“And is that claim generally accepted here?” Septach Melayn asked.
Simbilon Khayf shrugged. “Perhaps by some very simple folk, I suppose. Most of the citizenry understand that this is only Thiwid Karsp’s son, who has gone insane with grief.”
“The poor man,” said Septach Melayn, and made a holy sign.
“Ah, not so poor, not so poor! I am banker to the family, and it is no great breach of confidence when I tell you that the vaults of the Karsps overflow with hundred-royal coins the way the skies overflow with stars. He spent a small fortune on that ship of his, did Garstin Karsp. And hired a huge crew to sail it nightly up and down our river for him while he terrifies the riverboat men. Some nights he tosses rich purses full of coins to the boats he passes, and other nights he ploughs right through them as though they aren’t visible. No one knows what his mood will be from one night to the next, so everyone flees when his craft approaches.”
“And yet the Count spares him,” Prestimion said.
“Out of pity, for the young man has suffered so from the loss of his father.”
“And the boatmen whose livelihood he wrecks? What about their sufferings?”
“They are compensated by the Count, so I understand.”
“We lost our own merchandise. Who will compensate us? Shall we apply to the Count?”
“Perhaps you should,” said Simbilon Khayf, frowning a little, as though Prestimion’s sudden forcefulness of speech had indicated to him that he was not quite so humble a person as he had previously shown himself to be.—"Oh, I agree, my man, this can’t be allowed to go on much longer. So far no one has actually been drowned; but before long someone will, and then Fisiolo will tell the boy that it’s time to end this masquerade, and he’ll quietly be sent away for treatment somewhere, and things will get back to normal on the river.”
“I pray they do,” said Septach Melayn.
“For the time being,” Simbilon Khayf went on, “it would appear that we have a Coronal of our very own amongst us in Stee, and so be it, such as he is. As my daughter mentioned, many things are not right nowadays. The sad incident in our household here is evidence of that.” He rose from his little throne. The interview, quite clearly, was ending. “I regret the inconvenience you suffered on the river,” he said, though there was not a shred of regret in his tone. “If you will be so good as to return with a new model of your device, and make another appointment with my people, we’ll see about making an investment in your company. Good day, gentlemen.”
“Shall I show them out, father?” Varaile asked.
“Gawon Barl will do it,” said Simbilon Khayf, clapping for the servant who had brought him his chair.
“Well, at least we have no conspiracy in this city to unseat me,” Prestimion said, when they were outside. “Only a wealthy lunatic whom Count Fisiolo unwisely indulges in his insanity. There’s some relief in knowing that, eh? We’ll send word to Fisiolo when we get back that these crazy voyages of young Karsp must come to an end. And all his talk of his being Lord Prestimion, as well.”
“So much madness everywhere,” Septach Melayn murmured. “What can be going on?”
“Did you notice,” said Gialaurys, “that we were here simply to ask for a loan, and very quickly he was talking of ‘making an investment’ ? If we actually had a company that produced anything worthwhile, I see, he’d have controlling ownership of it in short order. I think I understand more clearly now how he came by such great wealth so swiftly.”
“Men of his sort are not famous for gentle business dealings,” said Prestimion.
“Ah, but the daughter, the daughter!” said Septach Melayn. “Now, there’s gentility for you, my lord!”
“You’re quite taken by her, are you?” Prestimion asked.
“I? Yes, in an abstract way, for I respond to beauty and grace wherever I find it. But you know I feel little need for the company of women. It was you, I thought—you, Prestimion—who’d come away from there singing her praises the loudest.”
“She is a very beautiful woman,” Prestimion agreed. “And marvelously well bred, for the child of such a boorish rogue. But I have other matters on my mind than the beauty of women just now, my friend. The Procurator’s trial, for one. The famines in the war-smitten districts. And also these strange incidents of madness cropping up again and again. This kinsman of Count Fisiolo’s, this other Lord Prestimion, who’s allowed to go free to terrorize the river! Who’s the bigger madman, I wonder, the boy who says he’s me, or Fisiolo who tolerates his lunacy?—Come. Let’s find a hostelry; and in the morning it’s on to Hoikmar, eh? We may discover three Prestimions holding court there!”
“And a couple of Confalumes as well,” said Septach Melayn.
From the window of her third-floor bedroom the daughter of Simbilon Khayf followed the three visitors with her eyes as they made their way across the cobbled plaza and into the public park beyond.
There was something unusual about each of them, Varaile thought, that set them apart from most of the men who came here to get money from her father. The one who was so very tall and slender, whose movements were as graceful as a dancer’s: he spoke like a bumpkin, but it was plainly only a pretense. In reality he was sharp and quick, that one—you could see it in that piercing blue stare of his, which took in everything at a glance and filed it away for future use. And sly and cunning too; there was a note of mockery underlying everything he said, however straightforward it was meant to seem on the surface—a shrewd and playful and perhaps very dangerous man. And the second one, the big man who had said very little, but spoke with that thick Zimroel accent when he did: how strong he seemed, what a sense of tremendous power under tight restraint he showed! He was like a great rock.
And then, that third man, the short broad-shouldered one. How compelling his eyes were! How magnificent his face, though the oddly inappropriate beard and mustache did him no credit. I suspect he would be quite beautiful without them, though, Varaile thought. He is a splendid man. There is a lordly presence about him. It is hard for me to believe that such a man is merely a dreary merchant, a grubby manufacturer of accounting devices. He seems so much more than that. So very much more.
11
They went up the Mount to the ring of Guardian Cities, with Hoikmar as their first stop. There, in a public garden abloom with tanigales and crimson eldirons, alongside a quiet canal bordered by short red-tinged grass soft as thanga fur, they encountered a beggar, a ragged and tattered old gray-haired man, who gripped Prestimion’s wrist with one hand and that of Septach Melayn with the other and said with a strange urgency in his voice, “My lords, my lords, give me a moment’s heed. I have a box of money for sale at a good price. A very good price indeed.”
His eyes were bright with a look of great intensity and even, perhaps, keen intelligence. And yet he wore a beggar’s foul rags, torn and stinking. An old pale-red scar crossed the entirety of his left cheek and vanished near the corner of his mouth. Septach Melayn glanced across the top of the man’s head to Prestimion and smiled crookedly as though to say, Here we have another sorry madman, I think, and Prestimion, distressed by the thought, nodded solemnly.
“A box of money for sale?” he said. “What can you mean by that?”
The old man meant just that, apparently. He brought forth from a shabby cloth bag at his waist a rusted strongbox, much encrusted with soil and bound with sturdy straps of faded crumbling leather. Which he opened to reveal that the box was packed to its brim with coins of high denomination, dozens of them, royals and five-royal pieces and a few tens. He dug his gnarled fingers into the horde and stirred the coins about, making a silvery chinking sound. “How pretty they are! And they are yours, my lords, at whatever price you care to pay.”