“No. I am not.” A very small voice.
“I thought so. Has there been very much of it recently? Normally stable people breaking down, behaving oddly?”
“Some of that, yes. A great deal, I would have to say.”
“Deaths?”
“Some, yes. And destruction of property. My lord, I must have sinned very grievously, to have brought this thing upon—”
“Listen to me, Kameni Poteva. Whatever’s going on, it isn’t your fault, do you understand me? You mustn’t take it personally, and you mustn’t regard it as a disgrace that the attack happened to hit you in my presence. Just as you’re not the only one in town experiencing hallucinations, Sip-pulgar is not the only city where it’s happening. It’s everywhere, Kameni Poteva. Bit by bit, it seems, the whole world is going crazy. I want you to know that.”
The Prefect, calmer now, actually managed a smile.
“If you mean to comfort me with such a statement, my lord, I must tell you that you are not succeeding.”
“No. I suppose not. But I felt you should know. It’s an epidemic, a universal phenomenon. At the moment we aren’t sure what’s causing it. But we are very much aware of the problem and we’re working on it, and we intend to solve it.”
Prestimion heard a faint forced cough from Septach Melayn. He glared sharply at him to let Septach Melayn know that this was no moment for his usual brand of mockery.
At least some of what he had just said was true, after all. Some. They were aware of the problem. They did intend to solve it. But how, or when, or by what means—well, Prestimion thought, one thing at a time. Lord Stiamot himself could do no more than that.
There seemed no purpose any longer in continuing the hunt for the escaped Procurator. Prestimion knew that he could run and run, on and on, farther and farther, but he was unlikely to find Dantirya Sambail, nor would he ever escape the demons that were writhing within his own soul by wandering this way and that across the world. It was time to get back to the Castle.
Kameni Poteva, the next day, turned over to Prestimion the file of all the information about the fugitive that he had been able to glean from his fellow administrators in the provinces of Aruachosia and Stoien. The whole thing amounted to nothing whatever: sketchy guesses, untrustworthy rumors, and a good many firm denials that Dantirya Sambail had been anywhere in the vicinity of the domain of the official in question.
No definite sightings of the Procurator had been reported since the one that had come by way of Prince Serithorn from his estate manager Haigan Hartha, many long months ago, just outside Bailemoona; and that had been a second-hand report, at that. Aside from that, very little: just Haigan Har-tha’s own encounter with someone who very likely was Mandralisca, about the same time, and that second sighting of Mandralisca some months later, far to the south, in Keth-eron. After that the trail gave out.
“There are just two possibilities,” said Septach Melayn. “The first is that they slipped through Arvyanda and Kajith Kabulon without being noticed at all, found a western road to Stoienzar as the Prefect suggested, got themselves aboard a ship heading for Zimroel, and are somewhere on the high seas between Stoien city and Piliplok at this very minute. The other, since they obviously didn’t come by way of Sippulgar and aren’t likely to have taken any route that goes east of Sippulgar, is that they wandered into some quicksand bog in the rainforest, were swallowed up, and will never be seen in this world again.”
“The Divine would not be so kind to us,” Prestimion said.
“You overlook a third alternative,” said Gialaurys, giving Septach Melayn a look of glowering irritation. “Which is that they emerged safely from the Kajith Kabulon jungles, entered Stoienzar, discovered the embargo in the ports, and went into hiding in some pleasant little town on the peninsula, patiently awaiting the arrival of a rescue armada that they have summoned by swift courier from Zimroel.”
“There’s some sense to that notion, I think,” said Abrigant.
“It would be like him, yes,” Prestimion said. “He’s capable of great patience indeed in pursuing his ends. But we can hardly conduct a village-to-village search from here to Stoien city.”
“We could have the Pontifex’s officials do it for us, though,” suggested Septach Melayn.
“We could, yes. And will. My own feelings, I should add, lean toward the first theory: that he’s slipped through our net and is already on the way to Zimroel. In which case, we should hear sooner or later that he’s arrived there. Dantirya Sambail’s not one to remain silent for long on his own turf. Either way, we should return without further delay to the Castle, where there’s much for us to do, I suspect.”
Abrigant said, “By your leave, brother, if I may speak to another subject, I wish to raise the question of Skakkenoir once again. You told me that when we were finished in Sippulgar, I could go in search of it.”
“Skakkenoir?” Gialaurys said.
“A place said to be somewhere in Vrist, or even farther east,” said Septach Melayn with a faint but unmistakable note of scorn in his voice, “where the soil is full of iron and copper that the plants themselves pull up from the ground, atom by atom, so that it can be recovered by burning their branches and leaves. The only problem is that nobody’s ever succeeded in finding it, because it doesn’t exist.”
“It does!” cried Abrigant hotly. “It does! Lord Guade-loom himself sent an expedition to look for it!”
“And failed to find it, I believe, nor has anyone else even bothered to look in the last few thousands of years. You’d do as well trying to fetch iron ore back from your dreams, Abrigant.”
“By the Divine, I’ll—”
Prestimion raised his hand. “Silence! You two will be coming to blows next!” To Abrigant he said, “Your soul will have no rest until you make this journey, is that not so, brother?”
“So I do feel.”
“Well, if you must, then, take two floaters and a dozen men and go in search of the iron of Skakkenoir. Perhaps the Prefect Kameni Poteva has some useful maps for you.”
“You jeer at me too, do you, Prestimion?”
“Peace, brother, I meant nothing by it. It was a serious suggestion. For all we know there’s information about this place buried in the Sippulgar archives. Ask him, at any rate. And then go. But I put one commandment on you, Abrigant.”
“And that is?”
“That if you haven’t found Skakkenoir and its metal sands within six months, you turn about and return to the Castle.”
“Even if I’m within two days’ journey of my goal?”
“How will you know that? Six months, Abrigant. Not an hour more. Swear me that.”
“If I have definite information that Skakkenoir lies a day or two before me, definite information, and—”
“Six months exactly. Swear.”
“Prestimion—”
“Six months.”
Prestimion held out his right hand, the hand on which he wore the ring of kingship. Abrigant looked at it in amazement for a moment or two. Even now he appeared to be of a rebellious mind. But then, as if remembering that he and Prestimion were no longer just brother and brother but also subject and king, he nodded and lowered his head and touched his lips to the ring.
“Six months,” he said. “Not an hour more, Prestimion. I’ll bring you two floaters full of iron ore when I return.”
12
Homeward the royal party sped, taking only the straightest and swiftest routes, pausing not at all. Couriers preceding them cleared the roads for their passage north. There were no conferences this time with local dukes or mayors, no official banquets, no tours of scenic wonders: just day after day of hard travel through the southern provinces of Alhanroel, past the Labyrinth, up the Glayge valley toward Castle Mount. But to Prestimion the journey seemed to take an eternity and a half. His mind raced with thoughts of all that awaited him once he was at the Castle again.