All very pleasantly put. But they were verging into regions of high diplomacy, Septach Melayn saw. He refreshed the wine-bowls once again.
“No discourtesies are intended, I assure you. The Coronal’s had certain unusually difficult matters to deal with here at the outset of his reign. He felt that it was necessary to address them immediately, before allowing himself the pleasure of the ceremonial visit to his imperial father the Pontifex.”
“Matters so difficult that he chooses not even to bring them to the Pontifex’s attention? They are supposed to be ruling jointly, as of course you are aware.” It was beyond question a rebuke, but uttered very blandly.
“I’m not in a position to offer illumination here,” said Septach Melayn, studiedly matching blandness with bland-ness, though he understood that combat on the highest level was under way. “This is a matter between Lord Prestimion and the Pontifex.—His majesty is well, I take it?”
“Quite well, yes. He’s remarkably vigorous for a man of his years. I think Lord Prestimion can expect a lengthy reign as Coronal before his own time of succession to the Labyrinth arrives.”
“The Coronal will be overjoyed to hear that. He feels the greatest fondness for his majesty.”
Vologaz Sar’s posture shifted in a way that signaled that they were entering the crux of the matter, though there was no further alteration in the honeyed tone of his voice. “I will tell you in all confidence, Septach Melayn, that the Pontifex has been in something of a grim mood these days. I could not tell you why: he seems unable to explain it himself. But he prowls the imperial sector of the Labyrinth in apparent confusion, as though he’s never seen the place before. He sleeps badly. I’m told that he brightens greatly when told that he has visitors, but then shows obvious disappointment when the visitors are brought to him, as though he’s perpetually expecting someone who never arrives. I’m not necessarily implying that that person is Lord Prestimion. The whole hypothesis is pure guesswork. Obviously it wouldn’t be reasonable for him to expect the Coronal to arrive without prior notice. It may simply be that the move from the Castle to the Labyrinth has depressed the Pontifex. After forty years as Coronal, living up here in the bright splendor of the Castle amid crowds of high lords and courtiers, suddenly to find oneself forced into the Labyrinth’s dark depths—well, he’d not be the first Pontifex to feel the strain of that. And Confalume such a hearty, outgoing man, as well. He’s changed enormously in just these few months.”
“A visit from Lord Prestimion might cheer him, then, do you think?”
“No question of it,” said Vologaz Sar.
Septach Melayn proffered the last of the blue wine, and he and his guest toasted one another graciously.
The visit was plainly ending, and it had been altogether amiable throughout. But no ambiguities lurked behind Vologaz Sar’s suave politeness. Prestimion had been avoiding Confalume—had since the day of his accession been running the government, in fact, as though he were sole monarch of the world—and Confalume was aware of it, and was annoyed. And now commanded—that was the only word, commanded—Prestimion to get himself down to the Labyrinth post-haste and bend his knee to the senior monarch as the law required.
Prestimion was not going to be pleased about that. Confalume, Septach Melayn knew, was the one person in all the world whom Prestimion did not want to face.
Septach Melayn well understood—and Prestimion, when he returned, would also, though Confalume himself did not—what process must be going on in Confalume’s mind these days. Prestimion’s deliberate shirking of his ceremonial duties at the Labyrinth was only a secondary issue. The visitors for whom Confalume unconsciously longed, and whose perpetual non-arrival brought him such incomprehensible distress, were Thismet and Korsibar, the children of his blood, the children of whose very existence he no longer had any knowledge. Their absence somehow throbbed in him like the pulsations of an amputated limb.
It was a strange kind of misery, and one that would wring Prestimion’s heart. Prestimion had scarcely been the cause of the deaths of Korsibar and Thismet in the civil war—their dooms were something that they had brought upon themselves—but beyond any doubt it was Prestimion who had stolen Confalume’s memories of his lost son and daughter from him, a theft that Prestimion must surely look upon as a deed of a fairly monstrous sort, and it was that guilty awareness that led Prestimion now to keep his distance from the sad old man that the once-great Confalume had become.
Well, there was no help for it, Septach Melayn thought. All acts have consequences that can never be indefinitely avoided; and Prestimion must live with the thing he had brought about. It was impossible for him to stay away from the Labyrinth forever. Confalume was Pontifex and Prestimion was Coronal and it was high time that the rituals of their relationship were properly observed.
“I’ll convey all that you’ve said today to Lord Prestimion as soon as he returns,” said Septach Melayn, as he showed the Pontifical delegate to the door.
“You have his majesty’s gratitude for that.”
“And you’ll have mine,” said Septach Melayn, “if you’ll share one bit of information with me in return.”
Vologaz Sar looked uncertain and just a trifle alarmed. “And that is—?”
Septach Melayn smiled. One could focus on matters of high politics only so long. He was determined to put the tensions of this meeting behind him as quickly as he could. “The name of the merchant,” he said, “who provided you with the fabric for that delightful robe.”
Two more appointments remained on his afternoon calendar, and then he was free.
The first was with Akbalik, whom Prestimion, just before his departure for the east-country, had named as a special emissary to far Zimroel, with the thought of posting a reliable man in Ni-moya to look out for signs of unrest among the followers of Dantirya Sambail. Akbalik was ready now to begin his journey. He had come to the Coronal’s office today so that Septach Melayn, as regent, could sign his official papers of rank.
Somewhat to Septach Melayn’s surprise, Akbalik had the new knight-initiate Dekkeret with him, the big, husky protégé whom Prestimion had discovered during his trip to Normork. Evidently this was Dekkeret’s first visit to this suite of royal power, for he looked about in undisguised wonder at the magnificent central room, the great palisander desk, the huge window looking out into the infinite sky, the marvelous inlaid patterns of rare woods that formed a huge star-burst pattern in the floor.
Septach Melayn threw Akbalik an interrogatory frown.
No one had told him that Akbalik would be bringing Dekkeret here. Akbalik said, with a gesture toward the young man, “I’d like to take him with me to Zimroel. Do you think the Coronal would mind?”
Wickedly Septach Melayn said, “Ah, have you two become such good friends so soon?”
Akbalik did not seem amused. “It’s nothing like that, and you know it, Septach Melayn.”
“What is it, then? Is the boy in need of a holiday already? He’s only begun his training here.”
“This would be part of his training,” said Akbalik. “He’s asked if he could accompany me, and I think it might be a good thing for him. It’s healthy for a young initiate to acquire some understanding of what it’s really like out there beyond Castle Mount, you know. To experience an ocean voyage, to get a feel for the true size of the world. To see such a spectacular place as Ni-moya, also. And to observe how the machinery of the government actually works across such immense distances as we have to deal with.”