Robert Silverberg - The King of Dreams

“Not that long. I interpreted your letter to mean that you wanted to meet with me right away. Obviously that was incorrect.”

Barjazid looked at him appraisingly. The tip of his tongue slipped into view for an instant, flickering like a serpent’s. Softly he said, “I came here by way of Alhanroel, your grace. The shipping schedule favored that route. Besides, I have a nephew, my only living kinsman, in the service of the Coronal at Castle Mount. I wanted to see him again before I headed this way.”

“Castle Mount, as I recall it, lies some thousands of miles distant from the nearest seaport.”

“The Mount is somewhat out of the way, I admit. But it has been many years since I last had the pleasure of speaking with my brother’s son. If I am to give my allegiance to you here in Zimroel, as is my hope, I will probably never have another chance for that.”

“I know about that nephew,” Mandralisca said. He also had known about Khaymak Barjazid’s visit to Castle Mount; but it was a point in Barjazid’s favor that the man had volunteered to reveal it himself. Mandralisca steepled his fingers and peered contemplatively at Barjazid over their tips. “Your nephew turned traitor against his own father, is that not so? It was with your nephew’s invaluable assistance that Prestimion was able to weaken Dantirya Sambail and leave him vulnerable to the attack that cost the Procurator his life. One might even say that your brother’s death in the same battle was also your nephew’s direct responsibility. What sort of love can you feel for such a person, kinsman or no? Why would you want to visit him?”

Barjazid shifted about uneasily. “Dinitak was only a boy when he did those things. He came under Prince Dekkeret’s influence, and let himself be swept up in a flight of youthful enthusiasm for Lord Prestimion, and that led to consequences that I know he could not have foreseen. I wanted to find out whether over the years he had come to see the error of his ways: whether there could be any reconciliation between us.”

“And—?”

“It was asinine of me to think that such a thing was possible. He’s still Prestimion’s man through and through, and Dekkeret’s. They own him completely. I should have known better than to expect to find any trace of family feeling in him. He refused even to see me.”

“How sad.” Mandralisca did not even try to sound compassionate. “You went all the way to the Castle, and your visit was for nought!”

“Sir, I could get no closer to the Castle than the city of High Morpin. By my nephew’s explicit orders, I was denied permission to approach any nearer than that.”

A very touching story, Mandralisca thought. But not an entirely convincing one.

It was easy enough to find a more likely explanation for Khaymak Barjazid’s lengthy detour to Castle Mount. Quite likely the thought had occurred to him, after he had decided to sell his services to the

Five Lords, that there might be a better price available elsewhere. There was no question that this man was carrying valuable merchandise in that worn bag. Obviously, too, he was looking to peddle it to the highest bidder; and the world’s deepest pockets belonged to Lord Prestimion.

If Dinitak Barjazid had been willing to spend just five minutes listening to his uncle’s blandishments, this conversation would not now be happening, Mandralisca knew. A lucky thing for us, he told himself, that the younger Barjazid has the good taste to want to have nothing to do with his disreputable uncle.

“An unhappy adventure,” he said. “But at least you have it out of your system. And now—perhaps somewhat later than I expected you would—you do at last show up here.”

“No one regrets the delay more than I do, your grace. But indeed, I am here.” He smiled, revealing a set of nasty snags. “And I have brought with me those certain things to which I alluded in my letter.”

Mandralisca glanced once more at the bag. “Which are contained in that?”

“They are.”

He took that as his cue. “Very well, my friend. Has the point arrived, do you think, at which we can begin discussing our business?”

“We have already begun our business, your grace,” said Khaymak Barjazid calmly, making no movement toward the bag. Mandralisca gave him some points for that. Barjazid also knew the dangers of over eagerness, and was testing his ability to make Mandralisca wait. It was rare that he found himself outplayed like this.

Very well. He would allow Barjazid a small victory here. He waited, saying nothing now.

Again the tongue-tip briefly flickered forth. “You know, I think, that before my lamented brother came into the employ of the Procurator Dantirya Sambail, he operated a guide service in Suvrael, among other enterprises. Prior to that he spent some years at the Castle, serving as an aide to Duke Svor of Tolaghai, a close friend of Prestimion, who was merely Prince of Muldemar then. There was also at the Castle then a certain Vroon, Thalnap Zelifor by name, who—”

Mandralisca felt a burst of irritation. This was overdoing it. Having seized the advantage, Barjazid was all too evidently reveling in his control of the conversation. “Where is this story heading?” Mandralisca demanded. “Back to Lord Stiamot, is it?”

“If I might have your indulgence one moment more, sir.”

Again he allowed himself to subside. There had been a wondrously oily way about Barjazid’s saying that that Mandralisca was forced to admire. This man was a worthy adversary.

Barjazid continued unruffledly. “If you are aware of these matters already, forgive me. I want only to clarify my own role in my brother’s affairs, with which you may not be familiar.”

“Go on.”

“Permit me to remind you that this Thalnap Zelifor, a wizard by trade as people of his race tend to be, was a maker of devices capable of penetrating the secrets of a person’s mind. Prestimion, when he became Coronal, exiled this Vroon for some reason to Suvrael, and placed my brother in charge of escorting him there. Unfortunately the Vroon died en route; but he had been good enough, first, to give my brother some instruction in the art of using his devices, a number of which he had brought with him from the Castle.”

“None of this is new to me, so far.”

“But you will not have known that I, since I have a certain gift for mechanical matters, assisted my brother in experimenting with these things and gaining knowledge of their operation. Later, I even designed some improved models of them. All this was in Tolaghai city in Suvrael, many years ago. Then came the episode—perhaps you are aware of it, sir—when Prince Dekkeret, then a very young man and not yet a prince, visited Suvrael about that time, had a rather unfortunate encounter with my brother and his son, and took them both as prisoners to Castle Mount, along with much of the mind-reading equipment.”

“Your brother told me that, yes.”

“Likewise you know that my brother, escaping from the Castle, fled to western Alhanroel and made common cause with Dantirya Sambail.”

“Yes,” said Mandralisca. “I was there when he arrived. I was there, also, when Prestimion, using one of these devices that had been brought to him by your nephew Dinitak, made it possible for an army under Gialaurys and Septach Melayn to locate our camp and kill both the Procurator and your brother, and very nearly myself as well. The mind-reading devices all fell into Prestimion’s hands. I assume he has them locked safely away somewhere at the Castle.”

“Very likely he does.”

Mandralisca looked yet again, more pointedly this time, at Khaymak Barjazid’s battered, bulging bag. Enough of this recitation of ancient history: the sly little man was carrying the game too far. Mandralisca would not be toyed with any longer.