And these dark dreams of his, these visions of chaos, and the strange omens—wind-spiders drifting over Alhanroel, and other such things—all of that instilled in him a sense of grim danger, of unique peril.
“My lord, Y-Uulisaan is here,” said Sleet.
The agricultural expert entered, looking hesitant and ill at ease. In an awkward way he began to make the starburst gesture that etiquette demanded. Valentine shook his head impatiently and beckoned Y-Uulisaan to take a seat. He pointed to the zone marked in red along the Dulorn Rift.
“How important a crop is lusavender?”
Y-Uulisaan said, “Essential, my lord. It forms the basis for carbohydrate assimilation in all of northern and western Zimroel.”
“And if severe shortages develop?”
“It might be possible to create diet supplements using such foods as stajja.”
“But there’s a stajja blight too!”
“Indeed, my lord. And milaile, which fulfills similar nutritional needs, is suffering from root weevils, as I have shown you. Therefore we can project general hardship in this entire sector of Zimroel within six to nine months—”
With the tip of a finger Y-Uulisaan drew a broad circle over the map covering a territory that ran almost from Ni-moya in the east to Pidruid on the western coast, and southward as far as Velathys. What was the population of that territory, Valentine wondered? Two and a half billion, perhaps? He tried to imagine two and a half billion hungry people, accustomed all their lives to a plentitude of food, crowding into the cities of Til-omon, Narabal, Pidruid—
Valentine said, “The imperial granaries will be able to meet the need in the short run. Meanwhile we’ll endeavor to get these blights under control. Lusavender smut was a problem a century or so ago, so I understand, and it was beaten then.”
“Through extreme measures, my lord. Whole provinces were quarantined. Entire farms were put to the torch, and afterward scraped bare of topsoil. The cost ran into the many millions of royals.”
“What does money matter when people are starving? We’ll do it again. If we begin an immediate program in the lusavender-growing regions, how long do you estimate it’ll take to return things to normal?”
Y-Uulisaan was silent a moment, rubbing his thumbs reflectively against his strangely broad and sharp cheekbones. At length he said:
“Five years, minimum. More likely ten.”
“Impossible!”
“The smut spreads swiftly. Probably a thousand acres have been infested during the time we have been talking this afternoon, my lord. The problem will be to contain it, before we can eradicate it.”
“And the niyk-tree disease? Is that spreading as fast?”
“Faster, my lord. And it appears to be linked to the decline of the stajja plants that are usually grown in conjunction with niyk.”
Valentine stared toward the cabin wall, and saw only a gray nothingness.
He said after a time, “Whatever this costs, we’ll defeat it. Y-Uulisaan, I want you to draw up a plan for countering each of these blights, and I want estimates of expense. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lord,”
To Sleet the Coronal said, “We’ll have to coordinate our efforts with those of the Pontificate. Tell Ermanar to open contact at once with the minister of agricultural affairs at the Labyrinth—find out what if anything he knows of what’s going on in Zimroel, what steps are proposed, and so forth.”
Tunigorn said, “My lord, I’ve just spoken with Ermanar. He’s already been in touch with the Pontificate.”
“And?”
“The ministry of agricultural affairs knows nothing. In fact the post of minister of agricultural affairs itself is currently vacant.”
“Vacant? How?”
Quietly Tunigorn said, “I understand that with the incapacitation of the Pontifex Tyeveras, many high posts have been left unfilled in recent years, my lord, and therefore a certain slowing of Pontifical functions has developed. But you can learn much more on this point from Ermanar himself, since he is our chief liaison with the Labyrinth. Shall I send for him?”
“Not at the moment,” said Valentine bleakly. He turned back to Y-Uulisaan’s maps. Running his finger up and down the length of the Dulorn Rift, he said, “The two worst problems seem to be concentrated in this area. But according to the charts, there are significant lusavender-growing zones elsewhere, in the flatlands between Thagobar and the northern boundaries of Piurifayne, and over here south of Ni-moya stretching down to the outskirts of Gihorna. Am I correct?”
“You are, my lord,” Y-Uulisaan said.
“Therefore our first line of priority must be to keep the lusavender smut out of those regions.” He looked up, at Sleet, Tunigorn, Deliamber. “Notify the dukes of the affected provinces at once that all traffic between the smut-infested zones and the healthy lusavender districts is halted at once: a complete closing of the borders. If they don’t like it, let them send a delegation to the Mount to complain to Elidath. Oh, and notify Elidath of what’s going on, too. Settlement of unpaid trade balances can be routed through Pontifical channels for the time being. Hornkast had better be told to be prepared for a lot of screaming, I suppose. Next: in the stajja-growing districts—”
For close to an hour a stream of instructions flowed from the Coronal, until every immediate aspect of the crisis appeared to be covered. He turned often to Y-Uulisaan for advice, and always the agricultural expert had something useful to offer. There was something curiously unlikable about the man, Valentine thought, something remote and chilly and overly self-contained, but he was plainly well versed in the minutiae of Zimroel agriculture, and it was a tremendous stroke of good luck that he had turned up in Alaisor just in time to sail for Zimroel with the royal flagship.
All the same, Valentine was left with an odd feeling of futility when the meeting broke up. He had given dozens of orders, had sent messages far and wide, had taken firm and decisive action to contain and eradicate these pestilences. And yet, and yet—he was only one mortal man, in a small cabin aboard a tiny ship tossing in the midst of an immense sea that was itself only a puddle on this gigantic world, and at this moment invisible organisms were spreading blight and death over thousands of acres of fertile farmland, and what could all his bold orders do against the inexorable march of those forces of doom? Yet again he felt himself slipping into a mood of hopeless depression, so alien to his true nature. Perhaps I have some pestilence in me, he thought. Perhaps I am infested with some blight that robs me of my hope and cheer and buoyancy, and I am condemned now to live out my days in sullen misery.
He closed his eyes. Once more came that image out of his dream in the Labyrinth, an image that haunted him endlessly: great crevasses appearing in the solid foundations of the world, and huge slabs of land rearing up at steep angles to crash against their neighbors, and he in the midst of it all, desperately trying to hold the world together. And failing, failing, failing.
Is there a curse on me? he wondered. Why am I chosen, out of all the hundreds of Coronals that have been, to preside over the destruction of our world?
He looked into his soul and found no dark sin there that might be bringing the vengeance of the Divine upon him and upon Majipoor. He had not coveted the throne; he had not schemed to overthrow his brother; he had not made wrongful use of the power he had never expected to gain; he had not—
He had not—
He had not—
Valentine shook his head angrily. This was foolishness and a waste of spirit. A few coincidental troubles among the farmers were occurring, and he had had a few bad dreams; it was preposterous to exaggerate that into some kind of dread cosmic calamity. All would be well in time. The pestilences would be contained. His reign would be known in history for unusual troubles, yes, but also for harmony, balance, happiness. You are a good king, he told himself. You are a good man. You have no reason to doubt yourself.