Sorcerers of Majipoor m-4

by Robert Silverberg

  Among this group, too, was the Lady Thismet, who had sat through the first two days of the festival with a notably glum expression on her lovely face, one that had not gone unremarked by the more keenly perceptive onlookers. Her lady-of-honor Melithyrrh sat to one side of her, and Thalnap Zelifor, the little Vroon wizard newly hired into her service, sat on the other, and she said almost nothing to anyone else, nor smiled nor seemed in any way gracious, even when Lord Korsibar himself came by, radiant with his new regal glory, to offer her a bowl of shimmering golden wine. “You would think,” said Kanteverel of Bailemoona to Kamba of Mazadone, “that Prestimion had become Coronal and not Korsibar, the way Thismet’s sulking!”

  “Perhaps she wanted a grander seat,” Earl Kamba said. “There’s her brother high up on a nice throne, and her father has one too, and her mother, even: but she is sitting with the ordinary ruck of dukes and princes like all the rest of us.”

  “The other three are Powers of the Realm,” Duke Dembitave of Tidias pointed out. “What’s she compared to that? A princess only, and that only by courtesy of her father’s rank.”

  “What I think,” said the blunt and always irreverent Count Fisiolo of Stee, “is that what’s bothering her is the way her mother looks. Roxivail was last seen around here—what?—twenty years ago. Thismet probably figured she must be a withered old hag by now, no competition at all. And then she shows up, and she looks more like Thismet’s sister than her mother, and she’s wearing a fancier dress than Thismet besides.”

  And they all laughed, for the Lady Thismet’s vanity was well-known to every one of them.

  At one remove farther from the central area were the seats reserved for high municipal officials. The mayors of most of the Fifty Cities of the Mount were there, and those of some of the more distant cities, ones in the Glayge Valley and the Stoienzar Peninsula. But the outermost cities of Alhanroel—such places as Sefarad and Alaisor, Michimang, Bizfern, and all those on the far side of Mount Zygnor—were only sparsely represented, and of the immense population of the great metropolises of far-off Zimroel, there were no representatives at all; the coronation had been announced so swiftly that there was no way for anyone from the western continent to reach the Castle in time.

  Missing also from the coronation festivities were Dantirya Sambail, who was said to be on his way to Ni-moya bearing official word that a new government had taken power, and Prince Prestimion of Muldemar, who had been invited but had not yet appeared. On this the third day of the celebration, just as the games of hammer-toss and hoop-hurdling had ended and the field was being made ready for the first jousting, Farquanor went clambering up to the Coronal’s high seat and said to Korsibar, “He’s here at last, with his three friends. Arrived an hour ago; went straight to his old apartments.”

  “Does he know the games are in progress?” “He does, my lord. He is planning to be in attendance soon.” “Send a formal escort for him. Guard of honor, banners, princely regalia, everything. And clear a seat for him, for the four of them, close by us.” Korsibar glanced around to his left. “There. Those seats are open, just beyond Venta and Mandrykarn. Put them there.” “That is Kanteverel’s seat, lordship, and Thaszthasz’s, I think.” “Sit them somewhere else today, if they show up. Prestimion’s to be treated with soft gloves, do you understand? An honored guest. Every courtesy.”

  Farquanor saluted and left. Not long after, a stir in the crowd signaled the appearance at the gateway to the games field of Prince Prestimion, flanked by Gialaurys and Septach Melayn, with Duke Svor a short distance to the rear. All four were distinctively clad for this special occasion, Prestimion in golden leggings tight as scabbards and an ivory jacket worked with silver threads, over which he wore an open cloak of purple velvet. The other three were nearly as splendid. An escort of a dozen strapping men of the Coronal’s guard, five of them Skandars and the rest human, formed a living wall about them as they marched onto the field and were shown to the seats that Farquanor had set aside for them.

  Korsibar leaned forward and across the frame of his thronelike chair, smiling jovially, waving to Prestimion, calling out to him as to his dearest friend, telling him how pleased he was to see him here this day, how much he had regretted the absence of Prestimion’s company on the first two days of the game.

  Prestimion replied with a cool formal smile and a few words of gratitude for the welcome he had received. He offered Korsibar no star-bursts.

  Korsibar made note of that. He made note also that his sister, in her place across the way, was staring at Prestimion with terrible strange intensity, as though he were some demon incarnate who had materialized just now for the sole purpose of blighting the coronation festivities. She sat forward in her seat, her gaze fixed, jaw set, shoulders hunched rigidly. It was as if she had eyes for Prestimion alone, no one but Prestimion.

  * * *

  Three jousting contests had been scheduled for that afternoon: Kovac Derocha of Normork and Belditan of Gimkandale against Yegan of Low Morpin and Duke Oljebbin’s middle son, Alexiar of Stolen; and then two young brothers, counts of the Mavestoi line, contending with the grizzled old Duke of Sisivondal and his son; and after them a bout pitting Lethmon Yearlock of Sterinmor and his formidable one-eyed brother Grayven against unruly Viscount Edgan of Guand and his kinsman Warghan Blais, the Laureate Master of the Twelve Lakes. Kovac Derocha and Belditan had already come out onto the field on their mounts and were going up and down to accustom themselves to the animals, and Yegan and Alexiar could be seen at the paddock, getting ready to emerge.

  But then the ponderous figure of Count Farholt came between Korsibar and the sunlight, and the huge man said, “My lord, I have a request to make.”

  “Make it, then.”

  “Gialaurys is here. I challenge him to single combat.”

  There was a wild look of fierce bloodthirsty murderousness on Farholt’s face. Korsibar, his mind hearkening back to that grim wrestling-match in the Labyrinth, said, glowering, “These are happy celebrations, Farholt, not occasions for blood-vengeance. We’ll have no unseemly gore spilled on this field today.”

  “My lord, I want only to—”

  “No. We forbid it.”

  Farholt, his eyes burning with rage, turned to Sanibak-Thastimoon, who sat nearby, and cried, “I beg you, reason with him, my lord magus! He denies me out of hand, and why? Gialaurys is my enemy. I ask for him.”

  “The Coronal Lord has spoken,” said the Su-Suheris dispassionately. “You may not do it, then.”

  “Why? Why?” Farholt’s face had reddened. He sputtered and spat. “Here’s a chance for us to be rid of that ape for good! Let me have him! Let me, my lord!”

  “There will be no carnage here today,” replied Korsibar, letting his annoyance now become more apparent. “Sit down, Farholt.”

  Sanibak-Thastimoon said, when Farholt had gone off still grumbling to his place, “You did well, lordship. No one wants to see those two face each other again so soon. But he’s right that Gialaurys is an enemy, and not only Farholt’s enemy. There’s danger in that one for our entire cause.”

  “Danger? How so? All goes well for us here.”

  “At the moment. But Gialaurys is far more warlike than his master. He seethes with resentment over the taking of the crown; and has the capacity to stir Prestimion’s anger, and perhaps to drive him one day into rebellion even. Let me deal with him, my lord.”

  “What have you in mind?”

  “Single combat’s the way, as Farholt says. We can rid us of him most innocently. There can be accidents in a joust, that look not at all like murder.”

  “You heard me say no carnage here today!”

  “Not at Farholt’s hand, no. Would look like open war, Farholt to strike down Prestimion’s man before Prestimion’s eyes, after what passed between Farholt and Gialaurys at the Labyrinth. But I have a man will do the work, and make it look all accidental, and no one the wiser.” Sanibak-Thastimoon indicated a magus sitting with the group of sorcerers near
the front railing of the stands, a man of Zimroel, Gebel Thibek by name, big and long-limbed and sturdy, but not known to Korsibar as a sporting man in any way.

  Frowning, Korsibar said, “Him? That’s no jouster there, that’s one of your mages! Gialaurys will throw him halfway to Suvrael with one swipe of his lance.”

  “He has his skills, my lord.”

  Korsibar contemplated the tips of his fingers. “Is this wise, Sanibak-Thastimoon?”

  “Your situation is more precarious than you realize, my lord. And this Gialaurys is one great reason for that. Allow me to remove him.”

  On the field, the first match had begun. Korsibar hesitated a long while, giving his attention outwardly to the contestants before him, observing Kovac Derocha and Yegan of Low Morpin circling one another on their frisking mounts, and Belditan of Gimkandale touching lances testingly with Alexiar of Stoien. Then he looked up at the Su-Suheris. “Whatever you think is best,” he said.

  * * *

  The unscheduled bout of single combat was inserted into the day’s program in the third position, following the contest between the two Mavestoi counts and the father and son pair from Sisivondal. Gialaurys, taken by surprise by the challenge from a man he did not know, and not in any way garbed for jousting just now, needed time to return to his quarters for the proper costume. But he accepted the invitation readily enough, practically in the same breath as it was offered. To Prestimion, who expressed some uneasiness over the suddenness and unexpectedness of all this, Gialaurys said, “I’ve been idle long enough, my friend. Here’s a chance to show all these Korsibar-loving folk that I know which end of the lance to hold.”

  He went off to change, and to select a mount from the royal stables and test a few weapons for strength and balance.

  The first contest still was under way. Kovac Derocha of Normork had unseated his man, and stood to one side, waiting for the outcome of the bout between Belditan and Alexiar. If Belditan should fall, Kovac Derocha would take on Alexiar. But it looked as though neither man was capable of throwing the other. Five times they came down the field toward one another, and five times they clashed lances and went lurching onward, still atop their mounts. It was not a pretty display. Prestimion, growing restless, left his place and went across to speak with a few of the lords he had not seen since the Labyrinth, Kamba and Fisiolo and some others.

  Duke Svor, remaining in his seat next to Septach Melayn, turned to him and said, “This challenge troubles me.”

  “And me also. Who is this Gebel Thibek? He was sitting among the mages before he came up here to challenge Gialaurys.”

  “A magus is what he is, my friend. I know of him: one of Sanibak-Thastimoon’s following.”

  “I thought we jousted only with men of breeding here.”

  “A highborn magus, then, perhaps,” said Svor. “If there be such a thing. But it’s not this man’s ancestry that troubles me. It’s his skill.”

  “There’s none better at jousting than Gialaurys.”

  “I’m not speaking of skill at jousting.”

  “Ah,” said Septach Melayn. “You think there’s treachery here?”

  Svor’s eyes took on a sly brightness. “We are among honorable folk, are we not? But it’s always good to be ready for the unexpected.” And Septach Melayn nodded his agreement to that, and smiled, and sat forward on his seat.

  Prestimion returned a moment later. He seemed easier of mood than he had been a little while before. “All the talk is of Roxivail and Thismet over there,” he said, settling into his seat. “How lovely the Lady Roxivail looks, and what a sour face the Lady Thismet is wearing today.”

  “She has a good magus, the Lady Roxivail does,” Septach Melayn said with a wink. “Beauty such as that at an age such as hers comes out of the conjurer’s bag of tricks, wouldn’t you say? Why, she’s forty, at least. Forty-five, even.”

  “Somewhat more than that, I hear,” said Svor. “But she’s had nothing to do, all those years down in sultry Shambettirantil, other than to take the beauty-waters and bathe in the shining beauty-mud and, yes, I suppose, have spells of juvenescence said over her day and night.” Svor laughed somberly. “I can imagine the dreams she’ll bring when she takes over as Lady of the Isle! A face like that, stealing into your sleeping soul. Those eyes—that wanton smile—”

  “And then behold the daughter,” Prestimion said. “That angry glare of Thismet’s! How it twists and distorts her face! The way she stares and stares, as if she can’t forgive her mother for looking that way. Or for being here at all, I suppose. But what did they think, when they stole the crown for Korsibar? Roxivail would be Lady of the Isle then, and would have to come forth from her own little distant island: did that not occur to them?”

  “It seems to me,” said Septach Melayn, “that the Lady Thismet has mainly been looking toward you, Prestimion, and not to her mother at all. See, she’s staring this way now! And not with a loving face, no, not loving at all, eh, Prestimion? A troublesome woman, with troublesome thoughts behind that pretty brow.”

  A little roughly Prestimion said, “Does she fear I’ll reach across and snatch the crown from her beloved brother’s head as we all sit here? Not that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, but—ah, look, here’s Gialaurys, now!”

  The big man, clad in a jousting costume, came riding out on the field just then astride a racing-mount so spirited and fierce that it seemed more like a fire-breathing demon than any sort of beast of burden. Its legs were long and slender, its narrow back was razor-sharp; its sleek hide was a bright purple verging on red, and its yellow red-rimmed eyes were devilish ferocious ones. Behind him rode the magus Gebel Thibek on a sturdy-looking but far less fiery steed, one better suited, perhaps, for a long journey over difficult country than for the rapid charges and reversals of a joust.

  Gialaurys seemed to have the measure of his animal, though any lesser mountsman would very likely have been thrown in his first moments. He sat with confidence toward the front of the natural saddle that interrupted the mount’s narrow spinal ridge, his legs dug deep into its barrel of ribs, and he held himself upright, balanced well, with his long lance resting lightly in the crook of his arm. The mount, though plainly indignant at being ridden at all, seemed to recognize Gialaurys’s mastery and to give him some respect for it.

  Whoever had raised this animal had bred a fiendish one of volcanic energy and hair-trigger temperament. Racing-mounts, like the slower, stockier breeds of their species used for ordinary transportation and hauling, were artificial creatures designed for human convenience long ago, through usage of ancient science not very different from witchcraft and now wholly forgotten. Though the art of making them was lost, such synthetic things as mounts were able to perpetuate themselves through normal reproduction, as natural animals do, and various types had arisen by selective breeding. Of these the racing-mount was the finest kind, reserved entirely for the use of the lordlings of Castle Mount. But there could not have been many capable of handling this one.

  Gialaurys and Gebel Thibek faced each other from opposite sides of the field, saluted, and swept forward on their first charge. The speed of Gialaurys’s mount was so much greater than that of the other man’s that they came together nearly two-thirds of the way down toward Gebel Thibek’s end of the field. As was customary, they offered no attack on this first pass, merely touching lance-tips and continuing on. But then both men spun about; as they made their return passes Gialaurys raised his lance in his familiar pattern of thrust; his mount was moving so swiftly that all its hooves seemed to travel off the ground at once. Gebel Thibek, waiting for the attack, appeared slow and uncertain, and held his lance clumsily, its sharp tip drooping.

  “Here it comes,” Prestimion said. “Thrust and overthrow.”

  But no. Gialaurys brought his powerful lance forward and down, aiming it at the dark circle at the center of Gebel Thibek’s padded leather jerkin. And then something miscarried: at the last instant Gebel Thibek brought his own lance up i
n a surprising parry, sliding it smoothly along the shaft of Gialaurys’s and deflecting it so that it went harmlessly past him.

  “How was that possible?” Septach Melayn asked, astonished. “Is there some sorcery at work here?”

  “Unexpected skill, I’d say,” replied Prestimion. “The man’s no petty jouster. I wonder why we’ve never heard of him.”

  Another pass was already under way. Once more Gialaurys guided his mount with supreme effectiveness; once more Gebel Thibek’s defensive movements appeared awkward and inept. And yet when the two men came together, this time in midfield, Gialaurys’s lance wavered strangely in its thrust and his opponent brushed it easily aside with a loud contemptuous thwack that brought cheers from the men about Korsibar and gasps of amazement from Prestimion and Septach Melayn.

  “Something is very much amiss here,” Prestimion murmured.

  Indeed there was. Gialaurys was sitting oddly now, canted off to one side, dangling nearly halfway out of his saddle. He held his lance much too far down its handle, as though he had never held one before. And he had surrendered some of his control over his high-spirited mount, which was cantering about in finicky strides as if thinking of attempting to throw its rider.

  “He carries himself like a drunken man suddenly,” Septach Melayn said.

  “Not Gialaurys,” said Prestimion. “He would never have gone out there with wine in him.”

  “It’s not wine that does this to him,” said Svor. “Do you see, below the helmet, the magus’s lips are moving? He’s speaking to Gialaurys. Weaving some spell perhaps? Why did they send a magus to challenge him, and not someone like Farholt, unless they planned to use spells?”

  Gialaurys now was riding away, back to his end of the field—badly, drunkenly. He looked like a buffoon, as he had never been seen to look before. From the grandstand on the other side the sound of raucous jeering could be heard. Gebel Thibik, taking his place in midfield, called out Gialaurys’s name three times, and three times jabbed his lance toward him in the air, the signal for his opponent to turn and charge. It was apparent that Gialaurys was struggling with his mount, trying to swing it about, and finally succeeding.