The King of Dreams Read online

  “What do we do now?” Kijel Busiak asked, as he and Gopak Semivinvor surveyed the site of the devastation. “How do we reassemble it, sir? We await your instructions.”

  But Gopak Semivinvor had no idea of what to do. It was clear now that the Summer Palace of Lord Kassarn was by no means as simple in form as everyone had thought; that it was, rather, a complex and marvelous thing, a little miracle of construction, the eccentric masterpiece of some great forgotten architect. Taking it apart had inevitably caused great damage. Few of the original components of the palace could be employed in the reconstruction. They would have to construct a new palace, a flawless imitation of the first one, from the beginning. Who, though, had the skill to do that?

  He understood now that he had, driven by that strange and irresistible pressure at the back of his skull, that eerie sending which had not been a sending of the benevolent Lady, destroyed the Summer Palace in the process of dismantling it. It would not, could not, now be shifted to a more auspicious orientation. There was no Summer Palace at all, any more. Gopak Semivinvor sank down disconsolate against one of the piles of roof-beams, buried his face in his hands, and began to sob. Kijel Busiak, who could not find any words to speak, left him there alone.

  After a time he rose. Walking away from the ruined building without looking back, the major-domo took himself to the rim of the island, and stood for a long while at the edge of the Great Lake with his mind utterly empty of thought, and then, very slowly, he stepped out into the lake and continued to walk forward until the water was over his head.

  6

  Septach Melayn said, “Again, milady. Up with your stick! Parry! Parry! Parry!”

  Keltryn met each thrust of the tall man’s wooden baton with a quick, darting response, successfully anticipating every time the direction from which he would be coming at her, and getting the baton where it needed to be. She had no illusions about her ability to hold her own in any sort of contest with the great swordsman. But that was not expected of her, or of anyone. What was important was the development of her skills; and those skills were developing with remarkable speed. She could tell that by the way Septach Melayn smiled at her now. He saw real promise in her. More than that: he seemed to have taken a liking to her, he who was reputed to have no more interest in women than a stone would. And so, since his return from the Labyrinth, he had begun affording her the rare privilege of private tutoring in the art.

  She had done as much as she could without him throughout the weeks of his absence at the Labyrinth for the funeral of the old Pontifex and the ceremonies that marked Prestimion’s succession to the imperial throne. During that time Keltryn had sought out members of Septach Melayn’s class in swordsmanship and made them drill with her, one on one.

  Some, who had never reconciled themselves to the anomalous presence of a woman in the class, simply laughed her off. But a few, perhaps for no other reason than that they saw it as an opportunity to spend some time in the company of an attractive young woman, were willing enough to humor her in that request. Polliex, the Earl of Estotilaup’s handsome son, was one of that group. He was tremendously good-looking—indeed, the handsomest boy Keltryn had ever known—and only too aware of that fact himself. He interpreted Keltryn’s invitation to practice at rapier and singlesticks with him as a portent of conquest.

  But Keltryn, at the moment, was not looking to become anybody’s conquest, and Polliex’s flawlessly contoured face was irrelevant anyway when hidden behind a fencer’s mask. After several sessions with him at which he insisted on asking her, more than once in the face of her polite refusal, to join him for a weekend in riding the mirror-slides and enjoying other amusements at the pleasure-city of High Morpin, just downslope from the Castle, she canceled further drills with Polliex and turned instead to Toraman Kanna, of Syrinx, the prince’s son.

  He was a striking-looking young man too, slim and sinuous, with olive-hued skin and long dark hair. In fact he had an almost feminine beauty about him, so much so that it was generally assumed he was one of Septach Melayn’s playmates. Perhaps he was; but Keltryn quickly found out that he found women attractive too, or, at any rate found her to be. “You should hold your weapon like this,” Toraman Kanna said, standing behind her and lifting her arm. And then, after he had corrected her position, he let his hand slide up the side of her fencing jacket and rest lightly on her right breast. Just as easily, she pushed it aside. Possibly he thought it was his princely prerogative to touch her like that. They did not drill together a second time.

  Audhari of Stoienzar provided her with no such complications. The big freckle-faced boy seemed hearty and normal enough, but what concerned him when he was with her in the gymnasium was fencing, not flirtation. Keltryn had already discovered that he was the most proficient fencer in the class. Now, meeting with him day after day, she concentrated on learning from him how to master Septach Melayn’s trick of dividing each moment into its component parts and then subdividing those, until time itself was slowed and one could step between the partitions that kept each moment from the next, thus making oneself easily capable of matching and often of anticipating the actions of one’s opponent. It was not an easy science to master. But Audhari, because he was not the awesomely perfect swordsman that Septach Melayn was, was able by the very flaws in his technique to give Keltryn access to his considerable knowledge of the method.

  By the time Septach Melayn returned from the Labyrinth, she was nearly as good as Audhari, and superior to all the rest in the class. Septach Melayn noticed that at once, the first time the group met; and when she approached him, somewhat timidly, to ask for private instruction, he agreed without hesitation.

  They met for an hour, every third day. He was patient with her, kindly, tolerant of the mistakes that she inevitably made. “Here,” he said. “This way. Look high and thrust low, or vice versa. I can read your intentions. You signal too much with your eyes.” Their blades met. His slipped easily past hers and touched her lightly on the clavicle. If this were in earnest she would have been slain five times a minute. Never once did she break through his own guard. But she did not expect to. He was the complete master. No one would ever touch him. “Here!” he cried. “Watch! Watch! Watch! Hup!”

  She worked at stopping time, tried to turn his smooth movements into a series of discontinuous leaps so that she could enter the interval between one segment of time and its successor and finally touch the tip of her blade to him, and almost managed to do it. But even so he always eluded her, and then he had that wonderful knack of seeming to come back at her from two sides at once in the counterthrust, and she had no way of defending against that.

  She loved drilling with him. She loved him, in a way that had nothing to do with sex. She was seventeen and he was—what? Fifty? Fifty-five? Old, anyway, very old, though still dashing and elegant and extremely handsome. But he was not at all interested in women, so everyone said. Not in that way, anyhow, though he seemed to like women as friends, and was often seen in the company of them. That was fine with Keltryn. All she wanted from men, at this point in her life, was friendship, nothing more. And Septach Melayn was a wonderful friend to have.

  He was charming and funny, a playful, buoyant man. He was wise: had not Lord Prestimion chosen him to be High Counsellor of the Realm? He was said to be a connoisseur of wines, he knew much about music and poetry and painting, and no one at the Castle, not even the Coronal, had a finer wardrobe. And of course he was the best swordsman in the world. Even those to whom swordsmanship was a meaningless pastime admired him for that: you had to admire someone who was better than everyone else at something, regardless of what the something was.

  Also Septach Melayn was kind and good, liked by all, as modest as his great attainments permitted him to be, famously devoted to his friend the Coronal. He was altogether a paragon, the happiest and most enviable of men. But as she got to know him better, Keltryn began to wonder whether there might not be a core of sadness somewhere within him that he worked hard to
keep concealed. Doubtless he hated growing old, he who was such a masterly athlete and so beautiful to behold. Perhaps he was secretly lonely. And maybe he wished that there was someone, somewhere among the fifteen billion people of this giant planet, who could give him an even match on the dueling-grounds.

  In the third week of their private lessons Septach Melayn removed his mask suddenly, after she had carried out an especially well handled series of interchanges, and said, peering down at her from his great height, “That was quite fine, milady. I’ve never seen anyone come along quite as fast as you have. A pity that we’ll have to bring these lessons to a halt very soon.”

  He could not have hurt her more if he had slashed her across the throat with the edge of his rapier.

  “We will?” she said, horrified.

  “The Pontifex will be arriving at the Castle shortly for Lord Dekkeret’s coronation ceremony, and after that the real changes of the new regime will begin. Lord Dekkeret will want his own High Counsellor. I think he plans to appoint Prestimion’s brother Teotas. As for me, I’ve been asked to continue in Prestimion’s service, this time as High Spokesman to the Pontifex. Which means, of course, that I’ll be leaving the Castle and taking up residence at the Labyrinth.”

  Keltryn gasped. “The Labyrinth—oh, how terrible, Septach Melayn!”

  With a graceful shrug he said, “Ah, not so bad as it’s credited with being, I think. There are decent tailors there, and some estimable restaurants. And Prestimion doesn’t plan to be one of those reclusive Pontifexes who hides himself away at the bottom of the whole thing and doesn’t come out into daylight for the rest of his life. The court will do a good deal of traveling, he tells me. I imagine he’ll be shuttling up and down the Glayge as often as any Pontifex ever has, and going farther afield, too. But if I’m down there with him, and you’re up here, milady—”

  “Yes. I see.”

  He paused ever so slightly. “It would not occur to you, I suppose, to move to the Labyrinth yourself? We could continue our studies, of course, in that case.”

  Keltryn’s eyes widened. What was he saying?

  “My parents sent me to the Castle to get a broader education, excellence,” she replied, almost whispering it. “I don’t think they ever imagined—that I would go—that I would go there—”

  “No. The Castle is all light and gaiety; and the Labyrinth, well, it is otherwise. This is the place for young lords and ladies. I know that.” Septach Melayn seemed oddly uncomfortable. She had never seen him other than perfectly poised. But now he was fidgeting; he was tugging nervously at his carefully trimmed little beard; his pale blue eyes were having trouble meeting hers.

  It could not be that he felt bodily desire for her. She knew that. But all the same he plainly did not want to leave her behind when he followed Prestimion to the underground capital. He wanted the lessons to continue. Was it because she was such a responsive pupil? Or was it their unexpected friendship that he cherished? He is a lonely man, she thought. He’s afraid that he’ll miss me. She was astounded by the idea that the High Counsellor Septach Melayn might feel that way about her.

  But she could not go with him to the Labyrinth. Would not, could not, should not. Her life was here at the Castle, for the time being, and then, she supposed, she would return to her family at Sipermit, and marry someone, and then—well, that was as far as she could carry the thought. But the Labyrinth fit nowhere into the expected course of her future.

  “Perhaps I could visit you there now and then,” she said. “For refresher courses, you know.”

  “Perhaps you could,” said Septach Melayn, and they let the subject drop.

  Her sister Fulkari was waiting for her in the recreation-hall of the sector of the Castle’s western wing known as the Setiphon Arcade, where they both had their apartments, and their brother Fulkarno as well. Fulkari used the swimming pool there almost every day. Keltryn usually joined her there after her fencing lesson.

  It was a splendid pool, a huge oval tank of pink porphyry with an inlay of bright malachite in starburst patterns running completely around it just beneath the surface of the water. The water itself, which came warm and cinnamon-scented from a spring somewhere far below the surface of the Mount, was of a pale rosy hue and seemed almost like wine. Supposedly this sector of the Castle had been a guesthouse for visiting princes from distant worlds in the reign of some long-forgotten Coronal at a time when commerce between the stars was more common than it had later become, and this was part of their recreational facilities. Now it served the needs of royal guests from closer at hand.

  No one was at the pool but Fulkari when Keltryn arrived. She was moving back and forth with swift, steady strokes, tirelessly swimming from one end of the pool to the other, turning, starting on the next lap. Keltryn stood at the pool’s edge, watching her for a time, admiring the suppleness of her sister’s body, the perfection of her strokes. Even now, at seventeen, Keltryn still looked upon Fulkari as a woman and saw herself as a mere gawky girl. The seven years’ difference in their ages seemed an immense gulf. Keltryn coveted the ripeness of Fulkari’s hips, the greater fullness of Fulkari’s breasts, all those tokens of what she regarded as her sister’s superior femininity.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” Fulkari called.

  Keltryn stripped off her fencing costume, threw it casually aside, and slipped into the water beside Fulkari. The water was silky and soothing. They swam side by side for some minutes, saying little.

  When they wearied of swimming laps, they bobbed up together and floated, paddling gently about. “What’s bothering you?” Fulkari asked. “You’re very quiet today. Did badly in your fencing lesson, did you?”

  “Quite the contrary.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Keltryn said in a stricken tone, “Septach Melayn told me that he’s going to be moving to the Labyrinth. They’re going to hold the coronation ceremony soon, and then he’ll become Prestimion’s High Spokesman down there.”

  “I suppose that ends your career as a swordsman, then,” said Fulkari, with no particular show of sympathy.

  “If I stay here, yes. But he’s asked me to move to the Labyrinth so we can continue our lessons.”

  “Really!” Fulkari exclaimed, and chortled. “To move to the Labyrinth! You!—He didn’t ask you to marry him, too, did he?”

  “Don’t be silly, Fulkari.”

  “He won’t, you know.”

  Keltryn felt anger rising in her. There was no reason for Fulkari to be so cruel. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting any funny ideas about him.”

  “Becoming Septach Melayn’s wife is something that has never entered my mind, I assure you. And I’m quite certain it’s never entered his.—No, Fulkari, I just want him to go on training me. But of course I’m not going to move to the Labyrinth.”

  “That’s a relief.” Fulkari clambered from the pool. Keltryn, after a moment, followed her. Putting her hands behind her, Fulkari leaned back and stretched voluptuously, like a big cat. Languidly she said, “I never understood this thing of yours with swords, anyway. What good is being a swordsman? Especially a female one.”

  “What good is being a lady of the court?” Keltryn retorted. “At least a swordsman has some skill with something other than her tongue.”

  “Perhaps so. But it’s a skill that can’t be put to any purpose. Well, you’ll grow out of it, I suspect. Let some prince catch your fancy and that’s the last we’ll all hear of your rapiers and your singlesticks.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Keltryn tartly, and made a face. She leaped nimbly to her feet, ran down the margin of the pool to the far end, and dived in again, making such a shallow jump that the sting of hitting the water ran painfully through her breasts and belly. Swimming with short, choppy, angry strokes, she swam back to where Fulkari was sitting and popped her head up into view.

  “Is that Coronal of yours going to get us good seats at
the coronation?” she asked, flashing a malicious toothy smile.

  “My Coronal? In what way is he my Coronal?”

  “Don’t be cute with me, Fulkari.”

  Primly Fulkari said, “Prince Dekkeret—Lord Dekkeret, I should say—and I are simply friends. Just as you and Septach Melayn are friends, Keltryn.”

  Keltryn scrambled up over the side of the pool and stood above her sister, dripping on her. “We’re not exactly friends in the same way as you and Dekkeret, though.”

  “What ever could you mean by that?”

  “You’re doing it with him, aren’t you?”

  Flashes of color appeared in Fulkari’s cheeks. But there was only a moment’s delay before she replied, almost defiantly, “Well, yes. Of course.”

  “And therefore you and he—”

  “Are friends. Nothing more than friends.”

  “You aren’t going to marry him, Fulkari?”

  “This is really none of your business, you know.”

  “But are you? Are you? The Coronal’s wife? Queen of the world? Of course you are! You’d be a fool to say no! And you won’t, because you’re not a fool. You aren’t a fool, are you?”

  “Please, Keltryn—”

  “I’m your sister. I have a right. I just want to know—”

  “Stop it! Stop!”

  Abruptly Fulkari stood up, searched about her for a towel, slung it around her shoulders as though she felt the need for a garment of some sort, however useless, and began to pace stormily about. She was obviously very annoyed, and flustered as well. Keltryn could not remember the last time her sister had seemed flustered.