by Jack Vance
"How so?"
"You heard us discuss our need for holy relics. Let us proclaim that whoever goes forth on a quest and returns with an authenticated relic, then he can expect a rich reward! Should he bring back the Holy Grail itself, he can demand a great boon from the king, even to the hand of the Princess Madouc herself!"
Casmir started to ridicule the idea, then closed his mouth. There was, so he reflected, nothing inherently wrong with the proposal. If pilgrims brought gold; if relics brought pilgrims; if Madouc-even indirectly-brought relics, then the concept was sound. Casmir rose to his feet. "I have no objections to the plan."
Queen Sollace said dubiously: "We may only be postponing the problem!"
"How so?"
"Assume that some gallant knight brought hither the Holy Grail and asked the boon of the Princess Madouc's hand in marriage, and the boon was granted, but Madouc proved intractable, as well she might. What then?"
"I will give away the little shrew. She may choose either matrimony or servitude; it is all one to me; the problem at this point leaves our hands."
Sollace clapped her hands together. "So are solved all our problems!"
"Not all of them." Casmir rose to his feet and departed the chamber.
The next day, on the landing of the great staircase, King Casmir was accosted by Father Umphred. "Your Highness, I beg the favor of a few words with you, on a matter of importance."
Casmir looked the priest up and down. "What is it now?"
Father Umphred glanced to right and left to make sure that they would not be overheard. "Sire, during my tenure at Haidion as spiritual counsellor to Her Majesty, and what with my other duties, I have become privy to many events of greater or lesser importance. Such is the nature of my position."
Casmir gave a sour grunt. "As to this I have no doubt. You know more about my affairs than I do myself."
Father Umphred laughed politely. "Recently I have been given to understand that you are interested in Suldrun's first-born child."
King Casmir said sharply: "What of it?"
"I might be able to discover the name of this child, and his present domicile."
"How would you do this?"
"I cannot be sure at this exact moment. But there is more to the case than the information alone."
"Aha. You want something."
"I will not deny it. My great ambition is the Archbishopric of the Lyonesse Diocese. If I were to convert the King of Lyonesse to Christianity, there would be strong argument for my elevation to this post at the next Synod of Cardinals at Rome."
Casmir scowled. "In short, if I become a Christian, you will tell me the name of Suldrun's child."
Father Umphred nodded and smiled. "In its ultimate essence, this is the case."
Casmir spoke in a voice ominously flat. "You are a sly devil. Have you ever been stretched on the rack?"
"No, Your Highness."
"You are bold to the edge of insouciance! Were it not that Queen Sollace would never again give me peace, you would tell your tale without conditions, amidst gasps and squeals."
Father Umphred showed a sickly smile. "I intend no boldness and certainly no disrespect; indeed I hoped that Your Highness might take pleasure in my offer."
"Again: you are lucky that Queen Sollace is your sponsor! What is involved in conversion?"
"Simple baptism, and you must recite a few words of the litany."
"Ha hmm. It is no great thing." King Casmir considered, then spoke in a harsh voice: "Nothing will be changed, by so much as an iota! Do not presume upon your success! You will control none of the church monies; all funds must be paid into and out of the royal exchequer, with not a farthing for the popes of Rome!"
Father Umphred bleated a protest. "Your Highness, this makes for unwieldy administration!"
"It also makes for honest archbishops. Further, I will tolerate no swarms of itinerant monks, coming like flies on the waft of carrion, to feast and make merry on public funds. Such vagabonds will be whipped and seized into servitude, that they may do useful work."
"Your Highness!" cried Father Umphred aghast. "Some of these wandering priests are holy men of the first rank! They carry the Gospel to wild places of the world!"
"Let them wander on without pausing-to Tormous or Skorne or High Tartary, so long as I never see the bulge of their paunches nor the shine of their pates!"
Father Umphred heaved a sigh. "I am forced to agree; we will do what we can."
"Rejoice, priest!" said Casmir grimly. "Today your luck is good! You have gained your bargain and eased your fat limbs away from the rack. Tell me now your information!"
"It must be verified," said Father Umphred smoothly. "I shall have it ready tomorrow, after the ceremony."
King Casmir turned and strode off to his chambers.
The following day at noon Casmir repaired to the Queen's small chapel. He stood silent while Father Umphred sprinkled him with holy water and recited phrases in unctuous Latin. Next, to Father Umphred's prompting, he mumbled a Paternoster and a few phrases of litany. Thereupon, Father Umphred seized up a cross and advanced upon Casmir, the cross held high. "Down upon your knees, Brother Casmir! In humility and the full transports of your joy kiss the cross and dedicate your life to worshipful deeds and the glory of the Church!"
King Casmir spoke evenly: "Priest, guard your tongue! I brook no fools in my presence." He looked around the chapel and made a peremptory gesture to those who had attended the ceremony. "Leave us!"
The chapel was empty except for Casmir, the priest, and Queen Sollace, whom Casmir now addressed. "My dear queen, it might be well if, for the nonce, you also took yourself apart."
Queen Sollace vented a large sniff. Rigid with resentful dignity, she marched from the chapel.
King Casmir turned to the priest. "Now then! Tell me what you know! If it is either false or foolish, you will languish long in the dark."
"Your Highness, here is the truth! Long ago a young prince was washed up on the beach, half-drowned, at the foot of Suldrun's garden. His name was Aillas, who is now King of Troicinet and elsewhere. Suldrun bore him a son-he who was taken to the Forest of Tantrevalles for safety. There the son, whose name was Dhrun, was changed by the fairies for Madouc. Aillas was consigned to the oubliette but escaped by some means beyond my knowledge. Now he hates you passionately. His son, Prince Dhrun, holds you in no more affection."
Casmir listened slack-jawed. The information was far more surprising than he had expected. He muttered: "How is this possible? The son should be of an age with Madouc!"
"The child Dhrun bided a year in the fairy shee, as reckoned in human time. But this year equalled seven years or more of halfling time! So is resolved the paradox."
Casmir made a series of soft grunting sounds. "Do you have proof of what you say?"
"I have no proof."
Casmir did not press the point. There were facts in his possession which had long puzzled him: why, for instance, had Ehirme, Suidrun's one-time servitor, been spirited away to Troicinet with all her family and there endowed with a rich estate? Even more baffling was a fact which had caused a thousand marvelling conjectures: how could Aillas be so near in age to his son Dhrun? Now, all was explained.
The facts were just and true. Casmir said in a heavy voice: "Speak nothing of this, into any ears whatever! It must be known only to me!"
"Your Highness has spoken and I will obey!"
"Go."
Father Umphred hurried importantly from the chapel. Casmir stood gazing unseeingly toward the cross on the wall, which meant no more to him now than yesterday. He spoke to himself: "Aillas hates me well!" Then, in a voice even more soft: "And it is Dhrun who will sit at Cairbra an Meadhan-before his death. So be it! He shall so sit and he will rule from the throne Evandig, if it is only to send a page off for a kerchief. But so, before his death, shall he sit and so shall he rule."
VII
Evening came to Haidion Castle. King Casmir, sitting alone in the Great Hall
of the Old Tower, took an austere supper of cold beef and ale. Upon finishing his meal, he swung about, to sit gazing into the fire. He sent his memory back across the years. Images fleeted and flickered: Suldrun as a golden-haired child; Suldrun as he had last seen her: woebegone but still defiant. Presently he glimpsed the haggard youth he had dropped with such bleak fury into the oubliette. Time blurred the drawn white face, but now it wore the semblance of a young Aillas. So it had been! How Aillas must hate him! What yearnings for sweet revenge must control the mind of Aillas!
Casmir gave a soft dismal grunt. Recent events must now be considered from a new perspective. Aillas, by assuming sovereignty over North and South Ulfiand, had thwarted Casmir in his goals, and had only just done so again in connection with Blaloc. What artful dissimulation Aillas and Dhrun had used during their visit! How blandly they had urged pacts of peace, all the while despising him and conspiring for his doom!
Casmir pulled himself up in his chair. It was now time for counterblows, harsh and definite, though still controlled, as always, by prudence; Casmir was not one to indulge in rash acts which might react against his own best interests. At the same time, he must discover a method by which the prophecy of Persilian could be voided and its meaning vitiated.
Casmir sat ruminating, weighing his options and reckoning the value of each. Clearly, if Aillas were dead, Casmir's interests must be advanced. In such a case, Dhrun would become king. At this juncture, so Casmir reasoned, a colloquy at Avallon could easily be arranged, on one pretext or another. Dhrun would be seated at Cairbra an Meadhan and somehow persuaded to issue an order from the throne Evandig. The rest would be routine: a movement in the shadows, a glint of steel, a sad cry, a body on the floor-and Casmir would pursue his goals free of fear and almost unopposed.
The plan was straightforward and logical, and needed only implementation.
First: the death of Aillas must be effectuated, but within the constraints of prudence. Assassination of a king is a risky affair, and a bungled attempt usually leaves a clear trail to the instigator, which would not be advantageous.
A name entered Casmir's mind as if by its own force. Torqual.
Casmir pondered at some length. Torqual's qualifications were superb, but he was not easily controlled. In fact, he was not to be controlled at all. Torqual often seemed as much enemy as ally, and barely troubled to maintain a cynical pretense of cooperation.
With regret, Casmir put aside the name ‘Torqual'. Almost immediately another name entered his mind, and this time Casmir leaned back in his seat, nodding thoughtfully to himself and feeling no misgivings whatever. The name was ‘Sir Cory of Falonges'*_and it referred to a man more or less of Torqual's stripe. Sir Cory's willing cooperation, however, could be taken for granted, since he now crouched deep in a dungeon under the Peinhador awaiting the stroke of Zerling's axe. By acceding to King Casmir's wishes, Sir Cory, so it seemed, had everything to gain and nothing to lose.
Casmir signalled to the footman who stood by the door. "Fetch me Sir Erls."
Sir Erls, Chancellor of State and one of Casmir's most trusted advisers, shortly entered the hall: a small sharp-eyed sharp featured person of middle age, with fine silver hair and pale ivory skin. Casmir had no great liking for the fastidious Sir Erls. However, Sir Erls served him with punctilious efficiency, and Casmir ignored all else.
Casmir indicated a chair; Sir Erls, after a stiff bow, seated himself. Casmir asked: "What do you know of Sir Cory, who rests in the Peinhador?"
Sir Erls spoke with instant facility, as if he had expected the question. "Cory is second son to Sir Claunay of Falonges, now dead. The first son, Sir Camwyd, took the estate, which is to the north of Western Province in the Troagh, close under the Ulf border. Cory could not adapt to the plight of the second son, and tried to murder Sir Camwyd. During the night a dog howled; Sir Camwyd was wakeful and the deed was aborted. Cory became a fugitive, then an outlaw. He ranged the Troagh and conducted ambushes along Old Street. He was captured by Duke Ambryl, who would have hanged him out of hand had not Cory declared himself one of Your Majesty's secret agents. Ambryl stayed his hand and sent Cory here for your own disposition. He is said to be a person of good address, if a black- hearted scoundrel, ripe for Zerling's axe. That is the sum of my knowledge."
"Perhaps Sir Cory used a premonition after all," said Casmir. "Have him brought here at once."
"As Your Majesty commands." Sir Ens' voice was carefully toneless. He left the hall. In due course a pair of jailers brought Cory of Falonges into the hall, with chains at his wrists and a rope around his neck.
Casmir inspected Cory with cool interest. Cory was of middle stature, strong and agile, with a stocky torso, long sinewy arms and legs. His complexion was sallow, his hair dark, his features heavy and hard. He wore the garments in which he had been captured; originally of good quality, they were now torn and bedraggled and stank abominably of the dungeon. Nevertheless he returned King Casmir's inspection with incurious composure: alive and alert but resigned to his fate.
The jailers tied one end of the rope to a table leg, so that Cory might not spring unexpectedly upon King Casmir, then, at Casmir's nod, they retired from the hall.
Casmir spoke in an even voice: "You informed Duke Ambryl that you worked in my secret service."
Cony gave a nod of the head. "So I did, Your Highness."
"Was not that a bold remark to make?"
"Under the circumstances, I prefer to think it an inspiration of the moment. It illuminates my resourceful intelligence and indicates my desire to put myself and my skills at your service."
Casmir smiled his cold smile. "You had not previously made these ambitions clear."
"True, Sire! I have postponed the act too long, and now you discover me in shackles, to my shame."
"Shame for your crimes, or shame for your failure?"
"I can only say, Sire, that I am not accustomed to failure."
"Ha! That, at least, is a quality which I admire. Now then, as to employment in my service: it may be a game you shall play in earnest."
"Willingly, Sire, since the work would seem to reprieve me from dungeon and axe."
"That is the case," said Casmir. "You are evidently both clever and unscrupulous; these are qualities which I often find valuable. If you succeed in the work I am about to propose, you shall not only have earned your amnesty but also a substantial reward."
Sir Cory bowed. "Your Majesty, without hesitation I commit myself to your mission."
Casmir nodded. "Let us be clear at the outset. If you betray me, I will hunt you down with all my resources and bring you back to the Peinhador."
Again Sir Cory bowed. "Sire, as a realist I would expect nothing else. Tell me only what I must do."
"The deed is simple enough. You must kill King Aillas of Troicinet, Dascinet and the Ulflands. He is now at sea with his navy, but you will presently find him at Doun Darnic, in South Ulfiand. I must not be implicated in the work."
Cory compressed his lips and his eyes glittered in the torch light. "It is a delicate task, but not beyond my skill."
"That is all for tonight. Tomorrow we will speak again. Guards!"
The jailers entered the room. "Take Sir Cory back to the Peinhador; allow him to bathe, provide him fresh garments, feed him as he chooses and house him securely on the first level."
"As you wish, Sire. Come along, dog's-body."
Cory spoke haughtily: "Henceforth, address me as ‘Sir Cory', or beware my displeasure!"
The jailer gave a sharp tug on the rope. "Whatever your name, be quick about it; we are not as clement as His Majesty."
Later in the afternoon of the next day King Casmir once again interviewed Sir Cory, this time in the Room of Sighs, above the armoury. Sir Cory was now dressed decently and came unshackled. King Casmir sat at his usual place, with the beechwood flagon and the beechwood wine cup ready at hand. He motioned Sir Cory to a bench.
"I have made certain arrangements," said Casmir. "On the tabl
e is a purse, containing twenty forms of silver. Fit yourself out as a merchant of medicinal ointments, with a horse, a pack animal and suitable stock-in-trade. Fare north along the Sfer Arct to Dazleby, proceed to Nolsby Sevan, then north along the Ulf Passway. You will negotiate the Gates of Cerberus and Kaul Bocach the fortress; continue six miles beyond to a wayside inn showing the sign of the Dancing Pig. There you will find four men awaiting you-blackguards as deep-dyed as yourself, if not worse. They were destined to join Torqual's band, but first they will assist you in your endeavour. You shall use them as you think best."
Casmir looked at a list, then spoke with distaste. "This is an unusual group! Each would seem to exceed all the others combined for sheer villainy. First, I cite you Izmael the Hun, from the woods of Tartary. Next is Kegan the Celt, who is as thin as a ferret and no less avid for blood. Next: Este the Sweet, with curling golden hair and a limpid smile. He is Roman and claims kinship with the house of Ovid the poet. He carries a frail bow, like a toy, and shoots arrows which seem little more than slivers, but he can put out a man's eye at a far distance. Last is Galgus the Black, who carries four knives at his belt. Such are your paladins."
"They would seem, rather, creatures out of a nightmare," said Cory. "Will they do my bidding?"
Casmir smiled. "So I hope. They fear Torqual, certainly. He may be the only man alive who daunts them. For this reason you must act in Torqual's name. There is a secondary benefit; when you are successful, as I hope, Torqual will be blamed for the deed and not I."
"How will Torqual regard this project?"
"He will make no objection. I reiterate: my name must never be used. Is all clear to you?"
"Except as to a single point: am I required to work under Torqual's orders?"
"Only if it eases your task."
Cory pulled thoughtfully at his long chin. He asked: "May I speak with full candour?"
"So far we have done little else. Speak!"
"I have heard rumours that your secret agents seldom survive to enjoy the fruits of their toil. How am I guaranteed that I will live to enjoy my success?"