"Shall we run?" he said with forced heartiness. "Five miles, and then some good golden wine?"

"Indeed," said Mirigant.

As they made their way from the room, Divvis paused at the giant globe of bronze and silver, looming against the far wall, that bore the indicator of the Coronal's travels. "Look," he said putting his finger to the ruby sphere that glowed upon the surface of the globe like a rock-monkey's bloodshot eye. "He's well west of the Labyrinth already. What's this river he's sailing down? The Glayge, is it?"

"The Trey, I think," said Mirigant. "He's bound for Treymone, I imagine."

Elidath nodded. He walked toward the globe and ran his hand lightly over its silken-smooth metal skin.

"Yes. And Stoien from there, and then I suppose he'll take ship across the Gulf to Perimor, and on up the coast as far as Alaisor."

He could not lift his hand from the globe. He caressed the curving continents as though Majipoor were a woman and her breasts were Alhanroel and Zimroel. How beautiful the world, how beautiful this depiction of it! It was only a half-globe, really, for there was no need of representing the far side of Majipoor, which was all ocean and scarcely even explored. But on its one vast hemisphere the three continents were displayed. Alhanroel with the great jagged spire of Castle Mount jutting out into the room, and many-forested Zimroel, and the desert wasteland that was Suvrael down below, and the blessed Lady's Isle of Sleep in the Inner Sea between them. Many of the cities were marked in detail, the mountain ranges, the larger lakes and rivers. Some mechanism Elidath did not understand tracked the Coronal at all times, and the glowing red sphere moved as the Coronal moved, so there could never be doubt of his whereabouts. As though in a trance Elidath traced out with his fingers the route of the grand processional, Stoien, Perimor, Alaisor, Sintalmond, Daniup, down through the Kinslain Gap into Santhiskion, and back by a winding course through the foothills to Castle Mount—

"You wish you were with him, don't you?" Divvis asked.

"Or that you were making the trip in his place, eh?" said Mirigant.

Elidath whirled on the older man. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Flustered, Mirigant said, "It should be obvious."

"You accuse me, I think, of an unlawful ambition."

"Unlawful? Tyeveras has outlived his time by twenty years. He's kept alive only by grace of some sort of magic—"

"By the finest of medical care, you mean," Elidath said.

With a shrug Mirigant said, "It's the same thing. In the natural order of things Tyeveras should long ago have been dead, and Valentine our Pontifex. And a new Coronal should be off undertaking his first grand processional."

"These are not decisions for us to make," Elidath grumbled.

Divvis said, "They are Valentine's decisions, yes. And he will not make them."

"He will, at the proper time."

"When? Five more years? Ten? Forty?"