Helliconia Summer h-2

by Brian Aldiss

  She clapped her hands. “I succeed him! Then we’ll have a whole country each.”

  Despite his tension, his premonition that further ills were about to befall him, he burst into laughter, seized her, and pressed her delicate body against him.

  The earth shook again.

  “Can we sleep here, together?” she whispered.

  “No, it would be wrong. In the morning, we go to see my friend Esomberr.”

  “I thought he wasn’t your friend.”

  “I can make him my friend. He’s vain, but not a villain.”

  The earth tremors died. The night died. Freyr rose in strength, again hidden from sight by the yellow haze, and the temperature climbed.

  That day, few persons of importance were seen about the palace. King Sayren Stund announced that he would hold no audiences; those who had lost a home or a child in the tremors wailed in vain in the stagnant anterooms, or were turned away. Nor was King JandolAnganol to be seen. Or the young princess.

  On the following day, a body of Oldorandan guards, eight strong, arrested JandolAnganol.

  They caught him as he descended the staircase leading from his room. He fought, but they lifted him off his feet and carried him to a place of imprisonment. He was kicked down a spiralling stone stair and thrown into a dungeon.

  He lay for many minutes panting on the floor, beside himself with anger.

  “Yuli, Yuli,” he said, over and over. “I was so sick at what they did to you that I never could think through to see what danger I was in… I never could think…”

  After some minutes of silence, he said aloud, “I was overconfident. That’s always been my fault. I trusted too much that I could ride with the circumstances…”

  A long while later, he picked himself off the floor and looked helplessly about. A shelf against one wall served as bed and bench. Light filtered in from a high window. In one corner was a trough for sanitary purposes. He sank down on the bench, and thought of his father’s long imprisonment.

  When his spirits had sunk still lower, he thought of Milua Tal.

  “Sayren Stund, if you harm one lash of her eyes, you slanje…”

  He sat rigid. Eventually, he forced himself to relax and leaned with his back against the moist wall of the cell. With a roar, he jumped up and began to pace about, up and down, between wall and door.

  He ceased only when he heard the scrape of boots coming down the stair. Keys rattled at the lock, and a black-clad member of the local clerisy entered between two armed guards. As he gave a scanty bow, JandolAnganol recognized him as Sayren Stund’s axe-faced advisor, by name Crispan Mornu.

  “Under what devious law am I, a visiting prince of a friendly country, imprisoned?”

  “I am come to inform you that you are charged with murder, and will be tried for that crime tomorrow at Batalix-break, before a royal ecclesiastical court.” The sepulchral voice paused, then added, “Prepare yourself.”

  JandolAnganol advanced in a fury. “Murder? Murder, you pack of criminals? What new scoundrelism is this? Whose murder is laid at my door?”

  Crossed spears halted his advance.

  The priest said, “You are charged with the murder of Princess Simoda Tal, elder daughter of King Sayren Stund of Oldorando.”

  He bowed again and withdrew.

  The king remained where he was, staring at the door.

  His eagle eyes fixed upon its boards, never blinking, as if he had vowed they should never blink again until he was free.

  He stayed almost motionless throughout the night. The intense active principle within him, being confined, stayed coiled within him like a spring. He maintained a defiant alertness throughout the hours of dark, waiting to leap to attack anyone who ventured to enter the dungeon.

  Nobody came. No food was brought, no water. During the night there was a remote tremor—so remote it might have been in an artery rather than the earth—and a powder shower of mortar floated down to the stones. Nothing else. Not so much as a rat visited JandolAnganol.

  When light seeped in to the place of confinement, he went over to the stone trough. By climbing onto it and hooking his finger into a hollow between two stones, carved by previous prisoners, he could look out of the unglazed window. A precious breath of fresh air expired upon his cheek.

  His dungeon was at the front of the palace, near to the corner by the Dom, or so he estimated. He could look across Loylbryden Square. His viewpoint was too low to see anything beyond it except the tops of trees in the park.

  The square was deserted. He thought that if he waited long enough he would possibly see Milua Tal—unless she was also captive of her father.

  His view was towards the west. The tiny patch of sky he could see was free of haze. Batalix cast long shadows across the cobbles. Those shadows paled and then divided into two as Freyr also rose. Then they died as the haze returned and the temperature started to mount.

  Workmen came. They brought platforms and poles with them. Their manner was the resigned one of workmen everywhere: they were prepared to do the job, but not prepared to hurry over it. After a while, they set up a scaffold.

  JandolAnganol went and sat down on the bench, clutching his temples between his nails.

  Guards came for him. He fought them, uselessly. They put him in chains. He snarled at them. They pushed him up the stone stairs indifferently.

  Everything had fallen out as King Sayren Stund might have wished it. In the incessant enantiodromia which afflicts all things, turning them into their opposites, he could now crow over the man who had so recently crowed over him. He bounded up and down with glee, he uttered cries of joy, he embraced Bathkaarnet-she, he threw merrily evil glances at his dejected daughter.

  “You see, child, this villain you threw your arms about is to be branded a murderer before everyone.” He advanced upon her with ogreish glee. “We’ll give you his corpse to embrace in a day’s time. Yes, just another twenty-five hours and your virginity will be safe forever from JandolAnganol.”

  “Why not hang me too, Father, and rid yourself of all your daughters to worry about?”

  A special chamber in the palace had been set aside to serve as the courtroom. The Church sanctified it for judiciary purposes. Sprigs of veronika, scantiom, and pellamountain—all regarded as cooling herbs—were hung to lower the stifling temperature and shed their balm into the room. Many luminaries of court and city were gathered to watch the proceedings, not all of them by any means as in accord with their ruler as he supposed.

  The three main actors in the drama were the king, his saturnine advisor, Crispan Mornu, and a judge by name Kimon Euras, whose station in the Church was minister of the rolls.

  Kimon Euras was so thin that he stooped as if the tautness of his skin had bent the backbone it contained; he was bald or, to be precise, without visible vestige of hair, and the skin of his face displayed a greyish pallor reminiscent of the vellums over which he had parsimonious custody. His spiderish air, as he ascended to his bench, clad in a black keedrant hanging to his spatulate feet, seemed to guarantee that he would handle mercy with a similar parsimony.

  When these impressive dignitaries were settled in their places, a gong was struck, and two guards chosen for strength dragged King JandolAnganol into the chamber. He was made to stand in the middle of the room for all to see.

  The division between prisoner and free is sharp in any court. Here it was more marked than usual. The king’s short imprisonment had been enough to make filthy his tunic and his person. Yet he stood with his head high, darting his eagle gaze about the court, more like a bird of prey hunting weaknesses than a man looking for mercy. The clarity which attended his movements and contours remained part of him.

  Kimon Euras began a long address in a powdery voice. The ancient dusts from the documents in his charge had lodged in his larynx. He spoke marginally louder when he came to the words, “… cruel murder of our beloved Princess Simoda Tal, in this very palace, by the thrust of an ancipital horn. King JandolAngano
l of Borlien, you are charged with being the instigator of this crime.”

  JandolAnganol immediately shouted in defiance. A bailiff struck him from behind saying, “Prisoners are not allowed to speak in this court. Any interruptions and you will be thrown back in your cell.”

  Crispan Mornu had managed for the occasion to find a garment of deeper black than usual. The colour reflected up into his jowls, his cheeks, his eyes, and, when he spoke, into his throat.

  “We intend to demonstrate that the guilt of this Borlienese king is inescapable, and that he came here with no other purpose than the destruction of Princess Milua Tal, thus ending the lineage of the House of Stund. We shall produce a copy of the instrument with which Princess Simoda Tal was cruelly dispatched. We shall produce also the actual perpetrator of the deed. We shall show that all factors point inescapably to the prisoner as the originator of the cruel plot. Bring forth the dagger.”

  A slave scurried forward, making a great business of his haste, and presented the article demanded.

  Unable to keep out of the proceedings, Sayren Stund reached forward and grasped it before Crispan Mornu could take it.

  “This is the horn of a phagor beast. It has two sharp edges, and hence cannot be confused with the horn of any other animal. It corresponds with the configurations of the wound in the late princess’s breast. Poor dear girl.

  “We do not attempt to pretend that this is the weapon with which the murder was committed. That weapon is lost. This is merely a similar one, newly pulled from the head of a phagor.

  “I wish to remind the court, and they shall judge whether or not the fact is relevant, that the prisoner had a phagor runt for a pet. That runt the prisoner blasphemously named after the great warrior-saint of this nation, Yuli. Whether the insult was deliberate or made through ignorance, we need not inquire.”

  “Sayren Stund, your callousness will be well repaid,” JandolAnganol said, and received a hearty blow for it.

  When the horn dagger had been passed round, the curved figure of Kimon Euras uncurled enough to ask, “What else has the prosecution to bring against the accused by way of evidence?”

  “You have seen the weapon with which the deed was done,” the black voice of Crispan Mornu announced. “Now we shall show you the person who used the weapon to kill the princess Simoda Tal.”

  Into the court a struggling boy was half-brought, half-carried. It had a rug tied about its head, and JandolAnganol thought immediately of the prisoner he had seen in the night, evicted from the wooden wagon.

  This captive was tugged into the well of the court. At a word of command, the rug was wrenched from it.

  The youth thus revealed seemed to consist of a fury of a tousled mane of hair, an empurpled visage, and a torn shift. When he was struck hard and began to whimper instead of struggle, he was recognizable as RobaydayAnganol.

  “Roba!” cried the king, and received a chop in the kidneys which doubled him up in pain. He sank down on a bench, overwhelmed by the sight of his own son in captivity—Roba, who had always feared captivity.

  “This young person was apprehended by his majesty’s agents in the seaport of Ottassol, in Borlien,” said Crispan Mornu. “He proved difficult to track down, since he posed sometimes as a Madi, adopting their habits and style of dress. He is, however, human. His name is RobaydayAnganol. He is the son of the accused, and his wildness is widely talked of.”

  “Did you murder the late Princess Simoda Tal?” demanded the judge, in a voice like tearing parchment.

  Robayday burst into a fit of weeping, during which he was heard to say that he had murdered nobody, that he had never been to Oldorando before, and that he wanted only to be left in peace to lead his own miserable life.

  “Did you not carry out the murder at the instigation of your father?” demanded Crispan Mornu, making each word sound like a small axe descending.

  “I hate my father! I fear my father! I would never do his bidding.”

  “Why then did you murder the Princess Simoda Tal?”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t. I am innocent, I swear.”

  “Whom did you murder?”

  “I have murdered no one.”

  As though these were the very words he had waited all his life to hear, Crispan Mornu raised a mottled hand high in the air and brought up his nose until it shone in the light as if honed.

  “You hear this youth claim he has murdered no one. We call a witness who will prove him a liar. Bring in the witness.”

  A young lady entered the court, moving freely if nervously between two guards. She was directed to take a stance beneath the judge’s platform, while those in the court regarded her avidly. Her beauty and youth were appealing. Her cheeks were brightly painted. Her dark hair was strikingly dressed. She wore a tight-fitting chagirack, the floral pattern of which emphasized her figure. She stood with one hand on her hip, slightly defiant, and managed to look at once innocent and seductive.

  Judge Kimon Euras curved his albaster skull forward and was perhaps rewarded by a glimpse down into her zona, for he said in a more human tone than had so far been the case, “What is your name, young woman?”

  She said in a faint voice, “Please, AbathVasidol, usually called Abathy by my friends.”

  “I am sure you have plenty of friends,” said the judge.

  Untouched by this exchange, Crispan Mornu said, “This lady has also been brought here by his majesty’s agents. She came not as a prisoner but of her own free will, and will be rewarded for her efforts on behalf of the truth. Abathy, will you tell us when you last saw this youth, and what the circumstances were?”

  Abathy moistened her lips, which were already shining, and said, “Oh, sir, I was in my room, my little room in Ottassol. My friend was with me, my friend Div. We were sitting on the bed, you know, talking. And suddenly this man here…”

  She paused.

  “Go on, girl.”

  “It’s too awful, sir…” There was a thick silence in the court, as if even the cooling herbs were drowning in the heat. “Well, sir, this man here came in with a dagger. He wanted me to go with him, and I wouldn’t. I don’t do such things. Div went to protect me, and this man here struck with his dagger—or horn, it was, you know—and he killed Div. He stabbed Div right in the stomach.”

  She demonstrated daintily on her own hypogastric region, and the court craned its collective neck.

  “And what happened then?”

  “Well, sir, you know, this man here took the body away and threw it into the sea.”

  “This is all a lie, a lying plot!” said JandolAnganol.

  It was the girl who answered him, with a spurt of her own anger. She was more at home in the court now, and beginning to enjoy her role.

  “It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. The prisoner took Div’s body away and threw it into the sea. And the extraordinary thing was that a few days later it returned, the body I mean, packed in ice, to Ottassol, because I saw it in the house of my friend and protector, Bardol CaraBansity—later to become the king’s chancellor for a while.”

  JandolAnganol emitted a strangled laugh and appealed direct to the judge. “How can anyone believe such an impossible story?”

  “It’s not impossible, and I can prove it,” Abathy said boldly. “Div had a special jewel with three moving faces with figures, a timepiece. The figures were alive. Div kept it in a belt around his waist.” She indicated the area she meant on her own anatomy, and again the collective neck was craned. “That same jewel turned up at CaraBansity’s and he gave it to his majesty, who probably has it now.” She pointed her finger dramatically at JandolAnganol.

  The king was visibly taken aback and remained silent. The timepiece lay forgotten in his tunic pocket.

  He recalled now, all too late, how he had always feared the timepiece as an alien thing, a thing of science to be mistrusted. When BillishOwpin, the man who claimed to have come from another world, had offered him the timepiece, JandolAnganol had thrown it back to him. Mysteri
ously, it had returned later through the agency of the deuteroscopist. Despite his intentions, he had never rid himself of it.

  Now it had betrayed him.

  He could not speak. An evil spell had descended on him: that he saw, but could not say when it had begun. Not all his dedication to Akhanaba had saved him from the spell.

  “Well, Your Majesty, well, brother,” said Sayren Stund, with relish, “have you this jewel with living figures?”

  JandolAnganol said faintly, “It is intended as a wedding gift for the Princess Milua Tal…”

  A hubbub broke out in court. People dashed here and there, clerics called for order, Sayren Stund covered his face in order to hide his triumph.

  When order was restored Crispan Mornu put another question to Abathy. “You are sure this young man, RobaydayAnganol, son of the king, is the man who murdered your friend, Div? Did you ever see him again?”

  “Sir, he was a great nuisance to me. He would not go away. I don’t know what would have happened to me if your men hadn’t arrested him.”

  A short silence prevailed in court while everyone contemplated what might have happened to such an attractive young lady.

  “Let me put one last and rather personal question to you,” Crispan Mornu said, fixing Abathy with his corpse-like stare. “You are evidently a low-born woman, and yet you seem to have well-connected friends. Rumour mentions your name with that of a certain Sibornalese ambassador. What do you say to that?”

  “Shame,” said a voice from the court benches, but Abathy answered in an untroubled way, “I did have the pleasure of knowing a Sibornalese gentleman, sir. I like the Sibornalese for their good manners, sir.”

  “Thank you, Abathy, your testament has been invaluable.” Crispan Mornu managed a tone which resembled a stiletto’s smile. He then turned to the court, speaking only when the girl had left.