Robert Silverberg - The King of Dreams

“It could. It could indeed.” He saw suddenly what Barjazid was driving at, and a broad grin crossed his face. “Bravo, my friend! Bravo! You’ve named the price for your assistance, haven’t you? Khaymak the First of Suvrael! Well, let it be so. I congratulate you, your highness!”

“I thank you, your grace.” Barjazid gave him a warm smile of appreciation and fellowship. “A Pontifex of Zimroel… a king of Suvrael… And what role do you see for yourself, Count Mandralisca, once these brothers are established on their thrones?”

“I? I’ll be privy counsellor, as I am now. They’ll continue to need someone to tell them what to do. And I’ll be the one who tells them.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

“We understand each other, I think.”

“I think we do. What’s the next move, then?”

“Why, you have to build us your devilish machines. That’ll allow us to start making life difficult for Prestimion.”

“Very good. I propose to set up a workshop right away in Ni-moya, and—”

“No,” Mandralisca said. “Not Ni-moya. Here is where you’ll do your work, your highness.”

“Here? I’ll need special equipment—materials—skilled workmen, perhaps. In a remote desert outpost like this, I can’t possibly—”

“You can and will. A Suvraelinu like you shouldn’t have any problem dealing with desert conditions. We’ll bring in whatever you need from Ni-moya. But you have joined us now, my friend. This is your place, now. Here is where you’ll stay, and live and do your work, until the war is won.”

“You make it seem as though you don’t trust me, your grace.”

“I trust no one, my friend. Not even myself.”

Dekkeret returned to the Castle by the quickest route, taking the Grand Calintane Highway, which terminated in the broad open space paved with smooth green porcelain cobblestones that was the Dizimaule Plaza. His floater passed over the huge starburst in golden tilework that lay at its center and carried him through the great Dizimaule Arch, the main entrance to the Castle, the gateway to the southern wing. The guards stationed in the guardhouse on the arch’s left side waved to him as he passed through, and he acknowledged their salute with a brief, stiff one of his own.

There was an air of barely suppressed tension in the corridors of the Castle as he made his way inward. The faces of those who greeted him at each checkpoint were tightly drawn and solemn; lips were clamped, eyes were hooded.

“From the look of them all,” he said to Dinitak, “it would be easy enough to believe that the Pontifex has died in the time it took us to get back here from Normork.”

“You would know it already, I think,” said Dinitak.

“I suppose I would.”

Yes. They would be hailing him as Coronal, would they not, if Confalume had died? People kneeling, making the starburst salute, calling out the traditional cry: “Dekkeret! Lord Dekkeret! All hail Lord Dekkeret! Long life to Lord Dekkeret!” Even though he would not truly become Coronal until the Council had given its assent and Prestimion had formally proclaimed him. But everyone knew who the next Coronal was going to be.

Lord Dekkeret. How strange that sounded to him! How difficult for his mind to encompass!

“It’s simply a disquieting time for everyone,” Dinitak said. “It must always be this way, when a change of reign is in the air. The old masters leave the Castle; new ones arrive; nothing will be the same again for anyone who lives here.” They were at the threshold of the Inner Castle now. The Ninety-Nine Steps rose before them. There they paused. Dinitak’s rooms were on this level, far off to the left; Dekkeret lived above, in the suite in the Munnerak Tower that once had been occupied by Prestimion. “I should leave you here,” Dinitak said. “You’ll need to meet with the Council—with the Lady Varaile, too, I imagine—”

“Thank you for accompanying me to Normork,” Dekkeret said. “For sitting through those deadly banquets, and all the rest.”

“No need for thanks. I go where you ask me to go.”

They embraced quickly, and then Dinitak was gone.

Dekkeret mounted the ancient, well-worn steps two at a time. Lord Dekkeret, he thought. Lord Dekkeret. Lord Dekkeret. Lord Dekkeret. Astonishing. Unbelievable.

It had not yet happened, though. No new bulletins had come from the Labyrinth since he had received the message summoning him back from Normork. Septach Melayn, the first member of the Council Dekkeret encountered after entering the Inner Castle, was the one who provided him with that news.

The long-shanked swordsman was waiting for him in the little square outside the Prankipin Treasury, just at the top of the Ninety-Nine Steps. “You made a fast journey of it, Dekkeret! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“I left as soon as I got the message. Where’s Prestimion?”

“Halfway down the Glayge on his way to the Labyrinth, I expect. Came whistling back from Fa the moment we got the news, spent about three minutes with the Lady Varaile, and turned right around and headed south. Wants to pay his respects to old Confalume, you know, while there’s still the chance. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him on the way up.”

“Then Confalume is still—”

“Alive? So far as we know, he is,” said Septach Melayn. “Of course, it takes so damned long for us to find anything out up here of what’s going on down below. Phraatakes Rem says the stroke isn’t a serious one.”

“Can we trust him? It’s in his interest to maintain as long as he can that his master the Pontifex is still running the show. I know of cases where the death of a Pontifex has been covered up for weeks. Months.”

Septach Melayn said, with a shrug, “Of that, my lad, what can I say? For my own part, I’d prefer that Confalume go on being Pontifex for the next fifty years. I understand that you might very well hold a different position about that.”

“No,” Dekkeret said, catching hold of Septach Melayn’s wrist and putting his face very near to the older man’s. He was one of a very few Castle princes who came close to matching Septach Melayn in height. “No,” he said again, in a low, dark tone. “You are altogether mistaken in that, Septach Melayn. If the Divine means me to be Coronal someday, well, I’ll be ready for the task, whenever it comes to me. But I am in no way eager for it to come before its time. Anyone who thinks otherwise is in great error.”

Septach Melayn smiled. “Easy, Dekkeret! I meant no offense. None whatever. Come: I’ll see you to your rooms, so you can refresh yourself after your journey. The Council will be in session later this afternoon in the Stiamot throne-room. You should attend, if you will.”

“I’ll be there,” said Dekkeret.

But it was a pointless, useless meeting. What was there to say? The highest levels of the government were in a kind of paralysis. The Pontifex had suffered a stroke, perhaps was on the verge of dying, might even already have died. The Coronal had gone off to the Labyrinth, as was appropriate, to attend the bedside of the senior monarch. In both capitals the ordinary functions of the bureaucracy continued as usual, but the ministers who directed those functions found themselves caught in stasis, not knowing from one day to the next how long it would be before they would have to leave office.

Without any real information to work with, the members of the Council could only offer up high-minded statements of hope that the Pontifex would recover his faculties and continue his long and glorious reign. But the uncertainty left its mark on every face. When Confalume died, some of these men would be asked to join the administration of the new Pontifex at the Labyrinth, and others, passed over by the incoming Coronal, would be forced into retirement after many years close to the mainsprings of power. Either alternative carried with it its own problems; and no one could be certain of what would be offered him.