Lord Valentine's Castle: Book One of the Majipoor Cycle Read online

  Praise for

  Lord Valentine’s Castle

  “[A] heady blend of rigorous SF world building and the poetic sensibility of fantasy fiction.”

  —Sci Fi Weekly

  “A grand, picaresque tale…by one of the great storytellers of the century. Lord Valentine’s Castle has everything.”

  —Roger Zelazny

  “Silverberg has created a big planet, chockablock with life and potential.”

  —The Washington Post

  “This absorbing book is…successful in creating a wildly imaginative universe. It is also better written than most in this genre and deserves to be one of the year’s hits, sci-fi or otherwise.”

  —People

  “In this richly imagined setting, Valentine not only learns about his world but about himself and his proper place in it…. Robert Silverberg’s writing and imagination soar with nary a false step. It is truly an extraordinary tale, well told.”

  —SFFaudio

  ROBERT

  SILVERBERG

  LORD

  VALENTINE’S

  CASTLE

  A NOVEL OF MAJIPOOR

  A ROC BOOK

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Voyager mass-market paperback edition. Published by arrangement with the author.

  First Roc Trade Paperback Printing, May 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Agberg Ltd, 1979, 1980

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE HARDCOVER EDITION OF THIS TITLE AS FOLLOWS:

  Silverberg, Robert

  Lord Valentine’s Castle

  1. Title.

  PZ4.S573Lo [PS3569.I472]

  813.54 79–2658

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58542-9

  Set in Bell MT

  Designed by Spring Hoteling

  Printed in the United States of America

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For David Hartwell

  Page Cuddy

  John Bush

  —they pushed very gently

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For assistance with the technical aspects of juggling in this novel I am indebted to Catherine Crowell of San Francisco and to those extraordinary performers the Flying Karamazov Brothers, who may not be aware until this moment of just how much help they rendered. However, the concepts of the theory and practice of juggling as expressed herein are primarily my own, especially as regards the capabilities of four-armed jugglers, and neither Ms. Crowell nor the Karamazovs should be held responsible for any implausibilities or impossibilities in these pages.

  Invaluable assistance in other aspects of writing this book was provided by Marta Randall. Among Ms. Randall’s contributions are the texts of some of the songs found herein.

  For additional criticism of the manuscript in its troublesome early stages I am grateful to Barbara Silverberg and Susanne L. Houfek, and I owe thanks to Ted Chichak of the Scott Meredith Literary Agency for his support and encouragement and professional acumen.

  —Robert Silverberg

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  The Book of the King of Dreams

  PART TWO

  The Book of the Metamorphs

  PART THREE

  The Book of the Isle of Sleep

  PART FOUR

  The Book of the Labyrinth

  PART FIVE

  The Book of the Castle

  PART ONE

  The Book of the King of Dreams

  1

  And then, after walking all day through a golden haze of humid warmth that gathered about him like fine wet fleece, Valentine came to a great ridge of outcropping white stone overlooking the city of Pidruid. It was the provincial capital, sprawling and splendid, the biggest city he had come upon since—since?—the biggest in a long while of wandering, at any rate.

  There he halted, finding a seat at the edge of the soft, crumbling white ridge, digging his booted feet into the flaking ragged stone, and he sat there staring down at Pidruid, blinking as though newly out of sleep. On this summer day twilight was still some hours away, and the sun hung high to the southwest beyond Pidruid, out over the Great Sea. I will rest here for a while, Valentine thought, and then I will go down into Pidruid and find lodging for the night.

  As he rested he heard pebbles tumbling past him from a higher point on the ridge. Unhurriedly he looked back the way he had come. A young herdsman had appeared, a boy with straw-colored hair and a freckled face, leading a train of fifteen or twenty mounts down the hill road. They were fat sleek purple-skinned beasts, obviously well looked after. The boy’s own mount looked older and less plump, a wise and toughened creature.

  “Hoy!” he called down to Valentine. “Where are you bound?”

  “Pidruid. And you?”

  “The same. Bringing these mounts to market. Thirsty work it is, too. Do you have wine?”

  “Some,” Valentine said. He tapped the flask at his hip, where a fiercer man might wear a weapon. “Good red mid-country wine. I’ll be sorry to see the last of it.”

  “Give me a drink and I’ll let you ride into town with me.”

  “Done,” said Valentine.

  He got to his feet as the boy dismounted and scrambled down the ridge toward him. Valentine offered him the flask. The boy was no more than fourteen or fifteen, he guessed, and small for his age, though deep through the chest and brawny. He came hardly elbow-high to Valentine, who was tall but not unusually so, a sturdy man just above middle height, with wide flat shoulders and big capable hands.

  The boy swirled the wine in the flask, inhaled in a knowing way, nodded his approval, took a
deep gulp, sighed. “I’ve been eating dust all the way from Falkynkip! And this sticky heat—it chokes you! Another dry hour and I’d have been a dead one.” He returned the wine to Valentine. “You live in town?”

  Valentine frowned. “No.”

  “Here for the festival, then?”

  “Festival?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Valentine shook his head. He felt the pressure of the boy’s bright, mocking eyes, and was confused. “I’ve been traveling. I haven’t followed the news. Is this festival time in Pidruid?”

  “This week it is,” said the boy. “Beginning on Starday. The grand parade, the circus, the royal celebration. Look down there. Don’t you see him entering the city even now?”

  He pointed. Valentine sighted along the boy’s outstretched arm and squinted, peering at Pidruid’s southern corner, but all he saw was a jumble of green-tiled rooftops and a tangle of ancient streets following no rational plan. Again he shook his head. “There,” the boy said impatiently. “Down by the harbor. See? The ships? The five tremendous ones, with his banner flying from the rigging? And there’s the procession, coming through Dragon Gate, just beginning to march Black Highway. I think that’s his chariot, coming up now by the Arch of Dreams. Don’t you see? Is there something wrong with your eyes?”

  “I don’t know the city,” said Valentine mildly. “But yes, I see the harbor, the five ships.”

  “Good. Now follow along inland a little way—the big stone gate? And the wide highway running through it? And that ceremonial arch, just this side of—”

  “I see it now, yes.”

  “And his banner over the chariot?”

  “Whose banner? If I sound dim, forgive me, but—”

  “Whose? Whose? Lord Valentine’s banner! Lord Valentine’s chariot! Lord Valentine’s bodyguard marching through the streets of Pidruid! Don’t you know the Coronal has arrived?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “And the festival! Why do you think there’s a festival at this time of summer, if not to welcome the Coronal?”

  Valentine smiled. “I’ve been traveling and I haven’t followed the news. Would you like more wine?”

  “There’s not much left,” the boy said.

  “Go on. Finish it. I’ll buy more in Pidruid.”

  He handed over the flask and turned toward the city again, letting his gaze travel down the slope and across the woodsy suburbs to the dense and teeming city, and outward toward the waterfront, and to the great ships, the banners, the marching warriors, the chariot of the Coronal. This must be a great moment in the history of Pidruid, for the Coronal ruled from far-off Castle Mount, all the way on the other side of the world, so distant that he and it were almost legendary, distances being what they were on this world of Majipoor. Coronals of Majipoor did not come often to the western continent. But Valentine was oddly unmoved by the knowledge of the presence of his glittering namesake down below there. I am here and the Coronal is here, he thought, and he will sleep tonight in some splendid palace of the masters of Pidruid, and I will sleep in some pile of hay, and then there will be a grand festival, and what is that to me? He felt almost apologetic, being so placid in the face of the boy’s excitement. It was a discourtesy.

  He said, “Forgive me. I know so little of what’s been happening in the world these past months. Why is the Coronal here?”

  “He makes the grand processional,” said the boy. “To every part of the realm, to mark his coming to power. This is the new one, you know. Lord Valentine, only two years on his throne. The brother to Lord Voriax, who died. You knew that, that Lord Voriax was dead, that Lord Valentine was our Coronal?”

  “I had heard,” said Valentine vaguely.

  “Well, that’s he, down there in Pidruid. Touring the realm for the first time since he got the Castle. He’s been down south all month, in the jungle provinces, and yesterday he sailed up the coast to Pidruid, and tonight he enters the city, and in a few days there’ll be the festival, and food and drink for everyone, games, dancing, delights, a great market, too, where I’ll sell these animals for a fortune. Afterward he travels overland through the whole continent of Zimroel, from capital to capital, a journey of so many thousands of miles it makes my head ache to think of it, and from the eastern shore he’ll sail back to Alhanroel and Castle Mount, and none of us in Zimroel will see him again for twenty years or more. A fine thing it must be to be Coronal!” The boy laughed. “That was good wine. My name’s Shanamir. What’s yours?”

  “Valentine.”

  “Valentine? Valentine? An auspicious name!”

  “A common one, I’m afraid.”

  “Put Lord in front of it and you’d be the Coronal!”

  “It’s not as easy as that. Besides, why would I want to be Coronal?”

  “The power,” said Shanamir, wide-eyed. “The fine clothes, the food, the wine, the jewels, the palaces, the women—”

  “The responsibility,” Valentine said somberly. “The burden. Do you think a Coronal does nothing but drink golden wine and march in grand processions? Do you think he’s put there just to enjoy himself?”

  The boy considered. “Perhaps not.”

  “He rules over billions upon billions of people, across territories so huge we can’t comprehend them. Everything falls on his shoulders. To carry out the decrees of the Pontifex, to sustain order, to support justice in every land—it tires me to think of it, boy. He keeps the world from collapsing into chaos. I don’t envy him. Let him have the job.”

  Shanamir said, after a moment, “You’re not as stupid as I first thought, Valentine.”

  “Did you think I was stupid, then?”

  “Well, simple. Easy of mind. Here you are a grown man, and you seem to know so little of certain things, and I half your age and I have to explain. But perhaps I misjudge you. Shall we go down into Pidruid?”

  2

  Valentine had his pick of the mounts the boy was taking to the market; but they all seemed alike to him, and after making a pretense of choosing he picked one at random, vaulting lightly into the creature’s natural saddle. It was good to ride, after so long on foot. The mount was comfortable, as well it might be, for they had been bred for comfort for thousands of years, these artificial animals, these witchcraft-creatures out of the old days, strong and tireless and patient, able to convert any sort of trash into food. The skill of making them was long forgotten, but now they bred of themselves, like natural animals, and it would be a slow business getting about on Majipoor without them.

  The road to Pidruid led along the high ridge for more than a mile, then began sudden sharp switchbacks down into the coastal plain. Valentine let the boy do most of the talking as they made the descent. Shanamir came, he said, from a district two and a half days’ journey inland, to the northeast; there he and his brothers and his father raised mounts for sale at Pidruid market, and turned a good living at it; he was thirteen years old, and had a high opinion of himself; he had never been outside the province of which Pidruid was the capital, but someday he meant to go abroad, to travel everywhere on Majipoor, to make the pilgrimage to the Isle of Sleep and kneel before the Lady, to cross the Inner Sea to Alhanroel and achieve the ascent of Castle Mount, even to go down south, maybe, beyond the steaming tropics, into the burnt and barren domain of the King of Dreams, for what was the use of being alive and healthy on a world as full of wonders as Majipoor if you did not journey hither and thither about on it?

  “And you, Valentine?” he asked suddenly. “Who are you, where from, whither bound?”

  Valentine was caught by surprise, lulled by the boy’s prattle and the steady gentle rhythm of the mount as it padded down the broad twisting road, and the burst of jabbing questions left him unprepared. He said only, “I come from the eastern provinces. I have no plans beyond Pidruid. I’ll stay here until I have reason to leave.”

  “Why have you come?”

  “Why not?”

  “Ah,” said Shanamir. “All right. I know
purposeful evasion when I hear it. You’re the younger son of a duke in Ni-moya or Piliplok, and you sent someone a mischievous dream and were caught at it, and your father gave you a pouch of money and told you to vanish to the far side of the continent. Right?”

  “Precisely,” Valentine said, with a wink.

  “And you’re loaded with royals and crowns and you’re going to set yourself up like a prince in Pidruid and drink and dance until your last coin is gone, and then you’ll hire aboard a seagoing vessel and ship out for Alhanroel, and you’ll take me with you as your squire. Isn’t that so?”

  “You have it exactly, my friend. Except for the money. I neglected to provide for that part of your fantasy.”

  “But you have some money,” said Shanamir, not so playfully now. “You aren’t a beggar, are you? They’re very hard on beggars in Pidruid. They don’t allow any sort of vagrancy down there.”

  “I have a few coins,” Valentine said. “Enough to carry me through festival time and a bit beyond. And then I’ll see.”

  “If you do go to sea, take me with you, Valentine.”

  “If I do, I will,” he promised.

  They were halfway down the slope now. The city of Pidruid lay in a great basin along the coast, rimmed by low gray hills on the inland side and along much of the shore, save only where a break in the outer range allowed the ocean to spill through, forming a blue-green bay that was Pidruid’s magnificent harbor. As he approached sea level here in late afternoon Valentine felt the offshore breezes blowing toward him, cool, fragrant, breaking the heat. Already white shoals of fog were rolling toward the shore out of the west, and there was a salty tang to the air, thick as it was now with water that had embraced the fishes and sea-dragons only hours before. Valentine was awed by the size of the city that lay before him. He could not remember ever having seen a larger one; but there was so much, after all, that he could not remember.