by Brian Aldiss
She surfaced, and the court followed. MyrdemInggala could remain submerged for three or four minutes, and the dolphins needed to take breath as she did.
She glanced towards the shore. It was distant. One day, she thought, these beautiful creatures that I can love and trust will carry me away from sight of mankind. I shall be changed. She could not tell whether it was for death or life she longed.
Figures danced on the remote shore. One figure waved a cloth. The queen’s first response was, indignantly, that they were using her dress for the purpose. Then she realized that they signalled to her. It could only mean a crisis of some kind. Guiltily, her thoughts went to the little princess.
She clutched her breasts in sudden apprehension. To the inner court she gave a word of explanation, before striking back towards the shore. Her familiars followed or plunged before her in arrowhead formation, creating a favourable wake to hasten her strokes.
Her dress lay untouched on her throne, the phagors guarding it, shoulders hunched and acknowledging no excitement. One of the maids, in desperation, had ripped off her own garment to wave. She assumed it again as MyrdemInggala emerged from the water, reluctant to have anyone compare her body with the queen’s.
“There’s a ship,” cried Tatro, eager to be first with the news. “A ship is coming!”
From the headland, using the spyglass which ScufBar brought, the queen saw the ship. CaraBansity was sent for. By the time he arrived on the scene, two further sails were sighted, mere blurs in the murk of the western horizon.
CaraBansity rubbed his eyes with a heavy hand as he returned the spyglass to ScufBar.
“Madam, to my mind the nearest ship is not from Borlien.”
“Where, then?”
“In half an hour, its marking will be clearer.”
She said, “You are a stubborn man. Where is the ship from? Can’t you identify that insignia on its sail?”
“If I could, madam, then I would think it was the Great Wheel of Kharnabhar, and that is nonsense, because it would mean there was a Sibornalese ship very far from home.”
She snatched the glass. “It is a Sibornalese ship—of good size. What could it be doing in these waters?”
The deuteroscopist folded his arms and looked grim. “You have been provided with no defences here. Let us hope it is making for Ottassol and its intentions are good.”
“My familiars warned me of this,” said the queen gravely.
The day wore on. The ship made slow progress. There was great excitement at the palace. Barrels of tar were rolled out to an eminence above the little bay where it was anticipated the ship’s boat would have to land if Gravabagalinien was its destination. At least the crew could be confronted by flaming tar if they proved hostile.
The air thickened towards evening. There was no doubt now about the hierogram on the sail. Batalix sank in concentric aureoles of light. People came and went in the palace. Freyr disappeared into the same hazes as its fellow and was gone. Twilight lingered, the sail glinted on the sea; it tacked now, to keep the wind.
With darkness, stars began to appear overhead. The Night Worm burned bright, with the Queen’s Scar dim beside it. Nobody slept. The small community feared and hoped, knowing its vulnerability.
The queen sat in her shuttered hall. Tall candles of whale oil fluttered on the table by her side. The wine a slave had poured into a crystal glass and topped with Lordryardry ice was untouched and threw blurred gules on the table. She waited and stared across the room at the bare wall opposite, as if to read there her future fate. Her aide de campe entered, bowing. “Madam, we hear the rattle of their chains. The anchor is going down.”
The queen called CaraBansity and they went to the seashore. Several men and phagors were mustered, to ignite the tar barrels if necessary. Only one torch burned. She took it and strode with it into the dark water. To the wetting of her garments she paid no heed. Lifting the torch above her head, she advanced towards the other advancing lights. She felt immediately the smooth kiss of her familiars about her legs.
Mingled with the roar of surf came a creek of oars. The wooden wall of the ship, its sails furled, was faintly visible as a backdrop. A boat had been let down. The queen saw men straining, barebacked, at the oars. Two men were standing amidships, one with a lantern, their faces caught in the nimbus of light. “Who dares come ashore here?” she called. And a voice came back, male, with a thrill in it, “Queen MyrdemInggala, queen of queens, is that you?”
“Who calls?” she asked. But she recognized the voice even as his response came across the diminishing distance between them.
“It is your general, ma’am, Hanra TolramKetinet.” He jumped from the boat and waded ashore. The queen raised her hand to those on the eminence not to fire their barrels. The general fell before her on one knee, clasping her hand on which the ring with the blue stone gleamed. Her other hand went to his head, to steady herself. In a half-circle round them stood the queen’s phagor guard, their morose faces vaguely sketched in the night.
CaraBansity stepped forward with some amazement to greet the general’s companion in the longboat. Taking SartoriIrvrash in a great hug, he said, “I had reason to suppose you were in hiding in Dimariam. For once I guessed wrong.”
“You’re rarely wrong, but this time you were out by a whole continent,” said SartoriIrvrash. “I’ve become a world traveller—what are you doing here?”
“I’ve remained here since the king left. For a while, JandolAnganol conscripted me to your old post, and almost killed me for it. I’ve stayed for the ex-queen’s sake. She’s in a doleful state of mind, poor lady.”
Both men looked towards MyrdemInggala and TolramKetinet, but could see no dolefulness about either of them.
“What of her son, Roba?” asked SartoriIrvrash. “Have you news of him?”
“News and no news.” CaraBansity’s forehead creased in a frown. “It would be some weeks ago that he arrived at my house in Ottassol, just after the assatassi death-flight. The lad’s crazed and will cause damage. I let him have a room for the night.” He was about to say more, but stopped himself. “Don’t mention Robay to the queen.”
As the two couples stood conversing on the sand, the boat returned to the Prayer to transport Odi Jeseratabhar and Lanstatet ashore. When the oarsmen had dragged the boat safely above the high-tide mark, the whole party made its way up the beach to the palace, following the queen and TolramKetinet. In some of the windows of the palace, lights had been lit.
SartoriIrvrash introduced Odi Jeseratabhar to CaraBansity in glowing terms. CaraBansity became noticeably cool; he made it clear that a Sibornalese admiral was not welcome on Borlienese soil.
“I understand your feelings,” Odi said faintly to CaraBansity. She was pale and drawn, her lips white and her hair straggling.
A meal was prepared for the unexpected guests, during which time the general was reunited with his sister Mai and embraced her. Mai wept.
“Oh, Hanra, what’s to happen to us all?” she asked. “Take me back to Matrassyl.”
“Everything will be fine now,” her brother said with assurance.
Mai merely looked her disbelief. She wished to be free of the queen—not to have her as sister-in-law.
They ate fish, followed by venison served with gwing-gwing sauces. They drank such wine as the king’s invading force had left, chilled with the best Lordryardry ice. As the meal progressed, TolramKetinet told the company something of the suffering of the Second Army in the jungle; he turned occasionally to Lanstatet, who sat next to his sister, for confirmation of one point or another. The queen appeared scarcely to be listening, though the account was addressed to her. She ate little and her gaze, shielded under long lashes, was rarely lifted from the table.
After the meal, she seized up a candle in its pewter holder and said to her guests, “The night grows short. I will show you to your quarters. You are more welcome than my previous visitors.”
The military force with Lanstatet were shown
to rear accommodation. SartoriIrvrash and Odi Jeseratabhar were given a chamber near the queen’s and a slave woman to attend them and dress Odi’s wounds.
When these dispositions were completed, MyrdemInggala and TolramKetinet stood alone in the echoing hall.
“I fear you are tired,” he said in a low voice as they mounted the stairs. She made no answer. Her figure, ascending the steps before him, suggested not fatigue but suppressed energy.
In the corridor upstairs, slatted blinds rattled against the open windows with the stirrings of false dawn. An early bird called from a tower. Looking obliquely back at him, she said, “I have no husband, as you have no wife. Nor am I queen, though by that name I am still addressed. Nor have I been scarcely a woman since I arrived at this place. What I am, you shall see before this night is over.”
She flung open the doors of her own bedchamber and gestured to him to enter.
He paused, questioning. “By the beholder—”
“The beholder shall behold what she will behold. My faith has fallen from me as shall this gown.”
As he entered, she clasped the neck of her dress and pulled it open, so that her neat breasts, their nipples surrounded by large dark aureoles, sprang before his gaze. He shut the door behind him, calling her name.
She gave herself to him with an effort of will.
During what was left of the night, they did not sleep. The arms of TolramKetinet were round her body, and his flesh inside hers.
Thus was her letter, despatched by the Ice Captain, answered at last.
The next morning brought challenges forgotten in the reunions of the previous night. The Union and the Good Hope were closing in on the undefended harbour. Pasharatid was drawing near.
Despite the crisis, Mai insisted on getting her brother to herself for half an hour; while she lectured him on the miseries of life in Gravabagalinien, TolramKetinet fell asleep. She threw a glass of water over him to wake him. Staggering angrily out of the palace, he went to join the queen down by the shore. She stood with CaraBansity and one of her old women, looking out to sea.
Both suns were in different sectors of the sky, both shining the more brightly because they were about to be eclipsed by black rain clouds drawing up the slopes of the sky. Two sails glittered in the actinic light.
The Union was close, the Good Hope no more than an hour’s sailing behind; the hierograms on its spread canvas were clear to behold. The Union had lowered its artemon, in order to allow its companion to catch up.
Lanstatet was already working with his force, unloading equipment from the Prayer.
“They’re coming in, Akhanaba help us!” he shouted to TolramKetinet.
“What’s that woman doing?” TolramKetinet asked. An old woman, a servitor of the queen’s, a long-term housekeeper of the wooden palace, was helping Lanstatet’s men unload the Prayer. It was her way of showing her dedication to the queen. A man above her was rolling kegs of gunpowder from the deck onto a gangplank. The old woman was directing the kegs down the slope, releasing a soldier for other duties.
“I’m helping you—what do you think?” she screamed back at the general.
Her attention was distracted. The next keg rolled off the gangplank and struck her shoulder, bowling the old woman over, pitching her face down on the shingle.
She was dragged up, faint but protesting, to lie against a chest on the beach. Blood streamed down her face. MyrdemInggala hurried down from the headland to comfort her.
As the queen knelt by her old servant, TolramKetinet stood over her and laid a hand on the queen’s shoulder.
“My arrival has brought trouble on you, lady. That was not my intention. I am trying to regret I did not sail straight on to Ottassol.”
The queen made no answer, but took the old woman’s head on her lap. The latter’s eyes had closed, but her breathing was regular.
“I said, lady, that I hope you don’t regret that I did not sail on to Ottassol.”
Distress showed in her face as she turned to him. “Hanra, I have no regrets about last night when we were together. It was my wish. I thought to be free of Jan. But it did not achieve what I hoped. For that, I am to blame, not you.”
“You are free of him. He divorced you, did he not? What are you talking about?” He looked angry. “I know I’m not a very good general, but—”
“Oh, stop that!” she said impatiently. “It’s got nothing to do with you. What do I care if you lost your scerming army? I’m talking about a bond, a solemn state that existed between two people for a long time… Some things don’t end when we hope they will. Jan and I—it’s like being unable to waken—oh, I’m unable to express—”
With some annoyance, TolramKetinet said, “You’re tired. I know how women get upset. Let’s talk about such things later. Let’s deal with the emergency first.” He pointed out to sea, and adopted a no-nonsense voice. “Judging by the nonappearance of the Golden Friendship, it was too badly damaged to sail. The Admiral Jeseratabhar says that Dienu Pasharatid was on it. Perhaps she has been killed, in which case Io Pasharatid on the Union will be full of vengeance.”
“I fear that man,” said MyrdemInggala. “And with excellent reason.” She bent her head over the old woman.
Her general gave her a side glance. “I’m here to protect you from him, aren’t I?”
“I suppose you are,” she said spiritlessly. “At least your lieutenant is doing something about the matter.”
JandolAnganol had seen to it that the wooden palace had no weapons with which to defend itself. But the rocks extending out to sea from the Linien Rock meant that any considerable vessel like the Union had to sail between the Rock and the headland, and there lay the defender’s chance. GortorLanstatet had reinforced his working party on the beach with phagors. Two large cannon from the Vajabhar Prayer’s quarterdeck had been winched ashore and were now being manhandled onto the headland, where they would command the bay.
ScufBar and another serving man came up with a stretcher to carry the injured woman back to the safety of the palace and apply iced bandages to her wounds.
Leaving the queen’s side, TolramKetinet ran to help position the cannon. He saw the danger of their situation. Apart from the phagors and a few unarmed helpers, the defending forces at Gravabagalinien numbered only his complement of thirteen who had come with him from Ordelay. The two Sibornalese ships now closing on the bay each contained possibly fifty well-armed fighting men. Pasharatid’s Union was turning, to present itself broadside on to the coast.
Heaving at the ropes, the men tried to get the second cannon into place.
Confronting the queen with folded arms, CaraBansity said, “Madam, I gave the king good advice which was ill taken. Let me now offer you a similar dose and hope for a kindlier reception. You and your ladies should saddle up hoxneys and ride inland, making no delay.”
Her face lit with a sad smile. “I’m glad of your concern, Bardol. You go. Return to your wife. This place has become my home. You know Gravabagalinien is said to be the residence of the ancient ghosts of those who were killed in a battle long ago. I would rather join those shades than leave.”
He nodded. “So it may be. I shall stay too, ma’am, in that case.”
Something in her expression showed him she was pleased by what he said. On impulse, she asked, “What do you make of this misalliance between our friend Rushven, and the Uskuti lady—an admiral, no less?”
“She keeps quiet, but that does not reassure me. It might be safer to pack those two off. There’s always more than an arm up a Sibornalese sleeve. We must use our cunning, ma’am—there’s little enough else on our side.”
“She appears genuinely devoted to my ex-chancellor.”
“If so, she has deserted the Sibornalese cause, ma’am. And that may give this man Pasharatid another reason for coming ashore. Pack her off, for everybody’s safety.”
At sea, smoke billowed, concealing all but the sails of the Union. A moment later, explosions were heard.
But the shots proved to be no more than warnings. The Union swung to port and began sailing straight towards the little bay.
The queen stood alone, her long hair, still unbound from the night, streaming in the wind. There was a sense in which she was prepared to die. It might be the best way of resolving her troubles. She was—to her dismay—not prepared to accept TolramKetinet, an honest but insensitive man. She was vexed with herself for putting herself under emotional obligation to him. The truth was, his body, his caresses of the night, had merely aroused in her an intense longing for Jan. She felt lonelier than before.
Moreover, she divined with melancholy detachment Jan’s loneliness. That she might have assuaged, had she herself been more mature.
Out to sea, monsoon rain created gulfs of darkness and slanting light. Showers burned across the waters. The clouds loomed lower. Good Hope was almost lost in murk. And the sea itself—MyrdemInggala looked, and saw that her familiars were choking the waves. What she had mistaken for choppiness was the ferment of their bodies. The rain drove in at speed and dashed itself against her face.
Next second, everyone was struggling through a heavy downpour.
The cannon stuck, its wheels spun in mud. A man fell on his knees, cursing. Everyone cursed and bellowed. The fusee in its perforated tin would be doused if the downpour continued.
Hope of placing the cannon effectively was now dead. The wind veered with the storm. The Union was blown towards the bay.
As the ship drew level with the Linien Rock, the dolphins acted. They moved in formation, retinue and regiment. The entrance to the bay was barred by their bodies.
Sailors in the Union, half-blinded by rain, shouted and pointed at the teeming backs beneath their hulls. It was as if the ship ran across black shining cobbles. The dolphins wedged their bodies solid against the timbers. The Union slowed, groaning.