Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

Some of these men had come to Gloyn out of love of Prestimion, and some out of anger over the illicit taking of the throne by Korsibar, and a good many because they had heard the whispered tales now circulating of Korsibar being a Metamorph in disguise, and they would not allow such a thing to stand. Some were only looking for adventure; some hoped to better their lot. And more than a few had given allegiance to Prestimion’s force of rebels out of simple repugnance for Korsibar’s dastardly breaking of the Mavestoi Dam. In that last group was a contingent of farmers of the Iyann Valley, all of whom had lost kinsmen in the flooding, and who, although they were not in any way soldierly by inclination or training, had come to Gloyn bearing hatchets and spades and pitchforks and whatever other implements of husbandry they thought could be put to good use against the usurper and his army.

It was a wondrous fine army that was coming together here, and Svor, looking back upon it from his hilltop place, was greatly gladdened to see it spread out below him, parading up and down and practicing its maneuvers of attack and defense. The knowledge that Prestimion had regained his sense of purpose after those dark months in Triggoin gave Svor great joy, for it was the hope of his heart that his friend would prosper and triumph and take his rightful place on the Confalume Throne.

But for his own part, Svor had lately had a sufficiency of observing these military matters and wanted a little respite from them. Since he was no soldier himself, he had little role in this drilling and marching and drawing up of battle plans, nor did he take much pleasure in the responsibilities assigned to him; and his own idleness was coming to chafe him. He longed for his rooms in the Castle, for his books and his charts of the stars, and for his ladies. Especially for them, for great energy coursed through Duke Svor’s wiry little body, energy that he long ago had learned was most readily released in a woman’s arms. In his day he had had covert romantic passages with many a great lady of the Castle, and many a tryst in the surrounding cities of the Mount, and even in the grim Labyrinth he had managed to find companions in pleasure.

But there were no women in Prestimion’s camp at Gloyn, nor were there cities nearby where he might find any. Restlessness was growing in Svor now on that account. Which was why he had gone riding out this day by himself into the savanna that lay north and west of the camp, not with any goal in mind, but only to rid himself, if he could, of the tension that idleness and his solitary nights in this place had engendered in him.

Borrowing a mount from the cavalry stockade, he had come up here atop this little mountain to look out into the open country beyond the camp; and now, choosing his destination randomly, Svor went riding off into the adjacent valley where the herd of vongiforin was grazing.

It was low-lying, somewhat moist country in there. The vongiforin were innumerable, a sea of them stretching off to the horizon, with occasional subherds of klimbergeysts and other animals grazing among them. They were all peaceful beasts, and they moved obligingly aside, making unmusical little snorting sounds as Svor’s mount made its way through their midst. He rode for perhaps half an hour in a northwesterly direction. Then, seeing another of the little island-mountains before him, he tethered his mount at its base and scrambled up the side of it to survey the terrain that lay still farther beyond him.

A surprising sight greeted him there.

Another valley lay below, a broad expanse of coppery gattaga-grass divided here and there by small streams. In the midst of it, some three hundred yards to the north, Svor was startled to behold a dusty and somewhat dented floater sitting at a sorry angle in a boggy patch, as though it had been allowed to drive too close to the surface of the land and had fouled its rotors with mud. Two women stood beside it—young ones, from the looks of them. There did not seem to be anyone else. One was fair-haired, one was dark; and even at this distance Svor could see by their stance that they were troubled and perplexed by the plight of their vehicle.

Two women, traveling alone by floater in this unpopulated trackless countryside of vongiforins and klimbergeysts and sharp-clawed kepjitaljis? An unlikely sight, but one that definitely bore investigation.

Svor hurried back to his mount and rode quickly toward the stranded floater.

There was no vegetation here other than grass, and the women saw him coming when he was still some distance away. They stared and pointed at him, and moved cautiously together against the flank of the floater as Svor approached. Yes, definitely young, Svor saw now. Shabbily dressed, but both of them quite shapely, and they carried themselves well. The dark-haired one in particular, he thought, held herself with great elegance and self-possession. But what in the name of the Divine were they doing here? This was no place for women. The only likely explanation was that they had journeyed here unbidden to be with their lovers or husbands in Prestimion’s army, which was a rash and unwise thing for them to have done.

And then he was close enough to make out their faces. “By all the gods and demons!” Svor cried hoarsely, astonished beyond all reckoning. “My lady,” he said. “How did you come to be—”

“Get down from that mount and stand beside it with both your hands in the air,” Thismet said. She gripped a small energy-thrower in her hand, aimed at the midpoint of his chest.

“My lady, I am unarmed,” Svor said, quickly dismounting. “And I would mean you no harm in any case. Please—that weapon is dangerous—”

“Just stand where you are, my lord duke.” Her face seemed cold and hard. “I’m looking for Prestimion’s camp.”

“Behind us.” He gestured with his head. The energy-thrower struck cold dread into him; he wished she would put it aside.

“Far?”

“Less than an hour’s ride.”

“Take us there, Svor.”

“Of course, my lady. If you please, the weapon—there is no need—”

“I suppose.” She lowered the energy-thrower and slipped it into a holder at her side. Her voice softened alittle. “I was afraid you might slay us out of hand, thinking I was doing some spying for my brother. But spying is hardly my purpose in coming here.”

Svor wondered if he dared ask her what that purpose was. Her presence here was altogether mystifying. They had not had an easy journey of it, that much was sure. Both Thismet and Melithyrrh were grimy and drawn and disheveled to a degree that made them almost unrecognizable. The simple peasant clothes that they wore were dirty and torn; their faces were stained, their hair was all asnarl; they both looked badly undernourished and they did not seem to have slept for several days. The intensity of Thismet’s great beauty, shining through the blowsiness, was undiminished. But she was a frightful sight, and the Lady Melithyrrh no better. Why in the world had they come? Could their presence here be part of some deadly trick that the enemy had devised? He could see the little dagger fastened along the inside of her arm, showing through where the sleeve of her blouse was torn. But even if she had no sinister ideas in mind, the sudden appearance of Korsibar’s sister at Gloyn was incomprehensible.

Lowering his arms, Svor caught hold of the reins of his mount.

“I can carry only one of you at a time, my lady.”

“I’ll wait here by the floater,” Melithyrrh said immediately. “Take my lady, and send someone back here quickly for me.”

“Is this agreeable to you?” he asked Thismet.

“It will have to be,” she said. “Tell me, Svor: how does Prince Prestimion fare?”