by Brian Aldiss
“You are most kind. But I warn you, brother, I am free of religious belief.”
“This little service is necessary,” said Odo, raising a dismissive finger. “There you will be able to meet all our relatives formally. There is something downcast in your spirit, brother, owing to your multiple bereavements. You must take a good woman, or at least a slave, to make
O you happy. What is the status of that foreign woman in your party, Toress La’hl?”
“She’s a slave, belonging to Luterin Shokerandit. A doctor, very spirited. He is a fine young man, and from Kharnabhar. About Captain Fashnalgid, I am less certain. He’s a deserter, not that I blame him for that. I started out the voyage, before the Fat Death overcame us, with a woman who meant much to my comfort. Alas, she died in the epidemic.”
“Was she from Kuj-Juvec, brother?”
“No, but she became like a dove to the tree of my self. She was faithful and good. Her name, for I must speak it, was Besi Besamitikahl. She was more to me even than my—”
Odim broke off sharply, for up ran Kenigg, with a newfound friend. As Odim smiled and took his son’s hand, his brother said, “Let me help you find another dove for that good tree of your self. You have only one brother, but the air is full of doves waiting for a suitable branch on which to alight.”
Luterin Shokerandit and Harbin Fashnalgid had been given a small room under the roof, thanks to Odo’s generosity. It was lit by one little garret window overlooking the courtyard, from which they could watch the comings and goings of the family and their slaves. In an alcove stood a stove on which their slave could cook their meals.
Both the men had beds of wood, raised above the floor and covered in rugs. Toress Lahl was supposed to lie on the floor beside Shokerandit’s bed.
Shokerandit took her in with him while Fashnalgid still slept. He lay all night with his arms round her. Only as he was rising did Fashnalgid stir.
“Luterin, why so energetic?” he asked, yawning cavernously. “Didn’t you drink enough of the Odim family’s wine last night? Rest, man, and for the Azoiaxic’s sake, let’s recover from that terrible voyage.”
Shokerandit came and looked down at him, smiling. “I had enough wine. Now I want to be off to Kharnabhar as soon as possible. My status is uncertain. I must see how my father is.” “Damn fathers. May their gossies eat shoe leather.” “I have another anxiety too—one you had better heed. Although the Oligarch is well occupied with the war against Bribahr, he has a ship here in port. More may arrive. They may be watching for us both. The sooner I start for Kharnabhar, the better. Why not come with me? There’d be safety and work with my father.”
“It’s always cold in Kharnabhar. Isn’t that what they say? How far north is it from here?”
“The Kharnabhar road covers over twenty-two degrees of latitude.” Fashnalgid laughed. “You go. I’ll stay here. I’ll find a ship sailing for Campannlat or Hespagorat. Anything rather than your frozen refuge, thanks for all that.”
“Please yourself. We don’t exactly please each other, do we? Men have to get along well, to survive the drive to Kharnabhar.”
Fashnalgid brought an arm up from his furs and held out a hand to Shokerandit. “Well, well, you’re a man for the system, and I’m against it, but never mind that.”
“You like to think I’m a man for the system, but since my metamorphosis I’ve broken from it.”
“Yes? Yet you long to get back to Father in Kharnabhar.” Fashnalgid laughed. “True conformists don’t know they conform. I like you well enough, Luterin, though I know you think I wrecked your life by capturing you. On the contrary, I saved you from the claws of the Oligarch, so be grateful. Be grateful enough to heave your Toress over to my bed for the morning, will you?”
A flush spread over Shokerandit’s face. “She’ll get you water or food while I’m out. Otherwise, she is mine. Ask Odim’s brother for what you want—he has plenty of slaves for whom he cares nothing.”
They looked each other in the eye. Then Shokerandit turned to leave the room.
“Can I come with you?” Toress Lahl called. “I shall be busy. You can stay here.”
As soon as he was gone, Fashnalgid sat up in bed. The woman was hurriedly dressing. She cast the odd glance across at the captain, who smoothed his moustache and gave a smile.
“Don’t be so hasty, woman. Come over to me. Sweet Besi’s dead and I want comforting.”
When she made no answer, he climbed naked out of bed. Toress Lahl made a run for the door, but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her back.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, I said, didn’t I? Didn’t you hear me?” He gave her long brown hair a gentle tug. “Women are generally pleased to be attended by Captain Fashnalgid.”
“I belong to Luterin Shokerandit. You heard what he said.”
He twisted her arm and grinned down at her. “You’re a slave, so you’re anyone’s. Beside, you hate his guts—I’ve seen the looks you give him. I never forced a woman, Toress, that’s the truth, and you’ll find me a good deal more expert than he, from what I overheard.”
“Please let me go. Or I shall tell him and he’ll kill you.”
“Come on, you’re too pretty to threaten me. Open up. I saved you from death, didn’t I? You and he were riding into a trap. He’s a fatal innocent, your Luterin.”
He put a hand between her legs. She got her right hand free and slapped him across the face.
With a burst of anger, Fashnalgid wrenched her off her feet and threw her down on his bed. He fell on top of her.
“Now you listen to me before you provoke me beyond words, Toress Lahl. You and I are on the same side. Shokerandit is all very well, but he is going home to security and position—all the things you and I have lost. What is more, he plans to drive you countless skerming miles northwards. What’s up there but snow and holiness and that gigantic Wheel?”
“It’s where he lives.”
“Kharnabhar’s fit only for rulers. The rest die in the cold. Haven’t you heard of the Wheel’s reputation? It used to be a prison, the worst on the planet. Do you want to finish up in the Wheel?
“Throw your lot in with me. I have seen the sort of woman you are. You’ve seen the sort of man I am. I am an outcast, but I can fend for myself. Before you get taken miles to some fortress in the northern ice from which you will never escape, achieve wisdom, achieve wisdom, woman, and throw in your lot with me. We’ll sail from here to Campannlat and better climes. Maybe we’ll even get back to your precious Borldoran.”
She had gone very pale. His face, close above hers, was a blur, nothing more than eyebrows, those piercing eyes, and that great dead moustache. She was afraid that he would strike her or even kill her— and that Shokerandit would not care. Her will was already ebbing under the burden of captivity.
“He owns me, Captain. Why discuss it? But you may have your way with me if you must. Why not? He has.”
“That’s better,” he said. “I’ll not hurt you. Throw your clothes off.”
Luterin Shokerandit knew the port of Rivenjk well. It had always been the great city, spoken of in Kharnabhar with longing, visited— when visited—with excitement. Now that he had seen more of the world, he recognised that it was rather small.
At least there was pleasure in being ashore again. He could swear he still felt a slight rolling movement underfoot. Walking down to the harbour, he went into one of the inns and drank a measure of yadahl while listening to the talk of the sailors.
“They’re nothing but a nuisance here, these soldiers,” a man nearby was saying to a companion. “You heard, I suppose, that one was knifed last night down Perspicacity Alley, and I don’t wonder at it.”
“They’ll set sail tomorrow,” his friend said. “They’ll be confined aboard ship tonight, you’ll see, and good riddance.” He lowered his voice. “They’re off under Oligarch’s orders to fight against the good people of Bribahr. What harm Bribahr have done the rest of us, I don’t know.”
&nbs
p; “They may have captured Braijth, but Rattagon is impregnable. The Oligarch is wasting his time.”
“Set in the middle of a lake, I hear.” “That’s Rattagon.” “Well, I’m glad I’m not a soldier.” “You’re too much of a fool to be anything but a sailor.” As the two men laughed together, Shokerandit fixed his gaze on a poster on a wall by the door. It announced that henceforth Anyone Entering the State of Pauk committed an Offence. To Enter into Pauk, whether alone or in company, was to Encourage the Spreading of the Plague known as the Fat Death. The Penalty for defying this law was One Hundred Sibs and, for a Second Offence, Life Imprisonment. By Order of the Oligarch.
Although Shokerandit never practised pauk, he disliked the stream of new orders the State was issuing.
Shokerandit thought to himself as he drained his glass that he probably hated the Oligarch. When the Archpriest-Militant Asperamanka had sent him to report to the Oligarchy, he had felt honoured. Then Fashnalgid had stopped him almost at the Sibornalese frontier; and it had taken him some while to believe what the man claimed, that he would have been cold-bloodedly killed with the rest of the returning army. It was even more difficult to realise that all of Asperamanka’s force had been wiped out on the Oligarch’s orders.
It made sense to take rational measures to keep the plague from spreading. But to suppress pauk was a sign that authoritarianism was spreading. He wiped his mouth with his hand.
As a result of circumstance, Shokerandit was no hero but a fugitive. He could not imagine what his fate would be if he was arrested for desertion.
“What did Harbin mean, I’m a man of the system?” he muttered. “I’m a rebel, an outcast—like him.”
It behoved him to get home to Kharnabhar and remain under his father’s powerful protection. At least in distant Kharnabhar the forces of the Oligarch would not reach him. Thought of Insil could be left for later.
With this reflection came another. He owed Fashnalgid something. He must take him on the arduous journey north if Fashnalgid could be persuaded to come. Fashnalgid would be useful in Kharnabhar: there he could help bear witness to the massacre of thousands of young Shiveninki by their own side.
He said to himself, I had courage in battle. I must have courage to fight against the Oligarchy if necessary. There will be others at home who feel as I do when they hear the truth.
He paid his coin and left the inn.
Along the waterfront stood a grand avenue of rajabarals. As temperatures dropped, the trees prepared for the long winter. Instead of shedding their leaves, they drew in their branches, pulling them into the tops of their vast trunks. Shokerandit had seen pictures in natural history books of how branches and leaves would dissolve to form a solid resin plug, protecting the featureless and undecaying tree until it released its seed in the following Great Spring.
Under the rajabarals, soldiers from a ship which flew the flags of Sibornal and the Oligarchy were parading. Shokerandit had a momentary fear that someone might recognize him; but his metamorphosed shape was protection. He turned inland, towards the marketplace, where there were agents who handled the affairs of travellers intending to visit Kharnabhar.
The cold winds from the mountains made him turn up his collar and lower his head. But at the agent’s door, pilgrims eager to visit the shrines of the Great Wheel were gathered, many poor and scantily clad.
It took him a while to arrange matters to his liking. He could travel to Kharnabhar with the pilgrims. Or he could travel independently, hiring a sledge, a team, a driver, and a jack-of-all-trades. The former way was safer, slower, and less expensive. Shokerandit decided on the latter as more befitting the son of the Keeper of the Wheel.
All he needed was cash or a letter of credit.
There were friends of his father’s at hand, some men of influence in the town’s affairs. He hesitated, and eventually chose a simple man called Hernisarath, who ran a farm and a hostel for pilgrims on the edge of town. Hernisarath welcomed Shokerandit in, immediately supplied a letter of credit for the agent, and insisted that Shokerandit join him and his wife for a midday meal.
He embraced Shokerandit on the doorstep when it was time to take leave.
“You’re a good and innocent young man, Luterin, and I’m happy to help. Every day as Weyr-Winter approaches, farming becomes more diEcult. But let’s hope we shall meet again.”
His wife said, “It’s so nice to meet a young man with good manners. Our respects to your father.”
Shokerandit glowed as he left them, pleased to have made a good impression; whereas Harbin was probably drunk by now. But why did Hernisarath call him “innocent”?
Snow began to fall from the heights, whirling as it came, like fine white sugar dissolving in a stirred glass of water. It thickened, muffling the sound of his boots on the cobbles. The streets cleared of people. Long grey shadows sprouted penumbras, dark for Freyr, lighter for Batalix, until the cloud extended over the bay and enveloped all Rivenjk in murk.
Shokerandit halted suddenly behind a rajabaral.
Another man came on from behind, clutching his collar to his throat. He walked past the tree, glanced back, shuffled his feet, and hurried into a side street. Shokerandit saw with some amusement that it was called Perspicacity Alley.
With uncharacteristic forethought, he had not told his fellow travellers that on the head of the Hero guarding entry to Rivenjk harbour was a heliograph signalling station. Warning of the deserters aboard the New Season could have reached the port long before the brig docked…
He returned to Odo’s house by as devious a route as he could contrive. By then, the worst of the snow shower was over.
“How fortunate that you arrive in time,” Odo said, as Shokerandit entered the door. “My brother and I and the rest of the family are about to go to church to give thanks for the New Season’s survival. You will come along, please?”
“Oh… yes, of course. A private ceremony?”
“Absolutely private. Only the priest and the family.”
Shokerandit looked at Odim, who nodded encouragingly. “You are about to embark on another journey, Luterin. We who have known each other such a short while must part. The ceremony seems appropriate, even if you don’t believe in prayer.”
“I will see if Fashnalgid will come too.”
He hastened up the winding wooden stair to the room Odo had lent them. Toress Lahl was there, lying under her skins on his bed.
“You’re meant to be working, not lying about,” he said. “You’re not still mourning your husband? Where’s the captain?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find him, will you? He’ll be drinking somewhere.”
He ran back downstairs. As soon as he was gone, Fashnalgid climbed out from under his bed and laughed. Toress Lahl refused to smile.
“I want food, not prayer,” he said, peering cautiously out of the window. “And that drink your friend mentioned would be welcome… .”
The Odim clan was gathering in the courtyard, where slaves were still meddling inefficiently with long rods, climbing in and out of the biogas inspection pit, despite the sleet in the air. The place was filled with excited talk.
Shokerandit appeared. Some of the ladies who had been on the New Season ran up and embraced him, in a manner more reminiscent of Kuj-Juvec than of the rest of Sibornal. Shokerandit no longer contrasted such free behaviour with his own formal upbringing.
“Oh, this is such a good place, this Rivenjk,” said one well-wrapped grand-aunt, taking his arm. “There are many fine buildings, and much statuary. I shall be happy here, and mean to set up a press to print poetry. Do you think your countrymen like poetry?”
But before Shokerandit could reply, the lady had turned in the other direction to grasp Eedap Mun Odim by the sleeve. “You are our little hero, cousin, bringing us safe from oppression. Let me be in the church next to you. Walk there with me and make me proud.”
“I shall be proud to walk with you, auntie,” said Odim, smiling kindly at her
. And the whole jostling crowd began to move out of the courtyard gate and along the street to the church.
“And we are proud to have you with us, too, Luterin,” said Odim, anxious that Shokerandit should not feel left out of the party. He looked round with pleasure at so many Odims gathered together. Although their ranks had been culled by the Fat Death, the bulk of the survivors was a compensation of sorts.
When they filed into the high-roofed church, Odim ranged himself against his brother, elbows touching. He wondered if Odo, like him, had no belief in God the Azoiaxic. He was far too polite to put such a personal question; secrecy was for men, as the saying went. If his brother wished to confess one evening, over a little wine, that was another matter. For now, it was enough that they were together and that the service allowed them to mourn for those who had died, including his wife and children and the beloved Besi Besamitikahl, and to rejoice in the fact that their own lives were spared.
A treble voice, disembodied, sexless, free of lust, traced a thread of theatrical penitence which rose from the well of the church to its interlaced roof beams.
Odim smiled as he sang and felt his soul lifted towards the rafters. Belief would have been good. But even the wish to believe was consolatory.
As the voices of the congregation were raised in song inside, ten beefy soldiers marched down the street outside accompanied by an officer, and halted outside Odirin Nan Odim’s gate. The watchman opened up to them, bowing. The soldiers brushed him aside and marched into the centre of the courtyard, trampling the already trodden carpet of snow.
The officer barked orders to his men. Four men to search the houses set at each point of the compass, remainder to stand where they were and be alert for escapees.
“Abro Hakmo Astab!” Fashnalgid shouted, jumping up from his bed. He had been sitting half-dressed, watching both the window and Toress Lahl, to whom he occasionally read lines of poetry from a small book She was obeying his orders to prepare a meal, and was carrying a flaming brand obtained from a slave downstairs to light their stove.
She flinched at the obscenity of his oath, although she was used to the swearing of soldiers.