Turning toward Dekkeret, Septach Melayn said, “Immense distances, yes. Do you realize, boy, that you’ll be away nine months, maybe a year? Can you spare that much time from your studies, do you think?”
“Lord Prestimion said in Normork that I was to have accelerated training. A trip like this would surely accelerate it, sir.”
“Yes. I suppose it would.” Septach Melayn shrugged. Would Prestimion mind, he wondered, if the boy were to vanish into Zimroel for a year? How was he supposed to know? For the thousandth time he cursed Prestimion for having loaded all this decision-making on him. Well, it had been Prestimion’s idea to make him regent: so be it, he must act as he saw fit. Why not let the boy go? It would be on Akbalik’s head, not his. And Akbalik was right: it was always useful for a young man to learn something of the real world.
Dekkeret was staring at him in earnest supplication. Septach Melayn found something charmingly innocent and sweet about that eager imploring look. He could remember a time when he had been eager and earnest himself, long ago, before he had chosen instead to mask himself in an air of lazy debonair frivolity that by now was no mask, but the very essence of his character. As he looked at the boy it was easy enough to see those qualities of seriousness and strength that had attracted Prestimion’s interest.
So be it, he thought. Let him go to Zimroel.
“Very well. Your papers are ready, Akbalik. I’m adding the name of the knight-initiate Dekkeret here—so—and initialing the page.”
Already he found himself envying the boy. To get away from the Castle—to go roving off into the far regions of the realm—to escape all this politicking for a while and get the good fresh air of some other place into your lungs—!
He glanced toward Dekkeret and said, “And allow me, if you will, to offer a small suggestion. If you’re not kept too busy in Ni-moya all the time, you and Akbalik should allow yourself a little excursion up north into the Khyntor Marches while you’re over there, and do a bit of steetmoy-hunting.—You know about steetmoy, don’t you, boy?”
“I’ve seen garments made from their fur, yes.”
“Wearing a stole made of steetmoy fur’s not quite the same thing as looking a living steetmoy in the eye. Most dangerous wild animal in the world, so far as I know, the steetmoy. Beautiful thing: that thick fur, those blazing eyes. Went hunting them myself, once, the time Prestimion and I went to Zimroel. You hire yourself some professional hunters in Ni-moya and you head far up north, into the Marches—cold, snowy place, like nothing you’ve ever seen, all misty forests and wild lakes and a sky like an iron plate, and you track down a pack of steetmoy, not an easy thing, white animals against the white ground, and go for them at close range, a poniard in one hand and a machete in the other—”
The boy’s eyes were aglow with excitement. But Akbalik seemed less delighted.
“You were worried, I thought, that he would be skimping on his training by going with me to Zimroel. Now, suddenly, you’ve got him running up to Khyntor and chasing after steetmoy in the snow. Oh, my friend, you never can manage to be serious very long, can you?”
Septach Melayn reddened. He had, he realized, allowed himself to be carried away. “That will be part of his training too,” he said huffily, and stamped his seal onto Akbalik’s papers. “Here. A good journey to you both. And let him go to Khyntor for a week, Akbalik,” he added, as they went out. “What harm could it do?”
Prince Serithorn of Samivole was the only one left for him to see, now, and then he could go to the gymnasium over in the east wing for his daily late-afternoon fencing-match with one of the officers of the guard. Septach Melayn practiced a different weapon each day—rapier, two-handed sword, basket-hilt saber, Narabal small-sword, singlestick baton, Ketheron pike—and each with a different partner, for he learned a man’s basic moves so quickly that it was a dull business for him to fence with anyone more than two or three times. His opponent today was a new young guardsman from Tumbrax, Mardileek by name, said to be a good man with the saber, who came with a recommendation from Duke Spalirises himself. But there was Serithorn to deal with first.
The prince had added himself to Septach Melayn’s appointments list only that morning. Ordinarily one could not get to see the regent on such short notice; but Serithorn, as the senior peer of the realm at the Castle, was an exception to that rule as to all others. Besides, Septach Melayn, like everyone else, found Serithorn a congenial and appealing character, and never mind that after much to-ing and fro-ing he had eventually thrown his support to Korsibar in the civil war. It was hard to hold a grudge against Serithorn for anything for long. And the war was not even ancient history, now: it was no history at all.
Usually Serithorn was late for appointments. But today, for some reason, he was precisely on time. Septach Melayn wondered why. As usual, Serithorn was simply and unostentatiously dressed, a plain russet cloak of many folds over a somber purple tunic, and simple leather boots lined with red fur. The wealthiest private citizen of Majipoor did not need to trumpet his wealth. Where another man might have chosen as his headgear some showy wide-brimmed deep-felted hat trimmed with metal braid and scarlet tiruvyn feathers, Prince Serithorn was content to wear an odd stiff-sided yellow cap, high and square, that a Liiman sausage-peddler would have spurned. He took it off now and tossed it on the desk—the Coronal’s desk—as casually as if he were in his own sitting-room.
“I understand that my nephew’s just been here. A splendid fellow, Akbalik. A credit to the family. Prestimion’s shipping him off to Zimroel, I hear. Whatever for, I wonder?”
“Simply to get some notion of how the Zimroelu feel about their new Coronal, I’d imagine. It’s a good idea, wouldn’t you say, for Prestimion to keep himself up to date on the general run of sentiment over there?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.” Then, indicating the tall stack of documents piled by the edge of the desk, Serithorn said, “You’ve been working hard, haven’t you, for such a light-hearted fellow? Laboring away mightily at all this dreary paper! I commend you for your newfound industriousness, Septach Melayn.”
“The compliment’s undeserved, Prince Serithorn. These documents are all still in need of attention from me.”
“But nevertheless you’ll give it, I’m sure you will! Only a matter of time.—How very admirable you are, Septach Melayn! I have, you know, a light spirit very much like yours; but here you are toiling heroically at your regency day after day, whereas I’ve never been able to force myself to deviate into seriousness for any span of time longer than three minutes running. My congratulations are sincere:”
Septach Melayn shook his head. “You overestimate me, I think. And much underestimate yourself. Some men are secretly foolish, and conceal their flaws behind an air of great gravity, or much bluster. But you are secretly deep, affecting frivolity. And have had vast influence in the realm. I happen to know that it was you who induced Lord Confalume to pick Prestimion as his successor.”
“I? Ah, you’re deceived in that, my friend. Confalume spotted Prestimion’s ability all on his own. I merely added my approval when he asked.” Serithorn lifted an eyebrow. A blithe smile crossed his smooth face.—"Secretly deep, you think? Flattering of you to say so, very flattering. But entirely untrue. You may have secret depths, dear friend: quite likely you do. But I’m frivolous through and through. Always have been, always will be.” Serithorn’s wide, clear eyes contemplated Septach Melayn in a mordant way that seemed to negate everything that he had just said. There were layers upon unfathomable layers of wiliness here, thought Septach Melayn.