Robert Silverberg - The Mountains of Majipoor

When he had finished he pulled another whopping piece of meat from the haunch in his hand and tossed it in an offhand way down to Harpirias, who caught it in some surprise.

"The king bids you welcome," Korinaam murmured.

"Tell him that I thank him for his kindness."

"Not yet. Eat what he’s given you, first."

"Are you serious?"

"Extremely. Eat it, prince."

Harpirias stared unhappily at the meat. A sharp, acrid, uninviting aroma rose from it. Only one corner appeared to be cooked at all. The rest of it was bright red, except for the thick vein of fat and gristle that ran through its middle. He turned the hefty chunk over, surreptitiously scanning it for maggots.

"Eat it," the Metamorph said again. "Meat from the king’s own portion must not be refused."

"Ah," Harpirias said. "Yes. Yes, certainly."

It was all starting to seem unreal. Civilized, tranquil Majipoor felt very far away. This could well be some strange new universe he had wandered into, or a particularly vivid hallucination. Or perhaps he was asleep, and it was simply a dark sending of the King of Dreams. But if this was a dream he saw no way of waking from it.

Harpirias reminded himself that there were worse things in the world than eating half-raw meat; and also that a diplomat often must make himself conform to the customs of his hosts. He took a bite. The meat wasn’t half as bad as it looked. He had tasted less agreeable fare while out hunting in the forests of Castle Mount. The second bite was less pleasing: he had struck the fat, and he had to struggle to keep from gagging. But he recovered and bit into the meat again. King Toikella was watching with interest.

"Now thank him for me," Harpirias told the Shapeshifter.

"You haven’t finished eating it."

"Neither has he. We can eat while we parley."

"Prince, I think—"

"Give him my thanks," said Harpirias. "This instant."

Korinaam nodded curtly. Turning toward the throne, he launched into a loud, florid-sounding oration. The king listened with apparent pleasure, nodding emphatically after a time and offering a lengthy response of his own, in which, now and again, Harpirias heard the words Coronal and Lord Ambinole in the midst of the torrent of guttural mountaineer speech. Then Harpirias realized that the king was looking directly at him whenever he pronounced those words.

An ugly suspicion grew in him.

"Wait a minute," he said angrily to Korinaam, when Toikella appeared to have reached the end of his reply. "What have you done? You haven’t told him that I’m the Coronal, have you? You know I ordered you not to do that."

The Shapeshifter made an apologetic gesture. "Indeed.

Nor have I done so. But I’m afraid that he himself has jumped to that conclusion, prince."

"Well, unconclude him, then. Now. I’m not going to operate under false pretenses."

Korinaam looked troubled. His form flowed and rippled a little around the edges for a moment, always a sign of acute Shapeshifter distress. "This is not a good time for telling him such a thing. That would only confuse and perhaps anger him, just when everything has begun so smoothly. We’ll have plenty of opportunities later to get the matter cleared up."

"Now, I said. Not later. He’s got to realize that there’s been an error, that I’m only the Coronal’s emissary, not actually the Coronal. It’s an order, Korinaam. I want you to make it absolutely clear to him that—"

But King Toikella had begun speaking again. The Metamorph gestured urgently to Harpirias to be quiet, and Harpirias subsided. In his annoyance he took another bite of his chunk of meat without even noticing.

Harpirias realized glumly that he was completely in the Shapeshifter’s power: unable to communicate verbally with King Toikella himself, he was forced to rely on his Metamorph interpreter for every transaction. Korinaam was free to tell the king anything he felt like and Harpirias would never know the truth of what had been said. That could become a problem. Already had, in fact.

Toikella was silent again, waiting.

The Shapeshifter glanced toward Harpirias. "The king declares that he is well pleased you have come," he said.

"Fine. I’d like you to ask him if the hostages are in good health."

"Once again, prince, I must beg your indulgence. The time for asking that is also not just yet."

Another hot jolt of fury shot through Harpirias. "Am I the ambassador, or are you, Korinaam?"

With a sweeping gesture of subservience the Shapeshifter said, "There can be no doubt on that score, prince."

"But nevertheless it seems that you make yourself the final arbiter of what I am allowed to say. In this case I have to insist. Knowing the condition of the hostages is of prime—"

"We must assume that the hostages are in excellent condition, prince," said Korinaam smoothly. "But to ask questions about them at this point would be inappropriate and premature. Worse: it would be impolite."

"Impolite? That naked barbarian sits up there on a throne made out of bones, eating a haunch of practically raw meat and forcing me to do the same, and you tell me that we have to worry about being polite to him?"

"Politeness is always useful in these affairs," Korinaam said, giving Harpirias an unctuous smile. "Patience, also. I beg you, prince, to take my advice seriously. I know what these people are like. You do not."

True enough, Harpirias thought.

Nor was it possible in any case to continue the conversation with the king just now, for Toikella had descended from his throne and was bellowing orders to various members of his court in an amazing thunderous voice.

"What’s he saying?" Harpirias asked the Metamorph.

"That we are to be shown to our quarters, so that we can have a few hours of rest after our long and arduous journey. There’ll be a grand feast tonight in our honor. Othinor hospitality at its finest."

"I can just imagine," said Harpirias unhappily.

By way of guest accommodations the Othinor king provided them with a dozen or so chambers in a low, sprawling icehouse at the opposite end of the village from the royal palace. Harpirias’s Skandars had to bunk three or four to a room, cramped though that would be for the bulky creatures; his four Ghayrogs, who liked to keep to themselves, took a pair of rooms; Harpirias and Korinaam each were permitted the luxury of private quarters.

The room they had given Harpirias was a square, boxy windowless cell, lit only by small dim lamps made of carved bone that burned the same thick dark odoriferous oil which had illuminated Toikella’s throne chamber. Its air was so still and stagnant, despite the burning lamps, that the enclosure seemed almost to be without air at all; and it was cold — cold. Living in it would be like living in a storage refrigerator. Even indoors, his breath rose in steamy clouds before his face.

Everything was ice, the entire structure fashioned of heavy blocks of it — floor and walls and ceiling and all. There was no furniture, only a pile of furry rugs on the floor to serve as a bed.

"Will this be satisfactory, prince?" Korinaam asked him, as he stood frowning in the doorway.

"And if I say no?"

"You will cause the king much embarrassment."

"Certainly I wouldn’t want to do that," said Harpirias. "And this is better than sleeping outdoors, I suppose." Though not by very much, he added silently.

"Indeed," replied the Shapeshifter in a solemn tone, and left him to such brief repose as he was able to find in the midst of the stack of thick, itchy furs.

The feast that evening was held in the great high-ceilinged hall that was the royal palace. They had spread heavy rugs, made of white steetmoy hides sewn end to end, over much of the floor — luxurious immaculate rugs that undoubtedly were brought out only on very special occasions. Massive tables of broad rough-hewn planks, resting on substantial trestles fashioned from the same huge bones out of which the royal throne had been constructed, were covered with all manner of plates and tureens and bowls and porringers brimming with foodstuffs. A dozen slender flambeaus projected from sconces of bone set into the walls at the end of arm-shaped handles, providing a smoky, fitful light.