Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

“Peace, Prestimion. A certain amount of pretense is necessary for us now. Orders have been issued for the arrest of all those who rebelled against the government of Lord Korsibar: aren’t you aware of that? Even in Triggoin, we aren’t completely beyond his grasp. You can’t simply come sauntering in here and announce yourself to be Prince Prestimion of Muldemar, and call for sorcerers to flock to your side and give you aid in your rebellion, without bringing down trouble upon yourself.”

“And if this Gominik Halvor is such a powerful magus, how, then, will he fail to discern our true identities?”

“Of course he knows who you are,” Svor said.

“But—then—”

“We have to take care not to implicate him. Suppose the authorities go to him and say, ‘Do you know anything of the whereabouts of the proscribed fugitive rebel Prince Prestimion, who is thought to be in this city?’ No, he can say: he has never had contact with anyone of that name. And so forth.”

“I see. So I am Polivand and Gialaurys is Gheveldin. Very well. And by what name are we supposed to call you?”

“Svor,” said Svor.

“But you just said—”

“My name is not posted on the list of wanted fugitives, Prestimion. Korsibar has promised me immunity from prosecution, out of respect for the old friendship between him and me. Since I’m not sought for and Gominik Halvor knows who I am anyway, I’ve not bothered to assume any pretended identity with him. Does that trouble you, that Korsibar’s willing to overlook my allegiance to you? Does it make you suspect my loyalty in any way?”

“Korsibar’s a fool, and you are my friend, and I have no doubts of where your loyalties lie. If he wants to exempt you from the proscription, so be it. But why have you signed me up for a course of studies in magic, Svor? Is this some little prank of yours?”

“We’ll need to stay hidden here until we know it’s safe to emerge, and the city authorities will require some plausible reason for our presence. Studying sorcery’s not only a way of passing the time, it gives us some appearance of legitimacy in our residence here. You might find it illuminating, besides.”

“I might, yes. And blaves would fly too, if only you knew how to grow wings on them. So now I am to be a scholar of the mysterious arts! Ah, Svor, Svor—”

A knock at the door interrupted his words.

A ringing voice outside, a voice they all knew very well, called, “Are these the lodgings of Count Polivand of Muldemar!”

Gialaurys reached the door first and threw it wide. A slender and extremely tall man in the elegant clothes of a courtier of the Mount—a doublet of green velvet in the Bombifale style, with high-standing collar and a small ruff above—stood smiling there.

“Septach Melayn!” Gialaurys cried.

He bowed gracefully and entered. Prestimion rushed to him and embraced him. “Svor and Gialaurys told me you had survived,” Prestimion said. “But still—I was afraid for so long that you had drowned in the flood—”

“I move quickly when dying’s the alternative. How have you fared, Prestimion?”

“Not entirely well, to speak the truth.”

“No. I’m not surprised.”

“And you must not call me ‘Prestimion’ here. I’m Count Polivand of Muldemar. Gialaurys is now Gheveldin. Svor will explain. He’s still Svor, by the way. We are all enrolled as students of wizardry I’ll have you know, and our tutor is—I am speaking nothing but the truth, Septach Melayn, however strange it may sound—the father of Confalume’s ancient magus Heszmon Gorse. The father. ”

“Students of wizardry,” said Septach Melayn in a musing way, as though Prestimion had just announced that they were all soon to become women, or Skandars, or sea-dragons perhaps. “A quaint pastime for you, Prestimion. I wish you joy of it.”

“You’ll be enrolled in our scholarly pursuits also, Septach Melayn,” said Svor. “Your name is now Simrok Morlin, and you are a man of Gimkandale, not of Tidias.” He explained the reason for these subterfuges; and Septach Melayn, in high good humor, gave his assent to the plan and swore to be the most assiduous student of them all, and to come away from Triggoin a true master in the diabolic sciences.

Then Prestimion asked him how he had known where to find them; to which Septach Melayn replied that a messenger had come to him a little while before in his own lodgings, which by coincidence were just three streets away, and told him the address where certain great friends of his were to be found. The messenger had given him the card of his employer, which Septach Melayn now produced and showed Prestimion. It was the card of the magus Gominik Halvor.

“We never told him your name!” said Prestimion. “How would he have known—?”

“Ah, Prestimion,” Gialaurys said. “What did I tell you? The evidence lies all about you, and still you refuse to credit the reality of what these mages do!”

Prestimion shrugged. He had no wish to debate the issue any further with Gialaurys, now or ever again.

The inn where they had lodged had a dining hall, where they went for some meat and wine before their first lesson with Gominik Halvor was to commence. Septach Melayn regaled them with tales of his escape from the flood and his swift journey north and of his lighthearted adventures in Triggoin while waiting for them to arrive, for, he said, he had never once doubted that they would show up here sooner or later. He made everything sound like the easiest and lightest of exploits, which was his style in everything; but Prestimion could see that he was deliberately making light of it all—the awful debacle of the breaking of the dam, the hardships of his journey through the desert, the uneasy hours of his time alone in Triggoin. It was plain that Septach Melayn had already perceived the darkness of Prestimion’s mood and did not want to darken it further with tales of losses and suffering.

Prestimion ate little and drank less. Though he had struggled constantly since his recovery in Jaggereen against the doleful bleakness that had enfolded his soul, he found himself making little headway with it.

He had no idea what he would do now. For the first time in his life he was utterly without a plan.

For the time being he wanted only to live quietly, far from the Castle, far from all exercise of power, far from everything he had been in the days when he was Prestimion of Muldemar. He saw it as fitting that the shipwreck of his destiny should have cast him up in Triggoin, this place so antithetical to his nature and all his beliefs. It would be an appropriate penance, having to take refuge here among the magicians.

“Penance?” Septach Melayn cried, when after a time Prestimion began to give voice to some of these somber thoughts. “Penance for what? For serving the cause of righteousness against that of evil?”

“You think that was it? That I rose up against Korsibar purely because I believed I was the rightful Coronal and he a wicked usurper?”

“Tell me it was anything else,” said Septach Melayn, “that it was sheerly out of the lust for power that you did it, say, and then I’ll give you the sword that I wear here on my hip, and you can put it through my gut, Prestimion. Pardon me: Polivand. I know you and I know why you did as you did. Korsibar’s theft of the crown was a crime against all civilization. You had no choice but to stand up in opposition to it. No guilt attaches on that account, Prestimion: no blame whatever.”

“Listen to him, and take his words into your heart,” Gialaurys said. “You belabor yourself for no sensible reason, Prestimion.”

“Polivand,” Svor corrected. “Come, now, gentlemen. It’s time for our first lesson in sorcery.”