V
The Butterfly Throne
Deep in its whitecapped, emerald bay, at the mouth of the mighty Bharma, Janareth lay in the sunshine, with white, red-roofed houses rising in tiers up the hillside amid the jade-green palms and dark cypresses, under the blue-and-white sky-bowl. A pilot boat, with the blue mermaid flag of Janareth fluttering from its masthead, came bouncing through the chop to guide the Talaris through the gap in the mole to the inner harbor.
Ships of many nations were anchored in this harbor or tied up at the quays. There were trim roundships from Vindium and Kortoli and Aussar and Tarxia. There were undecked craft from the Shvenic coast to the north, with their single square sails and high-pointed ends, like oversized canoes. There were several black-hulled war galleys of Janareth, long, low, and lethal. There was a huge, high-sided, square-ended three-master, with slatted yellow lug-sails, from the Salimor Islands, far off in the Eastern Ocean.
Leaning on the rail and staring moodily at the craft, on the first day of the Month of the Wolf, Jorian gave a gusty sigh.
“At last we are getting back to a civilized clime!” said Karadur beside him. “Why sigh you?”
“I miss my wives. Nay, I’ll take that back. I miss one of them: Estrildis, the little yellow-hair. The others are fine girls and fun in bed, but she is the one I chose for myself.”
“How came that to pass?”
“She was the wench I was wooing in Kortoli when Farmer Onnus made the mistake of trying to horsewhip me all day. After I had been king for three years, I learnt that she was yet unwed and got a message to her. I could not ride to Kortoli to claim her, as a proper hero of legend ought, because the Royal Guard would not let me over the boundaries of Xylar. But we managed. Someday I’ll go back to Xylar and abduct her.”
“If the Xylarians have not annulled your marriage and she have not wed some other man.”
“I might snatch her anyway, were she willing. She was always my favorite. To preserve domestic harmony, I tried to hide the fact from the others, but I fear without complete success.
“Know, Doctor, that many a man has wished for a seraglio like mine, but I’ll tell you how it works in practice. When the dames quarrel—which they do from time to time—the husband must act as judge and conciliator to settle their disputes. When they act in harmony—which occurs betimes—they get whatever they want from the poor wight by working upon him seriatim. And he must watch his every act, lest he give any one of them cause to think she has not been entreated so well as some other. If she do, then woe unto him! Scoldings, tears, complaints, and old scores raked up . . . Nay, if I ever achieve my modest ambitions to be a respectable craftsman earning a decent living, one wife will be plenty for me. But I could use at least one right now.”
“Have you not been—ah—amusing yourself with Belius’s maidens?”
“No, although how long I shall remain in this unwonted state of virtue is problematical. I haven’t known a woman since I parted from that wild wench Vanora in Othomae.”
“Your continence does you great spiritual credit, my son.”
“Oh, bugger my spiritual credit! I’ve kept my hands off the poor little dears because it seemed unworthy to take advantage of their servile condition. Since I have, in a manner of speaking, inherited them from the Brotherhood of Rennum Kezymar, they could hardly have refused me.”
“What is this mysterious plan you have for them?”
Jorian winked. “For four whole days I’ve held my flapping tongue, although bursting with my wonderful scheme. I feared that, did I get to talking, Strasso or one of his men might overhear. Once our good captain is on his way back to Vindium, I shall be overjoyed to share the plan with you, Holy Father.”
Sailors were furling the sail, whose yard had been lowered into its crutches. Captain Strasso and the skipper of a tugboat exchanged shouts as the tug, propelled by ten brawny oarsmen, pushed against the side of the Talaris by means of a cushion of rope draped over the stem, nudging the ship into dock at one of the quays.
As the Talaris inched up against the bumpers of rope along the quay and was made fast, a pair of officials climbed aboard. One questioned Captain Strasso, checking the entries of his manifest, while the other scurried about, asking Jorian and Karadur their names, vanishing into the hold and reappearing, and consulting in an undertone with his colleague. By the time the inquisition was over and the officials had departed, a swarm of touts, pimps, peddlers, beggars, porters, donkey boys, and would-be guides had gathered around the shoreward end of the plank, crying:
“Come, my masters, to the tavern with the strongest liquors, the loudest music, and the nakedest dancing girls in Janareth . . .” “. . . my nice, clean sister . . .” “. . . to view the newly discovered grave of the demigod Pteroun, the ruined Temple of the Serpent Gods, and other fascinating wonders of antiquity . . .” “Succor the child of misfortune!” “Buy my amulets: sure protection against the pox, the ague, and evil witchcraft . . .” “Simha’s Inn is so clean that not one bug has been seen there since the time of Ghish the Great . . .”
Wearing his haughtiest royal expression—which he had used as King of Xylar to get rid of bores—Jorian strode down the plank and addressed the tout for Simha’s Inn: “My good man, I have with me twelve ladies of quality, traveling incognito to Trimandilam. They will remain in Janareth about a fiftnight. Can your inn accommodate them in a style befitting their station?”
“Oh, my lord! But of course, my lord!” The tout bowed over his clasped hands again and again, as if worked by strings. “Do but deign to visit our worthy establishment . . .”
“Your performance had better match your promises,” said Jorian, coldly eyeing the man. “Pick me a few porters of strong back and simple mind—four should do. What is the current porterage fee?”
The waterfront of Janareth swarmed with the motley, many-tongued crowds of Janareth. Here were Novarians in short tunics and tight breeches; turbaned Mulvanians in skirts or baggy pantaloons of bright-hued silks; cameleers from the desert of Fedirun in brown robes and white head cloths; tall seamen from Shven, with lank, tow-colored hair and garments of sheepskin and coarse brown wool; slant-eyed, flat-faced men from far Salimor. There were semi-human slaves from the jungles of Komilakh, led on leashes. There were men of even more exotic racial types, whom Jorian could not identify.
Although Janareth paid tribute to the king of Mulvan, it retained self-government and still called itself a free city. The ferocious factional conflicts that flared up from time to time gave the Great King ample excuses for meddling, yet King Shaju had so far refrained. For one thing, the factions would instantly unite and fiercely oppose any such attempt. For another, conservative Mulvanians looked upon the great trading port as a necessary evil—a commercial convenience, out a repulsive one because of its mixed population of disgusting foreigners. They were glad it existed but also glad that it did not form part of their vast, orderly, minutely organized empire.
The tout cried back over his shoulder: “Beware! To the wall!”
Jorian and his companions crowded to one side as a cavalcade cantered through. The leader was a Mulvanian in scarlet silken garments, with a jeweled spray of plumes at the front of his turban. A squad of horsemen in spired, silvered steel caps, armed with light lances and little round shields, jingled after him.
“One of our local squires,” said the tout after the horsemen had passed. “These landowners are always trying to worm and bluster their way into our governing council and so in time to rule the city—albeit they live out in the hills and come to town only for shopping and whoring.” The man spat.
###
The following day, Jorian was eating his midday meal in the refectory of Simha’s Inn when Captain Strasso came in.
“Good Master Maltho!” said the captain. “The oracle promises fair weather for the next fiftnight, and I’ve been lucky in finding a good cargo for Vindium, ready to load. So Talaris will put out on her last voyage of the season the morn.”
“Fine,” said Jorian.
“But, there’s the matter of the payment to the Brothers. Have you sold the wenches yet, so that I can take the money with me?”
“No, I haven’t; nor am I in a hurry to.”
Strasso frowned. “How so?”
“Naturally, I crave the highest price; for the higher the price, the larger my commission. Therefore, I’ve hired a man skilled in such matters to make highly trained ladies’ maids out of the girls. This may take a month.”
“Then how shall I convey the money?”
“Know you an honest banker in Janareth?”
“Oh, certes. I bank here with Ujjai and Sons. Ujjai seems trustworthy even if a Mulvanian.”
“Then present me to him. When I sell, I shall deposit the money with him, and you can pick it up on your first voyage next spring.”
Strasso clapped Jorian on the back. “Admirably thought of! But won’t the Brothers chafe at the delay?”
“Judging by their actions when last I saw them, I think not. When I finish this narange, I’ll forth to Ujjai’s stall.”
Jorian met the banker Ujjai, bade farewell to Captain Strasso, and returned to Simha’s Inn. This time he went upstairs to the suite that had been turned over to the twelve.
Here, a man was coaching the girls in the roles that Jorian had invented for them. Although slightly stooped with age, the man was even taller than Jorian. He had large, handsome features and flowing white hair. His piercing gray eyes and lordly, carefully mannered gestures instantly caught the vision of anyone in the same room with him. He spoke in a rich, rolling voice to Mnevis, who was walking back and forth in the middle of the room while the other eleven sat about, comparing their fine new clothes.
“Remember!” he said. “You are a queen. You are conscious every instant of status and worth far above those with whom you hold intercourse. At the same time, you wish them well and would not for worlds hurt their feelings—unless they presumed to undue familiarity. To express just that right combination of hauteur and graciousness calls for a veritable triumph of the actor’s skill.
“I recall that when I played King Magonius, opposite that great actress Janoria, in Physo’s The Tinsel Crown, she struck just the right note.” He sighed and shook his head. “There will never be another Janoria, even if she would throw things at her colleagues off-stage. Greetings, Master Jorian. As you see, I strive to obey your commands. Now come, Mistress Mnevis—Queen Mnevis, I should say—and try that walk once more.”
Jorian was watching the work when Karadur knocked and slipped in, saying, “I was searching for you, my son. I was in the library at the Temple of Narzes and—ah—forgot about lunch in my absorption. Then I chanced upon Strasso, who told me you had returned hither. What takes place here?”
Jorian: “Doctor Karadur, allow me to present Master Pselles of Aussar, a leading ornament of the Novarian stage, now fallen upon certain—all—temporary embarrassments. I’ve retained him to coach my girls.”
“It does not look to me as if they were being trained as ladies’ maids, as Strasso said.”
Jorian winked. “Na, na, this is the scheme I promised to reveal to you. Know that these are no ladies’ maids, but Queen Mnevis of Algarth and her eleven noble ladies-in-waiting.”
“But—but you told me in Xylar that Algarth was only a nest of pirates! How can it have a queen?”
“Mnevis, tell the doctor who you are and what you purpose to do.”
“My good sage,” said Mnevis in a queenly voice, “know that we, Mnevis widow of Serli, are the rightful Queen of Algarth, which is an archipelago off the western coast of Shven, far to the north of the Twelve Cities. A few years ago, these pirates whereof you speak seized our isies for their own fell purposes, slew our husband the king, and kept us captive as a puppet queen, to dance to their strings.
“Lately, with the help of loyal subjects—who have been reduced to serfdom by these bloody corsairs—we escaped from Algarth with these our ladies. Hearing that the mightiest and justest monarch in the entire world was the Great King of Mulvan, we have come hither to pray His Majesty, that he will render us aid in regaining our rightful throne.”
Jorian applauded. “Splendid! You should have been an actress in the first place.” He turned to Karadur. “Can you think of a better way to ingratiate ourselves into the haughty court at Trimandilam, to whom ordinary foreigners are less than dirt?”
Karadur shook his head sorrowfully. “I know not . . . I know not. When you get these wild ideas, my son . . . Will not this imposture be speedily punctured?”
“I think not. They have never even heard of Algarth in Mulvan.”
“But what of you?”
“I am now Jorian of Kortoli, their factotum. Since the lassies speak no Mulvani, they will need my constant attendance.”
“What if King Shaju says: ‘Very good, you shall have the help you require.’ What then?”
“We’ll make the queen’s demands so steep that there shall be no danger of that. How can Shaju send a fleet and an army to Algarth, when Mulvan has no ports on the Western Ocean? They must need cross the desert of Fedirun or the Twelve Cities or the steppes of Shven to come to that sea, and then what should they do for ships to get to Algarth? ’Tis preposterous on the face of it. Ana a little skillful exaggeration of the rigors of the boreal Algarthian clime will scare off any Mulvanian tempted to join the ladies from motives of knight-errantry.”
Karadur shook his head again. “Meseems I spoke in haste when I denigrated your talent for adventurehood, my son. But it is safe to resume your name again so soon?”
“I think so. We shall be far enough from Xylar so that no report of the doings there will circulate. And I weary of being addressed by other names and not recognizing them, so that people get the notion I’m deaf. Besides, since my name is not uncommon, ‘Jorian of Kortoli’ might be any one of many persons. ‘Jorian of Ardamai’ would give me away, Ardamai being a mere village.”
“Well, may the gods of Novaria and of Mulvan aid you.”
###
The Bharma wound through the Pushkana Gap in the eastern Lograms, which here had dwindled to a mere range of forested hills. Laboring upstream under sail, the river boat Jhimu was towed by big, black buffaloes around the great serpentine bends of the river where it traversed the gap, the current here being too swift for the sail alone to make headway against. The steep, dark-green slopes soared into the sky on either hand, with no sign of animal life save a thread of blue smoke from a woodcutter’s clearing, or a vulture hanging like a black mote in the blue. At night, however, the Jhimu’s passengers could sometimes hear the grunt of a tiger or the toot of a wild elephant.
Beyond the bends, the river ran more slowly and comparatively straight between stairlike rises on the east and west to wooded plateaus. Sometimes it widened into marshes where behemoths lay awash, with only their ears, eyes, and nostrils exposed. At night, snorting and grunting, these animals trooped ashore to graze or to raid the Mulvanian peasants’ plantings.
From time to time, roads followed the river. On these roads, Mulvanians were always moving, from single wayfarers to parties of fifty to a hundred. There were holy men, religious pilgrims, merchants with laden pack animals, farmers with loads of produce, detachments of jingling soldiery, and miscellaneous travelers of high and low degree. There were people afoot, on asses, in carriages, in oxcarts, on horseback, on camels, and on elephants.
Every league or so, the Jhimu passed a temple to one of Mulvan’s multifarious gods. The main structure might be shaped like a dome, a cylinder, a cone, a cube, a pyramid, or a tapering spire; each god had his preferred architectural style. All were encrusted with minutely detailed carvings. The erotic statuary that covered a temple of Laxara, the goddess of love and hate, so embarrassed Karadur when they went near it during a stop that the old man kept his face averted. Looking up at the carvings, Jorian stood with fists on hips, grinning through his beard.
“By Imbal’s brazen balls!” he cried. “I didn’t know one could do it in so many positions!”
Some temples were in crumbling ruin; others were active. At night, points of yellow lamplight flickered about these fanes and the sound of music and song came to the travelers, sometimes slow and solemn, sometimes fast and frenzied.
Aboard the Jhimu, Karadur studied a magical scroll he had obtained in Janareth, while Jorian rehearsed his girls in their roles. On the sixth day after leaving Janareth, the Jhimu neared the confluence of the Bharma and the Pennerath. In the fork rose the vast city of Trimandilam on its nine hills. The massive wall was of black basalt. Over it the travelers could see the hills, topped by gleaming palaces and temples of marble and alabaster, with gilded roof tiles ablaze in the sun. Below these structures spread thousands of the dun-colored, mudbrick houses of the common folk.
As they tied up, the girls, full of giggling excitement, wanted to scramble ashore. But Jorian sternly ordered them back.
“Queens and their ladies do not plunge into a strange city unescorted,” he told them. “You shall wait here until I procure an escort suitable to your station.”
Away he strode, leaving the captain of the Jhimu to dispute with an official from the city and the girls to watch the brown-skinned waterfront crowd. Unlike Janareth, the population of Trimandilam was fairly homogenous. The people were smaller than the Novarians and darker, with straight or wavy black hair. Most went barefoot. The main garment for both sexes was a long skirt, which most of the men tucked up between the legs to make a floppy loincloth. Both sexes left the upper body bare in the balmy air. Outside of the poorest classes, all wore masses of jewelry: necklaces of beads and pearls, bracelets, anklets, fillets, earrings, finger rings, nose rings, and toe rings.
An hour later, Jorian was back on a tail, big-boned chestnut-roan stallion, at the head of a score of lancers in spired helmets and jingling mail. After these followed three immense elephants with gaudily painted heads, howdahs on their backs, and their riders clad in drapes bordered with cloth-of-gold.
Jorian vaulted to the ground and bowed low before Mnevis. When the officer of the troop dismounted more slowly, Jorian said: “May it please Your Majesty, I would fain present to you the gallant Captain Yaushka, veteran of many fierce battles!” He repeated the sentence in Mulvani.
For an instant, the captain and the queen confronted each other, haughty suspicion on one side and regal self-assurance on the other. Regal self-assurance won. The captain dropped to both knees on the granite blocks of the quay and bent down until his forehead touched the pave. Mnevis allowed herself a tiny nod and a small smile.
“Tell the gallant captain,” she said to Jorian, “that if his bravery equals his courtesy, the empire has nought to fear.”
Grinning, Captain Yaushka rose and signaled the mahouts. These in turn whacked their elephants over the head with their goads. The blows made hollow sounds, like beating a log drum. The three elephants knelt and then lowered their bellies and elbows to the rund. One mahout produced a small ladder, which placed against the side of the foremost elephant. Captain Yaushka helped the queen up the ladder into the howdah. The eleven ladies-in-waiting gave a few squeals and giggles at the prospect of riding these beasts, but Jorian scowled at them so fiercely that they quickly fell silent.
When each elephant bore four women, the drivers signaled the beasts to rise. The sudden tilting of the howdahs elicited more squeals. Jorian vaulted back on his horse, while a trooper gave Karadur a leg-up for the latter to climb aboard a big white ass. Captain Yaushka blew a trumpet, and the cavalcade started off.
They jingled through endless, narrow, winding streets, where strange smells hung in the air, the elephants’ drapes scraped against the house walls as they rounded corners, and people squeezed into doorways and arcades to let them pass. They passed mansions and hovels, temples and shops, inns and emporia, shacks and tenements, taverns and brothels, all jumbled together.
At last they reached the foot of the hill on which stood the royal palace. A wall ran around the base of the hill, and a massive, fortified gate in this wall gave access to the interior. To one side of the gate stood an enclosure in which an elephant mill operated a huge pump. A pair of elephants, one on each end of a long boom pivoted in the center, walked the boom round and round, while bearings squealed and the pump grumbled in its housing.
At the gate, Jorian and his party were scrutinized, questioned, and passed through the gate while the sentries touched their foreheads to the ground in salute to Queen Mnevis. The horses, the ass, and the elephants plodded up a long, sloping avenue, fifty feet wide, which had been hewn out of a cliff that formed that side of the hill. The cliff had been cut down to form an evenly sloping stone ramp and then roughened by transverse grooves, a fingerbreadth apart, to provide traction for the feet of men and animals.
As the avenue rose, the solid stone gave way to a built-up structure of well-fitted stone blocks. The road came up to the level of the main inner fortification wall, of rose-red stone, rising from the top of the cliff and on the right as one ascended the slope. Along the outer side of the avenue, where the cliff fell away, a bronzen pipe, green with verdegris and as thick as a man’s leg, passing through holes in stone blocks, carried the water pumped by the elephant mill to the palace and also served as a railing.
The procession reached the gate in the fortification wall and was again passed through. Inside, they faced another gate. Whereas the outer gate was a massive, military structure with arrow-slitted towers, portcullis, murder holes, and other accessories for defense, the inner gate was an ornamental edifice of many-colored stone, with a huge central arch flanked by smaller portals. Under the arch, on the left, a raised platform allowed horsemen easy mounting and dismounting. On the right, a higher platform enabled elephant riders to step on and on their mounts without using a ladder.
As the party gathered afoot under the main arch, a small, wizened brown man came up, bowing repeatedly over clasped hands. “Will Your Highness reign to follow your humble slave?” he said. “I am Harichumbra, your unworthy adviser.”
They followed Harichumbra through a series of halls and courts, until Jorian was hopelessly lost. Centuries ago, a king of Mulvan had ordered the entire top of the hill planed off to build this palace, as large in itself as a small city. Hall after hall had been added until the entire hilltop inside the upper wall was now cut up into square and rectangular courts, ranging in size from ball courts to parade grounds.
The halls that divided these courts were long, narrow buildings, mostly of three-story height. They were marvels of Mulvanian architecture. In most of the courts, there had been an effort to give the stonework on all four sides an artistic unity. Thus some courts were walled by white and red stone, some by white and black, some by white and blue, some by white and green, and some by other combinations. Everywhere were arches: plain semicircular arches, pointed arches, segmental arches, basket-handle arches, ogee arches, horseshoe arches, and cusped arches in every possible combination. They topped monumental gates and ordinary doors and windows. Little balconies projected here and there from the upper stories of the halls. Broad eaves extended out from the flat roofs to provide the courts with shadowed spaces against the fierce tropical sun. Domes, spires, and gazebos rose from the roofs.
Everywhere the stonework was enriched by carving and by inlays of mother-of-pearl and stones of contrasting colors, making designs of flowers, beasts, heroes, and gods. Sayings attributed to former kings and holy men were carved in bands of stone or inlaid in polished metal and semiprecious stones in the characters of the Mulvani language.
“These are your apartments,” said Harichumbra, indicating a hall whose third story was walled by delicately carved marble screens, so that it was open to the breeze but shielded from the vision of those outside. “Her Majesty will occupy the main chamber at the end of this hall; her ladies, these rooms; my lords, this chamber . . .”
He showed them the amenities of the place. “This hall is called the Tiger Cub, in case you get lost and have difficulty finding your way back to it. When you have rested and refreshed yourselves, I shall return. Shall we say in one hour? Or two? It shall be as you desire. I shall now summon servants to minister to your wants.”
He clapped his hands, and a score of women and several men appeared through the door at the end of the hall. Harichumbra bowed himself out
###
Soon, Jorian and Karadur sat facing each other from the ends of a huge tub, while pretty little brown Mulvanian girls soaped their backs. Speaking Novarian, Karadur said: “All right so far, my son. You managed the escort very featly.”
Jorian grunted. “Save that the damned horse had no stirrups, only a pair of handgrips on the front of the saddle. Not having ridden bareback since I was a stripling on Onnus’s farm, I nearly fell off twice. They kindly said I might use the beast during my stay, but I must have stirrups added to the saddle. ’Tis a big, strong beast, though. I think I’ll call him ‘Oser’ after my schoolmaster in Ardamai. Those knobby joints and feet like platters remind me of the old boy. He gives a rough ride, but at least he’s willing. Tell me: why don’t Mulvanians use stirrups? They’ve been known in the Twelve Cities for centuries.”
“Mulvanians pride themselves on preserving the ancient ways and ignoring the devices dreamt up by barbarians. Did you note that elephant mill outside the palace?”
“I surely did, and an admirable device I thought it.”
“Well, that was installed by King Shaju’s grandfather, King Sivroka, and it has been a source of contention ever since. Whenever discontent arises against the reigning monarch, those who seek to take advantage of this condition set up the cry: Destroy this unholy foreign contraption, which robs honest water-carriers of their livelihood! When the mill wears out, I do not think it will be repaired or rebuilt.”
“And then the Mulvanians wonder why their history is a catalogue of invasions and conquests by loot-hungry barbarians,” growled Jorian. “When I was King of Xylar, I tried to keep up with new things.”
“And what good did that do you, my son?” asked Karadur gently. Jorian snorted. Karadur continued, “I advise you to get rid of that beard.”
“By Zevatas, I’ve come to like the thing!”
“But in Mulvan it is the badge of either a holy ascetic, an ancient in retirement, or a low-class worker, and you do not wish to pass for any of those.”
###
Two hours later, the adviser returned. Bathed, shaved, and smelling sweetly of ointments and perfumes, Jorian listened as Harichumbra said: “Now, my lord, my first task is to instruct you in the rules governing intercourse at the court of the King of Kings. To what class did you belong in your native land?”
“The lesser nobility. So?”
“The manner in which you greet and converse with others depends upon your own rank and that of your interlocutor. In other words, you must use one form of greeting to an equal, another to an inferior, and so on. The same applies to speech. Court Mulvani has eight grades of politeness, depending upon the relative status of the persons speaking. One must master them lest one give unwitting offense—or at least expose oneself as an ignorant boor, unworthy of one’s own class.
“This applies particularly to your noble self, because their ladyships appear to speak none of our tongue. You must, therefore, interpret for them, using the forms of speech that they would use in addressing Mulvanians of various classes, from the King of Kings down to the lowly classless ones who clean out latrines.
“As one of the lesser nobility of your own country, you will rank below our own nobility, but above the official class. You are, of course, aware of the importance of class distinctions in this well-ordered land. Bodily contact between persons of widely separated classes is permitted only in line of duty, as when a barber cuts a nobleman’s hair. Otherwise, he of the higher class is religiously polluted and must seek ritual purification. Fraternization is likewise limited, and intermarriage is to us utterly abhorrent.
“Now, let me begin your instructions. First of all, when you approach the Great King—may he reign forever!—the disparity in your ranks requires that you advance no nearer than nine paces from him, and that you touch your forehead to the ground thrice. By the way, that hat you wore upon your arrival would be unsuitable, because of the brim.”
“Then I will go bareheaded. This clime is too warm for hats, anyway.”
“Oh, sir!” Harichumbra looked shocked. “That were indeed an unseemly act! Respect for the king requires that men remain covered in his presence. Suppose I get you a turban.”
“I know not how to wind those cursed things, and I should find them too hot. Is there no small, brimless cap I might wear?”
Harichumbra pondered. “Ah, I have it! I will get you a cap such as members of the Dancing Saints, an ecstatic religious sect, wear. It should meet your requirements.
“And now the grammar. In addressing His Majesty, you will naturally use the politest form. Sentences whereof His Majesty is the subject or the object are put in the third person singular subjunctive . . .
“In approaching a member of the king’s immediate family, or a member of the priesthood in his official capacity, you must halt six paces from the person and touch your forehead to the ground once. In addressing such persons, the third person singular indicative is used with the suffix ye.
“In approaching a member of the Mulvanian nobility, you must halt three paces from the person and bow so that your body is parallel to the ground. In addressing such persons, the third person singular indicative is used without the honorific suffix. The nobleman should return your bow, but only by inclining his body at half a right angle to the ground . . .”
Before taking his leave, Harichumbra informed Jorian that Queen Mnevis would be presented to the king in a public audience the second day after their arrival, that a private audience with the king and his advisers was being set up for the day after that, and that on the tenth day they were all bidden to a court ball.
“Barbarians,” said Harichumbra, “sometimes expect to be bidden to feasts, not knowing that amongst us Chosen of the Gods, eating is deemed an unseemly act, to be performed in private or, at most, with one’s immediate family. We do, however, have balls—albeit our dancing is much more decorous and decent than in some lands. This ball celebrates the seven hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the serpent princess.”
“Will the princess attend?”
“I believe she will; it is the only occasion during the year that she leaves her apartment. By the bye, are you an addict of fermented liquors?”
Jorian stared. “I like wine and my ale, but I should hardly term myself an addict. I can do without them if need be. Why?”
“Barbarians oft have a passion for these fluids, which are forbidden to Mulvanians—save the classless, to whom they are allowed to brighten the otherwise cheerless lives they lead as punishment for some sin in an earlier incarnation. If you require these poisons—” (Harichumbra gave a delicate shudder) “—and will write a petition to the effect that you are addicted to them and if deprived of them are liable to go mad and become a danger to the community, I can arrange a regular ration for you.”
“I will think about it,” said Jorian. After Harichumbra had gone, he asked Karadur: “What sort of man is this King Shaju, as a man and not as a king?”
“Your question, my son, means little, for in Mulvan the role or king is so exacting that the man, as a distinct entity, has little chance of emerging. From mom to night he is busied, if not with state business and the hearing of petitions, then with religious ceremonies. For he is supposed to please both the millions of Mulvanians beneath his sway and, at the same time, the hundreds of gods in the heavens above—a task to daunt the hardiest.”
“How is he with his intimates, then?”
“He has no intimates—no friends, as you would use the term. The formality of courtly usage rules every aspect of his life and excludes him from true intimacy. When he summons one of his wives to his bed, she must perform the same prostrations on approaching him that the rest of us do in his throne room. Perhaps, after he has sown the royal seed and ere he goes to sleep, he engages in some small informal talk with the woman—but who would know about that?”
“We managed things better in Xylar; the king was allowed to be halfway human. What sort of man, then, would Shaju be if he weren’t king?”
Karadur shrugged. “Who can tell? For the office molds the man as much as the man molds the office—and more so, if the office be so overwhelming as that of Great King. But from what I have seen of King Shaju, I suspect he would be a well-meaning and not unable mediocrity—the kind who, were he your neighbor, you might describe as ‘a good fellow but dull.’ Of course, he can be cruel and violent as circumstances require, and he showed no qualms about killing off a score of brothers upon his accession. Had he not, one of them would probably have slain him, so he would not be here for us to criticize. But that is kingship for you.”
###
The public audience proved an interesting example of Mulvanian courtly techniques. Every word and gesture had been prescribed by Harichumbra and rehearsed by Jorian and his women. The replies and gestures of the Great King were just as artificial.
Shaju sat on a golden throne at the end of a long hall, whose air was blue with the smoke of incense burners. Behind a screen, musicians twanged and tootled.
Suppressing an urge to cough on the fragrant smoke, Jorian and his girls followed the usher down the hall. At the prescribed distance, Jorian and the eleven ladies-in-waiting prostrated themselves, while queen Mnevis, as a fellow sovran, merely bowed low. While they were in this position, a grinding noise made itself heard. When Jorian looked up from his crouch, the throne bearing King Shaju had risen on a pillar to a fathom above its normal height. With a grinding of gearwheels, the throne sank back to its former level.
This throne was an amazing structure. The back had the form of a gigantic butterfly, as high as a man. The wings of the insect, made of a kind of gold mesh, blazed with jewels, which formed a pattern like that of a real butterfly.
King Shaju was taller than most Mulvanians, albeit shorter by nearly a head than Jorian. He was middle-aged and a little overweight, with a shaven chin and a long, black, drooping mustache. Cosmetics failed to hide a sad, weary expression. In a high-pitched, expressionless voice he said: “The Great King graciously condescends to receive the homage of the charming Queen of Algarth. It pleases the King of Kings to see that other monarchs of the world acknowledge his primacy. My Majesty accepts the gift of Your Majesty with thanks and would have Your Majesty know that you shall not suffer for your generosity.” The king turned over the gift—the best of the golden cups from the treasure room of Rennum Kezymar—and said: “This looks like Mulvanian work.”
He glanced inquiringly at Jorian, who responded: “May it please Your Majesty, it probably is. Trade has carried the peerless products of Mulvanian handicrafts far and wide, even to distant Algarth.”
“I see. Well, for the discussion of matters of state, the Great King will entertain the charming queen in the room of private audience at a time to be fixed by our servants. May the gods of Mulvan and those of Algarth smile upon the gracious queen!”
“Now we back out!” hissed Harichumbra.
The private audience proved more interesting. Besides the ubiquitous guards, there were only five persons: King Shaju, his minister Ishvarnam, Queen Mnevis, Jorian, and Harichumbra. Ishvarnam opened by asking: “Lord Jorian, one has heard rumors of a king of your name, in one of the more distant Novarian cities. It is called Zy—nay, Xylar. Is your lordship perchance connected with this monarch, who one hears has died, or been slain, or fled the kingdom, or some such thing? The tales contradict one another, and we have no secure source of news from there.”
Heart pounding, Jorian answered evenly: “One suspects we are distant cousins, Excellency. One was born in Kortoli City, whereas one believes this other Jorian came from the village of Ardamai, several leagues distant from the capital. One’s own forebears moved from Ardamai to Kortoli two generations ago; but there misht be a connection, could one take time to trace it down.”
“One thanks your lordship for your information,” said Ishvarnam. “Now let us to business . . .”
Translating Mnevis’s speech, Jorian made his plea for a vast armed force to recapture the Algarth Archipelago from the freebooters. In actual fact, the pirates had been there since they first appeared in Novarian history. The Twelve Cities knew nothing of any line of legitimate sovrans in those isles. As Jorian expected, however, the Mulvanians had never even heard of Algarth and so were in no position to contradict him. When he had finished, Ishvarnam and the king exchanged whispers. Then the minister spoke: “My dear Lord Jorian, much as His Majesty would be delighted to restore Her charming Majesty to her rightful throne, what she proposes is beyond the powers of even such a world-bestriding realm as Mulvan. What with the pirates of the Inner Sea, and raids by the desert riders of Fedirun, and incursions by the savages of the equatorial jungles of Beraoti, we have all we can do to maintain order in our own realm. One fears Her Majesty asks the impossible.”
Jorian and Mnevis put on suitably downcast expressions. Ishvarnam said: “The Great King will, however, see to it that Her Majesty go not hence empty-handed. He will, moreover, provide her with an escort back to Janareth suitable to her rank. Thence she can proceed to places where conditions are more favorable for finding succor. For example, we hear that in the Twelve Cities are many turbulent rogues, always eager for such adventure.”
“How shall they reach Vindium, now that shipping on the Inner Sea has closed down for the winter?” asked Jorian.
“The escort will convey Her Majesty and her attendants to Vindium by the land route.”
“One has heard—no doubt from some misinformed source—that this route is perilous.”
“The escort will be large enough to master such contingencies as arise.”
“One sees. It would, in one’s humble opinion, be wise for them to set out forthwith, to get through the Lograms before full winter sets in.”
“We can speed them on their way tomorrow, if that be Her charming Majesty’s wish,” said Ishvarnam.
“That will be excellent. One would like, however, to beg His Majesty’s indulgence to the extent of allowing one to linger in Trimandilam for a few days after Her Majesty’s departure. One would like to see more of His Majesty’s world-famous city and to attend the ball to which he was so gracious as to invite one. Since ladies of noble birth and tender upbringing cannot be expected to travel swiftly, one should easily overtake them.”
More whispers; then Ishvarnam said: “His Majesty graciously grants the plea of the noble Lord Jorian, in the hope that, by observing the customs and usages of a truly civilized realm, he will be moved to adopt these habits as his own and to spread Mulvanian enlightenment among the backward peoples who dwell beyond our marches. You have His Majesty’s gracious leave to withdraw.”
The girls left two days later in horse litters, guarded by gleaming cavalry commanded by Captain Yaushka, who had escorted them to the palace upon their arrival. Jorian had lectured Mnevis on the dangers she faced: “I don’t mistrust King Shaju or Captain Yaushka—at least not in this matter. The danger will come when you cross into Vindium. You won’t be able to carry on this imposture of being a queen, but you mustn’t drop it so suddenly that Yaushka hears about it and carries the word back to Trimandilam. You will have to hire men to tend your gear, guide your animals, and guard your precious persons whilst on your way to your homes. Unless you are both shrewd and lucky, your servants may turn on you, rape you, cut your throats, and make off with your money. Ere you hire anybody, get references to previous employers and follow them through.
“In case a former owner tries to seize you, I’ve made out documents of manumission for all twelve of you. Some might question whether I was ever your rightful owner, but short of going to Rennum Kezymar to query the people there, there is no way to disprove these documents. If you are serious about a career on the stage, look up my friend Merlois son of Gaus, in Govannian. He taught me such of the actor’s tricks as I know.
“Here is the gift from King Shaju to Her charming Majesty, and something over from my own purse. Divide it into twelve equal parts, one for each girl, and give each girl her document. Don’t let any of them show their new wealth around, lest its glitter draw evildoers.”
“We should be much safer with you,” said Mnevis.
“No doubt, and I should be much easier in my mind about you too. But that’s impossible, so you must do the best you can and trust to the gods. Now, curse it, Mnevis, don’t cry! I have told you why I cannot take wife, concubine, or bondmaid with me.”
“B-but I-last night—”
“Na, na, never mind last night. Fun be fun, but a have deadly business before me. Get tha going, lass!”
When the weeping girl had left, Karadur said, “Last night, my son? Methought you had set your feet firmly on the path of virtue.”
Jorian sighed and shrugged. “I held out as long as I could; but what is a healthy man of my age to do when a pretty creature like that crawls unasked into bed with him? I may not be the worst man in the world, but I am no saint—dancing or otherwise.”
###
As the time of the ball approached, Jorian and Karadur plotted ways to gain access to the apartment of the serpent princess. They had made discreet inquiries here and there, some from Harichumbra, some from other members of the court.
They learnt that the serpent princess, Yargali, dwelt in an apartment directly over the ballroom, in a hall called the Green Serpent. Having been an adjunct of the court for many centuries, she stayed in this apartment year in and year out, save on a few special occasions like the forthcoming birthday party. Her function was to guard the Kist of Avlen, which had been brought to Trimandilam from Vindium by the wizard-king Avlen the Fourth, at the time of the Shvenic invasion. The invaders from the northern steppes had overthrown the Three Kingdoms of Old Novaria and brought about the dark age that preceded the rise of the Twelve Cities.
Fleeing these invaders, King Avlen had brought with him a chest of his most precious magical manuscripts, with which he sought to bargain with Ghish the Great of Mulvan for help in recovering his kingdom. Ghish, a nomad from the deserts of Fedirun, had just united by conquest the successor states that had grown up on the ruins of the former kingdom of Tirao. With barbarian practicality, Ghish had strangled Avlen with his own hands and put the Kist under guard, to preserve it for his own use in time of need. None was allowed to read the contents save the chief wizard of Mulvan. A few centuries later, when Yargali arrived at the court of Trimandilam, King Venu had entrusted to her the task of guarding the Kist.
It was said that various noble Mulvanians, from the king on down, visited Yargali late at night, allegedly to seek supernatural wisdom from her lips, although rumor credited her with giving them more tangible favors. There were no recent accounts of her turning into a serpent and devouring her visitors, as tales current in the Twelve Cities credited her with doing.
So Jorian and Karadur plotted and planned but without result. Jorian hurled his embroidered Dancing Saint’s cap to the floor with a yell of frustration, saying: “The curse of Zevatas and Franda and Heryx and all the other deities of the Twelve Cities upon you and your fellow he-witches! I’m minded to walk out and strike for Vindium despite all the aches and pains and nightmares you can send upon me. If your damned princess doesn’t turn into a snake and swallow me, Shaju’s guardsmen will fill me with arrows until I look like a hedgehog. I should be more usefully employed shepherding those poor girls back to their homes. Why can’t you silly Progressives compose your own spells instead of copying those of some ancient wizard—whose magic was evidently not strong enough to keep the barbarians out of his kingdom?”
“Peace, my son, peace. Well you know that you cannot abandon your quest, save at the cost of your life. I would have helped you to escape from Xylar without exacting a price, but my fellow Altruists insisted. Know that at the time of the conquest of Old Novaria, much ancient magical knowledge was lost, and we hope to recover some of it. Perchance some of Avlen’s spells have been rediscovered in the centuries since the fall of Old Vindium; but we shall never know until we compare the original documents with those of later times.” He sighed, “But things are as they are. Perhaps something will turn up during this ball.”
“Will you attend the ball?”
“I had not thought so. I am reading old manuscripts in the royal library and had hoped to spend the evening so occupied.”
“But could you attend the ball?”
“Surely; as a member of the priestly class I can go anywhere. I outrank every layman in Mulvan, save the king himself.”
“Then come to this party. I may want you to distract the king’s attention whilst I make friends with the princess.”