Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

“This troubles me,” said Gialaurys quietly to Septach Melayn as they returned to their floaters. “Can it be that he has no stomach for battle?” And Septach Melayn frowned and nodded, and replied that he had the same concern.

But Svor had overheard, and he laughed and said, “Him? Is a fighter, no doubting it! And will slash and slaughter with the best of you, when the time comes. Is not yet the time, is what he thinks. Is not fully reconciled within his soul either, to the knowledge that he will reach the throne only by sailing on a river of blood.”

“Just as I say,” replied Gialaurys. “No love for battle.”

“No love for it, but a good willingness, when battle’s the only way,” Svor said. “Wait and see. I know the man at least as well as you. When battle’s the only way, even I will have a sword in my hand.”

“You?” cried Septach Melayn with a great guffaw.

“You will instruct me,” said Svor solemnly.

Matters went better for them at Simbilfant of the famous vanishing lake, which was a busy mercantile city through which much wine of Muldemar traditionally was shipped and held Prestimion in high favor. Word had already reached there of Prestimion’s claim to the crown, and the hegemon of the town, which was what their mayor was called, had a great banquet waiting for him, and green-and-gold banners everywhere, and two thousand men in arms ready to join his forces, with the promise of many more afterward. And, just as though he were a visiting Coronal, they staged a disappearance of the vanishing lake for him, rolling aside the great boulders that blocked the volcanic sluices beneath it so that the whole lake seemed to go gurgling down into the depths of the planet, leaving a bare gaping crater of sulfurous yellow rock ringed around with white granite ridges, only to come roaring back with tremendous force an hour later.

“This is like making a grand processional,” said Prestimion, “and here I am not even crowned yet.”

The reception was friendly also at nearby Ghrav, though not quite so warm or eager—it was plain that the mayor felt himself caught between Prestimion and Korsibar as between the two grinding-stones of a mill, and did not care for it. But he was hospitable enough, and, in a cautious way, sympathetic to Prestimion’s claim. Then they moved along toward Arkilon, where four million people clustered in awide green valley flanked by low, wooded hills. There was a notable university there; it was a city of unworldly scholars and archivists and book-publishers, and there was no reason to expect much in the way of opposition there. But as they approached it under the brightness of a hot autumn sun, the sharp-eyed Septach Melayn pointed to the hilltop on the side closest to the Mount, and all up and down that hillside were troops of the Coronal’s force, like a horde of ants spilling everywhere over the sloping contours.

“They are ten men for every one of ours, I would hazard,” said Septach Melayn. “The whole western garrison is here, and some men from other districts too, it would seem. And they hold the high ground. Are we prepared for this?”

“Is Korsibar?” Gialaurys asked. “He’s brandishing a fist at us with this army. But will he do anything more than brandish?”

“Send forth a messenger,” said Prestimion, looking soberly up at that huge hilltop force. “Call him forth. We’ll have a parley.”

A herald duly went forth, and by twilight time riders came down from the hill to meet with Prestimion at an agreed point midway between the two armies. But Korsibar was not among them. The two chief lords who appeared were Navigorn of Hoikmar, in a grand and formidable warlike costume of stiff and glossy black leather tipped with scarlet plumes, and Kanteverel of Bailemoona, looking rather less belligerent in a loose flowing tunic of orange and yellow stripes, fastened about the waist with an ornate golden chain. Prestimion was surprised and in no way pleased to see the easygoing good-natured Kanteverel here at the head of Korsibar’s garrison-force. The round smooth face of the Duke of Bailemoona seemed strangely bleak now, with none of its customary good humor.

“Where is Korsibar?” Prestimion said at once.

Stonily Navigorn replied, looking down at Prestimion from his considerable height, “Lord Korsibar is at the Castle, where he belongs. He charges us bring you back with us so that you can defend your recent actions before him.”

“And what actions are those, pray tell?”

It was Kanteverel who replied, speaking calmly as always, but not showing now the warm easy smile that was his hallmark, “You know what they are, Prestimion. You can’t run all over the foothill towns proclaiming yourself Coronal and levying troops without getting Korsibar’s attention, you know. What do you think you’re up to, anyway?”

“Korsibar knows that already. I don’t recognize him as Coronal, and I offer myself before all the world as the legitimate holder of the throne.”

“For the love of the Lady, be reasonable, Prestimion!” Kanteverel said, letting a flicker of his old cajoling smile show. “Your position’s absurd. No one ever named you king. However Korsibar may have come to the crown, there’s no question he’s Coronal now, which everyone concedes.” And Navigorn said, speaking over Kanteverel with a haughty crackle in his voice, “You are Prince of Muldemar, Prestimion, and nothing more, and never will be more. Lord Korsibar has the blessing of the Pontifex Confalume, who confirmed him in his kingship at the Labyrinth according to all the ancient laws.”

“Confalume’s his father. How does that fit with the ancient laws? And in any case Confalume doesn’t know what he’s doing. Korsibar’s had his conjurers wrap a mass of spells around Confalume’s mind that make him into a doddering senile idiot.”

That drew laughter from Kanteverel. “You, Prestimion, telling us that this has all been achieved by sorcery? Next we’ll hear you’ve hired a staff of mages yourself!”

“Enough. I have business in Arkilon,” Prestimion said coolly. He glanced toward the great army on the hill. “Do you mean to prevent me?”

“You have business at the Castle,” said Navigorn. He spoke firmly enough, though his look was an uneasy one, as though he disliked this situation and regretted the collision that both factions knew was coming. “When you were set free at Dantirya Sambail’s request, it was under his pledge of your good behavior, for which he made himself personally responsible. Now the Procurator is gone to Ni-moya, we hear; and your good behavior, it seems, consists of raising armies to bring civil war in the world. Your freedom is revoked, Prestimion. I order you in Lord Korsibar’s name to come with us at once.”

There was a moment of uncertain silence. Prestimion had been accompanied to the meeting only by Septach Melayn, Svor, Gialaurys, and five men-at-arms. With Navigorn and Kanteverel were the lords Sibellor of Banglecode and Malarich Merobaudes, and five men-at-arms also. The men of the two groups shifted about warily. Was there to be a scuffle right here on the field of parley? There had never been anything but friendship among them; but where was that friendship now? Prestimion stared levelly at Navigorn, whose dark face was a stony mask, and then threw a quick glance at Septach Melayn, who smiled and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Prestimion wondered whether Navigorn might indeed have some wild idea of trying to seize him here. It would be a fool’s act, if so. The advantage, if it came to that, lay with him. His companions at the parley were the stronger; his troops, if he needed them, were not far away.

“I have no intention of going with you,” said Prestimion after a little. “You knew that when you came out here. Let’s waste no more breath on these formalities, Navigorn. We’ll need it for what is to follow.”