Whereupon Septach Melayn produced a second copy of the decree, identical to the first.
“This is extremely irregular, Septach Melayn!”
“Yes. I rather suppose it is.—You need to sign over here, I think, just above the Pontifical seal, which we have already had engrossed on the document to save you the trouble.”
In return for Vologaz Sar’s cooperation, Septach Melayn had spared him the necessity of providing Pontifical officers to take part in the action against Dantirya Sambail. It would be simpler, he said, if command responsibilities remained concentrated in the hands of the Coronal’s own trusted men. The enormity of the request was too much for the outmaneuvered Vologaz Sar. “Whatever you wish,” he muttered, abandoning all resistance, and scrawled his signature on the sheet.
Now it was the fourth day of their passage through rainy Kajith Kabulon. They had turned off the main highway, which would have taken them to the provincial capital and Prince Thaszthasz’s wickerwork palace once again, and were making their way sluggishly along a spongy-bedded secondary road that ran somewhat to the west. Everything in this part of the rain-forest grew with crazy tropical excessiveness. Thick tangles of spiky purplish moss festooned the trees so heavily that it was hard to understand why they were not choked by it. Angry blotches of crimson lichen clung to every rock; long ropy strands of a swollen blue fungus coiled along the sides of the road like sleeping serpents. The rain was omnipresent.
“Does it ever stop?” Navigorn asked. He alone, of the three, had not been to Kajith Kabulon before. “By the Lady, this weather can drive a man berserk!”
Septach Melayn gave him a thoughtful glance. The strange convulsive seizures that had plagued Navigorn intermittently almost since the beginning of the madness epidemic still troubled him from time to time, particularly when he was under stress. Would the steady pounding of the rain send him into another one now? That would be awkward, here in the cramped confines of the floater that they shared.
Probably it would have been wiser, Septach Melayn thought, for Navigorn to have remained behind at the Castle, serving once more as regent, instead of subjecting himself to this expedition. But he had insisted. He still felt that his reputation had been badly compromised by the Procurator’s escape from the Sangamor tunnels. The very similar escape of Venghenar Barjazid and his son from that same prison, although Navigorn could not in any way be blamed for it, had reawakened those feelings of shame and guilt in him. Dantirya Sambail would be causing no trouble today if Navigorn had been able to keep him safely locked up in the tunnels. And so, evidently by way of achieving a redemption of some sort, he had insisted on coming along. Poor frivolous Serithorn, finally, had been stuck with the job of running the government in their absence, aided in that to some extent by Prestimion’s brother Teotas. But the strain of the rain-forest climate was telling on Navigorn. Septach Melayn peered anxiously ahead, hoping for a glimpse of sunlight soon.
He turned to Gialaurys. “What do you say we sing, good admiral? A lively ballad to while away the time!” And launched in lustily on a tune ten thousand years old:
Gialaurys, whose singing voice would have done discredit to the great toad of Kunamolgoi Mountain, folded his arms, glowering, and looked at Septach Melayn as though he had succumbed to the madness himself. Navigorn, though, grinned and joined in immediately:
“If you will stop that bellowing for a moment,” said Gialaurys, “we can consider which highway we need to take here. For there seems to be a fork in the road. Or does that not matter, if only we sing loudly enough?”
Septach Melayn looked over his shoulder. They had the Vroon guide Galielber Dorn with them, but the small being was huddled up in the back of the vehicle, shivering with some Vroonish malady. The damp climate of Kajith Kabulon seemed not at all to his liking. “Dorn?” Septach Melayn cried. “Which way?”
“Left,” came the unhesitating reply, a sickly moan.
“But we need to go toward the west. A left turn will take us the other way”
“If you know the answer, why do you ask the question?” said the Vroon. “Do whatever pleases you. A left turn will bring us to the Stoienzar, however.” He groaned and slid down under a pile of blankets.
“We go left, I suppose,” said Septach Melayn, shrugging. He shifted the floater’s course. It would be just splendid, he thought, if this whole procession of vehicles were to set out down the wrong fork. But one did not argue with a Vroonish guide. And indeed the left-hand branch of the highway, after a few hundred yards, began gradually to loop around on itself, doubling on its own course. Septach Melayn saw now that it was curving to avoid a round muddy-looking lake, heavily congested with drifting vegetation, that blocked further progress in the other direction.
The lake’s great mass of floating plants looked sinister, almost predatory: humped tangled masses, leaves like horns of plenty, cup-shaped spore-bodies, snarled ropy stems, everything dark blue against the lighter blue-green of the water. Huge aquatic mammals moved slowly through it, feeding. Septach Melayn had no idea what they were. Their tubular pinkish bodies were almost totally submerged. Only the rounded bulges of their backs and the jutting periscopes of their stalked eyes were in view, and now and then a pair of cavernous snorting nostrils. They were cutting immense swaths through the water-plants, which writhed angrily as the animals gobbled it, but did not otherwise react. At the far side of the lake new growth was already hastening to fill the gaps that the grazing beasts had opened.
“Do you smell something odd?” Navigorn asked.
The windows of the floater were sealed. Even so, a whiff of the lake’s fragrance was coming through. The aroma was unmistakable. It was like breathing the fumes of a distillery vat. The lake was in ferment. Evidently one by-product of the respiration of these water-plants was alcohol, and, having no outlet, the lake had turned into a great tub of wine.
Septach Melayn said amiably, “Shall we sample it? Or will it delay our journey too much to stop here, do you think?”
“Would you go among those pink beasts for a sip of wine?” Gialaurys asked. “Yes. Yes, I think you would. Well, here, then: get down on your knees and swill to your heart’s content!” He yanked at the rotor control and the floater began to halt.
“Your constant hostility starts to bore me, Admiral Gialaurys,” Septach Melayn said.
“Your brand of humor long ago began to bore me, High Counsellor,” Gialaurys retorted.
Navigorn started the floater up again. “Gentlemen—please, gentlemen—”
They went on.
The rain was ceasing, now. They were emerging at last from the forest of Kajith Kabulon. It was possible to see the sun again, blazing with tropical force straight ahead of them in what was undoubtedly the west. Golden Sippulgar and the Aruachosian coast lay off to the south with the waters of the Inner Sea beyond. Before them lay the Stoienzar Peninsula and Dantirya Sambail.