Robert Silverberg - The King of Dreams

How long is it going to be, he asked himself, before everything changes for me?

The Thismet dream, perhaps, had been an omen. The past was reaching out to reclaim him, and soon they would all replay the time of old Prankipin’s death once more. But this time he would have the role of the outgoing Coronal that had been Confalume’s then, and Dekkeret would be the new prince moving to the center of the stage.

At least there were no new Korsibars waiting in the wings. He had seen to that. Confalume, when he was Coronal, had let it be known that he had chosen Prestimion to succeed him, but had never formally named him as Coronal-designate, feeling that that was an unseemly thing to do while old Prankipin was still alive. Prestimion had not made that mistake. In the interests of an orderly succession he had already named Dekkeret as his heir, and had explained to his own sons why the sons of a Coronal could never hope to inherit their father’s throne.

So all was in order. There was no reason for any forebodings. What would be would be, and everything would go well.

Well, then, Prestimion thought, let the changes begin.

He was ready for them. As ready as he ever would be.

To Navigorn he said briskly, “I suppose you’re right that I’d do best to return to the Castle before heading down to the Labyrinth. I’ll want to have a long talk with Varaile first. And I should meet with the Council, of course—prepare them for the succession—”

The only response was a loud snore. Prestimion glanced back at Navigorn. Navigorn was asleep in his chair.

“Falco!” Prestimion called, opening the door. “Diandolo!”

The steward and the page came running.

“Get everything ready for our departure. We’ll leave for the Castle right after breakfast. Diandolo, wake up Prince Taradath and tell him that we’re leaving, and that it’s my intention to leave on time. Oh, and a message has to go to Duke Emelric of Fa, letting him know that my presence at the Castle has suddenly been required and that with great regret I must cancel the rest of my stay here. Before you do that, though, send a courier off to the Lady Varaile at the Castle with word that I’m on my way back, and—well, that should be enough for now.” Quietly, so as not to awaken Navigorn, Prestimion began to gather up the scattered papers of state that covered his desk.

A pale, tense face appeared in the doorway of Mandralisca’s work-chamber. A hesitant tenor voice said, in not much more than a throaty whisper, “Your grace?”

Mandralisca glanced up. A young man; a boy, more accurately. Green eyes, long straw-colored hair. Earnest, starry-eyed look on his face.

He pushed aside the maps that he had been studying. “I know you, I think. You were with me on the Vorthinar mission, weren’t you?”

“Yes, your grace.” The boy seemed to be trembling. Mandralisca could hardly hear him. “There is a visitor here who says that he has—”

A visitor? This was not a place where visitors came, this isolated ridgetop settlement above that barren, dry, remorseless valley.

“What did you say? A visitor?”

“A visitor, yes, sir.”

“Speak up, will you?—Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why is that?”

“Because—because—”

“Something about my face? The look in my eyes?”

“You simply are a frightening person, sir.” The words came out all in a burst. But the boy was gaining courage. His eyes met Mandralisca’s squarely.

“Yes. I am. The truth is that I work at it. I find it a helpful thing to be frightening.” Mandralisca indicated with an impatient gesture that he should enter the room instead of hovering at the door. The work-chamber, a circular room with an arched roof and burnt-orange mud-plastered walls, was a small one. The entire house was small: the Five Lords might live in palaces, but they had not bothered to provide one for their privy counsellor. “Where do you come from, boy?”

“Sennec, sir. A town not far downriver from Horvenar.”

“How old?”

“Sixteen.—Your visitor, sir, says—”

“Let my damned visitor wait. Let him eat manculain turds while he waits. It’s you I’m talking to just now. What’s your name?”

“Thastain, sir.”

“Thastain of Sennec. The rhythm’s a little brusque. Count Thastain of Sennec: does that sound better? Thastain, Count of Sennec. Count of Sennec and Horvenar. A certain grandeur, that, wouldn’t you say?”

The boy did not reply. His expression was a mixture of bewilderment, fear, and, perhaps, irritation or even anger.

Mandralisca smiled. “You think I’m playing some game with you?”

“Who would ever make me a Count, your grace?”

“Who would ever have made me one? But I am. Count Mandralisca of Zimroel: there’s real poetry for you! I was a country boy just like you, once, a country boy from the Gonghars. It was Dantirya Sambail who put the title on me, the day before he died. ‘You have served me well, Mandralisca, and it’s high time I gave you a proper reward.’ We were in the jungles of the Stoienzar then. We didn’t know they were about to catch up with us. I knelt down and he touched my shoulder with his dagger and proclaimed me a Count right there on the spot, Count of Zimroel, a title that no one had ever had before. The next day Prestimion’s men found our camp and the Procurator was killed. But I got away, and I took my Countship with me.—We’ll make you a Count too, one of these years, maybe. But first we have to turn the Lord Gaviral into a Pontifex. And the Lord Gavahaud, I suppose, into a Coronal.”

That brought only a blank-faced stare, and then a puzzled frown.

Perhaps he had said too much. It was time to send the boy away, Mandralisca realized. There was an odd pleasure in all of this, though: Thastain’s innocence was a charming novelty, and Mandralisca himself was in a strangely expansive mood this morning. But he had learned long ago to mistrust pleasure, even to fear it. And he was beginning to feel too relaxed with the boy. That was dangerous.

He said, “Do you happen to know the name of this visitor of mine?”

“Barz—Braj—Barjz—”

“Barjazid?”

“Barjazid, yes! That’s it, sir! Khaymak Barjazid, of Suvrael!”

Yes. Yes. Mandralisca remembered, now: the correspondence, the offer, the invitation to come. It had all slipped from his mind.

“He’s traveled a long way, then, this Khaymak Barjazid. Where is he now?”

“In the compound, sir, where everyone is kept who comes up the valley road from the pungatan desert. The guards at the first gatehouse found him and brought him in. He claims that you and he have business to discuss.”

Mandralisca felt a stab of excitement. The Barjazid at last! The new one, the brother, the unexpected survivor. He had taken his time about it. He had been dangling the promise of his arrival for most of the past year. And the promise of other things as well. I can be of great use to you, Barjazid had written. Allow me to visit you and show you what I have. “Thank you, Count Thastain. Tell him to come in.”

Thastain moved toward the door. “I’ll fetch him, your grace.”

“Yes. Do.” But—no, Barjazid should have been here months ago. Let the damned slippery bastard fry out there a little while longer. He was no stranger to desert heat, anyway. And it would not do to seem too eager, now that the man—and, Mandralisca assumed, his wares—finally were here. Overeagerness forfeits you the advantage every time.—“Wait, boy!”

“Sir?”

Mandralisca fashioned his long, tapering fingers into a steeple. “One more question, first, before I let you go. Tell me a little more about yourself. Why did you enroll in the service of the Five Lords? What were you hoping to gain by it?”