T knew from the moment I became Coronal that I’d have to live in the Labyrinth eventually,” Valentine said. “I’ve tried to make my peace with that. But it was never my plan to be Coronal in the first place, you know. If Voriax had lived—”
“Ah, yes, Voriax.” Valentine’s brother, the elder son of the High Counsellor Damiandane: the one who had been reared from childhood to occupy the throne of Majipoor. Nascimonte gave Valentine a close look. “It was a Metamorph, was it not, who struck him down in the forest? That has been proven now?”
Uncomfortably Valentine said, “What does it matter now who killed him? He died. And the throne came to me, because I was our father’s other son, A crown I had never dreamed of wearing. Everyone knew that Voriax was the one who was destined for it.”
“But he had a darker destiny also. Poor Voriax!”
Poor Voriax, yes. Struck down by a bolt out of nowhere while hunting in the forest eight years into his reign as Coronal, a bolt from the bow of some Metamorph assassin skulking in the trees. By accepting his dead brother’s crown, Valentine had doomed himself inevitably to descend into the Labyrinth some day, when the old Pontifex died and it became the Coronal’s turn to succeed to the greater title, and to the cheerless obligation of underground residence that went with it.
“As you say, it was the decision of fate,” Valentine replied, “and now I am Pontifex. Well, so be it, Nascimonte. But I won’t hide down there in the darkness all the time. I can’t.”
“And why should you? The Pontifex can do as he pleases.”
“Yes. Yes. But only within our law and custom.”
“You shape law and custom to suit yourself, Valentine. You always have.”
Valentine understood what Nascimonte was saying. He had never been a conventional monarch. For much of the time during his exile from power in the period of the usurpation he had wandered the world earning a humble living as an itinerant juggler, kept from awareness of his true rank by the amnesia that the usurping faction had induced in him. Those years had transformed him irreversibly; and after his restoration to the royal heights of Castle Mount he had comported himself in a way that few Coronals ever had before—mingling openly with the populace, spreading a cheerful gospel of peace and love even as the Shapeshifters were making ready to launch their long- cherished campaign of war against the conquerors who had taken their world from them.
And then, when the events of that war made Valentine’s succession to the Pontificate unavoidable, he had held back as long as possible before relinquishing the upper world to his protege Lord Hissune, the new Coronal, and descending into the subterranean city that was so alien to his sunny nature.
In his nine years as Pontifex he had found every excuse to emerge from it. No Pontifex in memory had come forth from the Labyrinth more than once a decade or so, and then only to attend high rites at the castle of the Coronal; but Valentine popped out as often as he could, riding hither and thither through the land as though he were still obliged to undertake the formal grand processionals across the countryside that a Coronal must make. Lord Hissune had been very patient with him on each of those occasions, though Valentine had no doubt that the young Coronal was annoyed by the senior monarch’s insistence on coming up into public view so frequently.
“I change what I think needs changing,” Valentine said. “But I owe it to Lord Hissune to keep myself out of sight as much as possible.”
“Well, here you are above ground today, at any rate!”
“It seems that I am. This is one time, though, when I would gladly have forgone the chance to come forth. But with Hissune off in Zimroel—”
“Yes. Clearly you had no choice. You had to lead this investigation yourself.” They fell silent. “A nasty mess, this murder,” Nascimonte said, after a time. “Pfaugh! Pieces of the poor bastard strewn all over the altar like that!”
“Pieces of the government’s Metamorph policy, too, I think,” said the Pontifex, with a rueful grin.
“You think there’s something political in this, Valentine?”
“Who knows? But I fear the worst.”
“You, the eternal optimist!”
“It would be more accurate to call me a realist, Nascimonte. A realist.”
The old duke laughed. “As you prefer, majesty.” There was another pause, a longer one than before. Then Nascimonte said, more quietly now, “Valentine, I need to ask your forgiveneness for an earlier fault. I spoke too harshly, this afternoon, when I talked of the Shapeshifters as vermin who should be exterminated. You know I don’t truly believe that, I’m an old man. Sometimes I speak so bluntly that I amaze even myself.”
Valentine nodded, but made no other reply.
“And telling you so dogmatically that it had to be one of his fellow Shapeshifters who killed him, too. As you said, it’s out of line for us to be jumping to conclusions that way. We haven’t even started to collect evidence yet. At this point we have no justification for assuming—”
“On the contrary. We have
The duke stared at Valentine in bewilderment. “Majesty!”
“Let’s not play games, old friend. There’s no one here right now but you and me. In privacy we’re free to speak unvarnished truths, are we not? And you said it truly enough this afternoon. I did tell you then that we mustn’t jump to conclusions, yes, but sometimes a conclusion is so obvious that it conies jumping right at
“Yes.”
“Well, and which race’s motivations are hardest for us to understand, eh? To my way of thinking the killer almost certainly would have to be a Shapeshifter—either a member of the archaeological team, or one who came in from outside for the particular purpose of carrying out the assassination.”
“So one might assume. But what possible purpose could a Shapeshifter have for killing one of his own kind?”
“I can’t imagine. Which is why we’re here as investigators,” said Valentine. “And I have a nasty feeling that I’m not going to like the answer when we find it.”
At dinner that night in the archaeologists’ open-air mess hall, under a clear black sky ablaze now with swirling streams of brilliant stars that cast cold dazzling light on the mysterious humps and mounds of the surrounding ruins, Valentine made the acquaintance of Magadone Sambisa’s entire scientific team. There were seventeen in all: six other humans, two Ghayrogs, eight Metamorphs. They seemed, every one of them, to be gentle, studious creatures. Not by the greatest leap of the imagination could Valentine picture any of these people slaying and dismembering their venerable colleague Huukaminaan.
“Are these the only persons who have access to the archaeological zone?” he asked Magadone Sambisa.
“There are the day-labourers also, of course.”
“Ah. And where are they just now?”
“They have a village of their own, over beyond the last pyramid. They go to it at sundown and don’t come back until the start of work the next day.”
“I see. How many are there altogether? A great many?”
Magadone Sambisa looked across the table towards a pale and long-faced Metamorph with strongly inward- sloping eyes. He was her site supervisor, Kaastisiik by name, responsible for each day’s deployment of diggers. “What would you say? About a hundred?”
“One hundred twelve,” said Kaastisiik, and clamped his little slit of a mouth in a way that demonstrated great regard for his own precision.
“Mostly Piurivar?” Valentine asked.
“Entirely Piurivar,” said Magadone Sambisa. “We thought it was best to use only native workers, considering that we’re not only excavating the city but to some extent rebuilding it. They don’t appear to have any problem with the presence of non-Piurivar archaeologists, but having humans taking part in the actual reconstruction work would
