The Mountains of Majipoor

by Robert Silverberg

  “I think there may be some trouble here,” Harpirias said to Korinaam.

  “Try to be more patient, prince. All this is normal. The king is establishing his control over us.”

  “But we can’t let him have control over us!”

  “That doesn’t mean he won’t make the attempt. He is a king, after all.”

  “A barbarian king.”

  “A king all the same. In his own eyes he is the equal of the Coronal and the Pontifex together. You should never forget that, prince. He will speak with us in his own good time. This is only the first day.”

  “A day of idleness makes me restless.”

  “Which is what he wants to achieve,” said Korinaam. “Thus he puts you at a disadvantage. Patience, prince. Patience.”

  There was another strangeness after dinner, a considerable one. As Harpirias stepped out of the guest house for some fresh air, just when dusk was falling, he caught sight of a flare of brightness along the rim of the canyon wall, indeed at its highest point, far up over the side of the village where the royal palace was. It was as though someone had lit a beacon fire up there.

  Perhaps this was something they did every night here, he thought. Sending some agile boy of the tribe to the top of the wall to ignite the torch of evening. But no, no, this had the appearance of an unusual event, for the plaza now was filling with tribesfolk, pointing, chattering. A girl ran into the palace to summon Toikella, and he came out in swift strides, all but naked in the evening chill, craning his neck and shading his eyes against the brightening moonlight as he stared upward.

  Harpirias centered all his concentration on the place where he had seen that bright flare; and shortly it became clear to him that there were tiny dark figures up there, no bigger than insects at this distance, just next to the bonfire on the canyon rim. They appeared to be struggling with something that they were trying to push over the edge of the canyon, a big black bundle of some sort, very bulky and difficult to maneuver. After another few moments they succeeded: Harpirias watched it fall, rebounding off the side of the canyon two or three times as it plunged, striking a horn-shaped rocky knoll and catching there briefly, then coming free and plummeting straight to the canyon floor to land with a monstrous thudding sound practically in front of the palace.

  The body of a huge animal, it was: a thick-legged coarse-furred thing with great crescent tusks, a giant grazing beast, perhaps, a descendant of the formidable mountain-dwelling creature which according to Metamorph myth had brought the primordial inhabitants of Majipoor into being by licking them out of an icy cliff.

  It lay now on the ice of the plaza in a somber motionless heap—a vast shaggy black mound from which bright streams of blood were flowing. The king, muttering and frowning, walked around it and around again, prodding and tugging at it. Plainly he was deeply disturbed. Harpirias realized that the animal must have been deliberately mutilated before it was thrown over the cliff; not only had its throat been slashed but red slashes showed through the heavy fur along its flanks and belly where deep cuts had been made in geometrical patterns.

  What must have been nearly the entire population of the village had assembled by now to inspect this phenomenon that had dropped from on high. The tiny figures were no longer visible along the rim of the canyon, and the bonfire, though still smoldering, was almost out.

  Harpirias looked toward Korinaam. “Do you understand what any of this means?”

  The Shapeshifter shook his head. “A mystery to me, prince. When I was here last year I never saw anything like it.”

  “Neither have they, apparently.” Harpirias nodded toward Toikella, who was huddling with the high priest and a few of the other courtiers in a circle around the fallen animal. “Go over to them. See what you can find out.”

  But Korinaam had no success in gaining the attention of Toikella and his men. They seemed not even to hear him when he spoke to them. After a while he turned away and conferred briefly with one of the lesser tribesmen and then another before coming back to Harpirias.

  “The animal,” reported the Shapeshifter, “is called a hajbarak. It’s looked upon as a sacred beast. There’s a small herd of them that roams the mountains just back of here, and only the king is permitted to hunt them. For anyone else to kill one is an act of major sacrilege. The biggest of the bones from which his throne is made are hajbarak bones.”

  “What is this, then, a declaration of war from some hostile tribe?”

  “So far as I know, no other tribes live in this region, hostile or otherwise.”

  “So far as you or anyone knew, the Othinor didn’t live here either, until somebody discovered them. Obviously there’s somebody else up there.”

  “Obviously,” said Korinaam, with some testiness in his tone. “But whether the ones who threw the animal down here are from an enemy tribe, or are simply outcasts from this one, I have no idea. The first man I spoke to was so shocked that he didn’t seem capable of talking to me at all. The second one told me only that the animal was sacred and that this should not have happened. You are free to draw your own conclusions, prince.”

  But he had none to draw; nor was the Shapeshifter able to learn anything from the villagers the next day. They simply would not speak of what had happened.

  The chief consequence of the evening’s strange event, so far as Harpirias was concerned, was that it produced an additional postponement of the opening of negotiations. The king was closeted in the palace all that day, and the next. The dead animal had been dragged away to the accompaniment of solemn choral chanting; the place where it had struck the ground had been cleansed of all blood; sentries were posted day and night in the plaza to watch the canyon rim for signs of new intrusion.

  Then came a messenger to Harpirias in the morning with word that the king was ready at last to confer with him.

  “You will tell him, as the very first topic of discussion, that I am not the Coronal Lord Ambinole,” Harpirias said to the Metamorph as they crossed the plaza toward the palace.

  “Not the very first thing, prince. Please.”

  “One of the first, then.”

  “Let me be the judge of the proper timing for this.”

  “The proper timing,” Harpirias said, “was the very moment that the confusion began.”

  “Yes, perhaps that is so. But it was inappropriate to interrupt the king then to make the correction. And now—”

  “I want this thing cleared up, Korinaam.”

  “Of course. As soon as it’s feasible.”

  “And from this moment on,” Harpirias said, “whenever I address a remark of any sort to the king, I want you to translate it literally and exactly. Likewise I want an exact and literal translation of whatever the king may say to me.”

  “Certainly, prince. Certainly.”

  “You know, I’m actually not as stupid as you may think, and it’s not beyond my powers to start learning this language that they speak here myself. If I should discover that you haven’t been a totally honest interpreter, Korinaam, I’ll kill you.”

  The blunt word so startled Korinaam that he was galvanized into an involuntary moment of metamorphosis. The contours of his body blurred and fluttered, his fragile elongated form thickening and drawing into itself as if for protection; his color deepened from pale green to a dark shade of teal; his face sealed itself so that his eyes and lips could barely be seen. With a gasp and a shiver of his shoulders he recovered his normal semblance and said:

  “Kill, prince?”

  “Kill. The way I would kill an animal in the forest.”

  “I have not deceived you in any way,” said the Shapeshifter. “Nor do I intend to do so hereafter.”

  “Better not even to think of it,” Harpirias said.

  He was surprised to find King Toikella in a jovial, even exuberant mood. The curious happening of a few nights before did not appear to be casting its shadow on him today. Nor was there any trace of the remoteness, the coldness, that he had displayed the one time he a
nd Harpirias had encountered each other since the evening of the feast.

  Toikella was down from his throne, energetically pacing around the great hall. As usual he was surrounded by his women—Harpirias noted uneasily the presence of the young princess who had come to his room to offer herself to him—and the king would pause from time to time in his restless perambulation to give this one a rough caress, to mutter something hoarse and perhaps affectionate into the ear of that one. When he saw Harpirias entering he whirled and called out a loud raucous salutation in which Harpirias detected the Othinor word helminthak—which from its context Harpirias had already come to think meant “majesty,” “lordship,” some such title of honor—and the words Coronal and Lord Ambinole once again.

  Harpirias glowered at Korinaam. This error was becoming perpetuated and ever more difficult to eradicate.

  But there was no chance now to do anything about it. The king, amidst deafening gusts of laughter, had thrown his arm about Harpirias and was bellowing a lengthy string of incomprehensible exclamations into his ear. After a time Harpirias extricated himself more or less tactfully from the big man’s smothering embrace and looked toward the Shapeshifter.

  “What did he say?”

  “He was welcoming you back to his court.”

  “There was more to it than that. There had to be.”

  Korinaam’s shape wavered just a little at the edges.

  “I want an exact translation,” Harpirias told him. “Or else.” He drew one finger swiftly across his Adam’s apple.

  “What the king was saying,” the Shapeshifter replied, rolling his eyes, “is that he wonders what kind of race the Majipoori can be, if they are ruled by such an effeminate king.”

  “What?”

  “You asked for an exact translation, prince.”

  “Yes. I know that. But what does he mean, ‘effeminate’? He’s talking about me, isn’t he, and not the real Lord Ambinole? What possible reason could he have for believing—”

  “I think,” said the Metamorph cautiously, “that he is referring to your rejection of his daughter on the night of the feast.”

  “Ah. Ah. Of course. Tell him—tell him, first, that I am not the king of Majipoor, but simply the king’s ambassador. Thank him, then, for his kindness in sending his beautiful daughter to visit me the other night. And then let him know that I am not in any way effeminate, as he will see if he cares to take me hunting with him in the royal game preserves. But tell him also about the vow of chastity that I have taken, which separates me for a time from the embrace of women for the benefit of my soul.”

  Korinaam spoke briefly to the king—too briefly, Harpirias thought, considering all that he had asked him to say. Toikella laughed again, even more vociferously than before, and made a quick, blunt-sounding answer.

  “Well?” Harpirias asked.

  “The king says that he thinks you would do well to get yourself released from such a stupid and injurious vow.”

  “I can see where he would take that position. But at the present time I intend to continue living a life of bodily purity. Tell him that.”

  Korinaam spoke again. So did the king, for quite some time.

  “He admires your determination, prince. But he says that a vow of chastity seems as strange to him as snow that falls upwards. He himself has eleven wives and makes love to at least three of them every night. More than a hundred of the citizens of the village are his children.”

  “My congratulations to him on his energy, and on his fertility also.” Harpirias narrowed his gaze. “And how did he react when you told him I wasn’t the Coronal?”

  More wavering at the edges. “I did not tell him that, prince.”

  “I recall instructing you to translate everything I say exactly, upon pain of death, Korinaam.”

  “Yes. Quite. I understand completely, prince. But how can I make you see that this is not something that I can simply drop into a conversation about other things? The king expected the Coronal to come in person. He believes that you are he. Telling him the contrary now could well wreck everything before it has even begun.”

  “Korinaam—!”

  The Metamorph held up his hand. “Once again I beg you, prince, allow me to choose the proper time for setting this matter straight, and give me no more orders concerning the subject for now. Or threats,” Korinaam added after a pause.

  Harpirias closed his eyes a moment. It was essential to gain some control over these interchanges, or he was lost.

  “Tell the king,” Harpirias said sternly, even though Toikella was in the midst of speaking again, “that I would now like to discuss with him the issue of the hostages. In particular I request permission to visit them without further delay so that I can satisfy myself that they are in good condition.”

  “My good prince—”

  “Tell him.”

  “I beg you—”

  Harpirias made the finger-across-throat gesture again.

  Korinaam gave him a sour look. Then he turned toward King Toikella and began once more to speak.

  8

  The discussion went on for quite some time. Harpirias strained his ears, desperately trying to pick out key words to remember and have translated for him afterward. The Shapeshifter was entirely too slippery; he must try to learn a little of the Othinor tongue himself.

  A new word had entered the parley, at any rate—goszmar, is what it sounded like. Harpirias heard it over and over again. He hoped that it was the Othinor word for “hostages,” that for once Korinaam had actually obeyed him in regard to the topic of conversation. Goszmar, goszmar, goszmar—it was bandied back and forth for what seemed to be an hour. Finally the Shapeshifter turned to Harpirias and said, “It wasn’t easy. As I’ve told you, he hates to be hurried. But he has agreed to let you see them this very afternoon, when his men bring them their regular meal.”

  “Fine. Where are they?”

  “An ice-cave on the side of the mountain, high above the north end of the valley. He says the climb is extremely strenuous and difficult.”

  “Especially for an effeminate lordling like me, I suppose. Let him know that I look forward enthusiastically to the chance for a little exercise.”

  “I already have, prince.”

  “Have you, now? How very thoughtful of you, Korinaam.”

  As it turned out, “strenuous” was a moderate term indeed for the ascent of the mountain. Young as he was, strong as he was, Harpirias found himself pushed almost to the edge of his endurance. The route, narrow and rough, went by way of a maddening series of hairpin switchbacks that traced a slowly rising curve along the face of the canyon wall. Menacing jagged rocks, half-hidden in the snow-speckled trail, jutted upward from it every few yards, offering the unwary climber the possibility of tripping and slipping and plunging into the ever-deepening chasm that yawned without a guard rail at their left elbows. The air grew colder and colder as they rose, and powerful gusts of icy wind beat remorselessly at their faces. Ungainly big-beaked birds, roused from their nests amongst the crags, flapped screeching about their heads, beating at the intruders with broad powerful wings.

  These were unaccustomed privations. The muscles of Harpirias’s legs quickly began to protest. Bands of pain sprang up across his breast and gut. His eyes ached, his nostrils stung. But he made a point of concealing even the slightest indication that he found the climb a struggle. This was a test which he had insisted upon taking, and he knew he must pass it.

  With him he had brought not only Korinaam but also the Skandar Eskenazo Marabaud, whose size and strength would make him a comforting presence. Five of the Othinor accompanied them: the high priest and four men of the warrior caste. The king stayed behind, having excused himself from the climb with a show of such cool insouciant self-regard that Harpirias could only be charmed by the man’s audacity. “I would go with you in a minute, and gladly so,” Toikella explained. “But my people need me always close at hand. I must never ignore their wishes.” Was that a wink? Harpi
rias wondered. And a royal smirk?

  The path took them over crackling crusts of hardened snow and then across a perilous-looking bridge of ice. Below that flimsy span passed a rushing stream that came spurting from the heart of the cliff like a gush of dark blood. Beyond it the switchbacks abruptly ended and the trail shot straight upward at a heart-straining angle over loose gravelly rocks glazed by ice. Harpirias’s bare fingertips turned numb and he thought his chest would crack from the coldness of the air.

  And this was summer! Othinor summer! By the Lady, how did these people survive the winters in this place? Were they made of stone? Did icy waters flow in their veins?

  The air up here was thin and pale. Harpirias told himself that he could see right through it, and then asked himself in some perplexity what he had meant by that. Was his mind beginning to give way under the stress of the climb? He warned himself to be on guard against nonsensical thoughts. The altitude, the latitude—the attitude, he added—the altitude, the latitude, the attitude—the words ran through his mind over and over, an infuriatingly relentless jingle.

  The others evidently were having no trouble with the climb. All the Othinor but the priest were carrying heavy sacks of provisions for the prisoners, without the slightest difficulty. Eskenazo Marabaud actually appeared to be enjoying himself more and more as the difficulties of the ascent increased. Even the flimsily built Korinaam was striding readily along. Harpirias found that mortifying; but he reminded himself that his companions all were people of cold-weather climates, accustomed to such harsh conditions as these. He, young and strong as he was, had lived all his life in the gentle climes of Castle Mount.

  He looked down once, only once. The village was a mere outline, white against white, a collection of distant tiny boxes huddling against the mountain wall. The sight dizzied him and he swayed, but Eskenazo Marabaud reached out easily with his lower left hand to steady him.

  They were not far below the rim of the wall now. Harpirias could see it, a wide flat summit, stretching back away from him. Here the trail turned a corner and unexpectedly broadened to two or three times its usual width. A short way below the summit a dark uneven oval in the face of the cliff announced the presence of a cave. Boulders were piled high to block its mouth; two fur-clad Othinor armed with swords stood guard before it, their arms folded, their faces expressionless.