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  “We argued and settled this point before. Your presence is required at the coronation for the sake of your country’s honor. Kadiya’s talisman is safe enough in the depths. Anyone who attempts to touch it without her permission will surely die, and Portolanus with his star-box is nowhere near to it. Very likely, he does not even know that Kadi has lost it.”

  “Yes. You are surely right.”

  “It will take some time for Kadiya to return to the islands, even if she is able to hire a Zinoran boat. If she and her companions go by themselves, they will have to proceed with great caution, remaining within sight of land until they reach the northernmost of the Windlorns and then threading their way down to Council Isle. The place is over eight hundred leagues from Kurzwe even by the shortest route. You will certainly be able to overtake them in your fast ships even if you stay the entire coronation week.”

  “Yes, I agree. It will be easy enough to track her with the Three-Headed Monster … I presume you still have had no success in bespeaking Kadi.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Haramis admitted. “I have tried time and again without result. My predecessor, Binah, was certainly able to bespeak humans and Folk across the leagues, but she had many more years of practice than I. When Kadiya is without her talisman, I cannot speak to her, although I can see and hear her clearly.”

  Anigel was hesitant. “As I viewed her just now I could not help but share her misery and wish her good cheer. She—she seemed to have some inkling of my thoughts.”

  “Is that so! Perhaps it is your deep love and sense of compassion that give impetus to your mental speech. I confess that I have been vexed with Kadi of late, and no doubt this affects my concentration. Sometimes I despair that I shall ever learn to be a proper Archimage. I study and study, but when it comes to using magic, I fail too often.”

  “What nonsense! The old White Lady chose you.”

  “Perhaps she only picked the least flawed in a basket of unpromising fruit … But I should not bother you with my plaguey self-doubts. I shall keep a sharp eye on all of the participants in the upcoming drama, and I will inform you if any nefarious schemes seem about to blossom. Blessings on thee, little Sister, and fare thee well.”

  As the vision of Haramis faded, so did Anigel’s glow of good humor and hope. In a brown study, she stared over the ship’s stern, beyond the three other Laboruwendian vessels and on to the horizon and the tall headland they had recently rounded.

  Another ship was just now entering the wide Bay of Pearls. A ship so white that it was easily visible even though it must be five leagues distant. She could not take her eyes off it, and followed its progress as though mesmerized, until King Antar came a quarter hour later, to kiss away her unease and take her off to the midday meal.

  5

  Little Prince Tolivar, out of sorts after enduring the lengthy Zinoran coronation ceremony at the Temple of the Mother, flew into a wild temper tantrum and refused to let Immu dress him when he learned that his older brother, Nikalon, would wear a miniature sword at the coronation ball, while he would not.

  “Niki always gets the best things, just because he’s Crown Prince,” the eight-year-old wept. “It’s not fair! If I can’t have a sword, I won’t go!”

  Then he ran away, forcing the domestic servants to pursue him upstairs and down, and in and out of the scores of rooms in the Laboruwendian embassy at Taloazin, while the coach waited outside and the King and Queen fumed at the delay. A pair of valiant footmen finally hauled the boy out of his hiding place in the wine cellar and held him tight, still shrieking, as Immu put him into his purple brocade suit. By then King Antar was so angry with his rebellious little son that by way of punishment he declared that Tolo would not get to use the magic telescope on the voyage home.

  “You hate me!” the furious boy cried out to his father, tears pouring down his cheeks. “You always treat Niki better than me. I’ll run away to Raktum and be a pirate, and then you’ll wish you’d let me wear a sword!”

  The distraught parents bustled Tolo and the other two children into the coach and had the driver whip up the fronials. As it was, they were the last royal party to arrive at the new riverside pleasure palace where the ball was to be held. In the crowded antechamber of the ballroom, Anigel and Antar put the children temporarily into the charge of Lord Penapat and his wife Lady Sharice, then hurried off with an anxious Zinoran usher to find their places in the Procession of Felicitation.

  “Why can’t we go in with Mama and Papa?” Tolo demanded petulantly.

  “Because it’s not our turn yet,” retorted Prince Nikalon. “Stop acting like a spoiled brat.”

  “You three royal children will go in after the kings and queens and other leaders,” Lady Sharice said brightly. “Now come along with me and Uncle Peni. We have a special place where we can stand and watch the new King of Zinora greet his most honored guests.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much fun,” Tolo muttered.

  “It’s not supposed to be fun,” Princess Janeel told him. “It’s your duty. After the procession is over, we can eat and dance and enjoy ourselves. But first you have to behave yourself for a little while.”

  The Princess took one of Tolo’s hands and Lady Sharice took the other, and between them they dragged the little boy into an enclosure fenced off with blue satin ropes. There, a crowd of other gorgeously dressed royal siblings and exalted nobles had gathered, both children and adults, most of them chattering and giggling. Tolo, his face set in a black glower, plumped himself down on the polished marble floor in the midst of the oblivious throng.

  “I’m going to sit right here,” he said, ignoring Lady Sharice’s scandalized pleas.

  Lord Penapat bent over and began scolding the boy, but an instant later he broke off and straightened, Tolo and his naughtiness forgotten, as someone hissed loudly:

  “The sorcerer! Look—it’s Portolanus of Tuzamen coming in!”

  Tolo was on his feet in an instant. “Uncle Peni, lift me up! I want to see the sorcerer!”

  “Certainly, lad.” Penapat swung the boy to his shoulder. “There he is, just coming in the door. Zoto’s Tripes! What a sight he is!”

  “Ohhh!” Tolo had gone wide-eyed with awe. “Will he do magic tonight?”

  “I’m sure he will,” said Lady Sharice, uttering a giddy little laugh. “Oh, yes. I’m quite sure he will!”

  “It must be very fine to be a sorcerer.” Tolo sighed. “Nobody could ever make a sorcerer do something he didn’t want to … Perhaps I’ll be a sorcerer when I grow up instead of a pirate.”

  Lord Penapat put the boy down, laughing. “What an outlandish notion!”

  “Just you wait,” Tolo said. But then he was caught up in the excitement of the coronation ball’s beginning, and he forgot all about what he had said.

  Portolanus had deliberately refrained from attending the preliminary round of galas and parties that had preceded the coronation, and he also stayed well in the background during the ceremony itself, so surrounded by his aides and courtiers that few people got more than a brief glimpse of him. Only at this lavish ball, where the rulers of the various nations would come forward in a solemn parade to offer good wishes to newly crowned King Yondrimel, would the self-styled Master of Tuzamen finally make a public appearance.

  All alone, dressed in fantastic and inappropriate garments, he now shuffled to a place at the very end of the glittering Procession of Felicitation, seeming not to hear the whispers, nor to notice that the eyes of the dignitaries and nobles in the ballroom were fixed mostly upon him, and not on King Yondrimel.

  An orchestra of a hundred musicians was playing. The huge room had walls of wine-red damask, gilded pilasters, and huge mirrors framed in semiprecious bloodstone, jasper, and onyx. The scene was illuminated by great golden chandeliers bearing thousands of sparkling tapers. Tall casement windows on either side of the hall were thrown wide open to admit perfumed breezes from the gardens.

  It was early evening. Nearly a thousand spe
cial guests had come to the pleasure palace situated on the bank of the River Zin, which had been constructed especially for the occasion. Most of the attendees were noble Zinorans, decked out in the costly pearls that were the nation’s pride. Among the visitors, the Raktumians were most numerous. Many of the pirate men and women wore ornate helmets and cuirasses studded with jewels, rather than formal robes.

  Queen Anigel and King Antar were among the last to take their designated places in the procession.

  “I see no resemblance to Orogastus in this man Portolanus,” Antar murmured to his wife as he studied the bizarre figure of the Master of Tuzamen. “The sorcerer I knew twelve years ago was handsome of face and stalwart of body. This fellow has a stooped and awkward mien, and his features are twisted in a manner almost comical. There is nothing commanding or menacing about him at all. He looks more like a mountebank than a sorcerer, wearing that silly pointed cap with the diamond star perched on top, pressed down so far on his head that his very ears are bent!”

  The Tuzameni ruler was indeed far from imposing. His scraggly beard and ridiculously long mustaches were bright yellow and excessively curled and pomaded. He was clad in a gaudy green robe with orange stripes, so capacious that he seemed to be wearing a tent. Half the ballroom was snickering at him, but he was supremely unconcerned, grinning and winking clownishly at those on either side, and wiggling his gnarled fingers in an arch gesture of greeting.

  “Portolanus did not conquer Tuzamen through sleight of hand,” Queen Anigel whispered with some asperity. “I agree that from this distance he does not seem to resemble the old Orogastus, and he shows no aura of dark enchantment such as Haramis bade me watch for. But many years have gone by and he must have suffered great privation out on the icecap. His appearance could have changed greatly. I must get a closer look at him after we’ve spoken to King Yondrimel. Thus far, Portolanus has been as elusive as a lingit in a lamplit closet.”

  A loud fanfare rang out.

  “Oh, dear, here we go.” Anigel sighed. “Is my crown straight? It’s so heavy, I can hardly wait to take it off.”

  “You are the most glorious Queen in the room,” Antar assured her. He had declined to wear the ornate parade armor and bejeweled monster-helm that were the traditional royal regalia of Labornok. His platinum-and-diamond diadem was small and almost modest in comparison with the great Queen’s Crown of Ruwenda, which blazed with emeralds and rubies and was surmounted by a diamond sunburst centered with a great nodule of amber. In the amber’s heart was a fossil Black Trillium, emblem of the little swampy country that had so improbably gained victory over its more powerful neighbor—resulting in the Union of the Two Thrones. Anigel and Antar were both wearing blue—his robe as dark as midnight, girded by a sapphire-studded sword-belt, and hers the rich azure of the Dry Time sky, with traditional lattice-smocking and seed-gem embroidery on the sleeves, bodice, and train-panels. She wore a necklace of smaller pieces of trillium-amber, decorated with cabochon sapphires that exactly matched her eyes.

  The rulers now advancing toward the young King of Zinora were lined up according to a strict order of precedence, with the most ancient nation leading and the newest—Tuzamen—coming last. First to pay their respects were the Eternal Prince Widd and the Eternal Princess Raviya of the tiny Island Principality of Engi, a nation so scantily endowed and sparsely populated that even the pirates of Raktum scorned to raid it. Engi nevertheless prided itself upon being the most venerable royal house in the known world. Its sailors were also the most skillful, and the Eternal Prince, for all his eccentric airs, was a shrewd old buffer who had mediated many a Peninsular dispute.

  Anigel smiled as she noted that dear old Raviya wore the same slightly tatty maroon brocade gown she had worn to Prince Tolo’s name giving eight years earlier. Widd had his coronet jauntily askew and calmly gave his princely fundament a good scratch as he offered Yondrimel a few pithy words of advice.

  Next came King Fiomadek and Queen Ila of Var—he rotund and pompous of manner and she sweetly maternal—both of them so stiff with jewels that Anigel marveled that they could stand straight. As the neighbor immediately east of Zinora, prosperous Var had looked with apprehension at the young King’s dalliance with Raktum and Tuzamen. Fiomadek was nervously cordial and nattered on overlong, while Ila caused the young King’s smile to harden when she urged him not to delay choosing a bride.

  Then it was the turn of Anigel and Antar. Because Ruwenda was the elder nation, Anigel spoke first, confining herself to brief good wishes. Antar was more specific:

  “We wish you a long and prosperous reign, Brother, and we wish nothing more than to maintain the good relations that prevailed between Zinora and Laboruwenda during the reign of your late father. The Two Thrones, together with the monarchs of Engi and Var, would gladly welcome you into the Peninsular Concord if such be your wish.”

  Yondrimel was tall for his eighteen years, with watery blue eyes that darted from side to side as if he expected the immediate arrival of someone more important. He had an annoying habit of continually moistening his thin lips with the tip of his tongue. Anigel and Antar had disliked him at first sight. He had been cool in his welcome to them six days earlier, and clearly disappointed that they had not brought more costly gifts. For his coronation he was dressed all in soft white leather and cloth-of-gold, and his diadem was also gold, inset with countless pearls of different colors. Pearls also ornamented his baldric, the scabbard of his sword, and the sheath of his dagger. On a chain around his neck he wore a magnificent iridescent pink pearl nearly the size of a griss egg.

  “I thank you for your kind words,” Yondrimel said blandly. “Although my Royal Father of happy memory declined to join your alliance for reasons that seemed valid to him, I will ponder most carefully your worthy invitation and give it the same deliberate consideration that I give to the proposals of other nations of good will.”

  Antar and Anigel nodded, still smiling, and began their recessional to a small alcove where the rulers were being offered refreshment. Behind them, the barbarian chief Denombo who called himself Emperor of Sobrania strode up, clad in amazing robes of multicolored feathers, and began to harangue the young King. The music was deliberately loud, so that spectators more than three or four ells away could not hear the exchanges between the King and his royal well-wishers.

  “Yondrimel did not seem to welcome your invitation to join the Concord overmuch,” Anigel whispered to her husband. “I fear Prince Widd and King Fiomadek were right when they suggested that he has dangerous ambitions.”

  Antar’s face was grim. “If Zinora is truly denied trade with the Windlorn Isles by hostile aborigines, then its fortunes will greatly decline. Var is a tempting consolation prize.”

  “Would Yondrimel be such a fool as to defy the entire Peninsula and invade Var?”

  “Not on his own, surely. He does not have enough ships, and to go by land is impossible. But if Raktum should join with him—”

  “Then we of the Peninsular Concord would have to fight beside our ally.” Anigel’s fingers tightened upon her husband’s arm. “Oh, Antar! We have enjoyed peace for so long … I fear the people of Ruwenda would have scant heart for fighting a war on behalf of wealthy Var.”

  “And if we send our loyal Labornoki knights and men-at-arms south, then our northern frontier would be an open door, with only Osorkon and the other marcher lords of dubious loyalty left to defend us from possible invasion by Raktum. The land forces of Queen Ganondri are insignificant compared to her great armada of ships, but who can tell what armies equipped with magical weapons the Master of Tuzamen might put at her disposal?”

  “My darling, we shall have to do something about Osorkon and his two-faced faction as soon as we return to Derorguila,” Anigel decided. “We must postpone the court’s seasonal move to Ruwenda Citadel until matters in Labornok are settled.”

  They had reached the refreshment alcove, but instead of partaking of the elegant display of food and drink, they joined the r
ulers of Engi and Var, who were unashamedly gawking at the continuing procession and whispering among themselves.

  The vulgar Sobranian Emperor had completed his felicitations and stomped away with a smug look on his red-bearded face. Behind his back, Yondrimel was licking his lips like mad and seeming to shrink into his coronation robes as he confronted a stout, middle-aged woman with a kindly smile. Queen Jiri of the prosperous western nation of Galanar still had six unmarried daughters, in addition to the three she had already married off to the rulers of Imlit and Okamis.

  “Now he’s in for it,” hissed the Eternal Prince Widd in unconcealed delight. The King and Queen of Var joined in making snide comments about Yondrimel’s prospect of remaining unwed for long in the face of Jiri’s redoubtable matchmaking. The Queen of Galanar spoke long to the young King, who was seen to wipe sweat from the royal palms and brow with a silk handkerchief after she finally kissed him on the cheek and took her leave.

  Then came the two simply dressed Duumvirs of the Imlit Republic and the President of Okamis (with their gorgeous Galanari wives), whose remarks were mercifully brief. They were followed by the Queen Regent of Raktum and her grandson King Ledavardis, who was making his first appearance at a Zinoran function, having been “indisposed” earlier.

  “Oh dear, he is an ill-favored lad, is he not?” Queen Jiri whispered to Anigel. “I could not make up my mind whether to honor Raktum with a betrothal proposition—they are pirates, after all, and one must uphold one’s standards. But seeing the Goblin Kinglet in the flesh makes me bless my indecision.”

  Ledavardis was a dismaying sight, all the more so for standing at the right hand of his splendid grandmother, who wore crimson velvet encrusted with gold, diamonds, and rubies, and a crown twice as massive as that of Ruwenda. At sixteen, the King of Raktum was sturdy but very short, with broad shoulders and a twisted spine. His head, crowned with a simple golden circlet, was too large for the thin neck that bore it, and his features, except for sad brown eyes as large and luminous as those of a night-caroler, were coarsely made. He was dressed all in shining gold-shot black silk, which served only to emphasize his deformities, and said nothing as Queen Ganondri and Yondrimel greeted each other effusively. When the other young King attempted to draw Ledavardis out, he murmured only a few words, made an awkward gesture of salute, and moved with surprising agility toward the alcove. Ganondri, clearly vexed with him, perforce had to cut short her own conversation and follow.