The Procurator was splendid in his ugliness: a heavy-bodied man of middle years, with a massive head set atop a thick neck and heavy shoulders. His face was pale, but spotted everywhere with a horde of brilliant red freckles. His hair was orange in hue, rank and coarse, forming a dense fringe around the high curving dome of his forehead. His chin was a powerful jutting one, his nose broad and fleshy, his mouth wide and savage, drawn far out to its corners. It was the face of some dire beast. But out of it stared strangely gentle violet-gray eyes, eyes improbably warm with tenderness and compassion and love. The contrast between the sensitivity of those eyes and the ferocity of his features was the most frightful thing about him: it marked him as a man who encompassed the whole range of human emotion and was willing to take any position at all in the service of his implacable desires.
He stood now in his customary posture, his great head thrust forward, his chest inflated defiantly, his short thick legs splayed apart to provide him with a base of maximum stability. Dantirya Sambail was ever in a mode of attack, even when at rest. In his native continent of Zimroel he had ruled virtually as an independent monarch from the vast city of Ni-moya over a domain of enormous size; but he had not been content with that, it seemed, and hungered for the throne of Majipoor also, or at least the right to name the man who held it. He and Prestimion were distant relatives, third cousins twice removed. They had always pretended to a cordiality between them that neither of them felt.
Some moments went by, and Prestimion did not speak.
Then Dantirya Sambail said, still in that quiet sardonic tone of formidable self-control, “Would you do me the honor, my lord, of telling me how much longer you plan to offer me your hospitality in this place?”
“That has not yet been determined, Dantirya Sambail.”
“There are duties of state awaiting me in Zimroel.”
“Undoubtedly so. But the question of your guilt and punishment must be answered first, before I can allow you to resume them. If ever I do.”
“Ah,” said Dantirya Sambail gravely, as though they were discussing the making of fine wines, or the breeding of bidlak bulls. “The question of my guilt, you say. And my punishment. What is it, then, that I’m guilty of? And what punishment, precisely, do you have in mind for me? Eh, my lord? It would be kind of you to explain these little things to me, I think.”
Prestimion gave Navigorn a quick sidelong glance. “I’d like to speak with the Procurator privately a moment, Navigorn.”
Navigorn frowned. He was armed; Prestimion was not. He shot a glance toward Dantirya Sambail’s discarded fetters. But Prestimion shook his head. Navigorn went out.
If Dantirya Sambail meant to attack him, Prestimion thought, this was the moment. The Procurator was bulkier by far than the relatively slight Prestimion and stood half a head taller. He seemed, though, to have no such madness in mind. He held himself as aggressively as before, but remained where he was, far across the room, his deceptively beautiful amethyst eyes regarding Prestimion with what looked like nothing more than amiable curiosity.
“I’m perfectly willing to believe that I’ve committed dreadful deeds, if you say I have,” said Dantirya Sambail equably, when the cell door had closed. “And if I have, why, then I suppose I should suffer some penalty for them. But why is it that I know nothing about them?”
Prestimion remained silent. He realized that his silence was beginning to extend too far. But this was all even more difficult than he had anticipated.
“Well?” Dantirya Sambail said, after a time. There was an edge on his tone, now. “Will you tell me, cousin, why it is that you’ve put me away down here? For what cause, by what law? I’ve committed no crime that merits any of this. Can it be just on the general suspicion that I’ll make some sort of trouble for you, now that you’re Coronal, that you’ve jailed me?”
Further procrastination was impossible. “It’s well known from one end of the world to the other, cousin,” said Prestimion, “that you’re a perpetual danger to the security of the realm and to the man who sits on the throne, whoever he may be. But that’s not the reason why you’re here.”
“And what is, then?”
“You are imprisoned not for anything you might do, but for things you have done. Namely, acts of treason against the crown and violence against my person.”
A look of total bewilderment crossed Dantirya Sambail’s face at that. He gaped and blinked and lowered his head as though the weight of it was suddenly too much for him to carry. Prestimion had never seen him look so utterly dum-founded. For a moment he felt something very close to sympathy for the man.
Hoarsely the Procurator said, “Are you insane, cousin?”
“Far from it. The peace was breached. Unlawful deeds were done. You happen to be without awareness of the sins of which you’re guilty, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean that they weren’t committed.”
“Ah,” said Dantirya Sambail again, without even the most minimal show of comprehension.
“There are wounds on your body, are there not? One here, and one here?” Prestimion touched his left armpit, and then ran his hand along the inside of his other arm from elbow to wrist.
“Yes,” said the Procurator grudgingly. “I meant to ask you about—”
“You received those wounds at my hands, when you and I fought on the field of battle.”
Dantirya Sambail slowly shook his head. “I don’t have any recollection of that. No. No. Such a thing never happened. You are insane, Prestimion. By the Divine! I’m the prisoner of a madman.”
“On the contrary, cousin. Everything that I tell you here is true. There were acts of treason; there was strife between us; I barely escaped with my life. Any other Coronal would have sentenced you to death for what you did without hesitating as long as a moment. For some unfathomable reason, perhaps growing out of our kinship, such as it is, I find myself unwilling to do that. But neither can I set you free—at least not without some understanding between us of your unquestioning loyalty henceforth. And would I trust that, even if you gave it?”
Color was coming to Dantirya Sambail’s face now, so that his myriad freckles stood out like the fiery marks of some irascible pox. His fingers were curling fretfully in a gesture of frustration and rising anger. An odd growling sound, distant and indistinct, seemed to be coming from the depths of his huge chest. It reminded Prestimion of nothing so much than the growl of the caged krokkotas in the midnight market of Bombifale. But Dantirya Sambail did not speak. Could not, perhaps, just then.
Prestimion went on: “The situation’s a very strange one, Dantirya Sambail. You have no knowledge of your crimes, that I know. But you should believe me when I tell you that you are guilty of them nevertheless.”
“My memory has been tampered with, is that the story?”
“I’ll not respond to that.”
“Then it has been. Why was that? How could you dare? Prestimion, Prestimion, Prestimion, do you think you’re a god of some sort, and I nothing more than an ant, that you can feel free to hurl me into prison under trumped-up charges, and to meddle with my mind in the bargain?—But enough of this farce. You want my loyalty? You can have as much of it as you deserve. I’ve been incredibly patient, Prestimion, all these days or weeks or months, or however long it is that you’ve had me in this place. Let me out of here, cousin, or there’ll be war between us. I have my supporters, you know, and they’re not few in number.”