The two flagships lined up broadside. Kelmag Volvol clambered into a wickerwork transport basket. A thick rope that culminated in a massive curved blubber-hook, normally used in the butchering of sea-dragons, was lowered from the rigging and the hook was fastened to the basket. The rope then was hoisted by pulleys so that the basket containing Lord
Mayor Kelmag Volvol was lifted aloft and swung outward over the rail of the ship. Slowly and steadily it traveled through the gap separating the vessels, Kelmag Volvol standing solemnly upright all the while, and neatly deposited him beside the capstan head on the deck of the Lord Stiamot.
Dekkeret lifted both his hands in greeting. The towering Skandar, nearly half again as tall as the Coronal, knelt before him and saluted once more.
“My lord, you are welcome to Piliplok. Our city rejoices at your presence.”
Protocol now called for an exchange of small gifts. The Skandar had brought a surprisingly delicate necklace fashioned from finely interwoven sea-dragon bones, which Dekkeret placed around Fulkari’s neck, and Dekkeret offered him a rich brocaded mantle of Makroposopos manufacture, purple and green with the royal starburst and monogram at its center.
The ceremonial sharing of food in the Coronal’s cabin was the next order of ritual. This posed certain technical difficulties, since the Lord Stiamot had not been designed with Skandars in mind, and Kelmag Volvol could barely manage to negotiate the companionway that led belowdecks. And he had to stoop and crane his neck to fit within the royal cabin itself, which was roomy enough for Dekkeret and Fulkari but which the Lord Mayor Kelmag Volvol filled practically to overflowing. Septach Melayn and Gialaurys, who had accompanied them below, were forced to stand in the passage outside.
“I must begin this meeting with troublesome news, my lord,” the Skandar said as soon as the formalities were over.
“Concerning Ni-moya, is it?”
“Concerning Ni-moya, yes,” said Kelmag Volvol. He threw an uneasy glance toward the two men outside.—“It is a highly sensitive matter, my lord.”
“Nothing that needs to be hidden from the Grand Admiral Gialaurys and the High Spokesman Septach Melayn, I think,” Dekkeret replied.
“Well, then.” Kelmag Volvol looked acutely uncomfortable. “It is this, and I regret to be the bearer of such tidings. Your journey onward to Ni-moya: I must advise you against it. A cordon has been placed around the city and the territory immediately surrounding it, to a distance of some three hundred miles in all directions.”
Dekkeret nodded. It was as he had guessed: Mandralisca had reined in his original grandiose plans to claim all of Zimroel at the outset, and was limiting the sphere of his rebellion to an area he was easily capable of defending. But a rebellion was still a rebellion, even so.
“A cordon,” Dekkeret repeated thoughtfully, as though it were a mere nonsensical sound that conveyed nothing to him. “And what, I pray, does that mean, a cordon around Ni-moya?”
The pain in Kelmag Volvol’s great red-rimmed eyes was unmistakable. His four shoulders shifted about in keen embarrassment. “A zone, my lord, protected by military force, which officials of the imperial government are forbidden to enter, because it is now under the administration of the Lord Gaviral, Pontifex of Zimroel.”
A snort of astonishment came from Septach Melayn. “Pontifex, is he! Of Zimroel!”
And from Gialaurys: “We will flay him and nail his hide to the door of his own palace, my lord! We will—”
Dekkeret motioned to them both to be still.
“Pontifex,” he said, in the same wondering tone. “Not merely Procurator, the title his uncle Dantirya Sambail was content to hold, but Pon-tifex? Pontifex! Ah, very fine! Very bold!—He makes no claim to Prestimion’s own throne, does he? He is content only to rule over the western continent, our new Pontifex, beginning with the territory around Ni-moya? Why, then, I applaud his restraint!”
Skandars, Dekkeret remembered a moment too late, had virtually no capacity for irony. Kelmag Volvol reacted to Dekkeret’s lighthearted words with such a sputtering display of astonishment and distress that it was immediately necessary to assure him that the Coronal did indeed regard the developments in Ni-moya with the greatest concern.
“Which brother is this, this Gaviral?” Dekkeret said to Septach Melayn, who had lately been gathering information concerning these nephews of Dantirya Sambail.
“The eldest one. A small scheming man, with a certain rudimentary intelligence. The other four are little more than drunken beasts.”
“Yes,” said Dekkeret. “Like their father Gaviundar, the Procurator’s brother. I met him once, when he came to the Castle in Prestimion’s time as Coronal, sniveling after some favor having to do with land. An animal, he was. A great huge coarse vile-smelling hideous animal.”
“Who betrayed us at the battle of Stymphinor in the Korsibar war,” said Gialaurys darkly, “when Navigorn nearly cut our army to pieces and Gaviundar and his other brother Gaviad, our allies then, shamefully held back their troops. And his seed comes back to haunt us now!”
Dekkeret turned again to the Skandar, who looked baffled by all this talk of unknown battles, but was struggling to hide his confusion. “Tell me the rest of it. What territorial claims is this Gaviral actually making? Just Ni-moya, or is that only the beginning?”
“As we understand it down here,” Kelmag Volvol went on, “the Lord Gaviral—that is the title he uses, the Lord Gaviral—has decreed this entire continent independent of the imperial government. Ni-moya is apparently already under his control. Now he has sent ambassadors to the surrounding districts, explaining his purposes and asking for oaths of allegiance. A new constitution will shortly be announced. The Lord Gaviral soon will select the first Coronal of Zimroel. It is believed that he will name one of his brothers to the post.”
“Has the name of a certain Mandralisca been mentioned?” Dekkeret asked. “Does he figure in this in any way?”
“His signature was on the proclamation we received,” said Kelmag Volvol. “Count Mandralisca of Zimroel, yes, as privy counsellor to his majesty the Lord Gaviral.”
“Count, no less,” muttered Septach Melayn. “Count Mandralisca! Privy counsellor to his majesty the Pontifex Lord Gaviral! Has come a long way from the days when he was tasting the Procurator’s wine to see if it’d been poisoned, that one has!”
16
“You asked for me, your grace?” Thastain said.
Mandralisca nodded curtly. “Bring me the Shapeshifter, if you will, my good duke.”
“But he is gone, sir.”
“Gone? Gone?”
Mandralisca felt a momentary surge of fury and dismay so wildly intense that it astounded him with its force. Only for a moment; but in that moment it had seemed to him that he was being swept through the air in the teeth of a hurricane. It was a frightening overreaction, and not the first of its kind in recent days.
He hated these spells of soul-vertigo that had begun coming over him lately. He hated himself for succumbing to them. They were a mark of weakness.
The boy must see it, too. He was staring.
Mandralisca forced himself to say more calmly, “Gone where, Thastain?”
“Back to Piurifayne, I think, sir. Summoned home by the Danipiur to deliver his report, I believe.”