“What about your mother, lordship?” Farquanor said.
Korsibar gave him a baffled look. “My mother? What about my mother?”
“She now becomes the Lady of the Isle, my lord.”
“By the Divine!” Korsibar cried. “That slipped my mind entirely! The mother of the Coronal—”
“The mother of the Coronal, yes,” said Farquanor. “When the Coronal happens to have a living mother, that is, and now that’s the case again. So at last old Aunt Kunigarda gets her pension, and the Lady Roxivail will be the Lady of us all.”
“The Lady Roxivail,” said Mandrykarn in amazement. “What will she say when she finds out, I’d like to know!”
“And who’ll be brave enough to be the one to tell her?” Thismet asked, fighting back a giggle.
The Lady Roxivail was no one’s idea of a fitting Lady of the Isle of Sleep. Lord Confalume’s beautiful, vain, and imperious wife had separated from the Coronal not long after the birth of her two children and withdrawn to the luxury of her shimmering palace far to the south on the tropic isle of Shambettirantil. Surely never even in her most grandiose dreams had she imagined that the responsibility of becoming a Power of the Realm would ever descend upon her. And yet—law and precedent—the Ladyship would indeed have to be offered to her—
“Well,” Korsibar said, “we can reserve that problem for a later discussion. Someone who knows more history than I do can tell us tomorrow how long a period of transition is usually allowed between one Lady and the next, and Kunigarda can continue to send dreams to the world until we figure out what to do about replacing her.”
“My lord,” Farquanor went on, “you will also need to deal quickly with the problem of the senior peers.”
“And what problem is that? It seems to me you’re finding a great many problems very quickly, Farquanor.”
“I mean ensuring their loyalty, lordship. Which involves assuring them of your love and confirming them in their continued posts.”
“For the time being, at least,” said Mandrykarn.
“For the time being, yes,” Farquanor said, eyes glinting with sudden covetousness. “But it would be rash to make them insecure in any way at the outset. I would summon your kinsman Duke Oljebbin within the hour, my lord, and the princes Gonivaul and Serithorn immediately after, and tell them that their role in the government is unchanged.”
“Good. See that they’re invited here.”
“And finally—”
There was a knock, and a servitor appeared. “My lord, the Procurator Dantirya Sambail is here and seeks admission.
Korsibar gave Thismet an uneasy glance, and looked to Farquanor next and saw that he was frowning also. But he could hardly turn the powerful Procurator away from his door.
“Let him come in,” Korsibar said.
Dantirya Sambail was still clad in the splendiferous golden armor in which he had attended the gathering in the Court of Thrones, but he held his green-plumed brazen helmet now under his arm in what was perhaps a sort of gesture of deference to the new king. His great freckled ruddy-faced head, topped with its fluffy corona of orange hair, jutted bluntly before him into the room like a battering ram as he made his striding entrance.
He took for himself the place directly in front of Korsibar, which required Farquanor and Mandrykarn to give ground slightly, and stood for a long moment, face-to-face with the new Coronal, staring at him as though openly taking the measure of him, not as subject before king, but as one equal prince to another.
“So,” he said finally. “It does seem that you actually are Coronal now.”
“So it seems, and so I am,” said Korsibar, pointedly looking toward the floor in front of Dantirya Sambail.
But the Procurator ignored the unambiguous instruction to kneel and render up the sign of homage. “What has your father had to say about this, I wonder?” he asked.
“You saw my father sit down beside me in the Court of Thrones. There’s implicit recognition in that.”
“Ah. Implicit.”
“Recognition,” said Korsibar irritably. A certain amount of insolence was to be expected from Dantirya Sambail; but he was beginning to exceed expectations.
“You haven’t spoken with him since leaving the hall?”
“The Pontifex has withdrawn to his suite,” said Korsibar. “I’ll visit him in due course. In these early moments of my reign I have much to do, Procurator, decisions to make, responsibilities to discharge—”
“I quite understand that, Prince Korsibar.”
“I am Coronal now, Procurator.”
“Ah. Of course. Lord Korsibar, I should have said.”
There were exhalations of relief in the room at that. Did that concession from Dantirya Sambail mean that he had chosen not to make trouble over Korsibar’s accession? It was a good sign, at any rate.
Again Korsibar glanced down, once more inviting the Procurator to kneel and give homage. A slanting smile spread slowly across Dantirya Sambail’s broad heavy-featured face, and he said, “I beg you, my lord, to be forgiven the genuflection. This armor of mine will not easily allow it.” And he offered instead, in the most perfunctory way, a quick flashing of fingers in a semblance of the starburst sign.
With a mordant inflection in his tone, Korsibar said, “Is there some special purpose to this visit, Procurator, other than to offer your formal greeting to the new Coronal Lord?”
“There is.”
“Then I await hearing it, Dantirya Sambail.”
“My lord,” the Procurator said, managing to impart the merest minimum of submissiveness to his dry uncongenial voice, “I assume that there will be festivities of some sort in your honor shortly at the Castle, as is usual at the commencement of a reign.”
“I expect so, yes.”
“Very good, my lord. I ask to be forgiven if I am not in attendance. It is my hope to withdraw to my own lands of Zimroel for a while.” Which caused an immediate sensation, gasps and murmurs and exchanges of meaningful glances. But Dantirya Sambail went on to explain, after a moment, that he intended no disrespect: he was suffering greatly from homesickness, he said, the journey was long, he wanted to get on his way as quickly as possible. “I have been at the Castle these past several years, you know, and it seems appropriate, in a time of the transfer of power, for me to return to the region over which I have responsibility, and look after my duties there. Therefore I humbly request permission to take my leave of you as soon as I have put my affairs at the Castle in order.”
“You may do as you wish about that,” said Korsibar.
“And furthermore: I ask that when you undertake your first grand processional, you reserve at least a month’s time for me, to be my guest at my estate in Ni-moya, so that I can show you some of the extraordinary pleasures that the greatest city of the younger continent has to offer.” And added, plainly as an afterthought: “My lord.”
“It will be some while before I’ll have the opportunity of making the grand processional,” Korsibar said.
“I may well be planning a stay of considerable length in Ni-moya, my lord.”
“Well, then,” said Korsibar. “When I’m ready for the journey, I’ll inquire at that time concerning the availability of your hospitality.”
“I will await you—my lord.”
Again Dantirya Sambail smiled his disagreeable smile, and bowed without attempting to kneel, grandly flourishing his plumed helmet before him, and went from the room, metalled boots clanking heavily against the floor.
“Let him stay in Ni-moya for a hundred years!” Thismet exclaimed when the Procurator was gone. “Who wants him at the Castle, anyway? How did he get to become Father’s perpetual houseguest?”
“I think it would be best to have him close at hand, where I can watch him,” Korsibar replied. “Perhaps Father had something similar in mind. But he’ll go where he chooses, I suppose.” He shook his head. Something began to pulse behind his eyes and forehead, and a mysterious weariness seemed abruptly to
afffict him. The Procurator was an exhausting man. Enduring his insolence without showing rage had been tiring. “Prestimion—Dantirya Sambail—and no doubt others like them too—I must watch them all, it seems. Eternal vigilance will be necessary. There’s more to this thing than I think I realized.”
With an edgy impatient gesture he beckoned toward the tall flask of wine on the table beside Navigorn. “Quick, quick, give it to me!”
Between sips he said softly, to Thismet alone, “It seems I have climbed aboard the back of a wild beast, sister, and now I must ride it the rest of my days or it will devour me.”
“Do you regret having done it, then?”
“No! Not in the slightest!”
But there must have been some lack of conviction in Korsibar’s voice, for she bent her head close to his and said in his ear, “Remember, all this has been foretold.” Then, with a glance toward the inscrutable Sanibak-Thastimoon, who was standing alone at the far side of the room: “This is your destiny, brother.”
“My destiny, yes.” Korsibar waited for the hot flood of enthusiasm that that word had come to kindle in him in recent days; but this time it was very slow in coming, and he held the bowl out again for wine. The second drink of the young foaming wine warmed him and somewhat drove this sudden weariness from his spirit. He felt that surge of excitement for which he had searched in vain a moment or two before. My destiny. Yes. To which everything else must be subordinate: everything. Everything.
2
UNDER THE NEW scheme of things, they had at least allowed the former Lord Confalume to remain for the time being in the suite of rooms that he had occupied as Coronal. But signs of the sudden metamorphosis that the government of Majipoor had undergone were evident to Prestimion even in the hallway outside. The gigantic Skandars who guarded the Coronal’s suite were still on duty, but now, absurdly, they wore the tiny eye-masks that marked them as members of the Pontifical staff. And half a dozen members of the Pontifical bureaucracy were milling about as well in the throng outside Confalume’s door.
One of them, a masked Ghayrog with pearl-hued scales, gave him a supercilious look and said, “You claim to have an appointment with his majesty?”
“I am Prince Prestimion of Muldemar. There’s an emergency in the land; the Pontifex has agreed to see me, and this is the hour at which I’m to meet with him.”
“The Pontifex has sent word that he is very tired and wishes his appointment schedule to be curtailed.”
“Curtail it after I’ve seen him, then,” said Prestimion. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what has happened here today? Go on. Go! Tell his majesty that Prince Prestimion is waiting outside to see him!”
A lengthy conference ensued among the Pontifical officials; then the Ghayrog and another masked figure disappeared into Confalume’s suite, where, very likely, still another lengthy conference took place. Then at last the two officials emerged and the Ghayrog said, “The Pontifex will see you. You may have ten minutes with him.”
The great door, glistening with its bright golden LCC monograms that now had become obsolete, swung back and Prestimion stepped within. Confalume sat in deep dejection with his elbows against his simbajinder-wood desk and his head propped morosely against his fists. All about him were his strange implements of sorcery, scattered higgledy-piggledy, some of the elaborate devices overturned and others pushed negligently into untidy heaps.
Very gradually the new Pontifex looked up. His eyes, reddened and raw, met Prestimion’s gaze only with the greatest difficulty, held themselves there no longer than a moment, and became downcast again.
“Your majesty,” Prestimion said in a frigid voice, making the sign of submission.
“My—majesty, yes,” said Confalume.
He was no more than the shadow of his former self. His face was bleak and sagging, his whole mien one of confusion and despair. Poor pitiful man, emperor of the whole world who could not command his own son.
“Well?” said Prestimion sharply. He struggled to contain the anger that he felt, and the pain. The sudden unimaginable loss of all that he had been working toward was like a blade within him. And even now the reality of it was just beginning to sink in: he knew it would be worse for him, much worse, later on. “Are you actually going to allow this ridiculous business to stand?”
“Please, Prestimion.”
“Please? Please? The crown is unlawfully stolen from me, from us all, by your own son and you say ‘Please, Prestimion’ to me, and nothing more than that?”
“The high spokesman should be here. Kai Kanamat, that’s his name, until I’ve appointed my own.” Confalume’s voice was thin and faint and hoarse, veering occasionally into an inaudible whisper. “The Pontifex is not supposed to speak directly to citizens, you know. Questions must be addressed to the high spokesman, who will inform the Pontifex—”
“I know these things,” Prestimion said. “Save them for later. If you are truly Pontifex, Confalume, what do you plan to do about this usurpation of the crown?”
“This—usurpation—”
“Do you know a better term for it?”
“Prestimion—please—”
Prestimion stared. “Are those tears, your majesty?”
“Please. Please.”
“Has Korsibar been to see you yet, since making himself Coronal?”
“He’ll come later,” said Confalume huskily. “He has appointments to make—meetings—decrees—”
“So you do intend to let it stand, then!”
Confalume made no reply. Randomly, he picked some conjuring device from his desk, a thing of silver wires and golden coils, and fondled it in an absentminded way, as a child might fondle a toy.
Relentlessly Prestimion said, “Did you have any advance knowledge of what Korsibar had in mind to do?”
“None. None whatever.”
“It came like a bolt of lightning, is that it? There you were, and there he was, and you just stood there and let him take the crown from your own head and put it on his, without a word of protest. Is that what happened?”
“Not from my head. It was resting on a cushion. I felt dizzy for a moment and found myself unable to see, and when I was all right again, I saw that he had the crown in his hands. I knew nothing before the fact, nothing, Prestimion. I was as surprised as anyone else. More so, even. And then it was done. He had the crown. He had the Coronal’s seat. And the hall was full of his soldiers.”
“Septach Melayn said that a dizziness came over him too. And I the same, out in the corridor. That was done by sorcery, wouldn’t you say?” Prestimion paced furiously back and forth before the desk. He said, wonderstruck, “By the Divine, I don’t even believe that true sorcery exists, and here I am crediting this coup to it! But what else could it have been, if not some witching of us all by that two-headed magus of his, casting us into a fog while Korsibar’s troops moved into the room and he put his thieving hands on the crown? Such things are impossible: that I know. But what could be more impossible than the stealing of the throne, and look! It has happened!” He came to a halt in front of the former Coronal, leaning down with his knuckles resting on the surface of the desk, and said vehemently, staring with implacable force into Confalume’s eyes, “You are Pontifex of Majipoor now. You have the power to put an end to this monstrous affair with a single command.”
“Do I, Prestimion?”
“Who would dare disobey you? You are the Pontifex! Condemn this seizure of the throne by Korsibar, order the imperial guard to reclaim the crown from him; proclaim me the rightful Coronal. I’ll do the rest.”
“What will you do, Prestimion?”
“Reestablish order. Remove the conspirators from authority and reverse whatever decisions they may already have made. Restore the tranquility of the kingdom.”
“He has the army with him,” Confalume said.
“The Coronal’s guard perhaps. Not necessarily the general army, and possibly not even the guard. It goes against all reason that your own guardsme
n, who were loyal to you unto death only this morning, would now refuse to obey your orders.”
“They love Korsibar.”
“We all love Korsibar,” said Prestimion acidly. “But we have a government of reason and law on this world! No one names himself Coronal and is allowed to have it! Have you forgotten, Confalume, that the Pontifex is the superior monarch, and that the Pontifex has troops as well as the Coronal, and those troops are entirely under your command?”
“Yes. I know that,” Confalume said.
“Order them out, then! Send them against the usurper!”
Confalume looked up at him and stared in silence for a long while. Then he said in the dullest and deadest of tones, “In that case there would be the most bloody of wars, Prestimion.”
“Do you think so?”
“I’ve taken counsel with my own mages,” Confalume said. “They say there would be resistance, that if force is used to make Korsibar relinquish what he’s taken, he’ll use force in return. The omens they cast are all evil ones. Have mercy on me, Prestimion!”
“Mercy?” Prestimion asked, astounded.
But then he understood.
It was folly to think that this Confalume who sat slumped before him now had anything more in common than a name with the great Lord Confalume who had ruled Majipoor with such forcefulness and panache these forty years past. That other Confalume had perished, shattered in a moment by his son’s unthinkable treason; this pitiful broken old man here, this remnant, this empty shell, did indeed hold the title of Pontifex of Majipoor, but there was no strength left in him at all. He had collapsed within like some mighty building whose timbers had all slowly gone weak with the dry rot, while still looking grand and splendid on the outside. All his famed vigor and resilience had fled from him.
Confalume, Prestimion realized now, had come to see that civil war might well be the only way to repair the yawning gulf that Korsibar’s audacity—his madness—had opened in the commonwealth. But the price of the restoration of order would almost certainly be the death of his only son. And that was something Confalume could not face.