The Mountains of Majipoor

signature any way he wants.'

Which was where the discussion ended; for at that moment a messenger from the king arrived, bearing word that the grand feast of celebration, at which the treaty would be formally signed and the hostages brought forth, was ready to begin in the royal banqueting hall.

It seemed to Harpirias that a great many months had gone by since that other grand feast in the royal hall, the one on his first night here, welcoming him to the land of the Othinor. But he knew it could opt be nearly that long a time: some number of weeks, yes, but surely not months. The sky these days still remained light far into the evening and the heavy snows of winter had not yet begun. Yet he could understand now why the hostages had lost track of time here, had even forgotten what year it was. In this valley one day faded imperceptibly into the next. Twoday, Threeday, Seaday, Starday, who could tell which was which? There were no calendars here. The only clock was the clock of the heavens: the sun, the stars, the moons.

In the feasting hall everything was exactly as it had been that other time. The heavy white rugs of steetmoy fur had been unpacked and spread on the floor; the great tables of rough planks laid over trestles made of hajbarak bones had been assembled; the innumerable bowls and plates and tureens brimming with food had been set out. The king was on his high throne and an assortment of his wives and daughters lounged at its base.

Everything was the same, yes. In the intervening weeks only Harpirias had changed; for now the dense, smoky air of the great room seemed perfectly natural to him, and the odors rising from the dishes of food, rather than rousing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, actually stirred his appetite, for he had grown accustomed to the dry stringy meats and fiery sauces of these people, to their baked roots and roasted nuts, their bitter beer, their acrid, glutinous soups and stews. The dissonant screeing and skirling of the king’s musicians was familiar to him now also, and when occasionally some bawdy words would drift to him out of the group of Othinor warriors standing against the side wall, he would sometimes grin with comprehension, for in the course of his nights with Ivla Yevikenik he had learned more than a little of the Othinor language.

The dancing before the meal was very much the same as before, too: the wives of the king, first, and then a ponderous solo for Toikella himself, and then Harpirias invited to join him on the floor. This time, though, Harpirias called Ivla Yevikenik out of the group of royal princesses to accompany him. The girl’s eyes gleamed with pleasure as she came forward to dance with him; and Toikella too, in his own dark and somber way, appeared pleased at the honor being paid his daughter.

After the dancing came the dining, and along with it the drinking, round upon round of formal toasting in long, orotund outbursts of Othinor oratory. Harpirias was skilled enough in the ways of high ceremonial dinners on Castle Mount to understand the art of keeping his consumption of the potent Othinor beer as low as was diplomatically permissible: a sip where the others took a gulp, all the while pretending to be swilling the stuff down as lustily as everybody else. The wisdom of that tactic was confirmed when the beer mugs were cleared away and two bowls of finely polished stone were ostentatiously laid out on a long narrow table that had been set up at the foot of the throne. A high official of the court now entered, bearing a tall alabaster vessel, from which he carefully poured into each of the bowls a clear, bright fluid: a brandy or liqueur of some sort, evidently.

Sounds of awe and surprise could be heard around the room. Harpirias guessed that this must be some very special beverage indeed, something consumed only on the most momentous of ceremonial occasions: the coronation of a king, say, or the birth of a royal heir. Or the consummation of a treaty with a fellow monarch, Harpirias supposed.

Slowly and majestically Toikella descended from his throne, walked to the table that held the bowls, picked one of them up in both his hands. The king looked strangely grim and tense. All this evening the king had seemed uncharacteristically bleak and edgy and withdrawn, even during the dancing, even during the noisiest part of the feasting; but now his expression was positively funereal. Which was very much out of keeping with the presumable joyousness of the moment.

What was bothering him? What had become of his natural exuberance, his colossal profligate vitality?

He stared across at Harpirias, then at the bowl that remained at the table. The meaning was clear enough; Harpirias rose, went to the table, lifted his bowl in both hands as Toikella had done. Then he waited. Toikella’s great bulk loomed oppressively over him. Harpirias felt dwarfed by the king, disturbingly overshadowed. And the king’s black glare bothered him most of all.

Was there poison in his bowl? Was that why Toikella had turned so edgy as he waited for Harpirias to take the fatal draught?

But that was nonsense, Harpirias knew. Both bowls had been filled from the same vessel. Toikella would not be planning a joint suicide as the climax of this evening’s festivities.

The king raised his bowl to his lips. Harpirias did the same. For a moment the king’s eyes met those of Harpirias across the rim of the bowl: they had a baleful look, a look of barely contained anger. Something is very wrong here, Harpirias thought. He glanced over uncertainly at Ivla Yevikenik. She smiled and nodded; she mimed lifting the bowl and drinking. Would she betray him? No. No. The bowl must be safe.

He took a tentative sip.

The stuff was like liquid fire. Harpirias felt it burning a track to the bottom of his gut. He gasped, steeled himself, cautiously took a second sip. Toikella had already drained his bowl: no doubt he was expected to do likewise. The second jolt was easier. Already Harpirias could feel his head beginning to swim a little. Much still remained in the bowl. Would it be a dire loss of face if he failed to drink it all down? He was the personal representative of the Coronal, after all. In Toikella’s eyes he was the Coronal. He could not allow himself to disgrace the honor of Majipoor before these barbarians.

He gulped and gulped again, and a third gulp gave him the last of the brandy. It hit with a frightful impact. His shoulders quivered violently_v almost convulsively. His head throbbed and whirled. For a moment he swayed and thought he would fall; but then he steadied himself and planted his feet firmly on the floor.

By the Lady, would the king fill those bowls again?

No, he would not. The Divine be thanked, Toikella was content with a single draught of the stuff!

'Treaty,' the king said gruffly. He still looked grim. 'Now we sign.'

'Yes,' said Harpirias. He fought back another shiver, another wobble. 'Now we sign.'

The two parchment scrolls were produced and arrayed side by side on the table before the throne. A chair made of bone was brought for the king, and another for Harpirias, and they too sat side by side, looking out at the assembled grandees of the Othinor. Korinaam stood just behind Harpirias in his role as interpreter and adviser, and Mankhelm took up the same position in back of the king.

Toikella, seizing one scroll in his immense paws and holding it high, scrutinized it line by line as though he could actually read it; then, with a grunt, he put it down, picked up the other copy, and began to give it the same survey. Harpirias noted with some satisfaction that the king was reading this one upside down.

'Everything good?' Harpirias asked him.

'Everything good, yes. We sign.'

Korinaam handed Harpirias a stylus that had already been inked. The Shapeshifter leaned forward and said, in a low cutting voice, 'You see the place where you must sign, do you not, your lordship?'

'I have no intention of signing the name of—'

'Sign, lordship. Quickly. You must. There is no alternative.'

In quick angry strokes Harpirias wrote in at the bottom of the scroll the name that was required of him there: Ambinole Coronal Lord. It seemed monstrous to him, almost blasphemous. He stared at the fraudulent signature for an instant; and then, before Korinaam could object, he added underneath, Harpirias of Muldemar, on Lord Ambinole’s behalf. Let King Toikella make of that whatever he would — or could.

He gave the signed scroll to the king, and received the other in return. Toikella had painstakingly inscribed a bold, jagged, illiterate scribble in the lower left corner. Opposite it Harpirias once more wrote the Coronal’s name, and once more added his own beneath.

It was done. The treaty was signed.

'Goszmar,' Harpirias said. 'The hostages, now.'

'Goszmar,' Toikella grunted, nodding brusquely. And signaled; and the feasting-hall door was thrown open, and the nine prisoners of the ice-cave came marching uncertainly in, the wild-eyed figure of Salvinor Hesz leading the group.

He rushed to Harpirias and fell to his knees. 'Are we really free?'

Harpirias indicated the two scrolls before him on the table. 'Everything’s signed and sealed. We’ll leave here first thing in the morning.'

'Free! Free at last! And the fossils — I saw them sitting outside the hall, prince, the whole collection! Will they be returned also?'

'The Othinor wall provide porters to carry them to the floaters that we have parked outside the village,' Harpirias said.

'Free! Free! Can it really be?' In a desperate frenzy the paleontologists embraced one another. Some seemed almost manic with glee; some seemed to be having trouble believing that their captivity was ending.

Harpirias said, 'Give these men meat and drink. This is their celebration too!'

Toikella acceded with a surly wave of his hand. More beer was poured; more platters of meat were brought. But Harpirias saw that the king had drawn aside and stood sulkily watching, taking no part in the festivity.

Was Toikella planning some treachery as the culmination of the feast? Did that account for his strange brooding mood, for the air of tension that had surrounded him all evening?

Harpirias said quietly to Ivla Yevikenik, 'Your father — what troubles him tonight?'

The girl hesitated. He could see her searching for words.

'Nothing troubles him tonight,' she said finally.

'He is not like himself.'

'He is tired. He is — yes, that is it. He is tired.'

She made hardly any effort at all to sound convincing.

'No,' Harpirias said. He stared angrily at his fingertips and cursed the limitations of his Othinor vocabulary. Then, looking intensely into her eyes, he said, 'Tell me the truth, Ivla Yevikenik. Something is bad here. What is it?'

'He is — afraid.'

'Afraid? Him? Of what?'

A long pause. Then: 'You. Your people. Your weapons.'

'He shouldn’t be. There’s a treaty now. We guarantee the safety and freedom of the Othinor.'

'You guarantee it, yes,' the girl said. And the bitter inflection of her tone explained everything to Harpirias.