But he refused to offer any challenge. With an ingratiating little laugh he replied, “The fact is, I think, that each of us overestimates the other. You’re frivolous through and through, you say? Very welclass="underline" I consent to accept your opinion of yourself. As for me, I propose to stipulate that I’m a mere idle-spirited mocker, lazy and gay of heart, overly fond of silks and pearls and fine wines, whose only worthwhile qualities are a certain skill at swordplay and a deep loyalty to his friends. Can we agree with that evaluation also? Do we have a treaty on this, Serithorn?”
“We do. You and I are of one sort, Septach Melayn. Piffling frothy triflers, both of us. And so you have my deepest sympathy for having been forced by Prestimion to cope with all this bureaucratic nonsense. Your soul’s far too sprightly and buoyant for this sort of work.”
“This is true. Next time the Coronal goes traveling, I’ll go with him and you can be regent.”
“Me? But I invoke our treaty! I’m no more qualified for sitting behind that desk than you are. No, no, no, let some more solid citizen of the realm have the post. If I had wanted to do the sweaty work of a Coronal, I’d have seen to it long ago that I had the glory and homage that goes with it. But never for a moment did I crave the crown, Septach Melayn, and that mountain of papers on this desk is exactly the reason why.”
He was, Septach Melayn knew, being completely serious now. Serithorn was by no means the lightweight he claimed to be; but he had ever been content to exercise his will at one remove, standing close to the throne but never seated upon it. The blood of many kings ran in his veins: no one in the world had loftier lineage, not that that in itself could have made him Coronal. Intelligence and shrewdness were different matters, though, and Serithorn had those in abundance. He was of kingly quality in all respects but one, which was his utter and wholehearted desire not to bear the burden of power.
According to Prestimion, who had heard the story from his mother, Lord Prankipin decades ago had actually asked Serithorn to be his successor as Coronal when he became Pontifex, but Serithorn had said, “No, no, give the job to Prince Confalume.” The tale had the ring of truth to it. There could be no other reason why Serithorn had not had the throne. And here they all were, so many years later, and Confalume was Pontifex himself after a long and splendid run as Coronal and Serithorn had never been anything more than a private citizen, welcome in all the halls of power but wielding none himself, a cheerful, easy-hearted man whose unlined features and easy stance made him appear twenty or thirty years younger than he really was.
“Well,” said Septach Melayn, after a time. “Now that that’s settled, will you tell me whether there’s some special reason for this visit? Or is it purely social?”
“Oh, your company’s pleasant enough, Septach Melayn. But this, I think, is a matter of business.” A quick lowering of his brows furrowed Serithorn’s forehead, and a slight darkening was evident in his tone.—"Could you be kind enough to supply me, do you think, with some sort of summary of whatever it is that has been taking place in recent months between Prestimion and the Procurator of Ni-moya?”
Septach Melayn felt a band of muscles go tight across his midsection. A blunt question like that was very far indeed from Serithorn’s customary brand of frivolity. Caution seemed appropriate.
“I think,” he said, “that you had better take that matter up with Prestimion himself.”
“I would do just that, if only Prestimion happened to be here. But he’s chosen to go wandering around interminably in the east-country, hasn’t he? And you sit here in his place.—I’ve got no desire to be troublesome, Septach Melayn. In fact, I’m trying to be helpful. But I lack so much basic information that I can’t properly evaluate the nature of the crisis, if ‘crisis’ is the proper term for what we have. For instance, during the coronation week a story was going around that Dantirya Sambail was, for some reason, being held prisoner in the Sangamor tunnels.”
“I could provide you with an official denial of that, I suppose.”
“You could, but don’t put yourself to the bother. I had the story direct from Navigorn, who said Prestimion had made him the Procurator’s special custodian. Navigorn was pretty puzzled about that assignment, I can tell you. As were we all.—Shall we agree to accept it as a legitimate fact that Prestimion was in fact keeping Dantirya Sambail in the tunnels during the coronation and shortly afterward as well, presumably for some good and proper reason about which I am not at present making inquiries?”
“Be it so stipulated, Serithorn.”
“Good. Note that I used the past tense. Was keeping. The Procurator’s free now, isn’t he?”
“I do wish you’d address all these questions to Prestimion,” said Septach Melayn uncomfortably.
“Yes, I’m sure that you do.—Please, Septach Melayn. Stop trying to parry me at every step: this isn’t a duel. The fact is that Dantirya Sambail has escaped. And Prestimion’s somewhere between here and the Great Sea, yes, he and Gialaurys and Abrigant and a whole troop of soldiers, wandering around in the hope of recapturing him. Yes. Yes. I know that that’s so, Septach Melayn. No need to deny it. Now: forget that I ever asked you for details of the quarrel between Prestimion and the Procurator. Only confirm for me that there is a quarrel. They are in fact bitter enemies, is that not so?”
“Yes,” Septach Melayn said, with a nod and a slow sigh of resignation. “They are.”
“Thank you.” Serithorn took a folded paper from his robe. “If Prestimion hasn’t learned it already, I think it would be helpful to him for you to get word to him that he’s almost certainly looking in the wrong place.”
“Is he, now?” said Septach Melayn, eyes widening, though only for a moment.
Serithorn smiled. “I am, you know, a landowner of some considerable extent. I constantly receive reports from my estate managers in various parts of the world. This one comes from a certain Haigin Hartha, in Bailemoona city in the province of Balimoleronda. A very odd business, actually. A party of strange men—Haigin Hartha doesn’t say how many—was discovered poaching the gambilak herds on my lands outside Bailemoona. When my gamekeeper objected, one of the poachers told him that the meat was wanted on behalf of Dantirya Sambail, the Procurator of Ni-moya, who was making a grand processional in this region. Another of the poachers—am I boring you, Septach Melayn?”
“Hardly.”
“You seemed inattentive.”
“Thoughtful, rather,” said Septach Melayn.
“Ah. To continue, then: another of the poachers then struck the first one in the face, and said to my gamekeeper that the first man’s story was completely untrue, a sheer fantasy that the gamekeeper should wipe from his mind immediately, and that they were simply taking the meat on their own account. He offered my man fifty crowns in payment, and, since the alternative appeared to be to be murdered on the spot, the gamekeeper accepted the offer. The poachers went off with their catch. Later in the day, Haigin Hartha—he is my estate manager in Bailemoona, you will recall—heard from a friend that someone with the highly distinctive features of Dantirya Sambail had been seen that morning traveling with a group of men on the outskirts of Bailemoona city. My manager’s friend wondered whether Haigin Hartha might be expecting a formal visit from the Procurator at our estate, which, as you might expect, Haigin Hartha found a very unsettling idea. And then, no more than ten minutes later, the gamekeeper came in with his account of the poachers and the bribe. What do you make of all this, Septach Melayn?”