Collected Short Fiction, page 1097
We found him in mid-afternoon of the day after his disappearance. He was in a house in the district known as Stiamot’s Teeth in the first ring of the Labyrinth and he was disguised in women’s clothes. We might never have found him at all but for some quarrel over an unpaid bill, which brought proctors to the scene, and when the Pontifex was unable to identify himself satisfactorily and a man’s voice was heard coming from a supposed woman the proctors had the sense to summon me, and I hurried to take custody of him. He looked appallingly strange in his robes and his bangles, but he greeted me calmly by name, acting perfectly composed and rational, and said he hoped he had not caused me great inconvenience.
I expected Guadeloom to demote me. But the Duke was in a forgiving mood, or else he was too bound up in the larger crisis to care about my lapse, for he said nothing whatever about the fact that I had let the Pontifex get out of his bedchamber. “Lord Struin arrived this morning,” Guadeloom told me, looking harried and weary. “Naturally he wanted to meet with the Pontifex at once, but we told him that Arioc was asleep and it was unwise to disturb him—this while half my people were out searching for him. It pains me to lie to the Coronal, Calintane.”
“The Pontifex is genuinely asleep in his chambers now,” I said.
“Yes. Yes. And there he will stay, I think.”
“I will make every effort to see to that.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Guadeloom. “The Pontifex Arioc is plainly out of his mind. Crawling through laundry chutes, creeping around the city at night, decking himself out in female finery—it goes beyond mere eccentricity, Calintane. Once we have this business of the new Lady out of the way, I’m going to propose that we confine him permanently to his quarters under strong guard—for his own protection, Calintane, his own protection—and hand the pontifical duties over to a regency. There’s precedent for that. I’ve been through the records. When Barhold was Pontifex he fell ill of swamp fever and it affected his mind, and—”
“Sir,” I said, “I don’t believe the Pontifex is insane.”
Guadeloom frowned. “How else could you characterize one who does what he’s been doing?”
“They are the acts of a man who has been king too long, and whose soul rebels against all that he must continue to bear. But I have come to know him well, and I venture to say that what he expresses by these escapades is a torment of the soul, but not any kind of madness.”
It was an eloquent speech and, if I have to say it myself, courageous, for I am a junior counsellor and Guadeloom was at that moment the third most powerful figure in the realm, behind only Arioc and Lord Struin. But there comes a time when one must put diplomacy and ambition and guile aside, and simply speak the plain truth; and the idea of confining the unhappy Pontifex like a common lunatic, when he already suffered great pain from his confinement in the Labyrinth alone, was horrifying to me. Guadeloom was silent a long while and I suppose I should have been frightened, speculating whether I would be dismissed altogether from his service or simply sent down to the record-keeping halls to spend the remainder of my life shuffling papers, but I was calm, totally calm, as I awaited his reply.
Then came a knock at the door: a messenger, bearing a note sealed with the great starburst that was the Coronal’s personal seal. Duke Guadeloom ripped it open and read the message and read it again, and read it a third time, and I have never seen such a look of incredulity and horror pass over a human face as crossed his then. His hands were shaking; his face was without color.
He looked at me and said in a strangled voice, “This is in the Coronal’s own hand, informing me that the Pontifex has left his quarters and has gone to the Place of Masks, where he has issued a decree so stupefying that I cannot bring myself to frame the words with my own lips.” He handed me the note. “Come,” he said, “I think we should hasten to the Place of Masks.”
He ran out, and I followed, trying desperately to glance at the note as I went. But Lord Struin’s handwriting is jagged and difficult, and Guadeloom was moving with phenomenal speed, and the corridors were winding and the way poorly lit; so I could only get a snatch of the content here and there, something about a proclamation, a new Lady designated, an abdication. Whose abdication if not that of the Pontifex Arioc? Yet he had said to me out of the depths of his spirit that it would be cowardice to turn his back on the destiny that had chosen him to be a Power of the realm.
Breathless I came to the Place of Masks, a zone of the Labyrinth that I find disturbing at the best of times, for the great slit-eyed faces that rise on those gleaming marble plinths seem to me figures out of nightmare. Guadeloom’s footsteps clattered on the stone floor, and mine doubled the sound of his a good way behind, for though he was more than twice my age he was moving like a demon. Up ahead I heard shouts, laughter, applause. And then I saw a gathering of perhaps a hundred fifty citizens, among whom I recognized several of the chief ministers of the Pontificate. Guadeloom and I barged into the group and halted only when we saw figures in the green-and-gold uniform of the Coronal’s service, and then the Coronal himself. Lord Struin looked furious and dazed at the same time, a man in shock.
“There is no stopping him,” the Coronal said hoarsely. “He goes from hall to hall, repeating his proclamation. Listen: he begins again!”
And I saw the Pontifex Arioc at the head of the group, riding on the shoulders of a colossal Skandar servant. His majesty was dressed in flowing white robes of the female style, with a splendid brocaded border, and on his breast lay a glowing red jewel of wondrous immensity and radiance.
“Whereas a vacancy has developed among the Powers of Majipoor!” cried the Pontifex in a marvelously robust voice. “And whereas it is needful that a new Lady of the Isle of Sleep! Be appointed herewith and swiftly! So that she may minister to the souls of the people! By appearing in their dreams to give aid and comfort! And! Whereas! It is my earnest desire! To yield up the burden of the Pontificate that I have borne these twelve years! Therefore—
“I do herewith! Using the supreme powers at my command! Proclaim that I be acclaimed hereafter as a member of the female sex! And as Pontifex I do name as Lady of the Isle the woman Arioc, formerly male!”
“Madness,” muttered Duke Guadeloom.
“This is the third time I have heard it, and still I cannot believe it,” said the Coronal Lord Struin.
“—and do herewith simultaneously abdicate my pontifical throne! And call upon the dwellers of the Labyrinth! To fetch for the Lady Arioc a chariot! To transport her to the port of Stoien! And thence to the Isle of Sleep so that she may bring her consolations to you all!”
And in that moment the gaze of Arioc turned toward me, and his eyes for an instant met mine. He was flushed with excitement and his forehead gleamed with sweat. He recognized me, and he smiled, and he winked, an undeniable wink, a wink of joy, a wink of triumph. Then he was carried away out of my sight.
“This must be stopped,” Guadeloom said.
Lord Struin shook his head. “Listen to the cheering! They love it. The crowd grows larger as he goes from level to level. They’ll sweep him up to the top and out the Mouth of Blades and off to Stoien before this day is out.”
“You are Coronal,” said Guadeloom. “Is there nothing you can do?”
“Overrule the Pontifex, whose every command I have sworn to serve? Commit treason before hundreds of witnesses? No, no, no, Guadeloom, what’s done is done, preposterous as it may be, and now we must live with it.”
“All hail the Lady Arioc!” a booming voice bellowed.
“All hail! The Lady Arioc! All hail! All hail!”
I watched in utter disbelief as the procession moved on through the Place of Masks, heading for the Hall of Winds or the Court of Pyramids beyond. We did not follow, Guadeloom and the Coronal and I. Numb, silent, we stood motionless as the cheering, gesticulating figures disappeared. I was abashed to be among these great men of our realm at so humiliating a moment. It was absurd and fantastic, this abdication and appointment of a Lady, and they were shattered by it.
At length Guadeloom said thoughtfully, “If you accept the abdication as valid, Lord Struin, then you are Coronal no longer, but must make ready to take up residence here in the Labyrinth, for you are now our Pontifex.”
Those words fell upon Lord Struin like mighty boulders. In the frenzy of the moment he had evidently not thought Arioc’s deed through even to its first consequence.
His mouth opened but no words came forth. He opened and closed his hands as though making the starburst gesture in his own honor, but I knew it was only an expression of bewilderment. I felt shivers of awe, for it is no small thing to witness a transfer of succession, and Struin was wholly unprepared for it. To give up the joys of Castle Mount in the midst of life, to exchange its brilliant cities and splendid forests for the gloom of the Labyrinth, to put aside the starburst crown for the senior diadem—no, he was not ready at all, and as the truth of it came home to him his face turned ashen and his eyelids twitched madly.
After a very long while he said, “So be it, then. I am the Pontifex. And who, I ask you, is to be Coronal in my place?”
I suppose it was a rhetorical question. Certainly I gave no answer, and neither did Duke Guadeloom.
Angrily, roughly, Struin said again, “Who is to be Coronal? I ask you!”
His gaze was on Guadeloom.
I tell you, I was near to destroyed by being witness of these events, that will never be forgotten if our civilization lasts another ten thousand years. But how much more of an impact all this must have had on them! Guadeloom fell back, spluttering. Since Arioc and Lord Struin both were relatively young men, little speculation on the succession to their thrones had taken place; and though Guadeloom was a man of power and majesty, I doubt that he had ever expected himself to reach the heights of Castle Mount, and certainly not in any such way as this. He gaped like a gaffed gromwark and could not speak, and in the end it was I who reacted first, going down on my knee, making the starburst to him, crying out in a choked voice, “Guadeloom! Lord Guadeloom! Hail, Lord Guadeloom! Long life to Lord Guadeloom!”
Never again will I see two men so astonished, so confused, so instantly altered, as were the former Lord Struin now Pontifex and the former Duke Guadeloom now Coronal. Struin was stormy-faced with rage and pain, Lord Guadeloom half broken with amazement.
There was another huge silence.
Then Lord Guadeloom said in an oddly quavering voice, “If I am Coronal, custom demands that my mother be named the Lady of the Isle, is that not so?”
“How old is your mother?” Struin asked.
“Quite old. Ancient, one could say.”
“Yes. And neither prepared for the tasks of the Ladyship nor strong enough to bear them.”
“True,” said Lord Guadeloom.
Struin said, “Besides, we have a new Lady this day, and it would not do to select another so soon. Let us see how well her Ladyship Arioc conducts herself in Inner Temple before we seek to put another in her place, eh?”
“Madness,” said Lord Guadeloom.
“Madness indeed,” said the Pontifex Struin. “Come, let us go to the Lady, and see her safely off to her Isle.”
I went with them to the upper reaches of the Labyrinth, where we found ten thousand people hailing Arioc while he or she, barefoot and in splendid robes, made ready to board the chariot that would conduct her or him to the port of Stoien. It was impossible to get close to Arioc, so close was the press of bodies. “Madness,” said Lord Guadeloom over and over. “Madness, madness!”
But I knew otherwise, for I had seen Arioc’s wink and I understood it completely. This was no madness at all. The Pontifex Arioc had found his way out of the Labyrinth, which was his heart’s desire. Future generations, I am sure, will think of him as a synonym for folly and absurdity; but I know that he was altogether sane, a man to whom the crown had become an agony and whose honor forbade him simply to retire into private life.
And so it is, after yesterday’s strange events, that we have a Pontifex and a Coronal and a Lady, and they are none of them the ones we had last month, and now you understand, beloved Silimoor, all that has befallen our world.
Calintane finished speaking and took a long draught of his wine. Silimoor was staring at him with an expression that seemed to him a mixture of pity and contempt and sympathy.
“You are like small children,” she said at last, “with your titles and your royal courts and your bonds of honor. Nevertheless I understand, I think, what you have experienced and how it has unsettled you.”
“There is one thing more,” said Calintane.
“Yes?”
“The Coronal Lord Guadeloom, before he took to his chambers to begin the task of comprehending these transformations, appointed me his chancellor. He will leave next week for Castle Mount. And I must be at his side, naturally.”
“How splendid for you,” said Silimoor coolly.
“I ask you therefore to join me there, to share my life at the Castle,” he said as measuredly as he could.
Her dazzling turquoise eyes stared frostily into his.
“I am native to the Labyrinth,” she answered. “I love dearly to dwell in its precincts.”
“Is that my answer, then?”
“No,” said Silimoor. “You will have your answer later. Much like your Pontifex and your Coronal, I require time to accustom myself to great changes.”
“Then you have answered!”
“Later,” she said, and thanked him for the wine and for the tale he had told, and left him at the table. Calintane eventually rose, and wandered like a spectre through the depths of the Labyrinth in an exhaustion beyond all exhaustion, and heard the people buzzing as the news spread—Arioc the Lady now, Struin the Pontifex, Guadeloom the Coronal—and it was to him like the droning of insects in his ears. He went to his chamber and tried to sleep, but no sleep came, and he fell into gloom over the state of his life, fearing that this sour period of separation from Silimoor had done fatal harm to their love, and that despite her oblique hint to the contrary she would reject his suit. But he was wrong. For, a day later, she sent word that she was ready to go with him, and when Calintane took up his new residence at Castle Mount she was at his side, as she still was many years later when he succeeded Lord Guadeloom as Coronal. His reign in that post was short but cheerful, and during his time he accomplished the construction of the great highway at the summit of the Mount that bears his name; and when in old age he returned to the Labyrinth as Pontifex himself it was without the slightest surprise, for he had lost all capacity for surprise that day long ago when the Pontifex Arioc had proclaimed himself to be the Lady of the Isle.
Voriax and Valentine
Of all the vicarious lives Hissune has experienced in the Register of Souls, that of Inyanna Forlana seems perhaps the closest to his heart. In part it is because she is a woman of modern times and so the world in which she dwelled seems less alien to him than those of the soul-painter or the sea-captain or Thesme of Narabal But the main reason Hissune feels kinship with the one-time shopkeeper of Velathys is that she began with practically nothing, and lost even that, and nevertheless came to achieve power and grandeur and, Hissune suspects, a measure of contentment He understands that the Divine helps those who helped themselves, and Inyanna seems much like him in that respect Of course, luck was with her—she caught the attention of the right people at the right moment, and they saw her nicely along her journey; but does one not also shape one’s own luck? Hissune, who had been in the right place when Lord Valentine in his wanderings came to the Labyrinth years ago, believes that He wonders what surprises and delights fortune has in store for him, and how he can better shape his own destinies to achieve something higher than the clerkship in the Labyrinth that has been his lot so long. He is eighteen, now, and that seems very old for commencing his rise to greatness. But he reminds himself that Inyanna, at his age, was peddling clay pots and bolts of cloth on the wrong side of Velathys, and she came to inherit Nissimom Prospect. No telling what waits for him. Why, at any moment Lord Valentine might send for him—Lord Valentine, who arrived at the Labyrinth the week before, and is lodged now in those luxurious chambers reserved for the Coronal when he is in residence at the capital of the Pontificate—Lord Valentine might summon him and say,“Hissune, you’ve served long enough in this grubby place. From now on you live beside me on Castle Mount!”
At any moment, yes. But Hissune has heard nothing from the Coronal and expects to hear nothing. It is a pretty fantasy, but he will not torment himself with false hopes. He goes about his dreary work and mulls all that he has learned in the Register of Souls, and a day or two after sharing the life of the thief of Ni-moya he returns to the Register and with the greatest boldness he has ever displayed he inquires of the archival index whether there is on file a recording of the soul of Lord Valentine. It is impudence, he knows, and dangerous tempting of fate; Hissune will not be surprised if lights flash and bells ring and armed guards come to seize the prying young upstart who without the slightest shred of authority is attempting to penetrate the mind and spirit of the Coronal himself. What does surprise him is the actual event: the vast machine simply informs him that a single record of Lord Valentine is available, made long ago, in his earliest manhood. Hissune, shameless, does not hesitate. Quickly he punches the activator keys.
