Robert Silverberg - The King of Dreams

It was virtually a changeless landscape here, a broad riparian plain, low rolling hills beyond, and a succession of little bustling agricultural towns strung along both banks, with day after day of bright skies and warm sunlight. There were reports of heavy rains in Ni-moya, unseasonal downpours, but Ni-moya was far away, and here in the Zimr’s lower valley there was only dry weather and unending warmth.

This was, in theory, Dekkeret’s inaugural grand processional, but he paid no visits to any of the river towns, merely stood in the bow of the Lord Stiamot and waved to the assembled populace as he went sailing by. Even on a grand processional it was impossible for the Coronal to call at any but the most major cities, or else he would spend all the rest of his days going from place to place, growing fat on mayors’ banquets, and never see the Castle again. And the business of Mandralisca and the Five Lords was too pressing to permit any such stops now, even at such relatively important places as Port Saikforge, Stenwamp, or Gablemorn.

On and on they went, town after town, through the placid Zimr valley: Dambmuir, Orgeliuse, Impemond, Haunfort Major; Cerinor and Semirod and Molagat; Thibbildorn, Coranderk, Maccathar. Septach Melayn, who had appointed himself the keeper of the maps, called off each name as the towns came into view. But they all looked alike, anyway—the waterfront promenade, the pier where throngs of riverboat passengers waited for the next vessel, the warehouses and bazaars, the dense plantings of palms and alabandinas and tanigales. As one place after another flowed by him in a pleasant blur, Dekkeret found himself reflecting yet again on the sheer immensity of the great world that was Majipoor: the multitude of its provinces, its myriad cities, its billions of people, spread out over three great continents so huge that it would be a lifetime’s task, and then some, to traverse them all. Here in this densely populated valley, what did Ni-moya matter, or the Fifty Cities of Castle Mount? To these people, the lower Zimr valley was a world unto itself, a little universe, even, swarming with life and activity. And yet there were dozens, scores, hundreds of such little universes everywhere in the world.

It was a miracle, he thought, that a planet so vast and populous had managed so well to live at peace with itself, at least until these troublesome recent times. And would live peacefully again, he swore, once the poisonous irruption of evil into the world that Mandralisca and his ilk represented had been contained and cauterized away.

“This is Gourkaine,” said Septach Melayn one bright cloudless morning, as yet another river town came into view.

“And of what significance is Gourkaine, then?” Dekkeret asked, for Septach Melayn had uttered the name with a certain emphasis and flourish.

“Of none at all, my lord, except that it is the town just downriver from Salvamot, and Salvamot is where our friends the Five Lords of Zimroel await us. So we are almost at our goal.”

Salvamot was a town just like all the others, except that no throngs of eager citizens had gathered at the piers to hail the Coronal when his armada was nearing their city, as had been the case everywhere else thus far, even at nearby Gourkaine. Nor were there any banners flying that bore Lord Dekkeret’s portrait on them and the royal colors. Only a small group of municipal officials could be seen, collected in a tight and uneasy-looking knot by the main quay.

“It is as though we have crossed some sort of border,” said Dekkeret. “But we are still thousands of miles from Ni-moya. Does the power of the Five Lords reach all the way down to here, I wonder?”

“Bear in mind, my lord, that Dantirya Sambail was a frequent visitor to his lands here,” Septach Melayn said, “and his kinsmen also, I’d wager. These people here must feel a special loyalty to that tribe now. And also, look you there—”

He indicated a quay just upriver from the town. A dozen or more big riverboats were docked there, and from their masts fluttered the long crimson banners of the Sambailid clan, with their blood-red crescent-moon emblem emblazoned upon them. It appeared that other such ships lay just to the north, around a slight bend that the Zimr made here. So the Five Lords, or some of them, at any rate, were already on the scene here in Salvamot, and with an armada of their own. Small wonder that the local citizenry would greet the arriving Coronal with some degree of restraint.

A detachment of the Coronal’s guard preceded Lord Dekkeret ashore. Soon the guard-captain returned accompanied by a short, thick-necked man in black robes and a golden chain of office, who announced himself to be Veroalk Timaran, the Chief Justiciar of the Municipality of Salvamot—“I would hold the title of mayor, in another place, my lord,” he informed Dekkeret gravely—and expressed his great delight and satisfaction that his city had been chosen as the site of this historic meeting. He bowed so extravagantly to the Lady Fulkari that veins bulged out on the broad column of his neck and his face turned red. He would, he said, escort the Coronal and his companions to the estate of the Lord Gavahaud in person. The Lord Gavahaud had provided floaters for the royal party, said the Justiciar Veroalk Timaran, and they were waiting a little way beyond.

There were just three small vehicles, with a capacity of perhaps fifteen occupants, and scarcely any room for the Coronal’s bodyguard.

Dekkeret said amiably, “We have brought our own floaters, your honor. We prefer to travel in those. I would be pleased to have you ride beside me in my own.”

The Chief Justiciar had not been prepared for this, and he seemed flustered, perhaps not so much at the distinction of being asked to ride in the Coronal’s personal floater as at the realization that the day was already departing from the script that had been provided him. But he was in no position to place himself in opposition to the Coronal’s wishes, and he watched in what seemed to be mounting consternation as Dekkeret’s men proceeded to unload a score of floaters from the flagship, and as many more from the second vessel, and went on to unload still more from the third: enough vehicles to transport the Coronal’s entire corps of guardsmen, and a good many of the imperial troops as well.

“If you will, your honor,” said Dekkeret, beckoning the Chief Justiciar Veroalk Timaran toward a floater bearing the starburst crest.

Salvamot—city, town, whatever it was—thinned out swiftly once they were away from the river, and very shortly Dekkeret found himself riding through flat open country studded with sparse stands of slender trees that had russet trunks and purple leaves, and then making a winding ascent in more heavily forested terrain toward a low plateau to the east. The domain of the Lord Gavahaud, said the Justiciar, lay up there.

Fulkari rode at Dekkeret’s side, and Dinitak also. Dekkeret would gladly have left her behind to wait for him at Piliplok, for he had no idea what danger awaited him at this conference, or whether it would end in some sort of armed conflict. But she would not hear of it. The Five Lords, she said, would not dare touch an anointed Coronal. And even if they attempted any violence, she said—and it was clear that she saw the peril too—what sort of royal consort would she be, to shrink back into safety while her lord was at risk? She would rather die bravely with him, she said, than carry a cowardly widowhood back with her to the Castle.

“There will be no widowhoods for you just yet,” Dekkeret told her. “These are men who lack all courage, and we will quickly have them kneeling to us.”

Privately he was not so certain of that. But that made no difference. Fulkari would not be denied, and, come what may, she would be with him to the end of this.