Helliconia Summer h-2

by Brian Aldiss

  “You men with clever tongues,” sighed the queen, anxious behind her lattice.

  JandolAnganol was speaking now in a modest tone. He remained seated. His voice ran fast, like his gaze. He was in effect giving a report on the state of his kingdom to his visitors.

  “All of Borlien is now peaceful within its borders. There are some brigands, but they are not important. Our armies are committed in the Western Wars. They drain our lifeblood. On our eastern borders, too, we are threatened by dangerous invaders, Unndreid the Hammer and the cruel Darvlish the Skull.”

  He looked about him challengingly. It was his shame that he had received a wound from such an unimportant adversary as Darvlish.

  “As Freyr draws nearer, we suffer from drought. Famine is everywhere. You must not expect Borlien to fight elsewhere. We are a country large in extent, poor in produce.”

  “Come, cousin, you are too modest,” said Taynth Indredd. “Everyone knows from childhood that your southern loess plain forms the richest land on the continent.”

  “Richness lies not in land but in land properly farmed,” replied JandolAnganol. “Such is the pressure on our borders that we must press peasants into the armies, and let women and children work the farms.”

  “Then you certainly need our help, cousin,” said Taynth Indredd, looking about for the applause he felt his point merited.

  Io Pasharatid said, “If a farmer has a lame hoxney, will a wild kaidaw assist him?”

  This remark was ignored. There were those who said that Sibornal should not have been present at this meeting.

  In the manner of one making everything clear, Taynth Indredd said, “Cousin, you press us for assistance at a time when every nation is in trouble. The riches our grandfathers enjoyed are gone, while our fields burn and our fruits shrivel. And I must speak frankly and say that there is an unresolved quarrel between us. That we greatly hope to resolve, and must resolve if there is to be unanimity between us.”

  A silence fell.

  Perhaps Taynth Indredd feared to continue.

  JandolAnganol jumped to his feet, a look of anger on his dark features.

  The little runt, Yuli scrambled up alertly, as if to do whatever his master might bid.

  “I went to Sayren Stund in Oldorando to ask for help only against common enemies. Here you gather like vultures! You confront me in my own court. What is this quarrel you dream up between us? Tell me.”

  Taynth Indredd and his advisor, Guaddl Ulbobeg, conferred. It was the latter, the friend of the king’s, who answered him. He rose, bowed, and pointed to Yuli.

  “It’s no dream, Your Majesty. Our concern is real, and so is that creature you bring here amongst us. From the most ancient times, human kind and phagor kind have been enemies. No truce is possible between beings so different. The Holy Pannovalan Empire has declared holy crusades and drumbles against these odious creatures, with a view to ridding the world of them. Yet your majesty gives them shelter within his borders.”

  He spoke almost apologetically, his gaze downcast, so as to rob his words of force. His master restored the force by shouting, “You expect aid from us, coz, when you harbour these vermin by the million? They overran Campannlat once before, and will again, given the opportunity you provide.”

  JandolAnganol confronted his visitors, hands on hips.

  “I will have no one from outside my borders interfere with my interior policies. I listen to my scritina and my scritina does not complain. Yes, I welcome ancipitals to Borlien. A truce is possible with them. They farm infertile land that our people will not touch. They do humble work that slaves shrink from. They fight for no pay. My treasury is empty—you misers from Pannoval may not understand that, but it means I can afford only an army of phagors.

  “They get their reward in marginal land. Moreover, they do not turn and run in the face of danger! You may say that that is because they are too stupid. To which I reply, that I prefer a phagor to a peasant any day. As long as I am King of Borlien, the phagors have my protection.”

  “You mean, we believe, Your Majesty, that the phagors have your protection as long as MyrdemInggala is Queen of Borlien.” These words were spoken by one of Taynth Indredd’s vicars, a thin man whose bones were draped in a black woollen charfrul. Again, tension filled the court. Following up his advantage, the vicar continued, “It was the queen, with her well-known tenderness towards any living thing, and her father, the warlord RantanOboral—whom your majesty’s grandfather dispossessed of this very palace not twenty years back—who began this degrading alliance with the ancipitals, which you have maintained.”

  Guaddl Ulbobeg rose and bowed to Taynth Undredd. “Sire, I object to the trend this meeting is taking. We are not here to vilify the Queen of Borlien, but to offer aid to the king.”

  But JandolAnganol, as if weary, had sat down. The vicar had sought out his vulnerable spot: that his claim to the throne was recent and his consort the daughter of a minor baron.

  With a sympathetic glance at his lord, SartoriIrvrash rose to face the Pannovalan visitors.

  “As his majesty’s chancellor, I find myself amazed—yet it’s an amazement blunted somewhat by custom—to discover such prejudice, I might even say animosity, among members of the same great Holy Pannovalan Empire. I, as you may understand, am an atheist, and therefore observe detachedly the antics of your Church. Where is the charity you preach? Do you aid his majesty by trying to undermine the position of the queen?

  “I am grown to the withered end of life, but I tell you, Illustrious Prince Taynth Indredd, that I have as great a hatred of phagors as you. But they are a factor of life we must live with, as you in Pannoval live with your constant hostilities against Sibornal. Would you wipe out all Sibornalese as you would wipe out all phagors? Is it not killing itself that is wrong? Doesn’t your Akhanaba preach that?

  “Since we are speaking frankly, then I will say that there has long been belief in Borlien that if Pannoval were not engaged in fighting Sibornalese colonists along a wide front to the north, then it would be invading us to the south, as you now attempt to dominate us with your ideologies. For that reason, we are grateful to the Sibornalese.”

  As the chancellor stooped to confer with JandolAnganol, the Sibornalese ambassador rose and said, “Since the progressive nations of Sibornal so rarely receive anything but condemnation from the Empire, I wish to record my astonished gratitude for that speech.”

  Taynth Indredd, ignoring this sarcastic interjection, said in the direction of SartoriIrvrash, “You are so much at the withered end that you mistake the reality of the situation. Pannoval serves as a bastion between you and southward incursions of the warlike Sibornalese. As a self-proclaimed student of history, you should know that those same Sibornalese never cease—generation after generation—from trying to quit their loathesome northern continent and take over ours.”

  Whatever the truth of this last assertion, it was true that the Pannovalans were as offended to find Sibornalese as phagors in the council room. But even Taynth Indredd knew that the real bastion between Sibornal and Borlien was geographical: the sharp spines of the Quzint Mountains and the great corridor between the Quzints and Mordriat called Hazziz which at this period was a scorching desert.

  JandolAnganol and SartoriIrvrash had been conferring. The chancellor now spoke again.

  “Our pleasant guests bring up the subject of the warlike Sibornalese. Before we enter into further botheration and insults, we should proceed to the heart of the matter. My lord King JandolAnganol was lately grievously wounded in defending his realm, so much that his life hung by a thread. He praises Akhanaba for his deliverance, while I praise the herbs my surgeon applied to the wound. I have here the cause of the injury.”

  He called forth the Royal Armourer, a small and savagely moustached man dressed in leather who stumped into the centre of the room and then produced a leaden ball, which he held up between thumb and forefinger of a gloved hand. In a formal voice, he announced, “This is a shot. It wa
s dug from out his majesty’s leg with a surgeon’s knife. It caused great injury. It was fired from a piece of hand artillery called a matchlock.”

  “Thank you,” said SartoriIrvrash, dismissing the man. “We recognize that Sibornal is greatly progressive. The matchlock is evidence of that progress. We understand that matchlocks are now being made in Sibornal in great numbers, and that there is a later development, by name a wheel lock, which will spread greater devastation. I would advise the Holy Pannovalan Empire to show genuine unity in the face of this new development. Let me assure you, this innovation is more to be feared than Unndreid the Hammer himself.

  “I must furthermore advise you that our agents report that the tribes which invaded the Cosgatt were supplied with these weapons not from Sibornal itself, as might be expected, but from a Sibornalese source in Matrassyl.”

  At this statement, all eyes in the court turned to the Sibornalese ambassador. It happened that Io Pasharatid was just refreshing himself with an iced drink. He paused with the glass halfway to his mouth, a look of distress on his face.

  His wife, Dienu Pasharatid, reclined on cushions nearby. She rose now, a tall and graceful woman, thin, greyish in cast, severe in appearance.

  “If you statesmen wonder why in my country you are called the Savage Continent, look no further than this latest lie of magnitude. Who would be to blame for such arms trading? Why should my husband be always mistrusted?”

  SartoriIrvrash pulled his whiskers, so that his face was tugged into an involuntary smile. “Why do you mention your husband in connection with this incident, Madame Dienu? No one else did. I didn’t.”

  JandolAnganol rose again. “Two of our agents, posing as Driat tribesmen, went into the lower bazaar and bought one of these new inventions. I propose a demonstration of what this weapon can do, so that you will be in no doubt that we have entered a new era in warfare. Perhaps then you will see my need to retain phagors in my army and my realms.”

  Addressing himself directly to the Pannovalan prince, he said, “If your refinement will allow you to tolerate the presence of ancipitals in the room…”

  The diplomats sat up and stared apprehensively at the king.

  He clapped his hands. A leather-clad captain from his cortege went to a passage and called an order. Two dehorned phagors marched smartly into the room. They had been standing motionless in the shadows. Their white pelages picked up the light as they passed by the windows. One of them carried a long matchlock before him. A passage was cleared across the middle of the chamber as he set it down and crouched beside it to prepare for firing.

  The hand-artillery piece had a six-foot iron barrel and a stock of polished wood. Both barrel and stock were bound at intervals with silver wire. Near the muzzle was a folding tripod of sturdy design with two clawed feet. The phagor packed powder into the mechanism from a horn carried at his belt, and used a ramrod to tamp a round lead ball down the barrel. He settled himself and lit a fuse. The captain of phagors stood over him to see that all was performed properly.

  Meanwhile, the second phagor had moved to the other end of the chamber and stood near the wall, looking forward and twitching an ear. Any humans lolling about on cushions had rapidly cleared a wide space for him.

  The first phagor squinted along the barrel, using the tripod to support the muzzle. The fuse spluttered. There was a terrific explosion and a puff of smoke.

  The other phagor staggered. A yellow stain appeared high up on its chest, where its intestines were situated. It said something, clutching the spot where the shot had entered its body. Then it fell dead, collapsing with a thud on the floor.

  As smoke and smell filled the council hall, the diplomats began to cough. Panic took them. They jumped up, tugging their charfruls, and ran into the open. JandolAnganol and his chancellor were left standing alone.

  After the morning’s demonstration of fire power, of which the queen had been a secret onlooker, she went and hid herself in her quarters.

  She hated the calculations that power entailed. She knew that the Pannoval contingent, led by the odious Prince Taynth Indredd, were not aiming their remarks against Sibornal, for it was taken for granted that Sibornal was a permanent enemy; that relationship, sour though it was, was well understood. JandolAnganol was the target of their talk, for they wished to bind him closer to them. And in consequence she—who had power over him—was also their target.

  MyrdemInggala lunched with her ladies. JandolAnganol, by the laws of courtesy, lunched with his guests. Guaddl Ulbobeg earned black looks from his master by pausing at the king’s place and saying, in a low voice, “Your demonstration was dramatic, but hardly effective. For our northern armies are having increasingly to fight against Sibornalese forces armed with those very matchlocks. However, the art of their manufacture can be learnt, as you will see tomorrow. Beware, my friend, for the prince will force a hard bargain on you.”

  After her lunch, scarcely tasted, the queen went alone to her quarters and sat at her favourite window, on the cushioned seat built round its bay. She thought of the odious Prince Taynth Indredd, who resembled a frog. She knew that he was related to the equally disgusting King of Oldorando, Sayren Stund, whose wife was a Madi. Surely even phagors were preferable to these scheming royalties!

  From her window, she looked across her garden to the tiled reservoir where she swam. On the far side of the reservoir, a tall wall rose, hiding her beauty from prying eyes, and in the bottom of the wall, just above water level, was a small iron grille. The grille formed the window to a dungeon. There, JandolAnganol’s father, the deposed King VarpalAnganol, was imprisoned, and had been since shortly after the queen’s marriage. In the reservoir were golden carp, visible from where she sat. Like her, like VarpalAnganol, they were prisoners here.

  A knock came at her door. A servant opened it, to announce that the queen’s brother awaited her pleasure.

  YeferalOboral was lolling against the rail at her balcony. They both knew that JandolAnganol would long since have killed him, but for the queen.

  Her brother was not a handsome man; all the beauty in the line had been bestowed in superabundance on MyrdemInggala. His features were meagre, his expression sour. He was brave, obedient, patient; otherwise his qualities were few. He never carried himself well, as did the king, as if to emphasize that he intended to cut no figure in life. Yet he served JandolAnganol without protest, and was devoted to a sister whose life he held so much more dear than his own. She loved him for his ordinariness.

  “You were not at the meeting.”

  “It wasn’t for the likes of me.”

  “It was horrible.”

  “I heard so. For some reason, Io Pasharatid is upset. He’s generally so cool, like a block of Lordryardry ice. Yet the guards say he has a woman in town—imagine! If so, he runs a great risk.”

  MyrdemInggala showed her teeth in a smile. “I detest the way he looks at me. If he has a woman, so much the better!”

  They laughed. For a short while, they lingered, talking of cheerful things. Their father, the old baron, was in the country now, complaining of the heat and too old to be reckoned a danger to the state. He had recently taken up fishing, as a cool pursuit.

  The courtyard bell rang. They looked down to see JandolAnganol enter the court, closely followed by a guard carrying a red silk umbrella over his head. The phagor runt was close to him, as ever. He called to his queen.

  “Will you come down, Cune? Our guests must be entertained during a lull in our discussions. You will delight them more than ever I could.”

  She left her brother and went down to join him under the sunshade. He took her arm with formal courtesy. She thought he looked weary, though the fabric of the umbrella reflected a flush like fever on his cheeks.

  “Are you coming to a treaty with Pannoval and Oldorando which will ease the pressures of war?” she asked timidly.

  “The beholder knows what we’re coming to,” he said abruptly. “We must keep on terms with the devils, and placa
te them, otherwise they’ll take advantage of our temporary weakness and invade us. They’re as full of cunning as they are of fake holiness.” He sighed.

  “The time will come when you and I will be hunting and enjoying life again, as of old,” she said, squeezing his arm. She would not rebuke him for inviting his guests.

  Ignoring her pious hope, he burst out angrily, “SartoriIrvrash spoke unwisely this morning, admitting his atheism. I must get rid of him. Taynth holds it against me that my chancellor is not a member of the Church.”

  “Prince Taynth also spoke against me. Will you get rid of me because I am not to his liking?” Her eyes flashed angrily as she spoke, though she tried to keep lightness in her tone. But he replied sullenly, “You know, and the scritina knows, that the coffers are empty. We may be driven to much we have no heart for.”

  She drew her hand sharply from his arm.

  The visitors, together with their concubines and servants, were grouped in a green courtyard, under colonnades. Wild beasts were being paraded; a group of jugglers was entertaining with its paltry tricks. JandolAnganol steered his queen among the emissaries. She noted how the countenances of the men lit up as she spoke to them. I must still be of some value to Jan, she thought.

  An old Thribriatan tribesman in elaborate braffista headgear was parading two gorilloid Others on chains. The creatures attracted several onlookers. Away from their arboreal habitat, their behaviour was uncouth. They most resembled—so one of the courtiers said—two drunken courtiers.

  The froglike Prince Taynth Indredd was standing under a yellow sunshade, being fanned and smoking a veronikane as he watched the Others perform some limited tricks. Beside him, laughing uproariously at the captives, was a stiff girl of some eleven years and six tenners.

  “Aren’t they funny, Unk?” she said to the prince. “They’re quite like people, except for all that fur.”

  The Thribriatan, hearing this, touched his braffista and said to the prince, “You like see me make Others fight each other?”

  The prince humorously produced a silver coin in the palm of his hand.