Sorcerers of Majipoor m-4 Read online

  ’Trinatha is on the northern horizon, where she belongs. That’s Phaseil, there in the east. You are no astronomer, Farquanor.”

  “And you no drinker. Look, you’ve spilled your wine all over your front. Boy! Boy! A towel for Count Mandrykarn!—Are you drunk, Mandrykarn?”

  “That star in the west was born three minutes ago. I saw it arrive in the sky. Have you ever known such a thing to happen, a star to be born before your eyes?”

  Farquanor snickered, a short derisive laugh. “You are drunk.”

  Then came excited shouts from the far side of the deck, and a wild-eyed crewman ran past, pointing skyward and hoarsely calling on everyone to look upward and behold, and other sailors came by just afterward, doing much the same. Sanibak-Thastimoon now emerged on deck also, with the Coronal’s sister just a pace or two behind him. They stood together near the rail, peering into the sky, scanning this way and that.

  “No, a little more to the west,” Mandrykarn called to them. “There. There. Do you see?” He seized the Su-Suheris’s arm and aimed it upward, and the mage’s two heads followed along the line that Mandrykarn indicated.

  Sanibak-Thastimoon was silent for a time, taking in the sight of that sudden star. “What evil sign do we have here?” Mandrykarn asked him.

  “Evil? Why, this is no evil,” said Sanibak-Thastimoon. He made a soft sighing sound of satisfaction. “It is the coronation star,” he said. “Summon Lord Korsibar.”

  But Korsibar had already arrived on deck. “What’s all this fuss? A new star, someone said. What does that mean? How can there be a new star?”

  “You are the new star, my lord,” declared the Su-Suheris resonantly, both his heads speaking at once in unsettling half-harmony. “You come into the heavens to bring glory to the world. That is your starburst in the sky, which honors your advent.” And with ferocious vigor he made the starburst sign himself, first at the blue-white star and then at Korsibar himself, doing it three, four, five times in succession, each time calling out, “Korsibar! Korsibar! All hail Lord Korsibar!” Which brought a like response from everyone on deck, so that the air reverberated with the sound of it, “Korsibar! Lord Korsibar!”

  In the midst of this clamor Korsibar remained motionless, scarcely even breathing, his eyes riveted on the star. After a moment he took from his forehead the crown, which he had worn almost constantly from the moment of his accession, and pressed it lightly and reverently against his breast. Turning to Thismet, he said, speaking very softly, “Who could have expected this? It means I am truly king!”

  “Had you doubted it, brother?”

  “No. No, never.”

  She dropped to her knees beside him, took the hem of his tunic in her hand and kissed it. The others followed in turn: Mandrykarn first, still so shaken by what he had seen that he nearly lost his balance and toppled forward as he lowered his big body to the deck, and then Farquanor, and Venta, and Earl Kamba, and a moment afterward Farholt and Navigorn and the ship’s master, Lynkamor, and five or six more who had come up on deck one by one to see what was happening and discovered a solemn ceremony taking place. Only Sanibak-Thastimoon held himself off to one side, watching the scene with a look of evident approbation, but making no move to take part in it.

  When all the rest were done with their homage, Korsibar said to the master, “Where are we now, Lynkamor?”

  “Just north of Terabessa, my lord, and five hours’ journey south of Palaghat.”

  “Excellent. Palaghat’s a good place to make our first public appearance. The coming of that star is a sign that the time has arrived for us to present ourself to the people and be acclaimed by them. Have word sent ahead to Palaghat, then, that in the morning we will go ashore there to offer our blessing and receive the good wishes of the citizenry.”

  Earl Kamba of Mazadone, who was standing beside Kanteverel of Bailemoona, said quietly, “He speaks of himself now in the plural, I see.”

  “He is a king,” Kanteverel replied. “Kings may speak that way if they wish.”

  “Confalume was content to say I and me and my, not we and us and our, when he was Coronal.”

  Kanteverel cast his eyes heavenward. “Confalume was given no new stars to mark the start of his reign. And Korsibar’s still tasting the first pride of kingship. Who can blame him for being full of his own importance, seeing a thing like that come into the sky?”

  “So be it,” Kamba said with a chuckle. “Let him speak any way he likes, I suppose, these early days. He’s in his finest moments now. The real work of the job hasn’t descended on him yet: all he can see so far is the glamour and the glory, the starbursts and the genuflections. He’ll find out later about things like the endless, long dull reports from pompous provincial governors that he must read, and regulating the supply of grain in far-off places altogether unknown to him, and drawing up a budget for next year’s highway and bridge repairs, and appointing chamberlains and masters of ceremonies and tax-collectors and ministers and subministers of the royal correspondence and of prisons and frontier forts and weather statistics and weights and measures and on and on through all the rest of it.”

  Mandrykarn, coming up alongside them but hearing nothing of Kamba’s words, laughed and said, “The coronation star, it is! How bright it is, how beautiful! And to think that I took it for an evil omen. Look at me: I spilled my drink all over myself, I was so frightened at the sight of it! But what do I know of such things?” And he laughed again. “See the Coronal now! His eyes are shining as brightly as that star.”

  Korsibar stood for a long while staring stiffly upward, his gaze trained on the star as though he could never have enough of the sight of it. Then he offered his arm to the Lady Thismet, and together they went below.

  * * *

  Gialaurys, too, saw the new star appear that night, some thousands of miles to the north, where the riverboat Termagant was making its way up the Glayge on the far side of Lake Roghoiz. He and Septach Melayn lay sprawled out at their ease on the deck, amusing themselves with a game of tavern dice. It was a calm and pleasant evening, with a soft moist wind blowing down the broad valley toward them from Castle Mount. The engines of the riverboat hummed steadily: the river ran swiftly southward here, descending steeply in its channel as the narrow vessel beat northward against it.

  It was Septach Melayn’s roll. He swung the cup in his usual showy manner, bringing his arm around in a wide circle and releasing the dice with a dramatic twist of his wrist. They came clattering out, one two three, arranging themselves in a line so precise that it might well have been drawn with a ruler. “The eyes, the hand, the fork,” Septach Melayn announced, slapping his hand against the deck in satisfaction. “Ten once again, my mark exactly. You lose two royals, Gialaurys.—Gialaurys? What are you staring at up there?”

  “Do you know that star, Septach Melayn?”

  “Which? That one, the very bright one out there toward the west? What star is that, Gialaurys?”

  “No star at all that I have ever seen. Do new stars suddenly pop into the sky from out of nowhere? For it is a certainty that that one did!”

  Septach Melayn, frowning, scrambled to his feet. Pulling his little decorative dagger from his waistband, he held it out at arm’s length against the western sky as though measuring something.

  “What are you doing?” Gialaurys asked.

  “Spanning the stars, taking their calculation. Look, here’s Thorius, and here’s big red Xavial, and the distance is one dagger’s length from one to the other, exactly as should be. But here’s the new one midway between them, where no star ever was of which I know. It is just as you say, Gialaurys. A star out of nowhere.”

  “A witch-star, is it?”

  “A star that has caught on fire, I would sooner say.”

  “But the stars are fire, or so I’ve heard,” said Gialaurys, giving Septach Melayn an uncomprehending look.

  “Some fires burn dimly, though, and some very bright. The same with stars: sometimes a dim star flares up gre
atly of its own accord, and burns ten times as hot as it did before, or perhaps ten thousand times. As with this one, I think. It was there all along, but too faint to reach our notice, and now it has exploded into white-hot flame and probably charred every world that was close about it into ash, and we see it here like a beacon-light suddenly bursting out above us in the night. I’ll talk with Svor about this: he knows of such things.” And he began to call out to Svor, who was belowdecks. “Come forth, you philosopher! Look you at this mystery in the skies!”

  “A witch-star, it is,” said Gialaurys again, darkly. “A demon’s omen.”

  “Portending what, do you think?” asked Septach Melayn. “Tell me what this star says to you, for I have no skill at comprehending such things myself. Oh, riddle me this riddle, sweet Gialaurys! What message is for us in that star, if a bringer of omens is what it is?”

  “Are you mocking me again, Septach Melayn, as so often you do?”

  “No—no,” said Septach Melayn. “I mean no mockery.”

  “Of course you do,” said Svor, stepping through the hatch. “You play with poor Gialaurys as though he’s a simpleton. Which in truth he’s not, though I suppose he lacks some degree of your guile—as do most people, I should say. But play with me instead, my lord Septach Melayn. I’m not so easy.”

  “Well, then. A new star is in the sky.”

  “So there is, yes. I see it plain overhead, a little to the west of Thorius. It burns bright and strong.”

  “And what does such a thing mean to you, Svor, you who give so much credence to wizardry? Tell me, since I have no eyes to see such things myself. Gialaurys calls it a demon’s omen. What is the demon trying to tell us, do you think? Do we have harder losses ahead for us, we who have already lost so much?”

  “Ah, quite the opposite,” said Svor, smiling archly and tugging his fingers hard through the close-clinging curls of his beard. “I am no diviner, O splendid Septach Melayn, but even so I think I can read the skies well enough for an amateur. That star that comes upon us tonight shines out to show the anger of the spirits at the evil thing that Korsibar has done. That star is our salvation. It means the death of Korsibar and the rising of Prestimion.”

  “And what about it tells you that?” asked Septach Melayn.

  “If you have to ask, sweet friend, you will never understand the answer.”

  To which Septach Melayn responded with nothing more than a grin and a shrug. But from Gialaurys came a quiet wordless sound of agreement with Svor’s interpretation. He lowered his head until it touched the planks, and reached forth his hands and made signs to the star, signs of propitiation, signs of welcome.

  * * *

  The city of Palaghat, on the eastern bank of the Glayge, was the largest along the river between the Labyrinth and Lake Roghoiz: an agricultural center where the farmers of the three adjacent provinces brought their produce for shipment to other depots upstream and downstream. Though all this land hereabouts was flat, Palaghat itself stood on a low promontory above the river, which on account of the flatness of everything surrounding it and the dramatic green backdrop of tall, leafy mengak-trees behind the city made Palaghat seem to dominate the landscape for many miles about, as though it rose atop a veritable Castle Mount.

  Coronals and other high officials passing this way often broke their river-journeys at Palaghat, which had better facilities for such exalted guests than any of the other cities of the Lower Glayge. The four-laned brick-paved road that ran from Palaghat’s capacious and busy harbor to the center of the city was grandly planted with showy red-boled Havilbove palms along both sides, and bore the ambitious name of the Royal Highway. Today, in honor of the visit of the new Coronal, the trees were bedecked along the entire length of the road with green-and-gold banners bearing the starburst crest. Posters bearing the features of Lord Korsibar might also have been an appropriate part of the roadside display, if only there had been any available in Palaghat; but the choice of Korsibar to be Coronal had not, of course, been in any way expected or expectable, and no portraits of him were yet to be had for copying and general distribution.

  Still, it was an impressive enough reception, for all the hasty improvisation of its planning: much clashing of cymbals and blowing of trumpets, and flowers and garlands strewn everywhere along the way, and an escort from port to town comprising hundreds of municipal officials, from the mayor in his velvet robes of state down to bureau chiefs and their clerks, and troupes of solemnly chanting mages in richly brocaded gowns, and thousands of common citizens along the route craning their necks for a look at their new king and lustily crying out, “Korsibar! Korsibar! Lord Korsibar!”

  He had almost grown accustomed to it by now.

  It had seemed unreal enough in those early days, dreamlike, the constant making of the starburst sign at him, and that yoking of the unfamiliar title “Lord” with his name instead of the “Prince” he had worn all his life, and the secret awe and reverence in the eyes of all those who glanced at him from the corners of their faces, thinking he was looking elsewhere. Each morning when he awoke he expected to find his father standing by his bedside, saying gravely, “Very well, now, Korsibar, it’s time to end this little masquerade.”

  But each day was very much like the one before, a day of starbursts and grovelings, “my lord” this and “yes, lordship” that, and when he had encountered his father, those final days in the Labyrinth, scarcely any words passed between them whatever, those that did being of the most trivial and conventional sort: Confalume, downcast and beaten, showed no sign of desiring to overthrow the strange new state of affairs that his son had brought about in that bold swift stroke in the Court of Thrones.

  Even when they said their farewells, just before Korsibar made his departure from the underground city to begin his triumphant journey northward to claim his throne, there had been only one moment when the new Pontifex betrayed any anguish over all these events—when he stared into the eyes of his son and allowed a single blazing flash of fury and mad despair to show, that he who had been the mightiest man in the world just a few weeks earlier should be so overmastered in an instant by his own child. Yet he said nothing overt to indicate repugnance for what Korsibar had done, nor made any kind of remonstration or challenge. It was done; it could not be changed; the power in the world had passed, as it never had before, from father to son.

  * * *

  Palaghat was far from grand, not a patch on the least splendid of the Fifty Cities of Castle Mount. But in its provincial way it was a decent pretty place, high white terraces along its riverfront side, luxuriant greenery, a sturdy city wall fashioned of pink granite blocks, with a great abundance of ornamental parapets and embrasures and crenella-tions and machicolations, and heraldic dragons and great-horned gabalungs delineated along its face in gold and lapis lazuli.

  The mayor of the city was Ildikar Weng, a plump, perspiring, red-faced, thick-lipped man with an absurd continuous fringe of curling golden hair all about his head and cheeks and chin. He sat beside Korsibar during the floater ride uphill from the harbor to the hostelry that had been set aside for the royal party, his gaze trained unwaveringly on the Coronal in a look of utter admiration and servile regard, while at the same time he waved and nodded constantly to the people flanking the road as though their cheers were directed not to Lord Korsibar but to him.

  In an unending flow of babbling chatter the mayor labored to demonstrate to Korsibar that he was a man comfortable in the company of Coronals as well as lesser lords—sprinkling his conversation with reminiscences of the visits that other grandees had made to Palaghat during his administration, with much talk along the lines of how “the magnificent Lord Confalume your father always preferred a certain wine, that I will gladly provide also for you,” and that “we have always found it a time of special pleasure when the High Counsellor Duke Oljebbin is in Palaghat,” and “as I said to the Grand Admiral, when he questioned me about a certain rare fish of these waters that was very much to his taste—�
�� Ildikar Weng boasted even of a visit from the late Pontifex, for Prankipin had been given to leaving the Labyrinth occasionally, at least to travel as far as here, though not in many years.

  Korsibar found his patience quickly ebbing. Was this what it meant to be Coronal, to listen to the prattle of fools such as this, wherever he might go from this day forward?

  He forced himself to listen politely enough, for a time. But then the mayor went too far. “And then,” Ildikar Weng said, “two years past we enjoyed a visit from the splendid and charming Prince Prestimion, in which the prince said, as I remember it—”

  “Spare us what the splendid and charming prince said, if you will,” said Korsibar untenderly, with an imprecation under his breath.

  Ildikar Weng turned pale at the Coronal’s rough tone, and then a moment later flushed bright red. He blinked and goggled at Korsibar.

  “Lordship? Have I given offense in some way?”

  “If it is offensive that we are required to hear anecdotes about every petty idiot of a Castle lordling who’s ever belched or puked at one of your dreary feasts, yes, you have given offense. Do you think our ear never grows weary of this kind of noise being poured into it?”

  “Lordship, lordship, lordship!” the mayor cried, flinging his hands about in the air. He was so agitated that he seemed on the verge of tumbling out of the open-topped floater. “I meant no harm, lordship! A thousand pardons! A hundred thousand! I understood Prince Prestimion to be your dear friend, and so I thought you would want to hear—” Korsibar stared at him even more stonily. Ildikar Weng’s eyes bulged with horror. He let his voice trickle off into silence. He seemed about to weep.

  Korsibar saw that he had been too hard. But what now? Apologize? Offer soothing reassurances that no offense had been given or taken? A Coronal could hardly apologize; and, if he did, it would only guarantee a fresh torrent of this stuff in the mile or so that remained before they reached their destination.