.”
“Has he, now?” said Prestimion, with what seemed like no more than well-mannered formality. Too late, Thismet remembered that Prestimion was said to be skeptical toward all forms of wizardry and omen-seeking. But no matter: her only intention at the moment was to distract him from the conversation between Farquanor and Korsibar that was taking place across the room.
She gestured to the Su-Suheris to speak. Sanibak-Thastimoon made no show of dismay or surprise, although Thismet had not given him any warning of what would be required of him. “What I have determined,” said Sanibak-Thastimoon unhesitatingly, “is this: many great surprises are in store for you, prince—and for us all—in the times that lie ahead.”
Prestimion managed a slight elevation of his eyebrows, by way of showing mild curiosity.
“Pleasant surprises, I hope,” he said.
“Oh, yes, some of those as well,” said Sanibak-Thastimoon.
The prince laughed. “I’m not entirely sure I’m pleased with the sound of that.”
He invited the magus to be more specific; and Sanibak-Thastimoon replied sonorously that he would, so far as it was in his power to do so.
Thismet, meanwhile, was looking past Prestimion’s shoulder and outward toward her brother and Farquanor. She noted an expression of intense animation on Korsibar’s face: he was speaking quickly and with many firm chopping gestures of his hand, while Farquanor, rising almost on tiptoe to reduce the gulf of height between them, appeared to be trying to mollify Korsibar, to soothe him, to reassure him. Suddenly Korsibar turned and stared across the room, directly at Thismet. She fancied that she saw astonishment and bewilderment—and perhaps anger—in her brother’s eyes; and she felt a great yearning to know without delay what had occurred between him and Farquanor.
Closer at hand, Sanibak-Thastimoon was sharing portents of things to come with Prestimion as fast as he could invent them; but his utterances were couched in the cloudy generalities of his trade, with much murky talk of the stars traveling retrograde in their courses and brazen serpents devouring their own tails, such-and-such happenings and configurations implying the possibility of such-and-such an event and such-and-such a corollary consequence, unless of course they were countermanded by the contrary omen implied by thus and so, and so on, none of this being phrased with any great clarity or specificity.
Prestimion showed increasing signs of distinct inattention. At an appropriate pause in the narration he thanked the Su-Suheris most graciously for his guidance and excused himself. Then, looking toward Thismet, he gave her a quick dazzling smile and a startling intimate stare that made her feel both flattered and furious at the same time. And then he was gone.
Farquanor now was on his way back to her side of the room.
Her forehead throbbed with apprehension; her brain was spinning in her skull. “Well?” she demanded fiercely.
He seemed drained and wilted, like a plant left too long in the sun. Thismet had never seen him look so shaken. He held up a hand to forestall further pressure from her. Grabbing a bowl of wine from the tray of a passing servitor, he gulped it down before making any answer. She compelled herself to be patient, watching him regain strength and poise until he was again the Farquanor she knew, fearless, resourceful.
“It was very difficult,” he said at last. “But I think we have made a start.”
Eagerly she gripped him by one forearm. “Quickly! Tell me everything!”
Farquanor paused a long maddening moment. Then at last he said, “I began by observing to him that everyone here was talking about the Procurator’s remark, that your brother might feel hostility toward Prestimion and any idea that might come from him. To which your brother responded this, lady: that if the meaning of the Procurator’s words was that he felt your brother was inflamed with the desire to be Coronal in Prestimion’s stead, then the Procurator was implying treason to him, which is a dastardly charge that your brother utterly rejects.”
“Indeed,” said Thismet, feeling her spirit sinking within her. “Treason. He used that word. And you said—?”
“I said to him that he himself might not feel that he deserved the throne more than Prestimion, but that there were many others here that did, and that I was proud to say I was among them. That is treason too, said he, and grew very angry.”
“And gave no sign that he might be flattered, as well as angered, by hearing that important people thought that he was worthy of the throne?”
“Not then,” Farquanor said.
“Ah. Not then.”
“I said next that I begged his pardon if I had offended him,” Farquanor went on, “and assured him I had no wish whatever to espouse treason, nor the Procurator neither, and most surely not to attribute treasonous thoughts to him. But I asked the good prince your brother to consider that treason is in fact a concept that alters and varies with the circumstances. None would dare call a thing treason, I said, if it were to bring about a worthwhile end. Which made him even more angry, lady. I thought he might strike me.
“I begged him to be calm; I told him again how many there are who believe in his right to have the throne, and that those people felt the succession law is unjust. I spoke of all those famous princes of the past who had been passed over for the Coronal’s seat on account of that law, and named a few. They were great names; I was very eloquent on their behalf and in comparing his virtues with theirs. And gradually I could see him warming to the concept. Toying with it, you might say. Revolving it again and again in his mind as though it were something completely new to him. And finally he said, ‘Yes, Farquanor, many a great prince has had to step aside on account of this custom of ours.’”
“Ah. So he has taken the bait, then. The hook is in him.”
“Perhaps it is, lady.”
“And how was it left between you when you parted from him?”
“You didn’t see? There, at the very end of our talk?”
“I was busy at just that moment speaking with Prince Prestimion.”
A muscle quivered in Farquanor’s fleshless cheek and his eyes betrayed a surge of remembered pain. “I may have moved things along a trifle too swiftly just then, perhaps. I said to him that I was glad to see we were in accord, and that we might profitably hold further discussions on the subject. And also I said that there were those who would be glad to meet with him this afternoon to discuss a course of action leading toward constructive goals.”
Thismet leaned eagerly forward, so close that Farquanor’s nostrils quivered at the fragrance of her breath.
He said, “The prince reacted badly. It was too much too soon, I think, that final remark. A terrible look came into your brother’s eyes, and he reached down and laid his fingertips along both sides of my neck, like this, lady, very lightly, so that from a distance one might think it was but a friendly touch. But I knew from the strength of
him and the pressure of his hands against me that all he needed to do was flick his wrists and he’d snap my spine as you would a fish bone, and might well do it. And he said to me that he would have no part in any treason against Prestimion and that I must never speak to him of such things again; and then he sent me from him.”
“And this, you say, is a good start?”
“I think it is, lady.”
“It seems a very bad one to me.”
“He was angered at the end, yes, and angry also in the beginning. But betweentimes he was giving the idea serious consideration. I saw that in him. He goes this way and that, lady: it is his nature.”
“Yes. I know my brother’s nature.”
“The thing is planted in him. He’ll strive to resist its pull, for as we all know the prince your brother is not one for rising up against the established order. But also it pleases him inwardly that others see him as a king. That was something he may not have allowed himself to dare to believe, but when it comes to him from others, that alters the case for him. He can be turned, lady. I’m certain of it. It would be easy enough for you to see that for yourself. You only need go to him; praise him for the kingliness that you see in him; and watch him closely. His face began to shine with a rosy glow when I spoke to him in that fashion. Oh, yes, lady, yes, yes. He can be turned.”
7
ON THE FIRST DAY of the Pontifical Games the leaders of the kingdom presented themselves formally at the bedside of the Pontifex, who still hovered between life and death, obstinate in his refusal to pass onward and return to the Source of All Things. It was as though they felt a need to ask his permission to commence the games that were by ancient custom supposed to commemorate his departure from the world.
The dying Pontifex lay with eyes closed, face upward, an almost insignificant figure in the great expanse of the canopied imperial bed. His skin had gone gray. The long lobes of his ears had acquired a pendulous droop. His features were expressionless, as though sealed behind bands of bone. Only by his slow, virtually imperceptible breathing did he indicate in any way that he was still alive, and even that appeared to cease for long moments at a time. It was time for him to go. Everyone was agreed on that. He was unthinkably ancient, with well over a century of life behind him. Forty-odd years as Pontifex, twenty or so as Coronal before that: it was enough.
Prankipin had been a man of tremendous vigor and physical resilience, romantic and visionary of nature, buoyant and joyous of spirit, famous for the warmth and infectious power of his smile. Even his coins portrayed him smiling that wondrous smile; and he appeared to be smiling now as he lay on his deathbed, as though the muscles of his face had long since forgotten any other expression. The Pontifex seemed oddly youthful too, here in extreme old age. His cheeks and forehead were smooth, almost childlike, all the furrows and corrugations of his long life having vanished in these final weeks.
In the darkened chamber where the old Pontifex lay dying, a luminous hush prevailed. Blue smoke flecked with red sparks coiled upward from tripods in which alien incenses burned, and tables in the shadowy corner of the room were piled high with books of spells and potions and the movements of the stars that the monarch had studied, or had pretended to study. More such volumes lay about him on the floor. A Vroon and a Su-Suheris and a steely-eyed Ghayrog stood sternly beside the bed, unendingly chanting in low soft tones the mysterious incantations that were intended to protect the Pontifex’s departing soul as it made itself ready for its voyage.
Everyone in the inner circles of the government, both at the Castle and in the Labyrinth, knew the names of those three aliens. The Vroon was Sifil Thiando; the Ghayrog, Varimaad Klain; the Su-Suheris, Yamin-Dalarad. The three sepulchral-looking beings were the commanders of that immense troop of seers, haruspicators, necromancers, conjurers, and sortilegers that Prankipin had gathered about himself in the final two decades of his reign.
Bedecked with the insignia of their kind, clutching the wands of their art, they held themselves lofty and aloof, clothed in the dark forbidding aura of their own magics, as the members of the Coronal’s party prepared to enter the imperial bedchamber. For many years now these three had guided the aging Pontifex in all his most significant decisions; and in recent times it had become apparent to all that they—and not any of the officials of the Pontifical bureaucracy, nor, perhaps, even the Pontifex himself—were the real figures of authority at the court of the Labyrinth. By their imperious stance and commanding mien they left no doubt of that today.
But the three highest ministers of the Pontifical court were also on hand for the ceremony, clustered grimly to the left of the dying man’s pillow as if standing guard against the trio to the other side: Orwic Sarped, the Minister of External Affairs; Segamor, the Pontifex’s private secretary; and Kai Kanamat, the High Spokesman of the Pontificate. They were a somber-faced and dismal group. Those three had held their posts for immemorial years and were all three aged and withered, with Kai Kanamat the most shriveled of all, a man who gave the appearance of having been mummified while still alive, mere wizened skin stretched across a flimsy armature of fragile bone.
Once they, and not Prankipin’s team of wizards, had been the true wielders of power here. But that time was long gone. Beyond doubt they would all be glad to lay down whatever was left of their responsibilities and disappear into retirement as soon as Prankipin had given up the ghost.
In the room also were the two chief physicians to the Pontifex, Baergax Vor of Aias and Ghelena Gimail. Their time of glory, too, was over. No longer could they claim the gratitude of the entire Labyrinth bureacracy for their skill at sustaining and extending the Pontifex’s life. The Pontifex was beyond any kind of repair now the administration of the Labyrinth was on the verge of undergoing inevitable change, and all the cozy official niches would be swept clean. Now, standing quite literally in the shadow of the three mages, Baergax Vor and Ghelena Gimail looked like nothing more than hollowed husks, their skills exhausted and their occupation nearly gone from them.
As for the Pontifex himself, he lay like a waxen image of himself, motionless, unseeing, while the great ones of Majipoor made ready to offer him what they all passionately hoped would be their final act of homage.
In the hallway outside the Pontifex’s chamber they formed their procession. Lord Confalume, arrayed in the starburst crown and his robe of office, would go in first, of course, with the High Counsellor Duke Oljebbin just behind him, and then the other two senior lords, Serithorn and Gonivaul, side by side. Behind them would walk the hierarch Marcatain, representing the Lady of the Isle of Sleep, who was the third of the three Powers of the Realm; and after her the Procurator Dantirya Sambail, followed by Prince Korsibar and Duke Kanteverel of Bailemoona. Only when all of these had passed into the room would Prince Prestimion at last come in.
That was a thing that would set many tongues to wagging that day, that Korsibar and the rest should have gone in first, and Prestimion after them. But protocol permitted nothing else. All of those who had gone before Prestimion were high officials of the kingdom except for Korsibar, and Korsibar’s prominent place in the procession was assured by the fact of his royal birth. Prestimion held no significant place in the government at this point and had not yet been formally named as Coronal-designate. Until the moment that he was, Prestimion was merely a prince of Castle Mount, one of many; his power and prestige lay all in the future.
The signal to enter the Pontifex’s chamber was given. Confalume stepped forward, and then Duke Oljebbin, and the rest one by one. And as the grandees of the realm filed past the royal bedside, each in turn kneeling and making the sign of submission and blessing, a strange thing happened. The Pontifex’s eyes fluttered open as Korsibar came before him. Agitation was visible on the old man’s face. The fingers of his left hand trembled against the bedcovers; he seemed to be trying to move, even to sit up; a thick, bubbling, incoherent sound came from his lips.
Then, most astounding of all, his arm lifted, ever so slo
wly, and his gaunt quivering hand reached shakily out toward Korsibar, fingers spread wide. Korsibar stood stock-still, staring down in confusion. From old Prankipin came another sound, a deeper one, almost a groan, amazingly prolonged. He appeared to be trying to clutch at Korsibar’s wrist. But he could not reach that far. For along moment that clawlike hand jutted upward into the air, jabbing fiercely toward Korsibar, jerking convulsively, and then it fell back. The Pontifex’s eyes filmed over and closed again, and once more the old man in the bed lay still, breathing so lightly that it was almost impossible to tell whether he was still alive.
There was an immediate hubbub in the room.
Prestimion, waiting at the door to the bedchamber for his moment to enter, watched astonished as the three mages moved frantically toward the bed from one side and the two physicians from the other, bending low over the old emperor, their heads close together, each group conferring in urgent whispers in the jargon of its profession. “They’ll smother him with all that attention,” Prestimion murmured to Count Iram of Normork as the bedside conference grew more intense. He could hear a frantic clicking of amulets and the almost panicky-sounding recitation of spells, while the doctors appeared to be trying to push the mages away, and one of them finally succeeded in putting a flask of some bluish medicine to the Pontifex’s lips.
Then the crisis seemed to pass, perhaps from the medicine, perhaps the spells: who could say? Slowly the wizards and the physicians backed away from the bed. The Pontifex had subsided once again into the depths of his coma.
The Ghayrog magus, Varimaad Klan, beckoned brusquely to Prestimion to enter the room.
He knelt as he had seen the others do before him. And made the sign of the Pontifex, and waited, half afraid that the old man would rise up again in that terrifying way and reach out for him also.
But Prankipin did not move. Prestimion put his head close to him, listening to the faint hoarse sound of his ragged breathing. He muttered the words of the blessing; Prankipin did not respond. Behind the closed lids his eyes were without movement His waxen-looking face was smooth again, tranquil, smiling that eerie smile.