"Ah. Ah. Of course. Tell him — tell him, first, that I am not the king of Majipoor, but simply the king’s ambassador. Thank him, then, for his kindness in sending his beautiful daughter to visit me the other night. And then let him know that I am not in any way effeminate, as he will see if he cares to take me hunting with him in the royal game preserves. But tell him also about the vow of chastity that I have taken, which separates me for a time from the embrace of women for the benefit of my soul."

Korinaam spoke briefly to the king — too briefly, Harpirias thought, considering all that he had asked him to say. Toikella laughed again, even more vociferously than before, and made a quick, blunt-sounding answer.

"Well?" Harpirias asked.

"The king says that he thinks you would do well to get yourself released from such a stupid and injurious vow."

"I can see where he would take that position. But at the present time I intend to continue living a life of bodily purity. Tell him that."

Korinaam spoke again. So did the king, for quite some time.

"He admires your determination, prince. But he says that a vow of chastity seems as strange to him as snow that falls upwards. He himself has eleven wives and makes love to at least three of them every night. More than a hundred of the citizens of the village are his children."

"My congratulations to him on his energy, and on his fertility also." Harpirias narrowed his gaze. "And how did he react when you told him I wasn’t the Coronal?"

More wavering at the edges. "I did not tell him that, prince."

"I recall instructing you to translate everything I say exactly, upon pain of death, Korinaam."

"Yes. Quite. I understand completely, prince. But how can I make you see that this is not something that I can simply drop into a conversation about other things? The king expected the Coronal to come in person. He believes that you are he. Telling him the contrary now could well wreck everything before it has even begun."

"Konnaam — !"

The Metamorph held up his hand. "Once again I beg you, prince, allow me to choose the proper time for setting this matter straight, and give me no more orders concerning the subject for now. Or threats," Korinaam added after a pause.

Harpirias closed his eyes a moment. It was essential to gain some control over these interchanges, or he was lost.

"Tell the king," Harpirias said sternly, even though Toikella was in the midst of speaking again, "that I would now like to discuss with him the issue of the hostages. In particular I request permission to visit them without further delay so that I can satisfy myself that they are in good condition."

"My good prince—"

"Tell him."

"I beg you—"

Harpirias made the finger-across-throat gesture again.

Korinaam gave him a sour look. Then he turned toward King Toikella and began once more to speak.

The discussion went on for quite some time. Harpirias strained his ears, desperately trying to pick out key words to remember and have translated for him afterward. The Shapeshifter was entirely too slippery; he must try to learn a little of the Othinor tongue himself.

A new word had entered the parley, at any rate — goszmar, is what it sounded like. Harpirias heard it over and over again. He hoped that it was the Othinor word for "hostages," that for once Korinaam had actually obeyed him in regard to the topic of conversation. Goszmar, goszmar, goszmar — it was bandied back and forth for what seemed to be an hour. Finally the Shapeshifter turned to Harpirias and said, "It wasn’t easy. As I’ve told you, he hates to be hurried. But he has agreed to let you see them this very afternoon, when his men bring them their regular meal." "Fine. Where are they?" "An ice-cave on the side of the mountain, high above the north end of the valley. He says the climb is extremely strenuous and difficult."

"Especially for an effeminate lordling like me, I suppose. Let him know that I look forward enthusiastically to the chance for a little exercise."

"I already have, prince."

"Have you, now? How very thoughtful of you, Korinaam."

As it turned out, "strenuous" was a moderate term indeed for the ascent of the mountain. Young as he was, strong as he was, Harpirias found himself pushed almost to the edge of his endurance. The route, narrow and rough, went by way of a maddening series of hairpin switchbacks that traced a slowly rising curve along the face of the canyon wall. Menacing jagged rocks, half-hidden in the snow-speckled trail, jutted upward from it every few yards, offering the unwary climber the possibility of tripping and slipping and plunging into the ever-deepening chasm that yawned without a guard rail at their left elbows. The air grew colder and colder as they rose, and powerful gusts of icy wind beat remorselessly at their faces. Ungainly big-beaked birds, roused from their nests amongst the crags, flapped screeching about their heads, beating at the intruders with broad powerful wings.

These were unaccustomed privations. The muscles of Harpirias’s legs quickly began to protest. Bands of pain sprang up across his breast and gut. His eyes ached, his nostrils stung. But he made a point of concealing even the slightest indication that he found the climb a struggle. This was a test which he had insisted upon taking, and he knew he must pass it.

With him he had brought not only Korinaam but also the Skandar Eskenazo Marabaud, whose size and strength would make him a comforting presence. Five of the Othinor accompanied them: the high priest and four men of the warrior caste. The king stayed behind, having excused himself from the climb with a show of such cool insouciant self-regard that Harpirias could only be charmed by the man’s audacity. "I would go with you in a minute, and gladly so," Toikella explained. "But my people need me always close at hand. I must never ignore their wishes." Was that a wink? Harpirias wondered. And a royal smirk?

The path took them over crackling crusts of hardened snow and then across a perilous-looking bridge of ice. Below that flimsy span passed a rushing stream that came spurting from the heart of the cliff like a gush of dark blood. Beyond it the switchbacks abruptly ended and the trail shot straight upward at a heart-straining angle over loose gravelly rocks glazed by ice. Harpinas’s bare fingertips turned numb and he thought his chest would crack from the coldness of the air.

And this was summer! Othinor summer! By the Lady, how did these people survive the winters in this place? Were they made of stone? Did icy waters flow in their veins?

The air up here was thin and pale. Harpirias told himself that he could see right through it, and then asked himself in some perplexity what he had meant by that. Was his mind beginning to give way under the stress of the climb? He warned himself to be on guard against nonsensical thoughts. The altitude, the latitude —  ‘the attitude’, he added — the altitude, the latitude, the attitude — the words ran through his mind over and over, an infuriatmgly relentless jingle.

The others evidently were having no trouble with the climb. All the Othinor but the priest were carrying heavy sacks of provisions for the prisoners, without the slightest difficulty. Eskenazo Marabaud actually appeared to be enjoying himself more and more as the difficulties of the ascent increased. Even the flimsily built Korinaam was striding readily along. Harpirias found that mortifying; but he reminded himself that his companions all were people of cold-weather climates, accustomed to such harsh conditions as these. He, young and strong as he was, had lived all his life in the gentle climes of Castle Mount.

He looked down once, only once. The village was a mere outline, white against white, a collection of distant tiny boxes huddling against the mountain wall. The sight dizzied him and he swayed, but Eskenazo Marabaud reached out easily with his lower left hand to steady him.