by Brian Aldiss
To these traditional elements was added a more modern embellishment. Near the door, lit by one candle, stood a stylized portrait of a mother, with sad downcast eyes, her hands spread. Many of the women shuffling in kissed the original beholder as they passed her.
No formal service was in progress, but, since the church was nevertheless half full, a priest was praying aloud in a high nasal singsong.
“Many come to knock at thy door, O Akhanaba, and many turn away without a knock.
“And to those who turn away and those who stand in all piety knocking,
“Thou sayest, ‘Cease to cry “When willst thou open to me, O All-Powerful One?” ’
“ ‘For I say that all the while the door stands open, and never has been shut.’ These things are there to be seen but you see them not.”
MyrdemInggala thought of what her mother’s gossie had said. They communicated with a greater voice. Yet Shannana did not mention Akhanaba. Looking up at the face of the All-Powerful, she thought, it’s true, we are surrounded by mystery. Even Rushven can’t understand it.
“All about you lies all that you need, if you will accept and not take by force. If you would but lay down your self, you would find what is greater than yourself.
“All things are equal in this world, but also greater.
“ ‘Ask not therefore if I am man or animal or stone:
“ ‘All these I am and more that you must learn to perceive.’ ”
The chanting went on, the choir joining in. The queen reflected how excellently the alto voices chimed with the stone vaulting overhead; here indeed were spirit and stone united.
She put a hand under her clothes and placed it on her breast, trying to still the beating of her heart.
Despite the beauty of the singing, the apprehension in her would not be soothed. There was no time to contemplate eternity under the pressure of dire events.
When the priest had blessed them, she was ready to go on. The two women, shawls about their heads, went out again in the wind and daylight.
The queen led them to the quayside, where the River Takissa looked dark and choppy, like a narrow sea. A boat just in from Oldorando was mooring with some difficulty. Small boats were being loaded, but there was less activity than usual because of the thordotter. Empty carts, barrels, timbers, winches, and other equipment essential to river life stood about. A tarpaulin whipped back and forth in the wind. The queen walked on determinedly until they reached a warehouse over which was a sign reading:
LORDRYARDRY ICE TRADING COMPANY
This was the Matrassyl headquarters of the famous ice captain, Krillio Muntras of Lordryardry.
The warehouse had an assortment of doors on all floors, large and small. MyrdemInggala chose the smallest on the ground floor and walked in. Mai followed.
Inside was a cobbled court, with fat men rolling barrels of their own shape over to a dray.
“I wish to speak with Krillio Muntras,” she said to the nearest man.
“He’s busy. He won’t speak to anyone,” the man said, regarding her suspiciously. She had drawn a veil across her face, so as not to be recognized.
“He’ll speak to me.” She withdrew from a finger of her left hand a ring with the colours of the sea in it. “Take this to him.”
The man departed, muttering. By his stature and accent, she knew he was from Dimariam, one of the countries of the southern continent of Hespagorat. She waited impatiently, tapping her foot on the cobbles, but after a moment the man was back, his attitude much changed. Tray allow me to show you to Captain Muntras.”
MyrdemInggala turned to Mai. “You will wait here.”
“But, ma’am—”
“And do not obstruct the men in their work.”
She was shown into a workshop smelling of glues and fresh-shaved wood, where old men and apprentices were sawing up timbers and ‘making them into chests and iceboxes. The workbenches were bearded with long curly shavings. The men watched the hooded female figure curiously as it passed.
Her guide opened a door hidden behind overalls. They climbed a dusty stair to a floor where a long low room commanded a view of the river. Clerks worked at one end of the room, shoulders bent over ledgers. At the other end was a desk with a chair as solid as a throne, from which a fat brown man had risen, to come forward with a beaming face. He bowed low, dismissed the guide, and led the queen into a private room beyond his desk.
Although his room overlooked a stable yard, it was well furnished, with prints on the wall, with an elegance at variance with the functional appearance of the rest of the building. One of the prints depicted Queen MyrdemInggala.
“Madam Queen, I am proud to receive you.” The Ice Captain beamed again and set his head on one side as far as it would go, the better to regard MyrdemInggala as she removed her veil and headgear. He was himself simply dressed in a charfrul, the full shift with pockets worn by many natives of the equatorial regions.
When he had her comfortably seated and had given her a glass of wine chilled with fresh Lordryardry ice, he thrust out a hand to her. Opening his fist, he revealed her ring, which he now returned ceremoniously, insisting on fitting it on her dainty finger.
“It was the best ring I ever sold.”
“You were only a humble pedlar then.”
“Worse, I was a beggar, but a beggar with determination.” He struck his chest.
“Now you are very rich.”
“Now, what are riches, madam? Do they buy happiness? Well, frankly, they at least permit us to be miserable comfortably. My state, I will admit to you, is better than that of most common folk.”
His laugh was comfortable. He hitched a plump leg unceremoniously over the edge of the table and lifted his glass to toast her, evaluating her. The queen of queens raised her eyes to his. The Ice Captain lowered his gaze, protecting himself from a tremor of feeling much like awe. He had dealt in girls almost as widely as ice; before the queen’s beauty, he felt himself powerless.
MyrdemInggala talked to him about his family. She knew he had a clever daughter and a stupid son, and that the stupid son, Div, was about to take over the ice trade on his father’s retirement. That retirement had been postponed. Muntras had made his last trip a tenner and a half ago, at the time of the Battle of the Cosgatt—only it had proved not to be his last trip, since Div needed further instruction.
She knew the Ice Captain was gentle with his silly boy. Yet Muntras’s father had been harsh with him, sending him out as a lad to earn money begging and peddling, in order to prove he was capable of taking over a one-ship ice business. She had heard this tale before, but was not bored by it.
“You’ve had an eventful life,” she said.
Perhaps he thought some sort of criticism was implied, for he looked uncomfortable. To cover his unease, he slapped his leg and said, “I’m not ashamed to say that I have prospered at a time when the majority of citizens are doing the reverse.”
She regarded his solid countenance as if wondering if he understood she was also of that majority, but merely said, in her composed way, “You told me once you started in business with one boat. How many have you now, Captain?”
“Yes, Madam Queen, my old father started with but one old hooker, which I inherited. Today, I hand over to my son a fleet of twenty-five ships. Fast seagoing sloops, and ketches, hookers, and doggers, to ply the rivers and coasts, each adapted to the trade. There you see the benefits of dealing in ice. The hotter is gets, the more a block of good Lordryardry ice will fetch in the market. The worse things get for others, the more they improve for me.”
“But your ice melts, Captain.”
“That’s so, and many the jokes people make about it. But Lordryardry ice, being pure off the glacier, melts less rapidly than other ices sold by other traders.” He was enjoying himself in her presence, though he had not failed to notice a clouded air about her, so different from her normal disposition.
“I’ll put another point to you. You are devout in the religion of
your country, Madam Queen, so I do not need to remind you of redemption. Well, my ice is like your redemption. The less there is, the scarcer it becomes, and the scarcer it becomes, the more it costs. My boats now sail all the way from Dimariam, across the Sea of Eagles, up the Takissa and Valvoral rivers to Matrassyl and Oldorando City, as well as along the coast to Keevasien and the ports of the deadly assatassi.”
She smiled, perhaps not entirely pleased to hear religion and trade intermingled. “Well, I’m glad someone fares well in a bad age.” She had not forgotten the time when she as a young girl on her first visit to Oldorando had met the Dimariamian in the bazaar. He was in rags, but he had a smile; and he had produced from an inner pocket the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. Shannana, her mother, had given her the money. She had returned the next day to buy it, and had worn it ever since.
“You overpaid me for that ring,” Krillio Muntras said, “and with the profit I went home and bought a glacier. So I have been in your debt ever since.” He laughed, and she joined in. “Now, Madam Queen, you come here not to bargain about ice, since that I supply through the palace majordomo. Can I do you a favour?”
“Captain Muntras, I am in a difficult situation, and I need help.”
He looked suddenly cautious. “I do not want to lose the royal favour which permits me, a foreigner, to trade here. Otherwise…”
“I appreciate that. All I ask of you is reliability, and of that you will surely avail me. I wish you to deliver a letter for me, secretly. You mention Keevasien, on the border with Randonan. Can you reliably deliver a letter to a certain gentleman fighting in Randonan in our Second Army?”
Muntras’s expressive face looked so glum that his cheeks tightened themselves round his mouth. “In war, everything is doubtful. The news is that the Borlienese army fares badly, and Keevasien too. But—but—for you, Madam Queen… My boats go up the Kacol River above Keevasien, as far as Ordelay. Yes, I could send a messenger from there. Provided it’s not too dangerous. He’d need paying, of course.”
“How much?”
He thought. “I have a boy who would do it. When you’re young, you don’t fear death.” He told her how much it would cost. She paid out willingly enough and handed over the pouch with the letter to General TolramKetinet.
Muntras made her another bow. “I’m proud to do it for you. First, I must deliver a freight to Oldorando. That’s four days upriver, two days there and two days back. A week in all. Then I’ll be back here and straight south for Ottassol.”
“Such delay! Do you have to go to Oldorando first?”
“Have to, ma’am. Trade’s trade.”
“Very well, I’ll leave it to you, Captain Muntras. But you understand that this is of vital importance and absolutely secret, between you and me? Carry out this mission faithfully, and I’ll see you have your reward.”
“I’m grateful for the chance to help, Madam Queen.”
When they parted, and the queen had taken another glass of refreshing wine, she was more cheerful and battled almost gaily back to the palace with her lady-in-waiting, the sister of the general to whom her letter was now despatched. She could hope, whatever the king had decided.
Throughout the palace, doors banged and curtains fluttered in the wind. Pale of face, JandolAnganol talked to his religious advisors. One of them finally said to him, “Your Majesty, this state is holy, and we believe that you have already in your heart come to a decision. You will cement this new alliance for holy reasons, and we shall bless you for it.”
The king replied vehemently, “If I make this alliance, it will be because I am wicked, and welcome wickedness.”
“Not so, my lord! Your queen and her brother conspired against Sibornal, and must be punished.” They were already halfway to believing the lie he had set in circulation; it was his old father’s lie, but now it had become common property and possessed them one by one.
In their own chambers, the visiting statesmen, awaiting the king’s word, complained about the discomfort of this miserable little palace and of the poverty of the hospitality. The advisors quarrelled amongst themselves, jealous of each other’s privileges; but one thing they agreed on. They agreed that if and when the king divorced his queen and married Simoda Tal, the question of the large phagor population of Borlien should be reopened.
Old histories told how ancipital hordes had once descended on Oldorando and burned it to the ground. That hostility had never died. Year by year, the phagor population was being reduced. It was necessary that Borlien should follow the same policy. With Simoda Tal and her ministers at JandolAnganol’s side, the issue could be pressed harder.
And with MyrdemInggala gone, with her softhearted ways, it would be convenient to introduce drumbles.
But where was the king, and what was his decision?
The time was a few minutes after fourteen o’clock, and the king stood naked in an upper chamber. A great pendulum of pewter swung solemnly against one wall, clicking out seconds. Against the other wall hung an enormous mirror of silver. In the shadows stood serving wenches, waiting with vestments to dress JandolAnganol to appear before the diplomats.
Between the pendulum and the mirror JandolAnganol stood or paced. In his indecision, he ran his finger down the scar on his thigh, or pulled the pallid length of his prodo, or regarded the reflection of those bloody devotional stripes which stretched from his shoulderblades down to his thin buttocks. He snarled at the lean whipped thing he saw.
The king could easily send the diplomats packing; his rage, his khmir, were fully equal to such a deed. He could easily snatch up the thing dearest to him—the queen—and brand her mouth with hot kisses, vowing, never to allow her from his sight. Or he could do the opposite—be a villain in private and become a saint in the eyes of many, a saint ready to throw everything away for his country.
Some of those who observed him from afar, such as the Pin family on the Avernus, who studied the cross-continuities of the king’s family, claimed that the decision was made for the king in a distant past. In their records lay the history of JandolAnganol’s family through sixteen generations, back to the time when most of Campannlat lay under snow, back to a distant ancestor of the king’s, AozroOn, who had ruled over a village called Oldorando. Along that line, untraced by those who were part of it, lay a story of division between father and son, submerged in some generations but never absent.
That pattern of division lay deep in JandolAnganol’s psyche, so deep he did not notice it in himself. Beneath his arrogance was an even older self-contempt. His self-contempt made him turn against his dearest friends and consort with phagors; it was an alienation which early years had fostered. It was buried, but not without voice, and it was about to speak.
He turned abruptly from the mirror, from that shadowy figure who lurked there in silver, and summoned up the maids. He raised his arms and they dressed him.
“And my crown,” he said, as they brushed his flowing hair. He would punish the waiting dignitaries by his distance from them.
A few minutes later, the dignitaries found relief from their boredom by rushing to the windows when marching feet were heard outside. They looked down on great rough heads crowned by gleaming horns, on muscular shoulders and coarse bodies, on hoofs that echoed and war harness that creaked. The Royal First Phagorian Guard was parading—a sight that caused unease in most human spectators, since the ancipitals were so hinged at knee and elbow that lower leg and lower arm could turn in all directions. The march was uncanny, with an impossible forward flexure of the leg at every step.
A sergeant called an order. The platoons halted, going from movement to the instant immobility characteristic of phagors.
The scorching wind stirred the trailing hairs of the platoon. The king stepped from between platoons and marched into the palace. The visiting statesmen regarded each other uneasily, thoughts of assassination in their heads.
JandolAnganol entered the room. He halted and surveyed them. One by one, his guests rose As
if he struggled to speak, the king let the silence lengthen. Then he said, “You have demanded of me a harsh choice. Yet why should I hesitate? My first duty is solemnly pledged to my country.
“I am resolved not to let my personal feelings enter the matter. I shall send away my queen, MyrdemInggala. She will leave this day, and retire to a palace on the seacoast. If the Holy Pannovalan Church, whose servant I am, grants me a bill of divorcement, I shall divorce the queen.
“And I shall marry Simoda Tal, of the House of Oldorando.”
Clapping and murmurs of congratulation rose. The king’s face was expressionless. As they were approaching, before they could reach him, he turned on his heel and left the room.
The thordotter slammed the door behind him.
VIII
In the Presence of Mythology
Billy Xiao Pin’s face was round, as were, in general disposition, his eyes and nose. Even his mouth was a mere rosebud. His skin was smooth and sallow. He had left the Avernus only once previously, when close members of the Pin family had taken him on an Ipocrene fly-past.
Billy was a modest but determined young man, well-mannered like all members of his family, and it was believed that he could be relied upon to face his death with equanimity. He was twenty Earth years old, or just over fourteen by Helliconian reckoning.
Although the Helliconia Holiday Lottery was ruled by chance, it was generally agreed—at least among the thousand-strong Pin family—that Billy was an excellent choice as winner.
When his good fortune was announced, he was sent on a tour of the Avernus by his doting family. With him went his current girl friend, Rose Yi Pin. The moving corridors of the satellite were event-oriented, and those who travelled them often found themselves caught in technological typhoons, or surrounded by animated computer graphics, sometimes of a malignant kind. The Avernus had been in its orbit for 3269 years; every facility available was mustered to counteract the killing disease which threatened its occupants: lethargy.