There were those who imagined that Majipoor had some inherent immunity to the universal inevitabilities of change, merely because its social system had undergone virtually no important evolution since it had taken its present form thousands of years ago. But Hissune had studied enough of history, both Majipoor’s and that of the mother world Earth, to know that even so placid a population as Majipoor’s, stable and content for millennia, lulled by the kindnesses of its climate and an agricultural fertility capable of supporting an almost unlimited number of people, would tumble with startling swiftness into anarchy and utter disintegration if those comforting props suddenly were knocked away. That had already begun, and it would grow worse.
Why had these plagues come? Hissune had no idea. What was being done to deal with them? Plainly, not enough. Could anything be done? What were rulers for, if not to maintain the welfare of their people? And here he was, a ruler of sorts, at least for the moment, in the grand isolation of Castle Mount, far above a crumbling civilization: badly informed, remote, helpless. But of course the ultimate responsibility for dealing with this crisis did not lie with him. What of Majipoor’s true anointed rulers, then? Hissune had always thought of the Pontifex, buried down there at the bottom of the Labyrinth, as a blind mole who could not conceivably know what was happening in the world—even a Pontifex who, like Tyeveras, might be reasonably vigorous and sane. In fact the Pontifex did not need to keep close touch with events: he had a Coronal to do that, so the theory ran. But Hissune saw now that the Coronal too was cut off from reality, up here in the misty reaches of Castle Mount, just as thoroughly sequestered as the Pontifex was in his pit. At least the Coronal undertook the grand processional from time to time, and put himself back in touch with his subjects. Yet was that not precisely what Lord Valentine was doing now, and what help was that in healing the wound that widened in the heart of the world? Where was Valentine at this moment, anyway? What actions, if any, was he taking? Who in the government had heard so much as a word from him in months?
We are all wise and enlightened people, Hissune thought. And with the best will in the world we are doing everything wrong.
It was nearly time for the day’s meeting of the Council of Regency. He turned and made his way at a quick lope toward the interior of the Castle.
As he began the ascent of the Ninety-Nine Steps he caught sight of Alsimir, whom he had lately named as the chief among his aides, waving wildly and shouting from far above. Taking the steps two and three at a time, Hissune raced upward while Alsimir came plunging down just as swiftly.
“We’ve been looking all over for you!” Alsimir blurted breathlessly, when he was still half a dozen steps away. He seemed amazingly agitated.
“Well, you’ve found me,” Hissune snapped. “What’s going on?”
Pausing to collect himself, Alsimir said, “There’s been big excitement. A long message came in from Tunigorn an hour ago, in Gihorna—”
“Gihorna?” Hissune stared. “What in the name of the Divine is he doing there?”
“I couldn’t tell you that. All I know is that that’s where he sent the message from, and—”
“All right. All right.” Catching Alsimir by the arm, Hissune said sharply, “Tell me what he said!”
“Do you think I know? Would they let someone like me in on great matters of state?”
“A great matter of state, is it, then?”
“Divvis and Stasilaine have been in session in the council room for the last forty-five minutes, and they’ve sent messengers to all corners of the Castle trying to find you, and half the high lords of the Castle have gone to the meeting and the others are on their way, and—”
Valentine must be dead, Hissune thought, chilled.
“Come with me,” he said, and went sprinting furiously up the steps.
Outside the council chamber he found a madhouse scene, thirty or forty of the minor lords and princes and their aides milling about in confusion, and more arriving at every moment. As Hissune appeared they moved automatically aside for him, opening a path through which he moved like a sailing ship cutting its way imperiously through a sea thick with drifting dragon-grass. Leaving Alsimir by the door and instructing him to collect from the others whatever information they might have, he went in.
Stasilaine and Divvis sat at the high table: Divvis bleak-faced and grim, Stasilaine somber, pale, and uncharacteristically downcast, his shoulders slumped, his hand running nervously through his thick shock of hair. About them were most of the high lords: Mirigant, Elzandir, Manganot, Cantalis, the Duke of Halanx, Nimian of Dundilmir, and five or six others, including one that Hissune had seen only once before, the ancient and withered Prince Ghizmaile, grandson of the Pontifex Ossier who had preceded Tyeveras in the Labyrinth. All eyes turned upon Hissune as he entered, and he stood for a moment transfixed in the gaze of these men, the youngest of whom was ten or fifteen years his senior, and all of whom had spent their lives in the inner corridors of power. They were looking toward him as though he alone had the answer they required to some terrible and perplexing question.
“My lords,” said Hissune.
Divvis, scowling, pushed a long sheet of paper across the table toward him. “Read this,” he muttered. “Unless you already know.”
“I know only that there is a message from Tunigorn.”
“Read it, then.”
To Hissune’s annoyance there was a tremor in his hand as he reached for the paper. He glowered at his fingers as though they were in rebellion against him, and forced them to grow steady.
Clusters of words leaped from the paper at him.
—Valentine gone off to Piurifayne to beg the forgiveness of the Danipiur—
—a Metamorph spy discovered traveling in the Coronal’s own entourage—
—interrogation of the spy reveals that the Metamorphs themselves have created and spread the pestilences wracking the farmlands—
—a great sandstorm—Elidath dead, and many others—the Coronal has vanished into Piurifayne—
—Elidath dead—
—the Coronal has vanished—
—a spy in the Coronal’s entourage—
—the Metamorphs have created the pestilences themselves—
—the Coronal has vanished—
—Elidath dead—
—the Coronal has vanished—
—the Coronal has vanished—
—the Coronal has vanished—
Hissune looked up, appalled. “How certain is it that this message is authentic?”
“There can be no doubt,” said Stasilaine. “It came in over the secret transmission channels. The ciphers were the correct ones. The style of phrase is certainly Tunigorn’s, that I will warrant myself. Put your faith on it, Hissune: this is altogether genuine.”
“Then we have not one catastrophe to deal with, but three or four,” Hissune said.
“So it would appear,” said Divvis. “What are your thoughts on these matters, Hissune?”
Hissune gave the son of Lord Voriax a slow, careful look. There seemed to be no mockery in his question. It had appeared to Hissune that Divvis’s jealousy of him and contempt for him had abated somewhat during these months of their working together on the Council of Regency, that Divvis had at last come to have some respect for his capabilities; but yet this was the first time Divvis had gone this far, actually showing what looked like a sincere desire to know Hissune’s point of view—in front of the other high lords, even.