by Brian Aldiss
The two women walked in MyrdemInggala’s dimday garden. Tatro was playing with Princess Simoda Tal—an irony which could be borne if not contemplated closely.
This garden the queen had created herself, directing her gardeners. Heavy trees and artificial cliffs screened the walks from Freyr’s eyes. There was sufficient shade for genetic sports and melanic forms of vegetation to flourish.
Dimday plants flowered beside fullday ones. The jeodfray, a fullday creeper with light pink-and-orange flowers, became the stunted albic, hugging the ground. The albic occasionally put forth grotesque scarlet-and-orange buds along a fleshy stem, to attract the attention of dimday moths. Nearby were olvyl, yarrpel, idront, and spikey brooth, all relishing shade. The ground-loving vispard produced hooded blossoms. It was the adaptation of a nocturnal species, the zadal bush, and had moved towards lighter conditions rather than darker.
Such plants had been brought by her subjects from different parts of the kingdom. She had no great understanding of the astronomy which SartoriIrvrash tried to instil in her, or of the slow protracted manoeuvres of Freyr along the heavens, except through her appreciation of these plants, which represented an instinctive vegetable response to those confusingly abstract ellipses of which the chancellor loved to talk.
Now she would visit this favoured place no more. The ellipses of her own life were moving against her.
The king and his chancellor appeared at the gate. She sensed their wish for formality even from a distance. She saw the tension in the king’s stance. She laid a hand on her lady-in-waiting’s wrist in alarm.
SartoriIrvrash approached and bowed formally. Then he took the lady-in-waiting off with him, in order to leave the royal couple alone.
Mai instantly broke into anxious protests.
“The king will murder Cune. He suspects she loves my brother Hanra, but it is not so. I’d swear to it. The queen has done nothing wrong. She is innocent.”
“His calculations run otherwise, and he will not murder her,” said SartoriIrvrash. He hardly looked the figure to comfort her. He had shrunk inside his charfrul and his face was grey. “He rids himself of the queen for political reasons. It has been done before.”
He brushed a butterfly impatiently from his sleeve.
“Why did he have Yeferal murdered, then?”
“That piece of botheration is not to be laid at the king’s door but rather at mine. Cease your prattle, woman. Go with Cune into exile and look after her. I hope to be in touch some time, if my own situation continues. Gravabagalinien is no bad place to be.”
They entered into an archway and were immediately embraced within the stuffy complexities of the building.
Mai TolramKetinet asked in a more even voice, “What has overcome the king’s mind?”
“I know only of his ego, not his mind. It is bright like a diamond. It will cut all other egos. It cannot easily tolerate the queen’s gentleness.”
When the young woman left him, he stood at the bottom of the stairwell, trying to steady himself. Somewhere above him, he heard the voices of the visiting diplomats. They waited with indifference to hear how the matter worked out and would be departing soon, whatever happened.
“Everything finally goes…” he said to himself. In that moment, he longed for his dead wife.
The queen, meanwhile, stood in her garden, listening to the low, hasty voice of JandolAnganol, trying to thrust his emotions upon her. She recoiled, as from a great wave.
“Cune, our parting is forced on me for the survival of the kingdom. You know my feelings, but you also know that I have duties which must be performed…”
“No, I won’t have it. You obey a whim. It is not duty but your khmir speaking.”
He shook his head, as if trying to shake away the pain visible in his face.
“What I do I have to do, though it destroys me. I have no wish for anyone at my side but you. Give me a word that you understand that much before we part.”
The lines of her face were rigid. “You have traduced the reputation of my dead brother and of me. Who gave the order for the spreading of that lie but you?”
“Understand, please, what I have to do for my kingdom. I have no will that we part.”
“Who gave the order for our parting but you? Who commands here but you? If you don’t command, then anarchy has come, and the kingdom is not worth saving.”
He gave her a sideways look. The eagle was sick. This is policy I must carry through. I am not imprisoning you but sending you to the beautiful palace of Gravabagalinien, where Freyr does not dominate the sky so greatly. Be content there and don’t scheme against me, or your father will answer for it. If the war news improves, who knows but we may be together again.”
She rounded on him, by her vehemence making him look into her overflowing face.
“Do you then plan to wed that lascivious child of Oldorando this year and divorce her next, as you do me this? Have you an endless series of matrimonies and divorcements in mind by which to save Borlien? You talk of sending me away. Be warned that when I am sent, I remain forever away from you.”
JandolAnganol reached out a hand, but dared not touch her.
“I’m saying that in my heart—if you believe I have one—I am not sending you away. Will you understand that? You live only by religion and principle. Have some understanding of what it means to be king.”
She plucked a twig of idront and then flung it from her.
“Oh, you’ve taught me what it is to be a king. To incarcerate your father, to drive off your son, to defame your brother-in-law, to dismiss me to the ends of the kingdom—that’s what it is to be king! I’ve learnt the lesson from you well.
“So I will answer you, Jan, after your own fashion. I cannot prevent your exiling me, no. But when you put me away, you inherit all the consequences of that act. You must live and die by those consequences. That is religion speaking, not I. Don’t expect me to alter what is unalterable.”
“I do expect it.” He swallowed. He seized her arm tightly and would not let it go, despite her struggles. He walked her along the path, and butterflies rose up. “I do expect it.
I expect you to love me still, and not to stop simply from convenience. I expect you to be above humanity, and to see beyond your suffering to the suffering of others.
“So far, in this pitiless world, your beauty has saved you from suffering. I have guarded you. Admit it, Cune, I have guarded you through these dreadful years. I returned from the Cosgatt only because you were here. By will I returned… Won’t your beauty become a curse when I am not by to act as shield? Won’t you be hunted like a deer in a forest, by men the likes of whom you have never known? What will your end be without me?
“I swear I will love you still, despite a thousand Simoda Tals, if you will tell me now—just tell me, as we kiss good-bye—that you still hold me dear, despite what I have to do.”
She broke from him and steadied herself against a rock, her face in shadow. Both of them were pale and sweated.
“You mean to frighten me, and so you do. The truth is, you drive me away because you do not understand yourself. Inwardly, you know that I understand you and your weaknesses as does no one else—except possibly your father. And you cannot bear that. You are tortured because I have compassion for you. So, yes, damn you, since you wrench it from me, yes, I do love you and will do so until I am merged with the original beholder. But you can’t accept that, can you? It’s not what you desire.”
He blazed up. “There! You hate me, really! Your words lie!”
“Oh, oh, oh!” She uttered wild cries and began to run. “Go away! Go away! You’re crazed. I declare what you ask and it maddens you! You want my hatred. Hatred is all you know! Go away—I hate you, if that satisfies your soul.”
JandolAnganol did not attempt to pursue her.
“Then the storm will come,” he said.
So smoke began to flow down and fill the bowl of Matrassyl. The king was like a man possessed after parting from
MyrdemInggala. He ordered straw from the stables and had it piled about the doors of the chamber in which the Myrdolators were still imprisoned. Jars of purified whale oil were brought. JandolAnganol himself snatched a burning brand from a slave and hurled it into the kindling.
With a roar, flames burst upwards.
That afternoon, as the queen sailed, the fire raged. Nobody was allowed to check it. Its fury went unabated.
Only that night, when the king sat with his runt drinking himself insensible, were servants able to come with pumps and quench the blaze.
When pale Batalix rose next morning, the king, as was his custom, rose and presented himself to his people by the dawn light.
A larger crowd than usual awaited him. At his appearance, a low inarticulate growl arose, like the noise a wounded hound might make. In fear of the many-headed beast, he retired to his room and flung himself down on his bed. There he stayed all day, neither eating nor speaking.
On the succeeding day, he appeared to be himself again. He summoned ministers, he gave orders, he bade farewell to Taynth Indredd and Simoda Tal. He even appeared briefly before the scritina.
There was reason for him to act. His agents brought news that Unndreid the Hammer, Scourge of Mordriat, was again moving southwestwards, and had formed an alliance with Darvlish, his enemy.
In the scritina, the king explained how Queen MyrdemInggala and her brother, YeferalOboral, had been planning to assassinate the ambassador from Sibornal, who had made his escape. It was for this reason that the queen was being sent into exile; her interference in state affairs could not be tolerated. Her brother had been killed.
This conspiracy must be an object lesson to all in this time of peril for the nation. He, the king, was drawing up a plan by which Borlien would become more closely linked to its traditional friends, the Oldorandans and Pannovalans. These plans he would disclose fully in good time. His challenging gaze swept round the scritina.
SartoriIrvrash then rose, to demand that the scritina look upon new developments in the light of history.
“With the battle of the Cosgatt still fresh in our minds, we know that there are new artilleries of attack available. Even the barbarous tribes of Driats have these new—guns, as they are called. With a gun, a man can kill an enemy as soon as he can see him. Such things are mentioned in old histories, although we cannot always trust what we read in old histories.
“However. We are concerned with guns. You saw them demonstrated. They are made in the great northern continent by the nations of Sibornal, who have a preeminence in manufacturing arts. They possess deposits of lignite and metal ores which we do not. It is necessary for us to remain on good terms with such powerful nations, and so we have put down firmly this attempt to assassinate the ambassador.”
One of the barons at the back of the scritina shouted angrily, “Tell us the truth. Wasn’t Pasharatid corrupt? Didn’t he have a liaison with a Borlienese girl in the lower town, contravening our laws and his?”
“Our agents are investigating,” said SartoriIrvrash, and went on hastily. “We shall send a deputation to Askitosh, capital of the nation Uskutoshk, to open a trade route, hoping that the Sibornalese will be more friendly than hitherto.
“Meanwhile, our meeting with the distinguished diplomats from Oldorando and Pannoval was successful. We have received a few guns from them, as you know. If we can send sufficient quantities of guns to our gallant General Hanra TolramKetinet, then the war with Randonan will be quickly over.”
Both the king’s speech and SartoriIrvrash’s were received coldly. Supporters of Baron RantanOboral, MyrdemInggala’s father, were present in the scritina. One of them rose and asked, “Are we to understand that it is these new weapons which are responsible for the deaths of sixty-one Myrdolators? If so, they are powerful weapons indeed.”
The chancellor’s reply was uncertain.
“An unfortunate fire broke out at the castle, started by the ex-queen’s supporters, many of whom lost their lives in the blaze they had themselves caused.”
As SartoriIrvrash and the king left the chamber, a storm of noise broke out.
“Give them the wedding,” said SartoriIrvrash. “They’ll forget their anger as they coo over the prettiness of the child bride. Give them the wedding as soon as possible, Your Majesty. Make the fools forget one swindle with another.”
He looked away to hide his revulsion for his own role.
Tension hung over all who lived in the castle of Matrassyl, except for the phagors, whose nervous systems were immune to expectation. But even the phagors were uneasy, for the stench of burning still clung to everything.
Scowling, the king retired to his suite. A section of the First Phagorian stood duty outside his door, and Yuli remained with them while JandolAnganol prayed in his private chapel with his Royal Vicar. After prostrating himself in prayer, he had himself scourged.
While being bathed by his female servants, he summoned his chancellor back to him. SartoriIrvrash appeared after a third summons, clad in an ink-stained flowered charfrul and rush slippers. The old man looked aggrieved, and stood before the king without speaking, smoothing his beard.
“You’re vexed?” JandolAnganol addressed him from the pool. The runt sat a short distance away, its mouth open.
“I’m an old man, Your Majesty, and have endured deep botheration this day. I was resting.”
“Writing your damned history, more likely.”
“Resting and grieving for the murdered sixty-one, if truth be told.”
The king struck the water with the flat of his hand. “You’re an atheist. You have no conscience to appease. You don’t have to be scourged. Leave that to me.”
SartoriIrvrash showed a tooth in a display of circumspection.
“How can I serve your majesty now?”
JandolAnganol stood up, and the women swathed him in towels. He stepped from the bath.
“You have done enough in the way of service.” He gave SartoriIrvrash one of his darkly brilliant looks. “It’s time I put you out to pasture, like the old hoxneys of which you are so fond. I’ll find someone more to my way of thought to advise me.”
The women huddled by the earthenware pitchers which had brought the royal bathwater, and listened complacently to the drama.
“There are many here who will pretend to think as you wish them to think, Your Majesty. If you care to put trust in such, that is your decision. Perhaps you will say how I have failed to please. Have I not supported all your schemes?”
The king flung away his towels, and paced naked and dangerous about the room. His gaze was as hasty as his walk. Yuli whined in sympathy.
“Look at the trouble about my ears. Bankrupt. No queen. Unpopular. Mistrusted. Challenged in the scritina. Don’t tell me I’ll be a favourite of the mob when I wed that chit from Oldorando. You advised me to do this, and I have had sufficient of your advice.”
SartoriIrvrash had backed against the wall, where he was fairly safe from the king’s pacing. He wrung his hands in distress.
“If I may speak… I have faithfully served you and your father before you. I have lied for you. I lied today. I have implicated myself in this gruesome Myrdolator’s crime for your sake. Unlike other chancellors you might elect, I have no political ambitions—You are good enough to splash me, your majesty!”
“Crime! Your sovereign is a criminal, is he? How else was I to put down a revolt?”
“I have advised you with your good in mind, rather than my advancement, sire. Never less than in this sorry matter of the divorcement. You will recall that I told you you would never find another woman like the queen and—”
The king seized a towel and wrapped it about his narrow waist. A puddle formed round his feet. “You told me that my first duty lay with my country. So I made the sacrifice, made it at your suggestion—”
“No, Your Majesty, no, I distinctly—” He waved his hands distractedly.
“ ‘I dizztingtly’,” said Yuli, picking up a new word.
“You merely want a scapegoat on which to vent your rage, sire. You shall not dismiss me like this. It’s criminal.”
The words echoed about the bath chamber. The women had made as if to escape from the scene, then had frozen in cautionary gestures, lest the king turn upon them.
He turned on his chancellor.
As his face flushed with rage, the colour chased itself down his jaw to his throat. “Criminal again! Am I criminal? You old rat, you dare give me your orders and insults! I’ll settle with you.”
He marched over to where his clothes lay spread.
Fearing that he had gone too far, SartoriIrvrash said in a shaking voice, “Your Majesty, forgive me, I see your plan. By dismissing me, you can then be free to blame me before the scritina for what has occurred, and thus show yourself innocent in their eyes. As if truth can be moulded that way… It is a well-tried tactic, well-tried—transparent, too—but surely we can agree on how precisely—”
He faltered and fell silent. A sickly evening light filled the room. Traces of an auroral storm flickered in the cloud mass outside. The king had drawn his sword from its scabbard where it lay on the table. He flourished it.
SartoriIrvrash backed away, knocking over a pitcher of scented water, which rushed to escape in a flood across the tiled floor.
JandolAnganol began a complex pattern of swordplay with an invisible enemy, feinting and lunging, at times appearing hard pressed, at times pressing hard himself. He moved rapidly about the room. The women huddled against the wall, tittering with nervousness.
“Heigh! Yauh! Ho! Heigh!”
He switched direction, and the naked blade darted at the chancellor.