Sorcerers of Majipoor m-4

by Robert Silverberg

It was always like this between them: a chilly sort of banter, a long friendship in which sharp teeth were showing in every smile. The Duke Oljebbin and the Prince Seritorn were both some years past the age of fifty, and had known each other, so it seemed, since before their births. They had both from an early age been important members of the Royal Council.

  Oljebbin, whose great estate near Stoienzar in Alhanroel’s southern districts was a demesne of such extravagant luxury that even he felt almost abashed to visit it, was Confalume’s cousin on his mother’s side. Very likely he would have been Coronal himself had the Pontifex Prankipin not lived to such a great old age. But Prankipin had conducted himself as though he was all but immortal, and Confalume had put in forty-three years as Coronal instead of the customary fifteen or twenty; and Oljebbin, after two decades as Lord Confalume’s High Counsellor and heir-presumptive, had had to confess that he no longer had any yearning for the throne. That had been the beginning of Prestimion’s spectacular if abortive rise to prominence.

  Oljebbin himself had suggested Prestimion to Confalume as a successor. To be a power behind the throne was one of the great pleasures of his life. He was a wide-shouldered, deep-voiced man much given to wearing elaborately brocaded robes of rich colors suitable as complements to his remarkable shock of thick white hair: his eyes were warm and shrewd, his features somewhat small and pinched in relation to the grandeur of that hair, and his manner was one of lordliness bordering on the extremes of self-admiration.

  Serithorn, to the contrary, had never for an instant wanted to be Coronal, and therefore had spent all his life in the innermost circles of power, where everyone sought him out with confidences because he was no threat to anyone. He was a prince of one of Majipoor’s oldest families, tracing an impressive if somewhat tenuous line of ancestry back to Lord Stiamot, but also counting such ancient kings as Kanaba, Struin, and Geppin as ornaments of his family tree.

  He had, so rumor maintained, courted Prestimion’s mother before Prestimion’s father married her; he remained a close friend of the family. Serithorn was the wealthiest private citizen of the realm, with estates in every part of Alhanroel and much land in Zimroel as well. His bearing was elegant, his style light and easy. He was fair-haired, smooth-skinned, and trim and compact of form, somewhat like Prestimion in that way, though his stance was more relaxed, lacking in that sense of energy compressed and contained that was so marked a characteristic of Prestimion. Never had Serithorn been seen to take any matter with great seriousness; but those who knew him well knew that that was only a pose. He had great properties to defend, and, like most men of that sort, he was profoundly conservative at heart, a stubborn defender of the ways he knew and cherished.

  Duke Oljebbin scanned the letter once quickly, and then read it again rather more carefully before sharing its contents with Serithorn.

  “From Prestimion, as you correctly supposed,” he said finally.

  “Yes. And he invites you to dine with him at Muldemar?”

  “Indeed. A tasting of the new vintage. And to hunt in his preserve.”

  “It was the same with me,” Serithorn said. “Well, we know the quality of his wine.”

  Oljebbin regarded the prince with care.

  “You intend to go, then?”

  “Why, yes. Is Prestimion not our friend, and is his hospitality something that can be nonchalantly refused?”

  Tapping the letter lightly against the fingertips of his left hand, Oljebbin said, “These are the early days of a new reign. Would you not say that we owe it to Lord Korsibar to remain in constant attendance at the Castle at this time, so that we can offer him the benefits of our wisdom?”

  Serithorn smiled naughtily. “You fear his displeasure, do you, if you go to Muldemar?”

  “I fear nothing in this world, Serithorn, as you very well know. But I would not casually offend the Coronal.”

  “In a word, then, the answer to my question seems to be Yes.’”

  Oljebbin’s lips quirked in a quick cool smile that showed little in the way of amusement.

  “Until we know what Lord Korsibar’s true attitude toward Prestimion is,” he said, “it could be construed as an act of provocation for us to be paying calls upon him.”

  “Korsibar has offered Prestimion a post in the government. The offer was made while we all were still in the Labyrinth.”

  “And declined, I hear. In any case the offer was an obligatory one, mere politeness. You know that, I know that, and obviously Prestimion knows that. I said we needed to know Korsibar’s true attitude toward Prestimion.”

  “We can very readily guess what that is. But he’ll never dare act on it. He’ll try to neutralize Prestimion, but he wouldn’t dare harm him.—I hadn’t heard, by the way, that Korsibar’s invitation was rejected by Prestimion.”

  “Not accepted, at any rate.”

  “Not yet. Prestimion has some calculations of his own to make, don’t you think? Why else are we asked to Muldemar?”

  With his voice kept low, Oljebbin said, taking Serithorn by the arm and leading him to the edge of the terrace, “Tell me this. What will you say if Prestimion should have some insurrection against Lord Korsibar in mind and wants to learn from us whether he has our backing?”

  “I doubt that he’ll be so forthcoming so soon.”

  “There’s already been that skirmish at the gates, when Prestimion found himself turned away by the guards. There’ll be other little skirmishes, wouldn’t you say? And then perhaps something bigger. Don’t you think he intends eventually to rise against Korsibar?”

  “I think he detests what Korsibar has done. As do I, Oljebbin: as do I. And, I think, you as well.”

  “Yes, I do understand the difference between right and wrong, Serithorn. I agree that Korsibar’s assumption of the crown was a rash and most improper thing.”

  “Not just improper. Unlawful.”

  Oljebbin shook his head. “I won’t go that far. There’s no formal law of succession. Which is a great omission in our constitution, we all now realize. But what he did was improper. Unwarrantable and unjustifiable. An astonishing contravention of tradition.”

  “Well, at least you still have some shred of honesty left intact somewhere within you, Oljebbin.”

  “How kind of you to say so. But you’re avoiding my question. Will Prestimion placidly accept the situation as it now exists, and, if he doesn’t, whose side will be you on?”

  “I feel as you do that the seizure of the throne was a monstrous despicable thing, and I abhor it,” said Serithorn, speaking with a heat that was unusual for him. But he damped that fervor instantly with a simultaneous wry smile. “Of course, he’s a very popular monster. The people were fond of Prestimion too, but they’ve taken to Korsibar very quickly. And they lack our nice sense of precedent and custom when it comes to matters at Castle Mount: all they want is a sturdy, good-looking Coronal who can flash a bright smile at them when he rides in the processional through the streets of their city. Korsibar is that.”

  In some annoyance Oljebbin said, “Give me a direct answer, Serithorn. Suppose Prestimion says he wants your help in a rebellion. What will you tell him?”

  “This is very tactless of you to ask.”

  “I ask it anyway. We are beyond tact here, you and I.”

  ’Take this as your answer, then. I have no idea what Prestimion has in mind to do. I’ve twice already said that I regard Korsibar’s usurpation as an abomination. But he is the anointed Coronal now, and an uprising against him is treasonous. One wrong can lead to another, and then to others, until all the world is turned on end; and I have more to lose than anyone.”

  “So you’d try to remain neutral in any struggle between Prestimion and Korsibar for the throne?”

  “At least until I see which faction’s likely to win. I think,” he went on carefully, “that that is your position too, Oljebbin.”

  “Ah. Finally you speak in a straightforward way. But if you intend to remain neutral, why accept Prestimion
’s invitation?”

  “He hasn’t yet been proscribed, has he? I admire his wine; his hospitality is generous; he is my dear friend. As is his mother. If by some chance he determines one day to make war against Korsibar, and the Divine should smile upon him and bring him to victory, I wouldn’t want to have it on his mind that I snubbed him at a time that I knew must be difficult and painful for him. So I’ll go. A social call, with no political undertones.”

  “I see.”

  “You, on the other hand, are Lord Korsibar’s actual High Counsellor, and I realize that that makes your position more ticklish than mine.”

  “Does it? In what way?”

  “Nothing that the High Counsellor does is without its political implications, especially at a time like this. By going, you’d seem to be conferring more importance on Prestimion than Korsibar may want him to have just now. Korsibar wouldn’t appreciate that. If you want to continue to hold on to your post, you might not care to offend him.”

  “What do you mean, if I want to continue to hold on to my post?” said Oljebbin, bristling.

  Serithorn smiled benignly. “He’s carried you over from the Confalume government, yes. But for how long? Farquanor’s hungry for your position: you know that. Give him some excuse to undermine you with Korsibar, and he will.”

  “I’m assured of my counsellorship as long as I want it. And—I remind you once more, Serithorn—I fear no one. Particularly not Count Farquanor.”

  “Come with me to Muldemar, then.”

  Oljebbin was silent for a time, glowering down with displeasure at Serithorn. Then he arrived abruptly at his decision.

  “Done,” he said. “We’ll go there together.”

  * * *

  Prestimion said, “In this cask at my right hand is the famous wine of the tenth year of Prankipin and Lord Confalume, which by common agreement is the best this century. In this one is the wine of the year Thirty Prankipin Lord Confalume, which also is highly regarded by the connoisseurs, in particular for its unusual color and fragrance, although still relatively young and with much greatness yet to develop. And this cask—” He tapped an especially dusty barrel of archaic make, which tapered toward its ends at unusually sharp angles. “—In this is our last remaining stock of the oldest wine we have, which dates from, if I read this faded tag properly, Eleven Amyntilir Lord Kelimiphon, that is to say, two hundred and some years ago. Its body is perhaps a little thin by now, but I had it brought up, Admiral Gonivaul, so that you might sample a wine that was in its prime when your great ancestor was Pontifex.”

  He looked about the room, singling out each of his guests in turn for a warm smile and a close intense look: Gonivaul first, who had been the first to arrive that afternoon, and then Oljebbin and Serithorn, who had come in the same floater an hour later.

  “Finally,” said Prestimion, “we have here the first cask of this year’s vintage. It represents, of course, mere potential, rather than actual accomplishment, at this point. But I know that men of your perceptive-ness and experience of wine will understand how to judge this wine for what it promises, not for what it is at the moment. And I can tell you that my good cellarmaster here believes that when the wine of Forty-three Prankipin Lord Confalume has reached the summit of its destiny, it will be a match for the best that has ever been produced here. My lords, let us begin with this new wine first, and proceed backward in time until we come to the ancient one.”

  They were gathered in the tasting-room of Muldemar House, a dark and cavernous subterranean vault of green basalt, where rack upon rack of bottles stretched on and on into the dimness. The room extended no little distance into the side of Castle Mount itself, and both sides of it were lined with the greatest wines of Muldemar, a treasure valued in the many millions of royals. Prestimion had with him Septach Melayn, Gialaurys, and Svor, and also his brother Taradath. His three guests had come unaccompanied. A fourth had been invited, the Procurator Dantirya Sambail, but he had sent word that he had been unavoidably delayed by responsibilities at the Castle and would arrive in a day or two.

  “If you please, cellarmaster,” Prestimion said.

  Abeleth Glayn was the cellarmaster at Muldemar House, and had been for over fifty years: a gaunt, skeletal man with the palest of blue eyes and straggly white locks, who liked to say that he had consumed more of the best wine in the world than any man who had ever lived. As he leaned forward to open the spigot on the first cask, he paused an instant to touch the rohilla mounted on his surplice over his breastbone, and to make a quick little witchery-sign with his left forefinger and thumb, and to whisper something incantatory under his breath. Prestimion allowed none of his annoyance over this display of superstition to show. He loved old Abeleth Glayn dearly, and tolerated him in everything.

  The wine was drawn and passed around. They all imitated the cellarmaster in tasting the wine and spitting it out unswallowed, for they knew that was the wine-taster’s proper way; and in any event this wine was too green for drinking yet. But they nodded sagely and uttered their praise. “It will be a marvel,” said Oljebbin sonorously, and Serithorn said, “I’ll have ten casks for my cellar, if I may,” and dark shaggy-haired Gonivaul, whose palate was no more cultivated than a Ghayrog’s and who was widely believed not to be able to tell wine from ale nor either one from fermented dragon-milk, solemnly offered the opinion that this would be a vintage of inestimable virtue indeed.

  Prestimion clapped his hands. Slabs of bread were brought, with which they could clear their mouths, and a light repast of smoked sea-dragon meat sliced very thin and sauced in a marinade of delicate meirva-blossom petals. When they had eaten a little, he ordered the pouring of the impressive second wine, which he said ought not to be spat out; and after that had been duly consumed and commented on, a course of spiced fish was served, along with Stoienzar oysters that still were slowly moving in their shells. With this they sampled the great wine of Ten Prankipin Lord Confalume, which drew the appropriate expressions of awe, and much talk of Dantirya Sambail’s misfortune at not being there to drink it.

  Svor said privately to Septach Melayn, “If the same wine were to come out of each cask, would any of them, I wonder, know the difference?”

  “Be quiet, O irreverent one,” Septach Melayn replied, affecting a look of extreme horror. “These are very great connoisseurs, and the wisest men of the realm besides.”

  They went at last on to the antique wine of Amyntilir’s day, which somewhere in its two centuries of life had evidently parted with whatever merit it might once have had. This did not keep the Grand Admiral Gonivaul from praising it beyond all measure, and in fact coming close to tears of joy over Prestimion’s kindness in making available to him this tangible memorial to the greatest member of his family.

  “Let us now go upstairs,” said Prestimion, “and join my mother and some other friends for dinner; and then afterward some brandy awaits us that I think you’ll find rewarding.”

  The name of Korsibar had not yet been mentioned that evening. At dinner, with the great table in the banquet hall set for eighteen, and one rich course after another steadily arriving, the talk was all of hunting and the coming grape-harvest and the new season’s exhibition of soul-paintings, and not a syllable spoken concerning the change in government. Nor was it to be until very much later, many hours after dinner, when the original smaller group from the wine-tasting was gathered once more in the glass-paneled study where a century’s worth of Muldemar brandy was racked in lovely hand-blown globelets, and Prestimion had served a generous portion of his hundred-year-old stock to all.

  “What news is there from the Castle?” he asked, very mildly, with no edge to his voice whatever, and addressing his question to no one in particular.

  There was a long silence in the room. The three guests variously studied the contents of their brandy glasses or sipped at their drinks in extreme concentration. Prestimion smiled pleasantly, waiting for a reply as though he had asked something utterly innocent, a question about t
he weather perhaps.

  “It is a very busy time there,” said Oljebbin finally, when the lack of response was beginning to become significant.

  “Is it, now?”

  “The housecleaning that always takes place when the regime changes,” said the duke. He seemed uncharacteristically uncomfortable at being the center of attention. “You can imagine it: the bureaucrats scuttling around, securing their places if they feel in danger of losing them, or striving for upward movement while all is still in flux.”

  “And in which category do you place yourself, my lord Oljebbin?” asked Svor, taking a maidenly sip of his brandy. Oljebbin stiffened. “The High Counsellor is something more than a bureaucrat, would you not say, my lord Svor? But as a matter of fact I have been reconfirmed in my office by the new Coronal.”

  “Well! We should drink to that!” cried Septach Melayn, and lifted his drink with a reckless flourish. “To the High Counsellor Oljebbin, once and again!”

  “Oljebbin!” they all called, brandishing their brandy-bowls. “Oljebbin! The High Counsellor!” And drank deep to cover the inanity of that hollow toast.

  Prestimion said afterward, “And the Coronal? He settles easily and well into his new duties, I hope?”

  Again an uneasy silence. Again, great attention paid to the brandy-bowls.

  Serithorn, upon receiving an urgent glare from Oljebbin, said somewhat restively, “He’s getting accustomed to the job bit by bit. It is, of course, a heavy burden.”

  “The heaviest he’s ever lifted, and then some,” grunted Gialaurys. “Man should be careful what he picks up, if he knows not how strong he really be.”

  Prestimion poured another round of brandy all around: newer stuff, dealt out with a free hand.

  “Of course the people welcome Korsibar’s ascent,” he said as they tipped back their bowls once more. “I saw, all the way up the Glayge, how quick they were to put his portrait out and celebrate his coming. He is very well-received, I think.” And flashed his eyes from one to another of the visitors, quickly, as if to let them know that there were deeper currents to the bland stream of his conversation. But they already understood that.