by Bob Shaw
Toller glanced to each side and saw the leaders of several delegations nodding as they made notes. It was surprising to him that the King should deal with such a minor issue in person, and for a moment he toyed with the startling idea that there might actually be some kernel of truth in the odd rumours. Common soldiers, sailors and airmen were a stolid lot as a rule—but on the other hand they tended to be ignorant and gullible. On balance, he could see no reason to believe there was anything more to fear from the ptertha than in any previous era in Kolcorron’s long history.
“…principal subject for discussion,” King Prad was saying. “The records of the Ports Authority show that in the year 2625 our imports of brakka from the six provinces amounted to only 118,426 tons. It is the twelfth year in succession that the total has fallen. The pikon and halvell yield was correspondingly down. No figures are available for the domestic harvest, but the preliminary estimates are less encouraging than usual.
“The situation is exacerbated by the fact that military and industrial consumption, particularly of crystals, continues to rise. It is becoming obvious that we are approaching a crucial period in our country’s fortunes, and that far-reaching strategies will have to be devised to deal with the problem. I will now entertain your proposals.”
Prince Leddravohr, who had become restless during his father’s summation, rose to his feet at once. “Majesty, I intend no disrespect to you, but I confess to growing impatient with all this talk of scarcity and dwindling resources. The truth of the matter is that there is an abundance of brakka—sufficient to meet our needs for centuries to come. There are great forests of brakka as yet untouched. The real shortcoming lies within ourselves. We lack the resolution to turn our eyes towards the Land of the Long Days—to go forth and claim what is rightfully ours.”
In the assembly there was an immediate flurry of excitement which Prad stilled by raising one hand. Toller sat up straighter, suddenly alerted.
“I will not countenance any talk of moving against Chamteth,” Prad said, his voice harsher and louder than before.
Leddravohr spun to face him. “It is destined to happen sooner or later—so why not sooner?”
“I repeat there will be no talk of a major war.”
“In that case, Majesty, I beg your permission to withdraw,” Leddravohr said, his manner taking him within a hair-breadth of insolence. “I can make no contribution to a discussion from which plain logic is barred.”
Prad gave his head a single birdlike shake. “Resume your seat and curb your impatience—your newfound regard for logic may yet prove useful.” He smiled at the rest of the gathering—his way of saying, Even a king has problems with unruly offspring—and invited Prince Chakkell to put forward ideas for reducing industrial consumption of power crystals.
Toller relaxed again while Chakkell was speaking, but he was unable to take his eyes off Leddravohr, who was now lounging in an exaggerated posture of boredom. He was intrigued, disturbed and strangely captivated by the discovery that the military prince regarded war with Chamteth as both desirable and inevitable. Little was known about the exotic land which, being on the far side of the world, was untouched by Overland’s shadow and therefore had an uninterrupted day.
The available maps were very old and of doubtful accuracy, but they showed that Chamteth was as large as the Kolcorronian empire and equally populous. Few travellers had penetrated to its interior and returned, but their accounts had been unanimous in the descriptions of the vast brakka forests. The reserves had never been depleted because the Chamtethans regarded it as the ultimate sin to interrupt the life cycle of the brakka tree. They drew off limited quantities of crystals by drilling small holes into the combustion chambers, and restricted their use of the black wood to what could be obtained from trees which had died naturally.
The existence of such a fabulous treasurehouse had attracted the interest of Kolcorronian rulers in the past, but no real acquisitive action had ever been taken. One factor was the sheer remoteness of the country; the other was the Chamtethans’ reputation as fierce, tenacious and gifted fighters. It was thought that their army was the sole user of the country’s supply of crystals, and certainly the Chamtethans were well known for their extensive use of cannon—one of the most extravagant ways ever devised for the expending of crystals. They were also totally insular in their outlook, rejecting all commercial and cultural contact with other nations.
The cost, one way or another, of trying to exploit Chamteth had always been recognised as being too great, and Toller had taken it for granted that the situation was a permanent part of the natural order of things. But he had just heard talk of change—and he had a deep personal interest in that possibility.
The social divisions in Kolcorron were such that in normal circumstances a member of one of the great vocational family of families was not permitted to cross the barriers. Toller, restless and resentful over having been born into the philosophy order, had made many futile attempts to get himself accepted for military service. His lack of success had been made all the more galling by the knowledge that there would have been no obstacle to his joining the army had he been part of the proletarian masses. He would have been prepared to serve as a line soldier in the most inhospitable outpost of the empire, but one of his social rank could be accorded nothing less than officer status—an honour which was jealously guarded by the military caste.
All that, Toller now realised, was concomitant on the affairs of the country following the familiar centuries-old course. A war with Chamteth would force profound changes on Kolcorron, however, and King Prad would not be on the throne for ever. He was likely to be succeeded by Leddravohr in the not-too-distant future—and when that happened the old order would be swept away. It looked to Toller as though his fortunes could be directly affected by those of Leddravohr, and the mere prospect was enough to produce an undertow of dark excitement in his consciousness. The council meeting, which he had expected to be routine and dull, was proving to be one of the most significant occasions of his life.
On the dais the swarthy, balding and paunchy Prince Chakkell was concluding his opening remarks with a statement that he needed twice his present supply of pikon and halvell for quarrying purposes if essential building projects were to continue.
“You appear not to be in sympathy with the stated aims of this gathering,” Prad commented, beginning to show some exasperation. “May I remind you that I was awaiting your thoughts on how to reduce requirements?”
“My apologies, Majesty,” Chakkell said, the stubbornness of his tone contradicting the words. The son of an obscure nobleman, he had earned his rank through a combination of energy, guile and driving ambition, and it was no secret in the upper echelons of Kolcorronian society that he nursed hopes of seeing a change in the rules of succession which would allow one of his children to ascend the throne. Those aspirations, coupled with the fact that he was Leddravohr’s main competitor for brakka products, meant that there was a smouldering antagonism between them, but on this occasion both men were in accord. Chakkell sat down and folded his arms, making it clear that any thoughts he had on the subject of conservation would not be to the King’s liking.
“There appears to be a lack of understanding of an extremely serious problem,” Prad said severely. “I must emphasise that the country is facing several years of acute shortages of a vital commodity, and that I expect a more positive attitude from my administrators and advisors for the remainder of this meeting. Perhaps the gravity of the situation will be borne home to you if I call upon Lord Glo to report on the progress which has been made thus far with the attempts to produce pikon and halvell by artificial means. Although our expectations are high in this regard, there is—as you will hear—a considerable way to go, and it behoves us to plan accordingly.
“Let us hear what you have to say, Lord Glo.”
There was an extended silence during which nothing happened, then Borreat Hargeth—in the philosophy sector’s second row—was see
n to lean forward and tap Glo’s shoulder. Glo jumped to his feet immediately, obviously startled, and somebody across the aisle on Toller’s right gave a low chuckle.
“Pardon me, Majesty, I was collecting my thoughts,” Glo said, his voice unnecessarily loud. “What was your … hmm … question?”
On the dais Prince Leddravohr covered his face with one splayed hand to mime embarrassment and the same man on Toller’s right, encouraged, chuckled louder. Toller turned in his direction, scowling, and the man—an official in Lord Tunsfo’s medical delegation—glanced at him and abruptly ceased looking amused.
The King gave a tolerant sigh. “My question, if you will honour us by bringing your mind to bear on it, was a general one concerning the experiments with pikon and halvell. Where do we stand?”
“Ah! Yes, Majesty, the situation is indeed as I … hmm … reported to you at our last meeting. We have made great strides … unprecedented strides … in the extraction and purification of both the green and the purple. We have much to be proud of. AH that remains for us to do at this … hmm … stage is to perfect a way of removing the contaminants which inhibit the crystals from reacting with each other. That is proving … hmm … difficult.”
“You’re contradicting yourself, Glo. Are you making progress with purification or are you not?”
“Our progress has been excellent, Majesty. As far as it goes, that is. It’s all a question of solvents and temperatures and … um … complex chemical reactions. We are handicapped by not having the proper solvent.”
“Perhaps the old fool drank it all,” Leddravohr said to Chakkell, making no attempt to modulate his voice. The laughter which followed his words was accompanied by a frisson of unease—most of those present had never seen a man of Glo’s rank so directly insulted.
“Enough!” Prad’s milk-white eye narrowed and widened several times, a warning beacon. “Lord Glo, when I spoke to you ten days ago you gave me the impression that you could begin to produce pure crystals within two or three years. Are you now saying differently?”
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Leddravohr put in, grinning, his contemptuous stare raking the philosophy sector. Toller, unable to react in any other way, spread his shoulders to make himself as conspicuous as possible and sought to hold Leddravohr’s gaze, and all the while an inner voice was pleading with him to remember his new vows, to use his brains and stay out of trouble.
“Majesty, this is a matter of great … hmm … complexity,” Glo said, ignoring Leddravohr. “We cannot consider the subject of power crystals in isolation. Even if we had an unlimited supply of crystals this very day… There is the brakka tree itself, you see. Our plantations. It takes six centuries for the seedlings to mature and…”
“You mean six decades, don’t you?”
“I believe I said decades, Majesty, but I have another proposal which I beg leave to bring to your attention.” Glo’s voice had developed a quaver and he was swaying slightly. “I have the honour to present for your consideration a visionary scheme, one which will shape the ultimate future of this great nation of ours. A thousand years from now our descendants will look back on your reign with wonder and awe as they…”
“Lord Glo!” Prad was incredulous and angry. “Are you ill or drunk?”
“Neither, Majesty.”
“Then stop prating about visions and answer my question concerning the crystals.”
Glo seemed to be labouring for breath, his plump chest swelling to take up the slack in his grey robe. “I fear I may be indisposed, after all.” He pressed a hand to his side and dropped into his chair with an audible thud. “My senior mathematician, Lain Maraquine, will present the facts on my … hmm … behalf.”
Toller watched with growing trepidation as his brother stood up, bowed towards the dais, and signalled for his assistants, Quate and Locranan, to bring his easel and charts forward. They did so and erected the easel with a fumbling eagerness which prolonged what should have been the work of a moment. More time was taken up as the chart they unrolled and suspended had to be coaxed to remain flat. On the dais even the insipid Prince Pouche was beginning to look restless. Toller was concerned to see that Lain was trembling with nervousness.
“What is your intention, Maraquine?” the King said, not unkindly. “Am I to revisit the classroom at my time of life?”
“The graphics are helpful, Majesty,” Lain said. “They illustrate the factors governing the…” The remainder of his reply drifted into inaudibility as he indicated key features on the vivid diagrams.
“Can’t hear you,” Chakkell snapped irritably. “Speak up!”
“Where are your manners?” Leddravohr said, turning to him. “What way is that to address such a shy young maiden?” A number of men in the audience, taking their cue, guffawed loudly.
This shouldn’t be happening, Toller thought as he rose to his feet, the blood roaring in his ears. The Kolcorronian code of conduct ruled that to step in and reply to a challenge—and an insult was always regarded as such—issued to a third party was to add to the original slur. The imputation was that the insulted man was too cowardly to defend his own honour. Lain had often claimed that it was his duty as a philosopher to soar above all such irrationalities, that the ancient code was more suited to quarrelsome animals than thinking men. Knowing that his brother would not and could not take up Leddravohr’s challenge, knowing further that he was barred from active intervention, Toller was taking the only course open to him. He stood up straight, differentiating himself from the seated nonparticipants all around, waiting for Leddravohr to notice him and interpret his physical and mental stance.
“That’s enough, Leddravohr.” The King slapped the arms of his throne. “I want to hear what the wrangler has to say. Go ahead, Maraquine.”
“Majesty, I…” Lain was now quivering so violently that his robe was fluttering.
“Try to put yourself at ease, Maraquine. I don’t want a lengthy discourse—it will suffice for you to tell me how many years will elapse, in your expert opinion, before we can produce pure pikon and halvell.”
Lain took a deep breath, fighting to control himself. “It is impossible to make predictions in matters like this.”
“Give me your personal view. Would you say five years?”
“No, Majesty.” Lain shot a sideways glance at Lord Glo and managed to make his voice more resolute. “If we increased our research expenditure tenfold … and were fortunate … we might produce some usable crystals twenty years from now. But there is no guarantee that we will ever succeed. There is only one sane and logical course for the country as a whole to follow and that is to ban the felling of brakka entirely for the next twenty or thirty years. In that way…”
“I refuse to listen to any more of this!” Leddravohr was on his feet and stepping down from the dais. “Did I say maiden? I was wrong—this is an old woman! Raise your skirts and flee from this place, old woman, and take your sticks and scraps with you.” Leddravohr strode to the easel and thrust the palm of his hand against it, sending it clattering to the floor.
During the clamour which followed, Toller left his place and walked forwards on stiffened legs to stand close to his brother. On the dais the King was ordering Leddravohr back to his seat, but his voice was almost lost amid angry cries from Chakkell and in the general commotion in the hall. A court official was hammering on the floor with his staff, but the only effect was to increase the level of sound. Leddravohr looked straight at Toller with white-flaring eyes, but appeared not to see him as he wheeled round to face his father.
“I act on your behalf, Majesty,” he shouted in a voice which brought a ringing silence to the hall. “Your ears shall not be defiled any further with the kind of spoutings we have just heard from the so-called thinkers among us.”
“I am quite capable of making such decisions for myself,” Prad replied sternly. “I would remind you that this is a meeting of the high council—not some brawling ground for your muddied soldiery.”
Leddravohr was unrepentant as he glanced contemptuously at Lain. “I hold the lowliest soldier in the service of Kolcorron in greater esteem than this whey-faced old woman.” His continued defiance of the King intensified the silence under the glass dome, and it was into that magnifying hush that Toller heard himself drop his own challenge. It would have been a crime akin to treason, and punishable by death, for one of his station to take the initiative and challenge a member of the monarchy, but the code permitted him to move indirectly within limits and seek to provoke a response.
“‘Old woman’ appears to be a favourite epithet of Prince Leddravohr’s,” he said to Vorndal Sisstt, who was seated close to him. “Does that mean he is always very prudent in his choice of opponents?”
Sisstt gaped up at him and shrank away, white-faced, anxiously dissociating himself as Leddravohr turned to find out who had spoken. Seeing Leddravohr at close quarters for the first time, Toller observed that his strong-jawed countenance was unlined, possessed of a curious statuesque smoothness, almost as if the muscles were nerveless and immobile. It was an inhuman face, untroubled by the ordinary range of expression, with only the eyes to signal what was going on behind the broad brow. In this case Leddravohr’s eyes showed that he was more incredulous than angry as he scrutinised the younger man, taking in every detail of his physique and dress.
“Who are you?” Leddravohr said at last. “Or should I say, what are you?”
“My name is Toller Maraquine, Prince—and I take pride in being a philosopher.”
Leddravohr glanced up at his father and smiled, as if to demonstrate that when he saw it as his filial duty he could endure extreme provocation. Toller did not like the smile, which was accomplished in an instant, effortless as the twitching back of a drape, affecting no other part of his face.