The Mountains of Majipoor

by Robert Silverberg

  “That’s all?”

  “All, yes.”

  “Your shape is flickering around the edges, Korinaam. You can’t hold yourself still, do you know that? What that says to me is that you’re lying.”

  Hoarsely the Metamorph replied, “I found them and I was unable to communicate with them in any useful way, and then I left and came back here. That’s the whole story.”

  “I don’t think it is,” said Harpirias. “What else happened up there?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.” A ripple of change passed swiftly across Korinaam’s features, betraying inner turmoil. He was hiding something, something that had shaken him deeply during his meeting with his wild kinsmen of the high country. Harpirias had no doubt of that.

  “Do you want me to get the Skandar back in here for a little more arm-twisting?”

  Korinaam glared malevolently. “All right. There was something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “They threw rocks at me,” he said in a bitter, husky tone.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “I explained to them who I was. When I saw that they didn’t understand my words I showed them that I was one of them by doing changes for them, prince. And they threw—rocks at me.”

  That moment of hesitation in Korinaam’s voice aroused Harpirias’s interest.

  “That’s all they did? Throw rocks?”

  More flickerings, more ripplings.

  “Tell me, Korinaam. I need to know what sort of creatures we’re dealing with.”

  The Shapeshifter trembled. Words burst from him in an angry rush. “They spat at me also. And then they threw their—their dung at me. They picked it up in their hands and hurled it across the ravine. And while they did it they danced about and screamed at me like crazy people. Like devils.” There was a terrible expression on his face. “They are loathsome things. They are worse than savages! They are animals.”

  “I see.”

  “And now you have heard it all. Will you let me alone now, prince?”

  “In a moment,” said Harpirias. “First tell me this: will you make another attempt to communicate with them?”

  “You can be certain that I have no intention of that.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Are you a fool, prince? Can’t you understand simple words? What I saw up there was utterly disgusting. It was hideous to be near them—to watch them capering like beasts—to listen to their revolting screeches—to think that they were actually—of Piurivar blood—that they and I—”

  Softly Harpirias said, “I understand all that, Korinaam. But even so: if I were to ask you to make another journey to see them, would you do it?”

  Korinaam was silent for a time.

  “If you ordered me to, yes.”

  “Only if I made it an order?”

  “I have no desire to see those creatures again, none at all. But I am aware that I am in the service of the Coronal, whose representative you are, and it is not possible for me to defy your direct order, prince. You may rest assured of that.” The Shapeshifter bowed deeply, giving Harpirias a harshly exaggerated salute of deference. “I am not eager to have my arm twisted a second time.”

  “I regret that it was necessary to do that, Korinaam.”

  “I’m sure that you do. It must have been extremely disagreeable for you. And quite distasteful for the Skandar too, I would think.”

  “I told you I regretted it. By the Divine, Korinaam, do you want me to get down and beg your forgiveness? You were being infuriatingly evasive. And insubordinate to boot. I needed to know where you had gone, and why.” Harpirias made an impatient dismissive gesture. “Enough of this. Go, now. But in the future you’re not to take a step anywhere outside of this village without permission. Is that clear?”

  “Where would I want to go?” asked the Shapeshifter, rubbing his arm.

  When he had gone, Harpirias called Eskenazo Marabaud back into the room and instructed him to keep watch on Korinaam’s movements.

  “The young woman is here,” the Skandar told him. “The one who comes to you at night.”

  Was that a note of disapproval in his voice? From a Skandar?

  “Send her in,” Harpirias said.

  15

  In the middle of the night he was awakened from deep and happy slumber by muffled thumps, angry shouts, and then the sound of a long agonized wailing scream. It took him a moment, or perhaps more than that, to realize that he was not dreaming. As he struggled up toward full wakefulness another scream came, and another, and Harpirias recognized the voice of the screamer as that of Korinaam, calling out for help.

  He scrambled out from under the pile of hides. Ivla Yevikenik clutched sleepily at him, trying to draw him back, but Harpirias shook her off. Hastily dressing, he rushed into the corridor. A blast of glacial air struck him there: the main entrance to the building stood ajar. He looked into Korinaam’s room. Empty. There were signs of a struggle. Harpirias could hear Korinaam still howling, his shrill cries a mixture of rage and panic. Quickly he ran outside.

  A strange scene was being enacted in front of the lodge.

  Two burly Othinor warriors were dragging the writhing, screaming, kicking Korinaam toward the stone altar, where King Toikella, the high priest, and some of the other important men of the tribe waited in a grim little circle. The king, clad from head to toe in a bulky swaddling of black haigus furs, gripped with both his hands the hilt of an enormous sword that stood before him, its tip thrust into the icy ground.

  Eight or ten of the Skandars were in the plaza also. They must have emerged from the lodge in response to Korinaam’s cries for help, and were following uncertainly along behind the Shapeshifter now. They held their energy-throwers at ready, but obviously they were unwilling to take action without a direct order from Harpirias.

  Harpirias caught up with them and asked Eskenazo Marabaud what was happening.

  “They are going to kill him, prince.”

  “What? Why?”

  But the Skandar only shrugged.

  Indeed Korinaam had arrived at the altar now and his Othinor captors had flung him down upon it. He lay spread-eagled, quivering in fear, his body flickering through a host of apparently random form-changes with unsettling rapidity, entering some bizarre bestial shape for a moment, then becoming disturbingly human, then reverting to the Metamorph form, but terribly contorted and almost unrecognizable. Several of the Othinor, kneeling beside the stone slab, held him tight. Plainly they were startled by the strange flurry of changes, but they gripped him valiantly all the same. A couple of them seemed to be fastening ropes around Korinaam’s limbs and tying them to pegs that were set in the ground alongside the altar’s perimeter.

  Cursing, Harpirias went sprinting forward. The king, somber and immense in his thick black furs, held up a hand to halt him when he was still fifteen or twenty paces from the altar. Solemnly Toikella pointed to the great sword, pointed to Korinaam, made a graphic gesture of execution.

  “No!” Harpirias bellowed. “I forbid it!” He stamped his foot and gesticulated ferociously with outspread arms. Toikella might not understand his words, but he would certainly comprehend the displeasure that his urgent tone of voice and violent movements conveyed.

  The king scowled, shook his head, pulled the sword from the ground, and slowly began to swing it aloft.

  Harpirias responded with even more frantic gestures and a desperate babble of words in what he hoped was comprehensible Othinor—fragments of half-understood phrases that he had learned from Ivla Yevikenik, a torrential stream of blurted exclamations which might or might not make sense, but which perhaps would at least give King Toikella a moment’s pause.

  His garbled outcry seemed to have the desired effect. The king, with a puzzled growl, halted in mid-swing and thrust the sword back into the ground, rocking forward and pressing his weight on it, all the while staring at Harpirias as though he had gone out of his mind.

  Harpirias approached the altar.
Toikella remained utterly still. To the mystified king Harpirias signaled in furious pantomime that the cords binding Korinaam must be removed. The king made no response, but merely continued to lean on the great sword and glower. Out of the corner of his eye Harpirias saw other Othinor warriors, brandishing spears and swords, quietly heading across the plaza toward the altar.

  Some of the Skandars had come up behind Harpirias now also. He beckoned them in even closer to him. “Spread out in a semicircle in back of me,” he told them. “Draw and arm your energy-throwers. But be very careful not to point them in the direction of the king. And no matter what happens, don’t fire unless I say so.”

  He looked down at Korinaam, supine and trembling on the altar.

  “All right. What in the name of the Divine has been going on here?”

  Korinaam’s slitlike lips moved, but no coherent speech came out. His eyes were glazed.

  “Speak, man! Tell me!”

  With intense effort the Shapeshifter said in a faint quavering voice, “They thought—spying—enemies—”

  “Enemies? The high-country Shapeshifters, you mean. Their name means ‘enemies’ here. Eililylal.”

  From Toikella, at that recognizable word, came a grunt of perceptible surprise.

  “Speak to me,” Harpirias said to Korinaam. “The king thought you were a spy for the wild Shapeshifters up there, is that it?”

  Feebly Korinaam nodded.

  “And was going to sacrifice you on the altar?”

  Another nod.

  “I ought to let him do it!”

  “You know I am no spy.” Korinaam could barely get the words out. “Please. Please, prince. Tell him that.”

  “You want me to tell him?”

  “I am—too frightened—” The merest whisper.

  “Too frightened to beg him for your own life?”

  “Please—please—” The Metamorph on the altar quivered and shook.

  Scared out of his wits. Harpirias snorted in frustration. The king was looking restless. Already he seemed to be on the verge of pulling the great sword from the ground once again.

  It was time to invoke a higher authority.

  “Coronal!” Harpirias cried, waving his arms about importantly. “Cor-o-nal.” King Toikella frowned. “Coronal,” Harpirias said again, putting a snap of command into his tone. He pointed to the sky. “Lord Ambinole. Coronal of Majipoor.”

  He groped for words. But his Othinor had deserted him in the confusion of the moment. Conversing with Ivla Yevikenik in the privacy of his room was much easier for him. Suddenly, what little Harpirias had learned of the grammar was mostly rubble and half the vocabulary was gone from his mind. But he had to speak. He remembered the Othinor word that he thought meant “lordship,” and offered that: “Helminthak.” The word seemed to have an effect of some sort on the king. Then Harpirias pointed at Toikella and shook his head emphatically. Lamely he said in Majipoori, “You must not kill him. Coronal say, must not kill. Must—not—kill. Servant of Coronal!”

  Toikella appeared baffled. But he allowed the sword’s tip to remain embedded in the ground.

  “Cor-o-nal,” said Harpirias once more, enunciating slowly and carefully, as though the word were a powerful talisman. “Coronal of Majipoor. Helminthak.” He pantomimed the undoing of Korinaam’s bonds and the rising of the Shapeshifter from the altar. Toikella stared at him. And stared. And stared. His eyes grew wider and wider. A low rumbling sound came from him.

  He certainly must believe I’ve gone crazy, Harpirias thought.

  Then he realized that the king was staring not at him but at someone or something behind him. Was that quietly encroaching band of tribal warriors about to break into all-out attack? Were the Skandars up to something?

  Harpirias glanced quickly back over his shoulder.

  Ivla Yevikenik stood there. In the frosty midnight air she wore only a short cloak of loosely stitched hides casually thrown over bare skin. Fear and uncertainty were visible on her face. She was the only woman of the tribe out here by the altar, and plainly she had no business being here. The look of astonishment and barely suppressed rage on her father’s face seemed to confirm that. But when she looked toward Harpirias her eyes began to shine with unmistakable love.

  She sees that there is trouble and she has come out here to offer me her assistance, he told himself. At great risk to herself. That must be it. Must be.

  In one swift movement Harpirias reached for the girl, caught her gently but firmly by one wrist, and drew her to his side. He folded his arm close around her so that he and she would confront the king as a single entity. Her warmth against his body was welcome in this stinging night chill.

  Speaking hesitantly, doing the best he could with his lame and barely comprehensible Othinor supplemented with much pointing and miming, Harpirias told her that he was indeed in need of her help, that Korinaam must be spared from Toikella’s anger.

  Did she understand? It was galling not to be able to communicate clearly in words with these people. But a little of his meaning appeared to have registered on her, at least. She spoke at some length to her father, who scowled and growled as he listened, but he heard her out, however reluctantly. When she was done he replied with no more than a few curt syllables. She spoke again; and again the king replied, more elaborately this time. He signaled to one of his men. The ropes tying Korinaam to the altar were loosened.

  Haltingly Ivla Yevikenik explained to Harpirias what he already knew in essence: that the Othinor had observed Korinaam’s recent comings and goings in the high country, and they believed that it was his intention somehow to betray the village to his kinsmen of the mountains. As a suspected ally of the Eililylal, therefore, Korinaam’s life was forfeit to the Othinor. Only as a courtesy to the great Coronal Lord of Majipoor had the Shapeshifter been spared, she said. But if Korinaam made any further attempts to contact the Eililylal he would die regardless.

  “No,” Harpirias said. “He is not the ally of the Eililylal. He is the enemy of the Eililylal. Tell the king that.”

  She gave him a questioning frown. He said it all again, slowly and with gestures. There was another long colloquy between Ivla Yevikenik and the king, too low and fast for Harpirias to catch the sense of it. He heard the word “Eililylal” repeated many times. At one point the king seized the hilt of his sword and shook it furiously.

  To Korinaam Harpirias said, “I could slit your throat myself. Look at the mess you’ve caused! Tell me what they’re saying now, will you? Are they going to kill you or not?”

  The Shapeshifter, who had arisen and stood shivering nearby, seemed to have recovered somewhat from his terror. “The king will permit me to live,” he said in a tentative, shaky voice. “But I am to be expelled from the village at once.”

  “What? What? By the Divine—”

  “You yourself are permitted to remain,” Korinaam said. “The treaty negotiations will continue.”

  “Without an interpreter? And who’s going to lead us back to Ni-moya when this is over? Oh, no, no, Korinaam, we aren’t going to let you be expelled!” An idea was beginning to spring to life in Harpirias’s mind. He released his grip on Ivla Yevikenik and reached for the Metamorph instead, catching him by the loose fabric at his throat. “What’s going to happen instead is that you’re going to go up into those mountains and find the Eililylal, and you’re going to order them to clear out of the neighborhood. And you’ll make it stick with whatever spooky Shapeshifter magic you’re able to command.”

  Korinaam looked horror-stricken.

  “What are you saying? Magic? I am no magician, prince! I am simply one who guides visitors that wish to see the north country. Find yourself some little Vroon, if wizardry is what you want. And as for ordering those people to do anything—how could I possibly do that?”

  “You’ll do it, all right, and that’s all there is to it.” Harpirias let go of Korinaam’s garment and shoved him a few paces away. To Ivla Yevikenik he said, “Tell your father that
we offer our services in ridding his land of the Eililylal. Do you follow me? Eililylal—out. We will do! Korinaam and I, with my soldiers! Yes? No more Eililylal. By my solemn oath. But the assistance of Korinaam is needed. Needed very much. Tell him that!”

  The girl smiled, turned to her father, began to speak.

  “Prince, what are you promising them?” Korinaam asked. His face was a study in anguish and despair.

  “What I have in mind is this,” said Harpirias. “I’m going to tell you and then, if you think you have your wits about you again, you’ll explain it to the king for me. I want you to stand on your hind legs in front of him and let him know that you are a mighty sorcerer and that on his behalf you will devote all of your energies and powers to driving off the wild Shapeshifters of the mountains, whom you loathe and despise. Is that clear? Tell him that the army of the Lord Coronal of Majipoor, led in person by me, will go back up into the high country in the morning and make a maximum show of force to impress the Eililylal while you are casting your spells; and in return for all this, once the Eililylal have been duly driven off, the king will free the hostages and we will take our leave of his village and everyone will live happily ever after. Tell him that, Korinaam.”

  “Prince—this matter of casting spells—”

  “Tell him what I want you to tell him,” Harpirias said ominously. “Every word, just as I spoke it. Ivla Yevikenik will be listening, and she’ll report to me on the accuracy of your translation. Nothing will help you if you try to trick me, Korinaam. I’ll let the king know that it’s fine with me if he wants to put you back on that altar and slit your throat, and I’ll help tie you down myself. Is that understood, Korinaam? Is it?”

  “Yes, prince. It is.”

  “Good. Start talking, then.”

  16

  Finding the Eililylal, of course, was easier promised than accomplished. It took three days, three disagreeable days of marching hither and thither in the heights, while the north wind blew almost unceasingly and occasional sprinklings of light snow fell to remind Harpirias that the short Othinor summer was almost at its end.