Maundigand-Klimd hesitated, something that Prestimion had rarely seen him do.
“I am not sure, my lord, that such a thing would be effective.”
“Good. Because it’s never going to happen. I’m not happy about the apparent consequences of what I did, but it’s a safe bet that I’m not going to try anything like it again. Among other things, I don’t have any desire to let everyone know that their new Coronal began his reign by hoodwinking the entire planet into thinking his accession had been peaceful. But also I see great risks in suddenly restoring the old sequence of events. People have spent the past couple of years living with the false history that I had my mages instill in their minds at the end of the civil war. For better or worse, they accept it as the truth. If I take all that away now, it might just cause an upheaval even worse than what’s going on now. What do you say about that, Maundigand-Klimd?”
“I agree completely.”
“Well, then: the problem remains. There’s a plague loose in the world, and a lot of bad magic is springing up as a result, a mess of chicanery and fraud which you and I both despise.” Prestimion, glowering at the little ceramic heads that Maundigand-Klimd had spilled all over his desk, began to scoop them back into their sack. “Since the plague was brought on by magic, it needs to be dealt with by a countermagic—good magic, true magic, as you say. Your kind of magic. Very well. Please work something out, my friend, and tell me what it is.”
“Oh, Lord Prestimion, if only it were that easy! But I will see what I can do.”
The Su-Suheris went out. Prestimion, when he was gone, fished about in the sack until he had found the Lord Prestimion head and the Septach Melayn, and dropped them in a pocket of his tunic.
Septach Melayn was waiting for him in the gymnasium, restlessly pacing up and down and flicking his baton through the air, bringing an ominous hum from the slender wand of nightflower wood at every motion of his supple wrist. “You’re late,” he said. He pulled a second baton from the rack and tossed it to Prestimion. “A lot of important decrees to sign this morning, was it?”
“A visit from Maundigand-Klimd,” said Prestimion, laying the baton aside and drawing the little heads from their pocket. “He brought me these. Charming, aren’t they?”
“Oh, indeed! Your portrait and mine, if I’m not mistaken. What are they meant for?”
“Amulets to conjure with. To keep the madness away, supposedly. Maundigand-Klimd tells me that the midnight market’s full of stuff like this, all of a sudden. They’re selling the way sausages would in the middle of the Valmambra. He bought a whole bag of them. Not just your face and mine, but all sorts, even a Ghayrog and a Hjort and a Su-Suheris. Something for everyone. All the old cults are starting up again, too, he says: big business all over again for the whole magus crowd.”
“A pity,” said Septach Melayn. He took the portrait of himself from Prestimion and balanced it in the palm of his hand. “A little on the grisly side, I’d say. But so cleverly done! Look, I’m grinning and shrieking at one and the same time. And I seem to be winking a little, too. I’d love to meet the artist who designed it. Perhaps I could get him to do a full-scale portrait, you know?”
“You are a madman,” said Prestimion.
“You may very well be right. May I keep this?”
“If it amuses you.”
“It certainly does. And now, please, my lord, pick up your baton. Our exercise hour is long overdue. On your guard, Prestimion! On your guard!”
3
At the beginning of the week following, word was brought to Prestimion as he breakfasted that his brother Abrigant had returned to the Castle from the south-country in the middle of the night, and was requesting immediate audience.
Prestimion had arisen at dawn. The hour was not much past that now. Varaile still slept; Abrigant must not have been to bed at all. Why such urgency?
“Tell him that I’ll meet with him in the Stiamot throne-room in thirty minutes,” Prestimion said.
Hardly had he settled into his seat there when Abrigant came bursting in, looking as though he had not taken the trouble even to change his clothing since his arrival. He was bronzed and weatherworn from his travels, and the brown cloak that he wore above threadbare green leggings was patched and soiled. Over his left cheekbone there was a bruise of considerable size, plainly not a recent one but still quite livid.
“Well, brother, welcome back to—” Prestimion began, but he got no further along than that with his greeting.
“Married, are you?” Abrigant blurted. His expression was fierce and challenging. “For that is what I hear, that you’ve taken a queen. Who is she, Prestimion? And why didn’t you wait until I could attend the ceremony?”
“These are very straightforward words when spoken to a king by his younger brother, Abrigant.”
“There was a time once when I made a grand starburst to you and a deep bow, and you told me that that was much too much obeisance between brother and brother. Whereas now—”
“Now you go too far in the other direction. We haven’t seen each other for many months; and here you are, charging in like a wild bidlak, not even a smile or a friendly embrace, immediately asking me to explain my actions to you as though you were Coronal and I a mere—”
Again Abrigant cut him off. “The groom who received me when I arrived told me that you have a consort now, and that her name is Varaile. Is this true? Who is this Varaile, brother?”
“She is the daughter of Simbilon Khayf.”
If Prestimion had struck him across the face, Abrigant would not have looked more astounded. He recoiled visibly. “The daughter of Simbilon Khayf? The daughter of Simbilon Khayf? That puffed-up arrogant fool is a member of our family now, Prestimion? Brother, brother, what have you done?”
“Fallen in love, is what I’ve done. What you’ve done is to behave like a belligerent boor. Calm yourself, Abrigant, and let’s begin this conversation again, if you will. The Coronal Lord welcomes the Prince of Muldemar to the Castle after his long journey, and bids him be seated. Sit there, Abrigant. There. Good. I don’t like to have people looming up over me, you know.” Abrigant seemed totally nonplussed, but Prestimion could not tell whether it was from the rebuke or from his bland admission of having married Simbilon Khayf’s daughter. “You look as though you’ve had an arduous trip. I hope it was a fruitful one.”
“Yes, it was. Very much so.” Abrigant’s words came as if through clenched teeth.
“Tell me about it, then.”
But Abrigant would not be turned from his course. “This marriage, brother—”
Summoning all the patience he could manage, Prestimion said, “She is a splendid queenly woman. You’ll not doubt the wisdom of my choice when you meet her. As for her father, I assure you that I’m no more enamored of him than you are, but there’s no cause for dismay. He’s caught the madness that’s running about the world, and has been locked away where he can’t offend anyone with his vulgar ways. In the matter of my not holding the wedding off until you got back here, I shouldn’t have to justify that to you; but I ask you to bear in mind that I had no assurance you’d keep your promise about giving up your quest for Skakkenoir within six months. For all I knew, you’d be gone two or three years—or forever.”
“You had my solemn pledge. Which I kept to the very letter of the word. It was six months exactly from the day we parted that I began my homeward trip:”
“Well, you have my gratitude for that, at least. The expedition was successful, you say?”
“Oh, yes, Prestimion. Quite successful. I have to tell you that it would have been a far greater success if you hadn’t sworn me to that six-month limit, but there’s much to report even so.—He’s really gone mad, has he? A raving imbecile, eh? What a perfect fate for him! I hope you’ve got him chained up among all those hideous beasts Gialaurys brought back from Kharax for you.”