by Brian Aldiss
This if you’ll make them rumbo each other.”
Everyone laughed. The girl screamed with humour. “Unkie, how rude you are! Would they really?”
Mournfully polite, the tribesman said, “These beasts have no khmir like humans. Only every tenner make love, do rumbo. Is more easy make fight.”
Shaking his head and laughing, the prince retained his coin. It was as he turned away that MyrdemInggala addressed him. His small companion drifted off, suddenly bored. She was dressed as an adult, and her cheeks were rouged.
When the queen decently could, she left JandolAnganol and Taynth Indredd talking, and crossed to the fountain to speak with the girl. The latter was staring moodily into the water.
“Are you looking for fish?”
“No, thank you. We have much bigger fish than that at home in Oldorando.” She indicated their size in a childlike way, using her hands.
“I see. I’ve just been talking to your father, the prince.”
The girl looked up at her interrogator for the first time, with an expression of contempt. Her face astonished MyrdemInggala, so strange was it, with huge eyes fringed by abnormally long lashes, and a nose like the beak of a little parakeet. By the beholder, thought the queen, this is a half-Madi child! What a funny little thing! I must be nice to it.
It was saying, “Zygankes! Taynth my father! He’s not my father. Whatever made you think that? He’s only a distant cousin by marriage. I wouldn’t have him for a father—he’s too fat.” As if to strike a pleasanter note, the girl said, “In truth, this is the first time I have been allowed to travel away from Oldorando without my father. My women are with me, of course, but it’s terribly boring here, isn’t it? Do you have to live here?”
She squinted as she peered up at the queen. A characteristic in her face made her look at once pretty and stupid.
“You know what? You look quite attractive, for an old person.”
Keeping a serious face, the queen said, “I have a nice cool reservoir, sheltered from view. Would you like a swim? Is that permitted?”
The girl considered. “I can do what I like, of course, but I don’t think a swim would be ladylike just now. I am a princess, after all. That always has to be considered.”
“Really? Do you mind telling me your name?”
“Zygankes, it is primitive in Borlien! I thought everyone knew my name. I am the Princess Simoda Tal, and my father is the King of Oldorando. I suppose you’ve heard of Oldorando?”
The queen laughed. Feeling sorry for the child, she said, “Well, if you’ve come all the way from Oldorando I think you deserve a swim.”
“I’ll swim when I please, thank you,” said the young lady.
And when the young lady pleased was next morning at dawn. She found her way to the queen’s quarters and woke her. MyrdemInggala was more amused than vexed. She roused Tatro and they went down with Simoda Tal to the reservoir, accompanied only by their maids, who bore towels, and a phagor guard. The child dismissed the phagors, saying that they disgusted her.
A chill light lay across the scene, but the water was more than tepid. Once, in JandolAnganol’s father’s time, carts of snow and ice had been brought from the mountains to cool the reservoirs, but considerations of manpower and the stirrings of Mordriat tribes had terminated such luxuries.
Although no windows but her own faced over the reservoir, the queen always swam in a filmy garment which covered her pale body, Simoda Tal had no such reservations. She threw off her garments to reveal a stocky little body prinked with dark hairs, which stood out like pine trees on snowy hillsides.
“Oh, I love you, you’re beautiful!” she exclaimed to the queen, rushing up as soon as she was naked and embracing the older woman. MyrdemInggala was unable to respond freely. She felt something inappropriate in the embrace. Tatro screamed.
The young girl swam and surface-dived close to the queen, repeatedly opening her legs as she performed in the water, as if eager to assure MyrdemInggala that she was fully adult where it was most important to be.
At the same time, SartoriIrvrash was being wakened from his couch by an officer of the court. The guards had reported that the Sibornalese ambassador, Io Pasharatid, had left on hoxneyback, alone, an hour before Freyr-dawn.
“His wife, Dienu?”
“She is still in her quarters, sir. She is reported to be upset.”
“Upset? What does that mean? The woman’s intelligent. I can’t say I like her, but she’s intelligent. Botheration… And there are so many fools… Here, help me out of bed, will you?”
He drew a gown round his shoulders and roused the slave woman who had served as his housekeeper since his wife died. He admired the Sibornalese. He had estimated that at this time of the Great Year there were possibly fifty million humans living in the seventeen countries of Campannlat; those countries could not agree with each other.
Wars were endemic. Empires rose and fell. There was never peace.
In Sibornal, cold Sibornal, things fell out differently. In the seven countries of Sibornal lived an estimated twenty-five million humans. Those seven nations formed a strong alliance. Campannlat was incomparably richer than the northern continent, yet perpetual squabbles between its nations meant that little was achieved—except religions which thrived on desperation. This was why SartoriIrvrash hated the job of chancellor. He had a contempt for most of the men he worked for.
The chancellor had paid bribes, and knew as a result that Prince Taynth Indredd had brought to the palace a chest of weapons—the very weapons discussed yesterday. Clearly, they were designed as bargaining power, but what the bargain would be remained to be seen.
It was not improbable that the Sibornalese ambassador had also gained news of the chest of matchlocks. That could account for his hasty departure. He would be heading north, towards Hazziz and the nearest Sibornalese settlements. He should be brought back.
SartoriIrvrash sipped a mug of pellamountain tea which the slave woman brought and turned to the waiting officer.
“I made a fabulous discovery yesterday regarding hoxneys, which influences the history of the world—a remarkable discovery! But who took account of it?” He shook his bald head. “Learning means nothing, intrigue is everything. So I have to bestir myself at dawn to capture some fool riding north… What a botheration it is! Now. Who’s a good hoxneyman near at hand? One we can trust, if such exists. I know. The queen’s brother, YeferalOboral. Fetch him, will you? In his boots.”
When YeferalOboral appeared, SartoriIrvrash explained the situation.
“Fetch this madman Pasharatid back. Ride hard and you’ll catch him up. Tell him—something. Let me think. Yes, tell him that the king has decided to make no commitment to Oldorando and Pannoval. Instead, he wishes to sign a treaty with Sibornal. Sibornal has a fleet of ships. Tell him we will offer them anchorage in Ottassol.”
“What would Sibornalese ships be doing so far from home?” YeferalOboral asked.
“Leave him to decide that. Just persuade him to return here.”
“Why do you want him back?”
SartoriIrvrash squeezed his hands together. “Guilt. That’s why the scerm has left so suddenly. I mean to find out exactly what he has done. There’s always more than arm up a Sibornalese sleeve. Now please go, and no more questions.”
YeferalOboral rode north through the city, through its streets which were even then crowded with early risers, and through the fields beyond. He rode steadily, trotting and walking his hoxney by turns.
He came to a bridge across the Mar, where that river flowed into the Takissa. A small fort stood, guarding the bridge. He stopped and changed to a fresh hoxney.
After another hour’s riding, when the heat was becoming intense, he stopped by a stream and drank. There were fresh hoxney-shoe prints by the water, which he hoped were those of Pasharatid’s mount.
He continued north. The country became less fertile. Habitation was scarce. The thordotter blew, parching throats, drying skins.
Behind one of the boulders, Io Pasharatid stood waiting for his pursuer. His mount was exhausted. Pasharatid expected capture and was surprised when he saw a solitary rider approaching. There was no accounting for the foolishness of the Campannlatians.
He loaded his matchlock, set it in position and awaited the right moment to apply his fire. His pursuer was approaching at a steady pace, riding among the boulders and taking no particular care.
Pasharatid lit the fuse, tucked the butt into his shoulder, narrowed his eyes, and aimed the gun. He hated using these beastly weapons. They were for barbarians.
Not every firing was a success. This one was. There was a loud explosion, the bullet flew to its mark. YeferalOboral was blown off his mount with a hole in his chest. He crawled into the shadow of a boulder and died.
The Sibornalese ambassador caught the hoxney and continued his journey north.
It must be said: there were no riches in King JandolAnganol’s court to rival the riches of the courts friendly to him in Oldorando and in Pannoval City. In those more favoured centres of civilization, treasures of all kinds had accumulated; scholars were protected, and the church itself—though this was truer of Pannoval—encouraged learning and the arts to a limited extent. But Pannoval had the advantage of a ruling dynasty which, encouraging a proselytizing religion, made for stability.
Almost every week, ships unloaded on to Matrassyl’s harbour cargoes of spices, drugs, hides, animals’ teeth, lapis lazuli, scented woods, and rare birds. But of these treasures, few reached the palace. For JandolAnganol was an upstart king, in the eyes of the world and possibly in his own eyes. He boasted of his grandfather’s enlightened rule, but in truth his grandfather had been little better than a successful warlord—one of many who disputed Borlienese territory—who had had the wit to band phagors into formidable armies under human captaincy and so subdue his enemies.
Not all those enemies had been killed. One of the most striking ‘reforms’ of JandolAnganol’s father’s reign was to appoint a parliament, or scritina; the scritina represented the people and advised the king. It was based on an Oldorandan model. VarpalAnganol had formed the membership of the scritina from two categories of men, from the leaders of guilds and corps, such as the Ironmakers Corps, who had traditional power in the land, and from defeated warlords or their families, thus giving them the chance to air their grievances and him a way of deflating their wrath. Much of the cargo unloaded at Matrassyl went to paying this disaffected body of men.
When the young JandolAnganol deposed and imprisoned his father, he had sought to abolish the scritina. The scritina had refused to be abolished. It met regularly and continued to harass the king and to make its own members rich. Its leader, BudadRembitim, was also mayor of Matrassyl.
The scritina called an extraordinary meeting. It would certainly demand a fresh attempt to subdue Randonan and stronger defences against the warlike tribes of Mordriat, who were no more than two or three days gallop from their homes. The king would have to answer them and commit himself to a definite line of action.
The king presented himself before the scritina that afternoon, when his distinguished visitors were taking a siesta. He left his runt behind and sank into his throne in grim silence.
After the difficulties of the morning, another set of difficulties. His gaze went round the wooden council chamber as if seeking them out.
Several members of the old families rose to speak. Most of them harped on a fresh theme and a stale one. The stale one was the emptiness of the exchequer. The fresh one was the inconvenient report from the Western Wars that the frontier city of Keevasien had been sacked. Randonanese units had crossed the Kacol River and stormed the city.
This led to complaints that General Hanra TolramKetinet was too young, too unskilled, to command the army. Every complaint was a criticism of the king. JandolAnganol listened impatiently, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne. He recalled again the wretched days of his boyhood, after his mother had died. His father had beaten and neglected him. He had hidden in cellars from his father’s servants, and vowed to himself that, when he was grown up, he would let nobody stand in the way of his happiness.
After he was wounded in the Cosgatt, after he had managed to find his way back to the capital, he lay in the state of weakness which recalled to his mind the past he wished to shut away. Again he was powerless. It was then he had observed the handsome young captain, TolramKetinet, smile at MyrdemInggala, and receive an answering smile.
As soon as he had managed to crawl from his bed, he promoted TolramKetinet to general, and sent him off to the Western Wars. There were men in the scritina who believed—with good reason—that their sons were much more deserving of promotion. Every setback in the stubborn jungles to the west reinforced their belief, and their anger with the king. He knew he needed a victory of some kind very soon. For that he found himself forced to turn to Pannoval.
The next morning, before meeting formally again with the diplomats, JandolAnganol went early to see Prince Taynth Indredd in his suite. He left Yuli outside, where the runt settled down comfortably, sprawling like a dog by the door. This was the king’s concession to a man he disliked.
Prince Taynth Indredd was breakfasting off a gout cooked in oatmeal, served with tropical fruits. He listened, nodding assent, to what JandolAnganol had to say.
He remarked, with seeming irrelevance, “I hear that your son has disappeared?”
“Robay loves the desert. The climate suits him. He often departs, and is away for weeks at a time.”
“It’s not the proper training for a king. Kings must be educated. RobaydayAnganol should attend a monastery, as you did, and as I did. Instead, he’s joined the protognostics, so I hear.”
“I can look after my own son. I require no advice.”
“Monastery is good for you. Teaches you that there are things you have to do, even if you don’t like them. Bad things loom in the future. Pannoval has survived the long winters. The long summers are more difficult… My deuteroscopists and astronomers report bad things of the future. Of course, it’s their trade, you might say.”
He paused and lit a veronikane, making a performance of it, breathing out the smoke luxuriously, sweeping the cloud away with languorous gestures.
“Yes, the old religions of Pannoval spoke truth when they warned that bad things came from the sky. Akhanaba’s origins were as a stone. You know that?”
He rose and waddled over to the window, where he climbed up on the sill and looked out. His large behind stuck out in JandolAnganol’s direction.
The latter said nothing, waiting for Taynth Indredd to commit himself.
The deuteroscopists say that Helliconia and our attendant sun, Batalix, are being drawn nearer to Freyr every small year. For the next few generations—eighty-three years, to be precise—we move ever nearer to it. After that, if celestial geometries prove correct, we draw slowly away again. So the next generations are the testing ones. Advantage will go increasingly to the polar continents of Hespagorat and Sibornal. For us in the tropics, conditions will become steadily worse.”
“Borlien can survive. It’s cooler along the south coast. Ottassol is a cool city—below ground, much like Pannoval.”
Taynth Indredd turned his froglike face over one shoulder in order to inspect JandolAnganol.
“There’s a plan, you see, coz… I know you have little affection for me, but I’d prefer you to hear it from me than have it from your friend, my old holy advisor, Guaddl Ulbobeg. Borlien will be all right at nearpoint, as you say. So will Pannoval, safe in its mountains. Oldorando will suffer most. And both your country and mine need to see O
ldorando remain intact, or it will fall to barbarians. Do you suppose you could accommodate the Oldorandan court, Sayren Stund and his like—in Ottassol?”
The question was so startling that JandolAnganol was for once at a loss for words.
“That would be for my successor to say…”
The Prince of Pannoval changed his tone of voice, and the subject.
“Coz, take some fresh air at the window with me. See, there below is my charge, Simoda Tal, eleven years and six tenners old, daughter of the Oldorandan line, her ancestry traceable back to the Lords Den ruling Old Embruddock in the chill times.”
The girl, thinking herself unobserved, skipped in the courtyard below, dried her hair in a desultory fashion, and whirled her towel about her head now and again.
“Why does she make the journey with you, Taynth?”
“Because I wished you to see her. A pleasant girl, is she not?”
“Pleasing enough.”
“Young, it’s true, but, from certain signs I have had, of a quite lascivious nature.”
JandolAnganol felt a trap was about to spring. He withdrew his head and began to pace the room. Taynth Indredd turned about and settled himself comfortably on the ledge, blowing out smoke.
“Cousin, we wish to see the member states of the Holy Pannoval Empire draw ever closer. We must protect ourselves against bad times—not only now but to come. In Pannoval, we have always had Akhanaba’s gift of foresight. That is why we wish you to marry this pretty young princess, Simoda Tal.”
The blood sank from JandolAnganol’s face. Straightening himself, he said, “You know I am already married—and to whom I am married.”
“Face some unpleasant facts, coz. The present queen is the daughter of a brigand. She is not a fit match for you. The marriage degrades you and your country, which demands a better status. Married to Simoda Tal, though, yours would be a force to be reckoned with.”
“It cannot be done. In any case, the mother of that girl down there is a Madi. Isn’t that so?”