Valentine Pontifex m-3

by Robert Silverberg

  “Of course. Of course. And the aim of this invasion will be strictly to take Faraataa?”

  “No more than that, my lord.”

  “No attempt to overthrow the Danipiur? No campaign of general extermination of the Metamorphs?”

  “Those ideas were never suggested.”

  “I see.” His voice was curiously controlled, almost mocking: much unlike any tone Hissune had ever heard him use before. “And what other plans does the Council propose?”

  “An army of pacification to occupy Piliplok—without bloodshed, if bloodshed can be avoided—and to take control of any other cities or provinces that may have seceded from the government. Also, neutralization of the various private armies established by the false Coronals now infesting many areas, and, if possible, the turning of those armies toward the service of the government. Finally, military occupation of any provinces that refuse to take part in a newly instituted program for sharing food supplies with afflicted zones.”

  “Quite a comprehensive scheme,” Lord Valentine said, in that same odd detached tone. “And who will lead all these armies?”

  “The Council has suggested dividing the command between my lord Divvis, my lord Tunigorn, and myself,” replied Hissune.

  “And I?”

  “You will of course have supreme command over all our forces, my lord.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Lord Valentine’s gaze turned within, and for a long span of silence he appeared to be contemplating all that Hissune had said. Hissune watched him closely. There was something deeply troublesome about the Coronal’s austere, restrained manner of questioning him: it seemed clear that Lord Valentine knew as well as Hissune himself where the conversation was heading, and Hissune found himself dreading the moment when it must get there. But that moment, Hissune realized, was already at hand. The Coronal’s eyes brightened strangely as his attention turned once again toward Hissune, and he said, “Was anything else proposed by the Council of Regency, Prince Hissune?”

  “One thing more, my lord.”

  “Which is?”

  “That the commander of the army that will occupy Piliplok and other rebellious cities should be one who bears the title of Coronal.”

  “The Coronal, you have just told me, will be the supreme commander.”

  “No, my lord. The Pontifex must be the supreme commander.”

  The silence that followed seemed to endure for a thousand years. Lord Valentine stood almost motionless: he might have been a statue, but for the slight flickering of his eyelids and the occasional quiver of a muscle in his cheek. Hissune waited tensely, not daring to speak. Now that he had done it, he felt amazed at his own temerity in delivering such an ultimatum to the Coronal. But it was done. It could not be withdrawn. If Lord Valentine in his wrath were to strip him of his rank and send him back to beg in the streets of the Labyrinth, so be it: it was done, it could not be withdrawn.

  The Coronal began to laugh.

  It was a laughter that began somewhere deep within him and rose like a geyser through his chest to his lips: a great bellowing booming laugh, more the sort of sound that some giant like Lisamon Hultin or Zalzan Kavol might make than anything one would expect the gentle Lord Valentine to let loose. It went on and on, until Hissune began to fear that the Coronal had taken leave of his senses; but just then it ceased, swiftly and suddenly, and nothing remained of Lord Valentine’s bizarre mirth but a strange glittering smile.

  “Well done!” he cried. “Ah, well done, Hissune, well done!”

  “My lord?”

  “And tell me, who is the new Coronal to be?”

  “My lord, you must understand that these are only proposals—for the sake of the greater efficiency of the government in this time of crisis—”

  “Yes, of course. And who, I ask you again, is to be brought forward in the name of greater efficiency?”

  “My lord, the choice of a successor remains always with the former Coronal.”

  “So it does. But the candidates—are they not proposed by the high counsellors and princes? Elidath was the heir presumptive—but Elidath, as I think you must know, is dead. So, then—who is it to be, Hissune?”

  “Several names were discussed,” said Hissune softly. He could scarcely bear to look directly at Lord Valentine now. “If this is offensive to you, my lord—”

  “Several names, yes. Whose?”

  “My lord Stasilaine, for one. But he at once declared that he had no wish to be Coronal. My lord Divvis, for another—”

  “Divvis must never be Coronal!” said Lord Valentine sharply, with a glance toward the Lady. “He has all the faults of my brother Voriax, and none of his merits. Except valor, I suppose, and a certain forcefulness. Which are insufficient.”

  “There was one other name, my lord.”

  “Yours, Hissune?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Hissune, but he could get the words out only in a choking whisper. “Mine.”

  Lord Valentine smiled. “And would you serve?”

  “If I were asked, my lord, yes. Yes.”

  The Coronal’s eyes bore down intensely on Hissune’s, who withstood that fierce inquiry without flinching.

  “Well, then, there is no problem, eh? My mother would have me ascend. The Council of Regency would have me ascend. Old Tyeveras surely would have me ascend.”

  “Valentine—” said the Lady, frowning.

  “No, all is well, mother. I understand what must be done. I can hesitate no longer, can I? Therefore I accept my destiny. We will send word to Hornkast that Tyeveras is to be permitted at last to cross the Bridge of Farewells. You, mother, you finally may put down your burden, as I know you wish to do, and retire to the ease of the life of a former Lady. You, Elsinome: your task is only beginning. And yours, Hissune. See, the thing is done. It is as I intended, only sooner, perhaps, than I had expected.” Hissune, watching the Coronal in astonishment and perplexity, saw the expression on his face shift: the harshness, the uncharacteristic ferocity, left his features, and into his eyes came the ease and warmth and gentleness of the Valentine he had once been, and that eerie rigid glittering smile, so close almost to a madman’s, was replaced by the old Valentine-smile, kind, tender, loving. “It is done,” said Valentine quietly. He raised his hands and held them forth in the starburst sign, and cried, “Long life to the Coronal! Long life to Lord Hissune!”

  7

  Three of the five great ministers of the Pontificate were already in the council-chamber when Hornkast entered. In the center, as usual, sat the Ghayrog Shinaam, minister of external affairs, his forked tongue flickering nervously, as though he believed that a death sentence was about to be passed not on the ancient creature he had served so long, but on himself. Beside him was the empty seat of the physician Sepulthrove, and to the right of that was Dilifon, that shriveled and palsied little man, sitting huddled in his thronelike chair, gripping its armrests for support; but his eyes were alive with a fire Hornkast had not seen in them for years. On the other side of the room was the dream-speaker Narrameer, radiating dark morbidity and terror from behind the absurdly voluptuous sorcery-induced beauty with which she cloaked her century-old body. How long, Hornkast wondered, had each of these three been awaiting this day? And what provision had they made in their souls for the time of its coming?

  “Where is Sepulthrove?” Hornkast demanded.

  “With the Pontifex,” said Dilifon. “He was summoned to the throne-room an hour ago. The Pontifex has begun to speak once more, so we have been told.”

  “Strange that I was not notified,” said Hornkast.

  “We knew that you were receiving a message from the Coronal,” Shinaam said. “We thought it best you not be disturbed.”

  “This is the day, is it not?” Narrameer asked, leaning tensely forward, running her fingers again and again through her thick, lustrous black hair.

  Hornkast nodded. “This is the day.”

  “One can hardly believe it,” said Dilifon. “The farce has gone
on so long it seemed it might never end!”

  “It ends today,” said Hornkast. “Here is the decree. Quite elegantly phrased, in truth.”

  Shinaam, with a thin rasping laugh, said, “I would like to know what sort of phrases one uses in condemning a reigning Pontifex to death. It is a document that will be much studied by future generations, I think.”

  “The decree condemns no one to death,” said Hornkast. “It issues no instructions. It is merely a proclamation of the Coronal Lord Valentine’s grief upon the death of his father and the father of us all, the great Pontifex Tyeveras.”

  “Ah, he is shrewder than I thought!” Dilifon said. “His hands remain clean!”

  “They always do,” said Narrameer. “Tell me, Hornkast: who is the new Coronal to be?”

  “Hissune son of Elsinome has been chosen.”

  “The young prince out of the Labyrinth?”

  “The same.”

  “Amazing. And there is to be a new Lady, then?”

  “Elsinome,” said Hornkast.

  “This is a revolution!” cried Shinaam. “Valentine has overturned Castle Mount with a single push! Who can believe it? Who can believe it? Lord Hissune! Can it be? How do the princes of the Mount accept it?”

  “I think they had little choice,” Hornkast replied. “But let us not concern ourselves with the princes of the Mount. We have our own tasks to carry out, on this our final day of power,”

  “And thanks be to the Divine that it is,” said Dilifon.

  The Ghayrog glared at him. “You speak for yourself alone!”

  “Perhaps I do. But I speak also for the Pontifex Tyeveras.”

  “Who seems to be speaking for himself this day, eh?” said Hornkast. He peered at the document in his hand. “There are several curious problems that I must call to your attention. For example, my staff has so far been unable to locate any description of the proper procedure for proclaiming the death of a Pontifex and the ascension of a new one, it having been so long since such an event has occurred.”

  “Very likely no one now alive has any experience of such things,” said Dilifon. “Except the Pontifex Tyeveras himself.”

  “I doubt that he will aid us in this matter,” Hornkast said. “We are searching the archives now for details of the proclamation of the death of Ossier and the ascension of Tyeveras, but if we can find nothing we will have to invent our own ceremony.”

  Narrameer, eyes closed, said in a low, faraway voice, “You forget. There is one person who was present on the day of the ascension of Tyeveras.”

  Hornkast looked at her in amazement. Ancient she was, that everyone knew; but no one knew how ancient, except that she had been the imperial dream-speaker as far back as anyone recalled. But if she had indeed survived out of the reign of Tyeveras as Coronal, she was older even than he imagined; and he felt a shiver go down his back, he who had thought he was himself far beyond the age when anything could cause surprise.

  “You remember it, then?” he asked.

  “I see it through the mists. It is announced first in the Court of Columns. Then in the Court of Globes, and then in the Place of Masks; and after that, it is declared in the Hall of Winds and the Court of Pyramids. After which, it is announced one final time at the Mouth of Blades. And when the new Pontifex arrives at the Labyrinth, he must enter at the Mouth of Blades and journey down through the levels on foot. That I remember: Tyeveras striding with immense vigor through huge crowds that called his name, and he walked so fast that no one could keep pace with him, and he would not halt until he had traversed the whole Labyrinth to its lowest level. Will the Pontifex Valentine display such energy, I wonder?”

  “That is the second curious matter,” said Hornkast. “The Pontifex Valentine has no immediate plans for taking up residence in the Labyrinth.”

  “What?” Dilifon blurted.

  “He is now at the Isle, with the former Lady and the new Coronal and the new Lady. The Pontifex informs me that it is his intention to go next to Zimroel, in order to bring the rebellious provinces under his control. He expects this process to be a lengthy one, and he urges me to postpone any celebration of his ascension.”

  “For how long?” Shinaam asked.

  “Indefinitely,” said Hornkast. “Who knows how long this crisis will last? And while it does he will remain in the upper world.”

  “In that case,” said Narrameer, “we may expect the crisis to last as long as Valentine lives.”

  Hornkast glanced toward her and smiled. “You understand him well. He detests the Labyrinth, and I think will find every pretext to avoid dwelling in it.”

  Dilifon shook his head slowly. “But how can that be? The Pontifex must dwell in the Labyrinth! It is the tradition! Never in ten thousand years has a Pontifex lived in the upper world!”

  “Never has Valentine been Pontifex, either,” Hornkast said. “I think there will be many changes forthcoming in his reign, if the world survives this war the Shapeshifters wage against it. But I tell you it matters little to me whether he lives in the Labyrinth or in Suvrael or on Castle Mount. My time is over; as is yours, good Dilifon, and yours, Shinaam, and perhaps even yours, my lady Narrameer. Such transformations as may come hold little interest for me.”

  “He must dwell here!” said Dilifon again. “How can the new Coronal assert his power, if the Pontifex is also apparent to the citizens of the upper world?”

  “Perhaps that is Valentine’s plan,” Shinaam suggested. “He makes himself Pontifex, because he can no longer avoid it, but by remaining above he continues to play the active role of a Coronal, reducing this Lord Hissune of his to a subordinate position. By the Lady, I never thought him so crafty!”

  “Nor I,” said Dilifon.

  Hornkast said, shrugging, “We have no idea what his intent may be, except that so long as the war continues, he will not come to this place. And his court will follow him about: for we are all relieved of our posts, in the moment when the succession occurs.” He looked slowly about the room. “And I remind you that we have been speaking of Valentine as Pontifex, when in fact the succession has not yet occurred. That is our final responsibility.”

  “Ours?” said Shinaam.

  “Would you shirk it?” Hornkast asked. “Then go: go, take to your bed, old man, and we will do our work without you. For we must move on to the throne-room now, and discharge our duty. Dilifon? Narrameer?”

  “I will accompany you,” Shinaam said dourly.

  Hornkast led the way: a slow procession, a parade of antiquities. Several times it was necessary to wait while Dilifon, leaning on the arms of two burly aides, paused for breath. But at last they stood outside the great door of the imperial chamber; and once more Hornkast slipped his hand into the recognition glove and touched the door-opening device, a task that he knew he would never perform again.

  Sepulthrove stood beside the intricate life-support globe that housed the Pontifex.

  “It is very strange,” the physician said. “After this long silence, he speaks again. Listen: he stirs now.”

  And from within the sphere of blue glass came the whistling and gurgling sounds of the voice of Tyeveras; and then, plainly, as he had once before done, he could be heard to say, “Come. Rise. Walk.”

  “The same words,” said Sepulthrove.

  “Life! Pain! Death!”

  “I think he knows,” Hornkast said. “I think he must.”

  Sepulthrove frowned. “Knows what?”

  Hornkast indicated the decree. “This is Lord Valentine’s proclamation of grief upon the loss of Majipoor’s great emperor.”

  “I see,” said the physician, and his hawk-featured face turned dark with congested blood. “So it finally must come.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Now?” Sepulthrove asked. His hands trembled. He held them poised above a bank of controls.

  From the Pontifex came one last burst of words:

  “Life, Majesty. Death. Valentine Pontifex of Majipoor!”

 
There was a terrible silence.

  “Now,” Hornkast said.

  8

  Endlessly back and forth across the sea, now sailing once more from the Isle to Zimroel: it was beginning to seem to Valentine that in one of his former lives he must have been that legendary ancient captain Sinnabor Lavon, who had set out to make the first crossing of the Great Sea and given up the voyage after five years, and who perhaps for that had been condemned to be reborn and sail from land to land without ever halting for rest. But Valentine felt no weariness now, and no yearning to give up this life of wandering that he had undertaken. In a way—a strange and unexpected way— he was still making his grand processional.

  The fleet, sped westward by favorable winds, was nearing Piliplok. There had been no dragons in the sea this time to menace or delay the journey, and the crossing had been swift.

  From the masts the banners stood out straight toward Zimroel ahead: no longer the green-and-gold colors of the Coronal, for now Lord Hissune sailed under those as he made his separate voyage to Zimroel. Valentine’s ships bore the red-and-black of the Pontifex, with the Labyrinth symbol blazoned upon them.

  He had not yet grown accustomed to those colors, nor to that symbol, nor to those other alterations that had come. They did not make the starburst sign to him any longer when they approached him. Well, so be it; he had always thought that such salutes were foolishness, anyway. They did not address him as “my lord” now when they spoke with him, for a Pontifex must be called “your majesty.” Which made little difference to Valentine except that his ear had long since grown accustomed to that oft-repeated “my lord” as a kind of punctuation, a way of marking the rhythm of a sentence, and it was odd not to hear it. It was with difficulty that he got people to speak to him at all, now: for everyone knew that the custom since ancient times had been to address one’s words to the high spokesman of the Pontifex, never to the Pontifex himself, though the Pontifex was right there and perfectly capable of hearing. And when the Pontifex replied, why, he must do it by indirect discourse also, through his spokesman. That was the first of the Pontifical customs that Valentine had discarded; but it was not easy to get others to abide by the change. He had named Sleet his high spokesman—it seemed a natural enough appointment—but Sleet was forbidden to indulge in any of that antique mummery of pretending to be the Pontifex’s ears.