Helliconia Summer h-2

by Brian Aldiss

  As soon as the words had left him, he saw that he had put himself in another danger. They might keep him here, in a worse prison than his previous one, if they realized that his presence in the palace was a secret. But the shaggy council was pursuing another line of thought, reverting once more to the question of Batalix’s capture by Freyr, an event which seemed of obsessive importance to them.

  If not from Freyr, then was he from T’Sehn-Hrr? This question he could not understand. By T’Sehn-Hrr, did they mean the Avernus, Kaidaw? Evidently not. They tried to explain, he tried. T’Sehn-Hrr remained a mystery. He was one with the keratinous figures propped against the wall, doomed to say the same things many times, in an ever decreasing voice. Talking to phagors was like trying to wrestle with eternity.

  The council passed him among them, pressing him here, turning him there. Again they were interested in looking at the three-faced watch on his wrist. Its writhing figures fascinated them. But they made no efforts to remove or even touch it, as if they sensed in it a destructive force.

  Billy was still seeking for words when he realized that the kzahhn and his council were departing. Clouds gathered in his head again. He found himself staggering into a familiar chair, let his forehead rest on a familiar table. The gillots had returned him to his cell. A pale shrouded dawn was at hand.

  Lex was there, without horns, emasculated and almost faithful.

  “Steps are necessity to bed for a sleep-period,” he advised.

  Billy started to weep. Weeping, he slept.

  The fog reached far and wide and took a turn up the River Valvoral to view the jungles embracing either bank. Caring nothing for national frontiers, it penetrated far into Oldorando. There it met, among other river traffic, the Lordryardry Lady heading southeastward to Matrassyl and the distant sea.

  With the last of its ice cargo sold profitably in Oldorando, the flat-bottomed boat now bore cargoes for the Borlienese capital or Ottassol: salt; silks; carpets of all descriptions; tapestries; blue gout from Lake Dorzin, boxed with smashed ice; carvings; clocks; with tusks, horns, and furs in variety. The small deck cabins were occupied by merchants who travelled with their goods. One merchant had a parrot, another a new mistress.

  The best deck cabin was occupied by the boat’s owner, Krillio Muntras, famous Ice Captain of Dimariam, and his son, Div. Div, who was slack of jaw and, for all his father’s encouragement, would never rival his father’s success in life, sat gazing at the hazily sketched scenery. His bottom was planted on the deck. Occasionally, he spat into the passing water. His father sat solidly in a canvas chair and played on a double-clouth—perhaps with a deliberate sentimentality, for this was his last voyage before retirement. His last last voyage. Muntras matched a pleasant tenor voice to his tune.

  The river flows and will not cease, no, No—not for love or life itself, oh…

  The passengers roaming the deck included an arang, which was to provide the sailors with their supper. Except for the arang, the passengers were markedly respectful to the ice captain.

  Fog curled like steam off the surface of the Valvoral. The water became darker still as they neared the cliffs of Cahchazzerh, whose steep faces overlooked the river. The cliffs, folded like old linen, rose a few hundred feet to be crowned with dense foliage which, in its exuberance, appeared to be lowering itself down the overhanging rock by means of creepers and lianas. Much of the cliff had been colonized by swallows and mourner birds. The latter launched themselves and came to investigate the Lordryardry Lady, wheeling above it with their melancholy shrieks as it prepared to moor.

  Cahchazzerh was remarkable for nothing but its situation between cliff and river, and its apparent indifference to the falls of the one or the rise of the other. At the water’s edge, the town consisted of little but a wharf and a few godowns, one of which bore a rusty sign saying lordryardry ice trading co. A road led back to scattered houses and some cultivation on top of the cliffs. The town marked a last stop before Matrassyl on the downstream journey.

  As the vessel moored up, a few dockhands bestirred themselves, while near-naked boys—indispensable adjuncts of such places—came running. Muntras put down his musical instrument and stood grandly in the bows, accepting the salutations of the men ashore, every one of whom he knew by name.

  The gangplank went down. Everybody aboard disembarked to walk about and buy fruit. Two merchants whose journeys terminated here saw to it that the sailors unloaded their possessions safely. The boys dived for coins in the river.

  An incongruous item in this sleepy scene was a table, laid with a gaudy cloth, which stood outside the Lordryardry warehouse, a white-clad waiter in attendance. Behind the table were four musicians who, on the instant of the boat’s side kissing the wharf, gave forth with a lively rendering of ‘What a Man the Master Is!’ This reception was the farewell present of the local staff of the ice company to their boss. There were three staff. They came forward, smiling, although they had been through the performance before, to conduct Captain Krillio and Div to their seats.

  One of the three employees was a gangling youth, embarrassed by the whole affair; the other two were white-haired and older than the man they had served so long. The oldsters managed to shed a tear for the occasion, while covertly summing up young Master Div, in order to estimate to what extent their jobs were threatened by the change in command.

  Muntras shook each of the trio by the hand and subsided into the waiting chair. He accepted a glass of wine, into which were dropped sparkling fragments of his own ice. He gazed out across the sluggish river. The far bank could scarcely be seen for mist. As a waiter served them little cakes, there was conversation consisting of sentences beginning, “Do you remember when—” and concluding with laughter.

  The birds still wheeling overhead masked a sound of shouts and barking. As these noises became more obtrusive, the Ice Captain asked what was happening.

  The young man laughed, as the two old men looked uneasy. “It’s a drumble up in the village, Captain.” He jerked a thumb towards the cliffs. “Killing off fuggies.”

  “They’re great on drumbles in Oldorando,” Muntras said. “And often enough the priests use the drumbles as an excuse to kill off so-called heretics as well as phagors. Religion! Fgh!”

  The men continued with reminiscences of the time when they had all been engaged in building up the inland ice trade, and of the Ice Captain’s dictatorial father.

  “You’re lucky not to have a father such as he was, Master Div,” one of the old men said.

  Div nodded as if he was not too sure on that point and left his chair. He ambled to the river’s edge and looked up the cliff, whence came distant shouts.

  In a minute, he called to his father, “It’s the drumble.”

  The others made no response and went on talking, until the youth called again. “The drumble, Pa. They’re just going to heave the fuggies over the cliffside.”

  He pointed upwards. Some of the other boat travellers were also pointing, craning their necks to look up the cliff.

  A horn gave a tantivy, and the baying of hounds intensified. “They’re great on drumbles in Oldorando,” the captain repeated, getting heavily to his feet and walking out to where his son stood, open-mouthed, on the bank.

  “You see, it’s government orders, sir,” said one of the old men, following and peering into the Ice Captain’s face. “They kill off the phagors and take their land.”

  “And then don’t work it properly,” added the Ice Captain. “They should leave the poor damned things alone. They’re useful, are phagors.”

  Hoarse phagor shouting could be heard, but little action could be seen. However, in a short time, human shouts of triumph rang out and the riot of vegetation on the cliffs became disturbed. Broken branches flew, rocks tumbled, as a figure emerged from obscurity and plunged downwards, alternately flying and bouncing, to the enormous inconvenience of the mourner birds. The figure crashed onto the narrow bank under the cliff, made to sit up, and toppled into t
he water. A three-fingered hand was raised, to sink slowly as its owner was carried away by the flood.

  Div broke into empty laughter. “Did you see that?” he exclaimed.

  Another phagor, endeavouring to escape its human tormentors began well by leaping down the cliff. Then it slipped and crashed headlong, bouncing on a spur of rock and cartwheeling into the water. Other figures followed, some small, some large. For a spell, figures were raining down the cliff. At the crest of the cliff, where the underpinning was steeper, two phagors jumped free, clutching each other by the hand. They broke through the outermost branches of an overhanging tree, fell clear of the rock, and dropped into the river. An overadventurous dog followed them down, to crash on the bank.

  “Let’s be away from here,” said Muntras. “I don’t care for this. Right, men, gangplank up. All aboard who’s getting aboard. Look lively!”

  He shook hands with his old staff in a perfunctory way and strode towards the Lordryardry Lady to see his orders carried out.

  One of the Oldorandan merchants said to him, “I’m glad to see that even in these benighted parts they’re trying to rid us of those shaggy vermin.”

  “They do no harm,” said Muntras brusquely, his solid figure not pausing in its stride.

  “On the contrary, sir, they are mankind’s oldest enemy, and during the Ice Age reduced our numbers almost to nothing.”

  That was the dead past. We live in the present. Get aboard, everyone. We’re pushing off from this barbarous spot with all haste.”

  The crew, like the captain, were men from Hespagorat. Without argument, they got the gangplank up and the boat under way.

  As the Lady drifted into midstream, her passengers could see ancipital corpses floating in the water, surrounded by clouds of yellow blood. One of the crew called out. Ahead was a live phagor, making wretched attempts to swim.

  A pole was quickly brought and thrust over the side. The boat had no sail up, for there was no wind, but the current was carrying it with increasing speed. Nevertheless, the phagor understood what was happening. After thrashing furiously, he grasped the end of the pole with both hands. The river brought him against the bulwarks, where he was hauled up to safety.

  “You should have let him drown. Fuggies can’t stand the water,” said a merchant.

  “This is my vessel, and my word is law here,” said Muntras, with a dark look. “If you have any objections to what goes on, I can put you off right now.”

  The stallun lay panting on the deck in a spreading pool of water. Ichor ran from a wound in his head.

  “Give him a dram of Exaggerator. He’ll survive,” said the captain. He turned away when the fierce Dimariamian liquor was brought forward and retired to his cabin.

  Over his lifetime, he considered, his fellow human beings had grown nastier, more spiteful, less forgiving. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe the world was going to burn up. Well, at least he was going to retire in his own home town of Lordryardry, to a stout building overlooking the sea. Dimariam was always cooler than damned Campannlat. People were decent there.

  He would call in on King JandolAnganol when in Matrassyl, on the principle that it was always wise to call on sovereigns of one’s acquaintance. The queen was gone, together with the ring he had once sold her; he must see about delivering her letter when he reached Ottassol. Meanwhile he would hear the latest news of the unfortunate queen of queens. Maybe he would also call on Matty; otherwise he would never see her again. He thought affectionately of her well-run whorehouse, better than all the squalid knocking-shops of Ottassol; although Matty herself had put on airs and went to church daily since the king rewarded her for her assistance after the Battle of the Cosgatt.

  But what would he do in Dimariam when he was retired? That did need thought; his family was not a great source of comfort. Perhaps he could find some minor profitable mischief to keep him happy. He fell asleep with one hand resting on his musical instrument.

  The stocky Ice Captain arrived at a city muted by the events recently played out on its stage.

  The king’s problems were mounting. Reports from Randonan talked of soldiers deserting in companies. Despite constant prayer in the churches, crops were still failing. The Royal Armourer was having little success in manufacturing copies of the Sibornalese matchlocks. And Robayday returned.

  JandolAnganol was in the hills with his hoxney Lapwing, walking through a copse beside his mount. Yuli trotted behind his master, delighted to be in the wilds. Two escorts rode behind at a distance. Robayday jumped from a tree and stood before his father.

  He bowed deeply. “Why, it is the king himself, my master, walking in the woods with his new bride.” Leaves fell from his hair.

  “Roba, I need you at Matrassyl. Why do you keep escaping?” The king did not know whether to be pleased or angry at this sudden apparition.

  “To keep escaping is never to escape. Though what keeps me prisoner I know not. Difference must be between fresh air and grandfather’s dungeon… If I had no parents, then I might be free.” He spoke with a roving eye, unfocussed. His hair, like his speech, was tumbled. He was naked except for a kind of fur kilt over his genitals. His ribs showed, and his body was a tracery of scars and scratches. He carried a javelin.

  This weapon he now stuck point first in the ground and ran to Yuli, clasping the runt’s arms, crying out in affection.

  “My dearest queen, how wonderful you look, so well dressed in that white fur with the red tassels! To keep off the sun, to hide your delectable body from all but this lecherous Other, who swings on you, no doubt, as if you were a bough. Or a sow. Or a broken vow.”

  “You make me hurted,” cried the little phagor, struggling to get free.

  JandolAnganol reached out to take his son’s arm, but Robayday darted to one side. He tugged a flowering creeper which hung from a caspiarn and, with a quick movement, twined it round Yuli’s throat. Yuli ran about, calling hoarsely, lips curled back in alarm, as JandolAnganol took tight hold of his son.

  “I don’t intend to hurt you, but cease this foolery and speak to me with the respect you owe me.”

  “Oh me, oh me! Speak to me in respect of my poor mother. You have planted horns upon her, you gardener in bogs!” He gave a cry and fell back as his father struck him across the mouth.

  “Cease this unkind nonsense at once. Be silent. If you have kept your sanity and had been acceptable to Pannoval then you might have married Simoda Tal in my place. Then we would have been spared much pain. Do you think only for yourself, boy?”

  “Yes, as I make my own scumber!” He spat the words out.

  “You owe me something, who made you a prince,” said the king with bitterness. “Or have you forgotten you’re a prince? We’ll lock you up at home until you come back to your right mind.”

  With his free hand up to his bleeding mouth, Robayday muttered, There’s more comfort in my wrong mind. I’d rather forget my rights.”

  By this time, the two lieutenants had come up, swords—out. The king turned, ordering them to put up their weapons, dismount, and take his son captive. As his attention was distracted, Robayday broke free of his father’s grasp and made off, with great leaps and whoops, among the trees.

  One of the lieutenants put an arrow to his crossbow, but the king stopped him. Nor did he make any attempt to follow his son.

  “I not have liking to Robay,” squealed Yuli.

  Ignoring him, JandolAnganol mounted Lapwing and rode swiftly back to the palace. With his brows knitted, he resembled more than ever the eagle that gave him his nickname.

  Back in the seclusion of his quarters, he submitted himself to pauk, as he rarely did. His soul sank down to the original beholder and he spoke with the gossie of his mother. She offered him full consolation. She reminded him that Robayday’s other grandmother was the wild Shannana, and told him not to worry. She said he should not hold himself guilty for the deaths of the Myrdolators, since they had intended treason to the state.

  The fragile casket o
f dust offered JandolAnganol every verbal comfort. Yet his soul returned to his body troubled.

  His wicked old father, still alive in the ponderous basements, was more practical. VarpalAnganol never ran out of advice.

  “Warm up the Pasharatid scandal. Get our agents to spread rumours. You must implicate Pasharatid’s wife, who impudently remains here to carry her husband’s office. Any tale against the Sibornalese is readily believed.”

  “And what am I to do regarding Robayday?”

  The old man turned slightly in his chair and closed one eye. “Since you can do nothing about him, do nothing. But anything you could do to speed your divorce and get the marriage over with would be useful.”

  JandolAnganol paced about the dungeon.

  “As to that, I’m in the hands of the C’Sarr now.”

  The old man coughed. His lungs laboured before he spoke again. “Is it hot outside? Why do people keep saying it’s hot? Listen, our friends in Pannoval want you to be in the C’Sarr’s hands. That suits them but it doesn’t suit you. Hurry matters if you can. What news of MyrdemInggala?”

  The king took his father’s advice. Agents with an armed escort were dispatched to distant Pannoval City beyond the Quzints, with a long address beseeching the C’Sarr of the Holy Pannovalan Empire to hasten the bill of divorce. With the address went icons and other gifts, including holy relics fabricated for the occasion.

  But the Massacre of the Myrdolators, as that affair was now called, continued to exercise the minds of people and scritina. Agents reported rebellious movements in the city, and in other centres such as Ottassol. A scapegoat was needed. It had to be Chancellor SartoriIrvrash.

  SartoriIrvrash—the Rushven once beloved of the king’s family—would make a popular victim. The world mistrusts intellectuals, and the scritina had particular reason to hate both his high-handed ways and his long speeches.

  A search of the chancellor’s suite would be certain to reveal something incriminating. There would be the notes of his breeding experiments with the Others, Madis, and humans he kept captive in a distant quarry. And there were the voluminous papers relating to his ‘Alphabet of History and Nature’. These papers would be full of heresies, distortions, lies against the All-Powerful. How both scritina and Church would lick their chops at that prospect! JandolAnganol sent in a guard, led by no less a personage than Archpriest BranzaBaginut of Matrassyl Cathedral.