But Dekkeret had gone to Suvrael anyway; and to the Isle as well, it seemed, if only for the briefest of visits. And his travels did not appear to have done any harm to his burgeoning career after all.
“Do you remember what we agreed,” Dekkeret said, “when we were sitting together in that Khyntor tavern? That you and I would have a happy reunion on the Mount two years hence, is what we said, when I was back from Suvrael. We would go to the games in High Morpin together, is what we promised each other. The two years have come and gone, Akbalik, but we never managed to get to High Morpin.”
“Other matters interfered. I found myself here in Stoien instead at the time we were supposed to be holding our reunion. And you—”
“And I went to the Isle of Sleep, but not as a pilgrim.” Dekkeret laughed. “Can you imagine, Akbalik, how strange my own life seems to me these days? I, who had simply hoped to be a knight of the Castle, and maybe hold some modest ministerial post when I was old—I find myself keeping company with the Coronal and his wife, and with the Lady herself, and drawn into the midst of the most complex and delicate affairs of state—”
“Yes. Rising fast, you are. You’ll be Coronal some day, Dekkeret, mark my words.”
“Me? Don’t be foolish, Akbalik! When all this is over, I’ll be just another knight-initiate again. You’re the one who might be Coronal! Everyone says so, you know. Confalume might have another ten or twelve years to live, and then Lord Prestimion will become Pontifex, and the next Coronal might well be—”
“Stop this nonsense, Dekkeret. Not another word.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I happen to think that you’d be an entirely plausible person to succeed—”
“Stop it! I’ve never spent a moment thinking about my becoming Coronal and I don’t expect to become Coronal and I don’t want to become Coronal. It’s not going to happen. Just for one thing, I’m the same age as Prestimion exactly. His successor is going to come from your generation, not from mine. But for another—” Akbalik shook his head. “Why are we wasting this much time on anything as idiotic as this? The next Coronal? Let’s do what we can to serve this one!—I’m going to be escorting the Lady Varaile back to the Castle in another few days. You’ll be staying here, advising Lord Prestimion on ways to deal with Barjazid and his mind-gadget, do you know that? I want you to promise me something, Dekkeret.”
“Name it. Anything.”
“That if the Coronal takes it into his head to go off into those jungles looking for Dantirya Sambail despite all I’ve said to him about that, you’ll stand up before him and tell him that that’s an insane thing to be doing, that he absolutely must not do it, that for sake of his wife and his mother and his unborn child, and for the whole world’s sake, for that matter, he has to keep himself far away from the reach of the things that live in that ghastly hothouse of a place. Will you do that, Dekkeret? No matter how angry you make him, no matter what risks to your own career you may run, tell him that. Over and over.”
“Of course. I promise.”
“Thank you.”
For a moment neither one spoke. It had been an awkward conversation through and through, and it seemed now to have hit a wall.
Then Dekkeret said, “May I ask you a personal question, Akbalik?”
“I suppose.”
“It worries me to see you limping around like that. Something really bad must have happened to that leg. You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?”
“You sound just like Prestimion. My leg, my leg, my leg! Look, Dekkeret, my leg’s going to be all right. It isn’t going to drop off, or anything. While I was sloshing around in the Stoienzar I got a nasty nip from a miserable little crab, and it got infected, and, yes, it hurts, so I’ve been walking with a cane for a few days. But it’s healing. Another few days and I’ll be fine. All right? Is that enough about my leg? Let’s talk about something cheerful, instead. Your little holiday in Suvrael, for example—”
It was still early in the morning and already the bitter scent of smoke marred the sweet fresh air: the first fire of the day, Prestimion thought. This was the day of Varaile’s departure for the Castle. A seven-floater caravan was lined up in front of the Crystal Pavilion, a regally grand one for Varaile and Akbalik to ride in, four lesser ones for their security escort, and two for their baggage. The sooner Varaile was back in the safe environment of the Castle, high up above the turmoil that appeared to be engulfing so many of the lowland cities, the better. Prestimion hoped he would be back there himself before the new prince—Taradath, they were going to call him, in honor of the lost uncle that the boy would never know—was born.
“I wish you would come with me, Prestimion,” Varaile said, as they emerged from the Pavilion and walked toward the waiting floaters.
“I wish I could. Let me deal with the Procurator, first, and then I will.”
“Are you planning to go into those jungles after him?”
“Akbalik insists that I mustn’t. And who am I to disobey Akbalik’s command?—No, Varaile, I won’t be going in there myself. I want my mother beside me as we reach out to crush Dantirya Sambail, and the Stoienzar is no place for her. So I’ve given in. I tell you, though, it galls me to remain comfortably ensconced here in Stoien while Gialaurys and Septach Melayn and Navigorn are sweating their way through the saw-palm forests looking for—”
She cut him off with a laugh. “Oh, Prestimion, don’t be such a boy! Maybe the Coronals we once read about in The Book of Changes went into the forests and fought terrible battles against the monsters that used to live in them, but that isn’t done any more. Would Lord Confalume have gone thrashing around in a jungle, if he had had a war to fight? Would Lord Prankipin?” She looked at him closely, then. “You won’t go, will you?”
“I’ve just explained to you why I can’t.”
“Can’t doesn’t necessarily mean won’t. You might decide that you don’t really need to have the Lady Therissa at your elbow while the war’s going on. In that case, will you leave her in Stoien city and go into the jungle anyway, once Akbalik and I are far away?”
This was making him uncomfortable. He had no more desire to enter that abomination of a jungle than anyone else. And he understood that a Coronal’s life should not be placed lightly at stake. This was not the civil war, when he had been only a private citizen seeking to overthrow the usurper: he was the anointed and sacred king, now. But to fight a war by proxy at a distance of two thousand miles, while his friends were risking their lives among the swamp-crabs and saw-grass—?
“If somehow it becomes essential for me to go there, absolutely unavoidable, then I will,” Prestimion said finally. “Otherwise, no.” He touched his hand lightly to the front of her body. “Believe me, Varaile, I want to be back at the Castle myself, all in one piece, before Taradath is born. I won’t take any risks except those that I have no choice about taking.” Then, taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingertips and led her toward the floater. “You should be on your way. But where’s Akbalik? He ought to be here by now.”
“That’s him, isn’t it, Prestimion? All the way over there?”
She pointed far across the plaza. A man with a cane, yes. Walking very slowly, pausing now and again to rest and take the weight off his left leg. Prestimion stared balefully toward him. This was a troublesome thing, this infected leg of Akbalik’s. Vroonish wizardry could go only so far; the man needed to be in the hands of the Castle’s best surgeons for this. Akbalik was important to him. Prestimion wondered just how serious this wound of his really was.