The Malacia Tapestry

by Brian W Aldiss

  For a long while I sat in anguished speculation. I had nothing on my conscience. Well, not much. The vow I had made to be true to Armida had not been broken. Admittedly, Letitia had dented it a little; but that had been her doing, not mine. Although I might have offered to bring her to my room, the fact was that I had not done so, and in matrimonial matters it is wise to be ruled by facts rather than ifs. I gathered up my things and made for Juracia in a sober mood.

  The Hoytola estates were grand in every degree. As the dusty track wound northwards from Malacia, it twisted down into a fertile and afforested valley, there, invitingly, lay the hamlet of Juracia, with Hoytola's lodge behind it. And how invitingly! Capriccio had gone lame ten kilometres back. I had had to walk him. The carriages, waggons and riders passing by had smothered me in the white dust of the Fruila. I was hot, footsore, bedraggled and thirsty.

  I entered the estate as inconspicuously as possible. It was soon made clear to me by the servants that no one arrived here without equerry or valet. The impudent fellows treated me as if I were a servant myself. Enraged, I made what disorder I could in the bedroom to which I was shown, beating the dust from my clothes over everything to show them who was master.

  After lounging in a hot bath of the Roman type — the only other occupants being two drunken fat men who sang ballads — I was refreshed. I dressed, and went in search of food, wine, company, cheer and Armida.

  The upper floor of the lodge consisted entirely of small bedrooms, with a prayer room at the end of the corridor, where a mezzanine gave way to a long balcony and stairs down. From the balcony, one could survey the first of three halls given over to the pleasure of Hoytola's guests. In this hall, steaming foods and hot and cold drinks were being served by an army of liveried servants who moved among the three rooms, bearing trays, sweating, and in general smiling. Festivities were well under way. The middle hall, which adjoined the kitchens, was equipped with sturdy tables and benches. The last hall was more of a lounging room, being equipped with books, an organ, a pair of titanic statues, and tapestried furniture. The walls of each room were decorated with the spoils of the chase, spears, guns, horns, and the skulls of an impressive number and variety of animals, including trundles, devil-jaws, slobbergobs, siderowels and tyrant-greaves. Every hall had its musicians, and every hall was crowded with people, mainly men clad in traditional hunting garb of studded leather, fur, and heavy-weave cloth. A ferocious lot they looked, their artificial hides like those of grab-skeeters, their expressions often less benign than grab-skeeters'.

  The lateness of my arrival meant that I had met no one, been introduced to no one. I would make up for that. Here was the food, wine, company and cheer I needed; only Armida was missing, and she was worth waiting for. I plunged down into the throng, snatching up a leathern tankard of hot mulled ale from a passing tray and quaffing it as I went.

  Hoytola's guests were of all ages, smooth of face, grizzled, wrinkled with age. All carried themselves with a swagger born of the assurance that the world was made for them. I had studied that swagger and imitated it without trouble, thinking that many who jostled my elbow also assumed it more from protection than nature. The few women present were heavily dressed for the occasion, with padded hair and sometimes cocked riding-hats to increase their stature. Several wore masculine frocks with waistcoats; almost all were adorned with scales and fur and jewellery. I guessed there would be much sport in an unbridled place like this, yet I saw no woman to my liking. Their eyes were too fishy, to name but one point against them. The old women painted their teeth with white lead.

  Who could fail to be elated in a place like this? I longed to see the lodge from the outside by daylight (it was already dark), and to plunge across country on my steed (if I could borrow a replacement for Capriccio), acting as gallantly as any of the company.

  For half an hour, I passed among my fellow guests, speaking to nobody except a handsome-visaged hunter who recognized me from my aerial trip and wanted to know how it felt to fly. Despite all the food and drink, there was no universal contentment. Many men were complaining about the poorness of the day's sport and the standards of Hoytola's hospitality. I heard one of them say, 'The fellow has no idea of what living in style really means.' I felt ashamed. I thought that if I ever had a say in matters, I would see that the quantities of food and wine supplied were doubled and extra game animals imported; at the same time, I was disgusted with the man who complained.

  Taking meat dressed in pastry along with my ale, I said, 'The hospitality's good,' to a man who chanced to be passing, and discovered that it was a relation of mine by my sister's marriage, Julius, a cheerful fellow though a Mantegan.

  'You're here, Perian!' He put an arm about my shoulder.

  'Don't sound so surprised,' I said, slopping my ale. 'I'm not always tied to the boards. I need to bag a shatterhorn occasionally, same as any other man.'

  'That's the spirit! Which party are you with?'

  'At the moment, I'm not with anyone.' As I was about to mention Armida's name, caution checked me; I said instead, 'I've got a friend of mine among the musicians.'

  Smiling in the friendliest way, Julius said in a lowered voice, 'You ought to be warned that the etiquette at these functions is strict. Musicians are treated with hauteur by the guests and mistrust by the servants. The consequence — or the cause — of which is that the musicians are not supposed to speak to the servants and the guests are not supposed to speak to the musicians.'

  'What's the point of such an observance?'

  'The musicians spend more time playing and less time flirting and drinking. Anyhow, Perian, I didn't expect to see you here. We Mantegans arrived in force; you should have travelled with us. I'm sorry your sister would not come — she's a fine lady for whom I have much esteem. Is your father here?'

  'Oh no, he's too busy on his book. It would have been good to see Katie here. I… was invited by Armida Hoytola. You haven't seen her, have you?'

  His eyebrows went up. He regarded me quizzically, like a man sighting his first fanglefish.

  'Oh ho! Well, my dear Perian, you must not yet have found your way about, or you would know that there are two hunting lodges. The grander one lies farther into the park, and there you will encounter to your heart's desire the Hoytolas and the prosperous families and the Dukes of Renardo and Tuscady and any richer nobles who may advance Hoytola's cause. Whereas, in this more humble lodge, you will find only the impoverished nobles — well, like your Chabrizzis and Mantegans, eh? Sit and drink with me awhile.'

  He called more of his kinsmen over, and they were convivial fellows. Their talk was of the estuary, far distant, where many of them lived, spending much of their time in boats, hunting the great ancestrals of the deep, fanglefish, crazies, speckled sabre-snouts, goddies, and others, or shooting down the frizzen-bats that swooped overhead. By their laughing accounts, their time was spent between sand and sea, wine and danger.

  'We're a bad lot — little we care for art or religion, like you Malacians,' Julius said. 'And Volpato is the worst of us. Your sister is a fine lady, and worthy of better. I rejoice that she has a brother like you to look after her.'

  He reported that they had arrived in Juracia the evening before, and had gone straight into the hunt. They had flushed some speedy yatterhobs and slain them after a long chase. But game seemed scarce this year. The big ancestrals, the tyrant-greaves and devil-jaws, and in particular the slow casque-bodies, had been over-hunted.

  'In another five years, they'll all be gone,' Julius said. 'Then we shall come here just to drink — or stay away entirely. The Middle Sea provides better sport.'

  We parted with mutual esteem. I went outside and found my way down a drive, lined by poplars and lit by flambeaux, to the other lodge Julius had mentioned. It was indeed more sumptuous than the first, although built on an identical plan, the one common to the region. Its walls were decorated with tapestries, its rooms warmed by magnificent porcelain-tiled stoves — unlit in this mild season —
and every nook was loaded with a bust or treasure of some kind, while overhead the rafters were decked with fresh green boughs in celebration of the hunt. The music here was more refined, and played by musicians who wore quaint old court dress.

  As for the food, it was flamboyant to the highest degree. Young sucking trundles turned on their spits with sprigs of herbs hissing beneath their limbs. The tables were creaking beneath the weight of flesh and fowl, all dressed proudly as if for sport rather than eating. There were yatterhobs' heads — probably the heads of the ancestrals the Mantegans had killed — wearing ruffs, and fish with chops as ferocious as devil-jaws, and young snaphances couched in sauces and spaghetti. The wine came in glasses clutched by silver buglewings with eyes of obsidian. The furniture was similarly adorned with riotous emblems of the business which informed the occasion: stylized foliage chasing itself over legs and arms of chairs, amid which warriors and reptilian forms bled in profusion.

  All of which was nothing compared with the bipedal confectionery which paraded here: those privileged beings who had taken up their three-day abode in this building. The men were all darker, the women all paler, than in the first lodge. One and all, their clothes were richer, stiffer, more seamed with gold, more calculated to isolate the wearer from his surroundings, more horned, beaked, ruffed, and feathered, more terrible; their tunics were warted with jewels, amid which emeralds gleamed like eyes, rubies sulked like blood. They were taller; many of the women wore stilt-shoes with claws, men and women shipped in their wake tiny bobbing pageboys or dwarfs.

  To my eyes, the men were all brigands, the women whores, their miniature attendants mere feathered foetuses, walking cocky. The only humble people in that throng were the slaves — mostly black women, of whom there were some dozen; their owners kept them naked, with scaled bracelets on legs and arms, and flowers in their curly hair.

  I worked my way through this animated mob as through a jungle, moving towards the musicians. Selections from opera buffo were being played and, above the hubbub, an immense man with cheeks like trundles' eggs was singing popular airs.

  Oh there are mountainsides where I may stray

  Where flashing stream makes roundelay

  Where every trail

  Invites you, "Come away, away",

  Where armoured animals with onyx eyes

  Oft-times the hunter brave espies,

  Hurling his spear—

  See where it flies, it flies…

  Below this gigantic tenor, de Lambant plucked his lute with the other musicians, a ruff round his neck like one of the yatterhobs.

  Fighting my way over to him, I called his name. He joined me at the end of the song, looking far from his usual cheerful self.

  'De Chirolo, my friend, this is a fine whorehouse to be in! The musicians are not allowed to speak to the servants, nor the guests to the musicians.'

  'As a guest, I may speak with my friends when I wish.'

  He wiped his brow. 'Simple, the man's simple, too innocent for this world. I'm sure you're the only decent fellow among this mob! Do you observe — but take care where you gaze — how the slave women may be swived by any man, here standing, the while they continue conversations with their friends? By the holy bones, I never expected that!'

  'We aren't in Malacia now.'

  'This is more like a chick-snake's nest.'

  'Moral judgments, de Lambant? I thought you were interested in decadence!'

  'I didn't know what the term meant till I got here. You should have seen them at it last night…'

  'Where are Armida and Bedalar?'

  He pulled a drab face. 'Bedalar's not here. Caylus took a tumble from his horse among the bulls and got trampled, silly fellow. So the Nortolini family stays in Malacia, silly family. So Bedalar is unable to escape into the arms of her lover, silly girl… Still, if I can't keep myself amused here alone for three days, then I'm a silly boy… The musicians' quarters — a word I employ as euphemism for byre — is next to the slaves' quarters… Well, we must look upon life as a caper, young de Chirolo, mustn't we? I've seen Armida, but since the servants aren't allowed to speak to the musicians and the musicians aren't allowed —'

  'She must be in this scrimmage somewhere. She must be looking for me.'

  'Your simple trust in the world should get you far. If you don't find her, Perry…'

  'Yes?'

  'Take another look at the black girls and note how scrumptious they are…'

  Giving him a friendly nod, I launched myself back into the mêlée, staunching myself with more wine as I went.

  The noise, the heat, the sweet and sour stench, the perpetual brush of bodies, got to me. So did the wine. As I went, I exchanged bold glances with women, many of whom would have not deigned to look at me in the ordinary way. There was dancing now, and some acrobats performed at the far end of the room.

  Amid the press, I observed that various rooms led off the three halls. Maids bustled through their doors and curtains, so that I seized the chance to look within, and saw that they were private suites, given over mainly to obscene displays. In one, a satyr rutted with a slave girl, to the delight of some watching gentlemen with their ladies. In another, into which a female servant casually went, three naked men and a red-haired woman — well, no matter what they did, I caught but a glimpse. In a third room, as I steadied myself with a further glass of wine, I observed my host himself, Andrus Hoytola, with some companions. Without hesitation, I marched in to pay my respects. I was here to make my mark.

  Hoytola was seated at a carved oak table, dressed not in the bristling fashion of the lodges but in his usual foppish way, in a short white evening coat with a buckle at the back and a high collar, together with crimson silk trousers. His fingers were drumming on the table. Most of his companions presented, as he did, their backs to the door, conspiratorially. Among them was the young Duke of Renardo, dressed in armoured fashion, his unruly gold curls gleaming. Two women were in the room; Madame Hoytola, Armida's mother, who gazed at me without blinking an eyelid, and a courtesan whom I immediately recognized. She was the over-painted woman with the mandoline in the Renardo gardens, whom Caylus had enjoyed. This evening, she was more over-painted than before.

  Despite the presence of those ladies, this was plainly some sort of business meeting. From the shadows, a gentleman with a long, grey coat and long, grey skull to match was saying as I entered, 'I may remind you that defence is not the first duty of Malacia, Hoytola.'

  To which Hoytola replied, 'Without one's defences, Malacia ceases to exist.'

  'There are the ancient defences. Best of all, there is the Original Curse, protecting us from change. Our first duty is to maintain through religious observance that Curse — remember the sacred purpose of everything, even this hunt: "We go forth to slay the flesh of our Fathers…" '

  He ceased and turned his cold stare on me. Slowly, the men at the table moved to survey me. Hoytola presented a half-profile and one eye round the side of his high white collar; the eye and the belt buckle gleamed at me. Only the duke nodded in civil fashion.

  'It's our balloon-going friend,' he said. 'Still in good order, I see. What brings you here, de Chirolo?'

  'Merely pleasure, sir.' I lifted my glass. 'I give you good cheer, gentlemen!'

  'This is a private meeting,' Hoytola replied.

  'My wish was not to intrude. I will leave you.'

  The duke said cheerfully, 'If you are looking for Armida, we cannot help you.'

  Hoytola's face went a kind of ashy colour. He bent his head to the table to conceal it. In that moment, I clearly understood whom it was that this man preferred as possible husband for his daughter.

  As I had my hand on the door to go, a deep voice said, 'You!'

  The courtesan — now I could smell her patchouli, so disturbingly like Armida's — made a slight move towards the back of the room, which served to direct my attention there. In the shadows stood the man who called me. I recognized the dark-visaged Supreme Council member I ha
d first glimpsed in Hoytola's gallery. Chill radiated from his presence. As on that first occasion, he was garbed in unfashionable black with capacious pockets. He spoke again.

  'You have fallen in with Bengtsohn.' Every word emerged separately from his gullet.

  The courtesan went to his side. He paid no attention to her, standing without movement, firm in the knowledge that I would answer him.

  Why did he terrify me so? I believe it was because I felt that he put the fear of Satan into everyone else in the room too.

  'I have fallen out with Bengtsohn,' I said, 'sire.'

  My presence was nothing to do with them. Everyone was motionless, waiting to resume whatever business they had been about — business that held no great pleasure for Hoytola, to judge by appearances; yet somehow their business was of such a sort that it could encompass even me. My words travelled across the room to the Council member, and at last he spoke again, his words coming off a subterranean glacier.

  'You wish to kill Bengtsohn.'

  The young duke scratched his curls. Looking at him, rather than the black figure at the rear of the room, I said, 'I don't wish to harm Bengtsohn — he has never hurt me. I don't wish to harm anyone.'

  Experiencing some difficulty with my limbs, I managed to get out of the room and shut the door behind me. The words spoken went through and through my brain. I cursed myself for the feeble thing I had said, as if begging tor mercy. I drained my wine and let the glass drop. I fingered my amulet. This meeting was alarmingly similar to the vision I had stumbled on in my own room.

  There was nothing for it but to disappear into the night or stay and get drunk. A serving wench came by. I snatched an armorial shell full of hot spiced wine from her and barged into the end room, among dancing and gesticulating couples. The uproar was so intense that the music could hardly be heard. A crowd surrounded a platform on which a savage gentleman was making two yellow hauberks fight to the death.