by Brian Aldiss
“I’m glad you are preserved, Alam. You will find the fleshpots rather gloomy here, that’s my impression.”
Esomberr was eyeing the runt standing by the king’s side. He made playfully to pat Yuli, and then withdrew his hand. “You don’t bite, do you, thing?”
“I’m zivilized,” said Yuli.
Esomberr raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, Jandol, but will this rather stuffy crowd here, Sayren Stund and company, tolerate even a zivilized you-know-what in their midst? There’s a drumble on at present—to celebrate the death of your betrothed, I gather…”
“I’ve met no trouble yet—but the C’Sarr arrives soon. You had better get your fleshpotting in before then. By the way, I have just seen my ex-chancellor, SartoriIrvrash. Do you know anything about him?”
“Hmmm. Yes, yes, I do, sire.” Esomberr rubbed his elegant nose with a finger. “He and a Sibornalese lady came upon me and my rabble of vicars shortly after you and your phagorian infantry had trotted on ahead in your brisk, forceful manner. Both he and the Sibornalese lady were on hoxney-back. They journeyed the rest of the way with us.”
“What business has he in Oldorando?”
“Fleshpots?”
“Try again. What did he tell you?”
Alam Esomberr cast his eyes down to the floor as if seeking to recall an elusive memory. “Zygankes, travel does soften the mind… hm. Why, I really cannot say, sire. Perhaps you had best ask him yourself?”
“He had come from Gravabagalinien? Why was he there?”
“Sire, perhaps he wished to view the sea, as I’ve heard some men do before they die.”
“In that case, his wish could have been premonitory,” said JandolAnganol, with spirit. “You are not helpful this evening, Alam.”
“Forgive me. My legs are in such shape that my head is also affected. I may be more effectual after I have bathed and dined. Meanwhile, I assure you that I am no friend of your somewhat gaseous ex-chancellor.”
“Except that you both would rid the world of phagors.”
“So would most men if they had the courage to act. Phagors and fathers.”
They regarded each other. “We had better not get to the subject of courage,” said JandolAnganol, and walked away.
He plunged into a group where men in grand ornamental charfruls and exotic hairpieces were conversing with King Sayren Stund, interrupting them without apology. Sayren Stund looked flustered, but reluctantly asked his audience to leave him. A space was cleared about the two kings. Immediately, a lackey came forward with a silver tray, to present glasses of iced wine. JandolAnganol turned. Only half deliberately, he knocked the tray from the man’s hand.
“Tut-tut-tut,” said Sayren Stund. “No matter, it was an accident, I saw that. Plenty more wine. And more ice, as a matter of fact, delivered now by a lady captain, Immya Muntras. We must accustom ourselves to such innovations.”
“Brother king, never mind the niceties of conversation. You are sheltering here in your palace a man who was my chancellor, of whom I rid myself, a man I think my enemy, since he went over to the Sibornalese cause, by name SartoriIrvrash. What does he want here? Has he brought you some secret message from my ex-queen, as I fear?”
“The man you mention arrived here only twenty minutes ago, along with gentry of good character, such as Alam Esomberr. I agreed to give him shelter. He has a lady with him. I assure you they are not to be guests under this roof.”
“She is Sibornalese. I dismissed that man. I conclude that he cannot be here to do me any favours. Where will they lodge?”
“Dear Brother, I hardly think that is business of mine or yours. The dusk-moth must keep to the dusk, as we say.”
“Where will he stay? Are you protecting him? Be frank with me.”
Sayren Stund had been sitting on a high chair. He rose with dignity and said, “It grows heated in here. Let us take a walk in the garden before we become overheated.” He gestured to his wife to remain behind.
They progressed through the room amid a corridor of bows. Only the runt Yuli followed. The gardens were lit by flambeaux set in niches. Since almost as little air circulated as in the palace, the torches burned with a steady flame. A sulphurous smell hung about the neatly trimmed avenues.
“I do not wish to vex you, Brother Sayren,” JandolAnganol said. “But you understand that I have unknown enemies here. I perceived just by the look of SartoriIrvrash, by his expression, that he is now my enemy, come to make trouble for me. Do you deny that?”
Sayren Stund had taken better control of himself. He was corpulent and he wheezed as he walked. He said coolly, “You appreciate that the common people of Oldorando, or Embruddock, as some like to say, affecting the old mode, regard men of your country—this is not a prejudice I share, you understand—as barbarians. I cannot educate them out of the illusion, not even by stressing the religion we have in common.”
“How does this answer my question?”
“Dear, I’m out of breath. I think I have an allergy. May I ask you if you keep that fuggie following at heel simply to offend me and my queen?” He indicated Yuli with a contemptuous gesture.
It was the turn of JandolAnganol to be at a loss.
“He’s no more than—a pet hound. He follows me everywhere.”
“It’s an insult to bring that creature into this court. It should be housed on Whistler Island with the rest of the animals.”
“I tell you, it’s just a favourite hound. It sleeps outside my bedchamber door at night and will bark if there’s danger.”
Sayren Stund stopped walking, clasped his hands behind his back, and gazed intently into a bush.
“We should not quarrel, we both have our difficulties, I in Kace, you at home in Matrassyl, if the reports that reach me are to be trusted. But you cannot bring that creature into my court—the force of the opinion of the court is against it, whatever I personally may say.”
“Why did you not say this when I arrived, two days ago?”
A heavy sigh from the Oldorandan king. “You have had two days’ grace. Think of it like that. The Holy C’Sarr arrives shortly, as you know. The honour of receiving him means much, but is a grave responsibility. He will not tolerate the sight of a phagor. You are too difficult for us, Jandol. Since you have exhausted your purpose here, why do you not return to your capital tomorrow, with your troupe of animals?”
“Am I that unwelcome? You invited me to stay for the C’Sarr’s visit. What poison has SartoriIrvrash poured in your ear?”
“The occasion when the Holy C’Sarr is present must pass of peacefully. Perhaps the alliance with powerful Pannoval is more important to me than to you, since my kingdom is nearer. Frankly, fuggies and fuggy-lovers are not popular in this part of the world. If you have no purpose here, then I suggest we give you godspeed tomorrow.”
“If I have a purpose?”
Sayren Stund cleared his throat. “What purpose? We are both religious men, Jandol. Let us go and pray and be scourged together now, and part as friends and allies in the morning. Isn’t that best? Then your visit can be sweetly remembered. I will give you a boat with which you can sail rapidly down the Valvoral and be home in no time. Can you smell the flowering zaldal? Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I see.” JandolAnganol folded his arms. “Very well, then, if that is as deep as your friendship and your religion go—we shall quit your presence on the morrow.”
“We shall sorrow to see you leave us. So will our queen and daughter.”
“I comply with your request, and poorly I think of it. In return, answer my question. Where is SartoriIrvrash?”
The King of Oldorando showed sudden spirit. “You have no right to think poorly of my request. Do you imagine my daughter would be dead today if you had not been espoused to her? It was a political killing—she had no personal enemies, poor girl. Then you come to my court with your filthy fuggies and expect to be made welcome.”
“Sayren, I say truly, I grieve for the death o
f Simoda Tal. If I found the murderer, I would know how to deal with him. Do not increase my sorrow by laying that evil at my door.”
Sayren Stund ventured to rest his hand upon the arm of his brother king.
“Do not worry yourself about—the man you mention, your ex-chancellor. We have given him a room in one of the monastic hostels which lie behind this palace and the Dom. You will not have to meet with him. And we will not part foes. That would not do.” He blew his nose. “Just be sure you leave Oldorando tomorrow.”
They made each other a bow. JandolAnganol went slowly up to his quarters in a wing of the palace. Yuli followed behind.
Indifferent tapestries hung on the walls here, the board floor was filthy. He knocked on his infantry major’s door. No answer came. On inspiration, he went along to Fard Fantil’s door and knocked. The Royal Armourer called to him to enter. The hunchback sat on his bed, polishing his boots; he jumped to his feet when he saw who entered. A phagor guard stood silent by the window, spear in hand.
JandolAnganol lost no time in coming to the point.
“You’re the very man I want. This is your native city, and you know local customs as I don’t. We leave here tomorrow—yes, it’s unexpected, but there’s no choice. We sail to Matrassyl.”
“Trouble, sire?”
Trouble.”
“He’s tricky, is the king.”
“I want to take SartoriIrvrash with me, prisoner. He’s here, in the city. I want you to find him, overpower him, smuggle him into these quarters. We can’t cut his throat—it would cause too much of a scandal. Get him here, unseen.”
Fard Fantil began to pace up and down the room, clutching his brow. “We can’t do such a thing. It’s impossible. The law won’t allow. What has he done?”
JandolAnganol smacked a fist into his palm. “I know that dangerous old crank’s way of thought. He has developed some mad piece of knowledge to discredit me. It will concern the phagors somehow. Before it gets out, I must have him safe, a prisoner. We leave with him tomorrow, shut in a chest. Nobody will know. He resides in one of the hostels behind this palace. Now, I rely on you, Fard Fantil, for I know you as a good man. Do this, and I will reward you, on my word.”
Still the armourer hesitated. “The law won’t allow.”
In a steely voice, the king said, “You have a phagor here in your chambers. I expressly forbid it. Except for my runt, all ancipitals were to be housed in Whistler Park. You merit a flogging for disobeying my orders—and a demotion.”
“He is my personal servant, sire.”
“Will you get SartoriIrvrash for me, as I request?”
With a sullen look, Fard Fantil agreed.
The king threw a bag of gold onto the bed. It was the money he had acquired in the market, two days previously.
“Good. Disguise yourself as a monk. Go at once. Take that pet of yours with you.”
When man and phagor had gone, JandolAnganol stood for a while in the dark room, thinking. Through the window, he could see YarapRombry’s Comet low in the northern sky. The sight of that bright smudge in the night brought a memory of his last encounter with his father’s gossie, and its prediction that he would meet one in Oldorando who would control his destiny. Was that a reference to SartoriIrvrash? His brain, like a darting glance, looked over other possibilities.
Satisfied that he had done all that might be done in a hostile place, he returned to his quarters, where Yuli had settled himself for sleep before the door as usual. The king gave him a pat as he climbed past.
By the bed, a tray of wine and ice had been placed. Perhaps it was Sayren Stund’s way of showing gratitude to a departing guest. Scowling, JandolAnganol drank off a full glass of the sweet wine, then hurled tray and pitcher into a corner.
Flinging off his clothes, he climbed in among the rugs and immediately slept. He always slept soundly. This night, his sleep was heavier than usual.
His dreams were many and confused. He was numerous things, and at last he was a fire god, paddling through golden fire. But the fire was less flame than liquid. He was a fire god of the sea, and MyrdemInggala was riding a dolphin just ahead of him. He struggled mightily. The sea clutched him.
At last he caught her. He held her tight. The gold was all about them. But the horror that had tagged along on the margins of the dream was moving in rapidly upon him.
MyrdemInggala was other than he thought. An immense weight and sickliness emanated from her body. He was crying as he wrestled with her. The gold ran about his throat and eyes. She felt like—
He broke from the dream into waking. For a moment, he scarcely dared open his eyes. He was in the bed in the Oldorandan palace. He was clutching something. He was trembling violently.
Almost against his wish, his eyes opened. Only the gold from the dream remained. It stained the rugs and silken pillows. It stained him.
Crying out, he sat up, flinging back the skins that covered him. Yuli lay close against him. The runt’s head had been severed. There was only the body. It was cold. Its copious golden blood had ceased to flow and lay congealing in a pool beneath the corpse, and beneath the king.
The king flung himself down on the bare floor, face to the tiles. He wept. The sobs rose from some inner recess and shook his whole stained body.
It was the custom in the Oldorandan court for a service to be held every morning at the tenth hour, in the Royal Chapel, which was under the palace. King Sayren Stund, to honour his guests, invited JandolAnganol each day to read—as was his custom—from the revered Testament of RayniLayan’. Much whispering and speculation filled the chapel on this morning, as the royal members of the faith gathered. Many doubted that the Borlienese king would appear.
The king came down the stairs from his chambers. He had washed himself over and over and dressed, not in a charfrul, but in knee-length tunic, boots, and light cloak. His face was of an extreme pallor. His hands shook. He walked deliberately, taking step by step, and was in control of himself.
As he descended the staircase, his armourer came at the run after him, and spoke.
“Sire, I had no response to my knock at your door earlier. Forgive me. I have the prisoner you named in my room, tied in the garderobe. I will watch him till the ship is ready. Tell me only what time I can smuggle him aboard.”
“Plans may be changed Fard Fantil.”
The king’s manner as much as his words alarmed the armourer. “Are you ill, sire?” Said with an ill-favoured glance upwards from under his brows.
“Go back to your room.” Without a backward look, the king continued to descend, down to the ground floor and down again to the Royal Chapel. He was the last to enter. The introit was playing on vrach and drums. All eyes turned upon him as he walked stiffly, like a boy on stilts, to mount into the box beside Sayren Stund. Only Stund remained gazing towards the altar, eyes blinking rapidly, as if unaware of anything amiss.
The royal box was set apart, in front of the congregation. It was an ornate affair, its carved sides decorated with silver. Six curving steps led up to it. Ranking just below it was a plainer box, reached by only one step, where Queen Bathkaarnet-she sat with her daughter.
JandolAnganol took his place beside the other king, staring ahead, and the service proceeded. Only after the long hymn of praise to Akhanaba did Sayren Stund turn and gesture to JandolAnganol, just as he had done on previous days, to read a part of the Testament.
With slow pace, JandolAnganol descended the six steps, walked across the black and red tiles to the lectern, turned, and faced the congregation. Absolute silence fell. His face was as white as parchment.
He confronted their massed stoney regard. He read curiosity, covert smiles, hatred. Nowhere did he detect sympathy, except on the face of the nine-year-old girl, who shrank down beside her mother. She, he observed, as he directed his full regard at her, mustered the old Madi Look of Acceptance, as she had when first they met.
He spoke. His voice sounded surprisingly feeble but, after a faltering start, gather
ed strength.
“I wish to say—that is, Your Royal Highnesses, Nobles All, I would say—you must excuse me if I do not read, but instead take this opportunity to address you direct in this holy place, where the All-Powerful hears every word, and looks into every heart.
“I know he must look into your hearts and see how much you wish me well. Just as much as I wish you well. My kingdom is a great and rich one. Yet I have left it to come here almost alone—almost alone. We all are in quest of peace for our peoples. That quest has long been mine, and my father’s before me. My life’s quest is for the prosperity of Borlien. So I have sworn.
“And there is a more personal quest. I am without that thing which a man most desires, even above his service to his country. I lack a queen.
“The stone I set rolling half a year ago still rolls. My resolve was then to marry the House of Stund’s daughter; that intention I shall now carry out.”
He paused as if himself alarmed by what he was about to say. Every eye in the chapel lit on his face to search out the story of his life inscribed there.
“It is therefore not only in response to what His Royal Highness, King Sayren Stund, has done that I announce here, before the throne of one who is above all earthly power, that I—King JandolAnganol of the House of Anganol—intend to unite the nations of Borlien and Oldorando in a blood bond. I mean to take in marriage as soon as is possible the prized and beloved daughter of His Majesty, Princess Milua Tal Stund. The solemnization of our nuptials will take place, Akhanaba willing, in my capital city of Matrassyl, since I am desired to leave for there today.”
Many in the congregation jumped up, in order to see how Sayren Stund responded to this astonishing news. When JandolAnganol ceased speaking, they became like statues under his chill gaze, and again there was absolute silence in the chapel.
Sayren Stund had slipped gradually from his seat and could no longer be seen. The tableau was broken by a cry from Milua Tal, who recovered fast from her initial surprise and rushed across the floor to clasp JandolAnganol.