Helliconia Summer h-2

by Brian Aldiss

  Calmed and refreshed by his bath, well fed, King Sayren Stund was in fit mood to receive Alam Esomberr and the elderly Guaddl Ulbobeg. He seated himself comfortably on a couch and assembled his wife behind him to make an attractive composition before summoning the two men to his presence.

  All due courtesies were made, and a slave woman poured wine into glasses already freighted with Lordryardry ice.

  Guaddl Ulbobeg wore an ecclesiastical sash over a light charfrul. He entered reluctantly and appeared no more comfortable to see Crispan Mornu present. He felt his position to be dangerous, and showed it in his nervous manner.

  Alam Esomberr, by contrast, was excessively cheerful. Immaculately dressed as usual, he approached the king’s couch and kissed the hands of both majesties with the air of one immune to bacteria.

  “Well, indeed, sire, you did present us with a spectacle this afternoon, just as you promised. My congratulations. How ably your old rogue of an atheist spoke! Of course, our faith is merely deepened by doubt. Nevertheless, what an amusing turn of fate it is that the abhorred King JandolAnganol, lover of phagors, who only this morning stood trial for his life, should this evening stand revealed as heroic protector of the children of God.”

  He laughed pleasantly and turned to Advisor Mornu to judge his amusement.

  “That is blasphemy,” said Crispan Mornu, in his blackest voice.

  Esomberr nodded, smiling. “Now that God has a new definition, surely blasphemy has one too? The heresy of yesterday, sir, is now perceived as today’s true path, which we must tread as nimbly as we can…”

  “I don’t know why you are so merry,” Sayren Stund complained. “But I hope to take advantage of your good humour. I wish to ask you both a favour. Woman, serve the wine again.”

  “We will do whatever your majesty commands,” said Guaddl Ulbobeg, looking anxious and clutching his glass.

  The king rose up from a reclining position, smoothed his stomach, and said, with a touch of royal pomp, “We shall give you the wherewithal with which to persuade King JandolAnganol to leave our kingdom immediately, before he can delude my poor infant daughter Milua Tal into matrimony.”

  Esomberr looked at Guaddl Ulbobeg. Guaddl Ulbobeg looked at Esomberr.

  “Well?” said the king.

  “Sire,” said Esomberr, and fell to tugging a lock of hair at the back of his neck, which necessitated his looking down at the floor.

  Guaddl Ulbobeg cleared his throat and then, more or less as an afterthought, cleared it again. “May I venture to ask your majesty if you have seen your daughter just of late?”

  “As for me, sire, I am almost totally within the power of the King of Borlien, sir,” added Esomberr, still attending to his neck. “Owing to a past indiscretion on my part, sir. An indiscretion concerning—most unforgivably—the queen of queens. So when the King of Borlien came to us this afternoon, seeking our assistance, we felt bound…”

  Since he allowed the sentence to dangle while he scrutinized the countenance of Sayren Stund, Ulbobeg continued the discourse.

  “I being a bishop of the Household of the Holy C’Sarr of Pannoval, sire, and therefore,” said Guaddl Ulbobeg, “empowered to act in His Holiness’s stead in certain offices of the Church—”

  “And I,” said Esomberr, “still remissly holding in my charge a bill of divorcement signed by the ex-queen MyrdemInggala which should have been rendered to the C’Sarr, or to one of his representatives of the Household, tenners ago—with apologies for using that now opprobrious word—”

  “And we both having care,” said Guaddl Ulbobeg, now with rather more relish in his voice, “not to overburden His Holiness with too many functions on this visit of pleasure between sister nations—”

  “When there will be more contentious matters—”

  “Or, indeed, to incommode your majesty with—”

  “Enough!” shouted Sayren Stund. “Come to the point, the pair of you! Enough procrastination!”

  “Precisely what we both said to ourselves a few hours ago,” agreed Esomberr, bestowing his choicest smile on the gathering. “Enough procrastination—perfectly put, Your Majesty… Therefore, with the powers entrusted in us by those above us all, we solemnized a state of matrimony between JandolAnganol and your beautiful daughter, Milua Tal. It was a simple but touching service, and we wished that your majesties could have been present.”

  His majesty fell off the couch, scrambled up, and roared.

  “They were married?”

  “No, Your Majesty, they are married,” said Guaddl Ulbobeg. “I took the ceremony and heard their vows for His Holiness in absentia.”

  “And I was witness and held the ring,” said Esomberr. “Some of the King of Borlien’s captains were also present. But no phagors. That I promise.”

  “They are married?” repeated Sayren Stund, looking about wildly. He fell back into his wife’s arms.

  “We’d both like to congratulate your majesties,” said Esomberr suavely. “We are sure the lucky couple will be very happy.”

  It was the evening of the following day. The haze had cleared toward sunset and stars shone in the east. Stains of a magnificent Freyr-set still lingered in the western sky. There was no wind. Earth tremors were frequent.

  His Holiness the C’Sarr Kilandar IX had arrived in Oldorando at midday. Kilandar was an ancient man with long white hair, and he retired straight to a bed in the palace to recover from his journey. While he lay prostrate, sundry officials, and lastly King Sayren Stund, in a fever of apology, came to tell the old man of the religious disarray in which he would find the kingdom of Oldorando.

  To all this, His Holiness listened. In his wisdom, he declared that he would hold a special service at Freyr-set—not in the Dom but in the chapel of the palace—during which he would address the congregation and resolve all their doubts. The degrading rumour that ancipitals were an ancient, superior race would be exposed as complete falsehood. The voice of atheists should never prevail while strength was left in his ageing body.

  This service had now begun. The old C’Sarr spoke out in a noble voice. There was scarcely an absentee.

  But two absentees were together in the white pavilion in Whistler Park.

  King JandolAnganol, in penitence and gratitude, had just prayed and scourged himself, and was washing the blood from his back with jugs of hot spring water poured by a slave.

  “How could you do such cruelty, my husband?” exclaimed Milua Tal, entering briskly. She was shoeless, and wore a filmy white gown of satara. “What are we made of but flesh? What else would you desire to be made of?”

  “There is a division between flesh and spirit, of which both must be reminded. I shall not ask you to undergo the same rituals, though you must bear with my religious inclinations.”

  “But your flesh is dear to me. Now it is my flesh and if you hurt it more, I will kill you. When you sleep, I will sit on your face with my bottom and suffocate you!” She embraced him, clinging to him until her dress was soaked. He sent the slave away, and kissed and petted her.

  “Your young flesh is dear to me, but I am determined that I will not know you carnally until your tenth birthday.”

  “Oh, no, Jan! That’s five whole tenners away! I’m not such a feeble little thing—I can easily receive you, you’ll see.” She pressed her flower face to his.

  “Five tenners is not long, and it will do us no harm to wait.”

  She flung herself on him and bore him down onto the bed, fighting and wriggling in his arms, laughing wildly as she did so.

  “I’m not going to wait, I’m not going to wait! I know all about what wives should be and what wives should do, and I am going to be your wife in every single particle.”

  They began to kiss furiously. Then he pushed her away, laughing.

  “You little spitfire, you jewel, you posy. We’ll wait till circumstances are more propitious and I have made some sort of peace with your parents.”

  “But now is always a popiters time,” she
wailed.

  To distract her, he said, “Listen, I have a little wedding present for you. It’s almost all I possess here. I shall heap gifts upon you when we are back home in Matrassyl.”

  He took from his tunic the timepiece with the three faces and held it out to her.

  The dials read:

  07:31:15 — 18:21:90 — 19:24:40

  Milua Tal took it and looked rather disappointed. She tried it on her brow, but the ends would not meet at the back of her head.

  “Where am I supposed to wear it?”

  “As a bracelet?”

  “Maybe so. Well, thanks Jan. I’ll wear it later.” She threw the watch down and then, with a sudden movement, pulled off her damp dress.

  “Now you can inspect me and see if you are going to get good value.”

  He began to pray but his eyes would not close as she danced about the room. She smiled lasciviously, seeing in his eyes the awakening of his khmir. He ran to her, seized her, and carried her to the bed.

  “Very well, my delicious Milua Tal. Here beginneth our married life.”

  Over an hour later, they were roused from their raptures by a violent quake. The timbers about them groaned, their little lamp was pitched to the floor. The bed rattled. They jumped up, naked, and felt how the floor rocked.

  “Shall we go out?” she asked. “The park jumps about a little, doesn’t it?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  The tremors were long sustained. Dogs howled in town. Then it was over, and a dead silence prevailed.

  In that silence, thoughts worked like maggots in the king’s head. He thought of the vows he had made—all broken. Of the people he loved—all betrayed. Of the hopes he had entertained—all dead. He could not find, in the prevailing stillness, consolation anywhere, not even in the perspiring human body lying against his.

  His eyes with their leaden stare fixed on an object which had dropped onto the rush mat on the floor. It was the timepiece once owned by BillishOwpin, the article of an unknown science which had woven its way through the tenners of his decline.

  With a sudden shout of rage, he jumped up and hurled the timepiece away, out through the north-facing window. He stood there naked, glaring, as if daring the thing to return to his hand.

  After a moment of fright, Milua Tal joined him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Without words, they leaned out of the window to breathe cooler air.

  An eerie white light shone in the north, outlining horizons and trees. Lightning danced noiselessly in the middle of it.

  “By the beholder, what’s happening?” JandolAnganol asked, clutching the slender shoulders of his bride.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Jan. It’s the earthquake lights—they soon die. We often see them after a particularly bad quake. It’s a kind of night-rainbow.”

  “Isn’t it quiet?” He realized that there was no sound of the First Phagorian moving about nearby, and was suddenly alarmed.

  “I can hear something.” Suddenly she ran to the opposite window, and screamed. “Jandol! Look! The palace!”

  He ran to her and looked out. On the far side of Loylbryden Square, the palace was alight. The entire wooden facade was ablaze, with clouds of smoke rolling up towards the stars.

  “The quake must have caused a fire. Let’s go and see if we can help—fast, fast, my poor moth!” Her pigeon voice shrilled.

  Aghast, the two dressed and ran out. There were no phagors in the park but, as they crossed the square, they saw them.

  The First Phagorian stood armed, staring at the blazing palace, guarding it. They watched without movement as the flames took ever firmer hold. Townspeople stood at a distance, gazing helplessly, kept at bay by the phagors.

  JandolAnganol went to break through the phagorian ranks, but a spear was thrust out and his way barred. Phagor-Major Ghht Mlark Chzarn saluted her leader and spoke.

  “You may not make a coming to more nearness, sir, because danger. We have made a bringing of flames to all Sons of Freyr in that churchplace below the ground. Knowledge reaches our harneys that the evil king and the church-king would bring killing to your all servants of this Guard.”

  “You had no orders.” He could scarcely speak. “You’ve slain Akhanaba—the god made in your image.”

  The creature before him with its deep scarlet eyes brought a three-fingered hand to its skull, “Orders have formed in our harneys. Make arrival from long time. Once, this place izz ancient Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk… Further sayance…”

  “You’ve slain the C’Sarr, Akhanaba… everything… everything…” He could scarcely hear what the ancipital was saying, for Milua Tal was holding his hand and screaming at the top of her voice. “My moth, my moth, my poor mother!”

  “Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk once ancient place of ancipital kind. Not give to Sons of Freyr.”

  He failed to understand. He pushed against her spear, then drew his own sword. “Let me through, Major Chzarn, or I shall kill you.”

  He knew how useless threats were. Chzarn merely said, without emotion, “Not go through, sir.”

  “You’re the fire god, Jan—command it die!” As she parrot-screamed, she raked his flesh, but he did not move. Chzarn was intent on explaining something and wrestled with words before managing to say, “Ancient Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk good place, sir. Air-octaves make a song. Before Sons of Freyr any on Hrl-Ichor Yhar. In ancient time of T’Sehn-Hrr.”

  “It’s the present, the present! We live and die in present time, gillot!” He tried to wind himself up to strike but was unable to do so, despite the screaming girl at his side. His will failed. The flames burned in the pupils of his narrowed eyes.

  The phagor obstinately continued her explanation, as if she were an automaton.

  “Ancipitals here, sir, before Sons of Freyr. Before Freyr make bad light. Before T’Sehn-Hrr goance, sir. Old sins, sir.”

  Or perhaps she just said ‘old things’. In the fury of the blaze, it was impossible to hear. With a roar, part of the palace roof collapsed and a column of fire rolled up into the night sky. Pillars crashed forward into the square.

  The crowd cried in unison and stumbled back. Among the watchers was AbathVasidol; she clung to the arm of a gentleman from the Sibornalese embassy as everyone shrank from the heat.

  The Holy C’Sarr… all destroyed,” cried JandolAnganol in pain. Milua Tal hid her face in JandolAnganol’s side and wept. “All destroyed… all destroyed.”

  He made no attempt to comfort the girl or to push her away. She was nothing to him. The flames devoured his spirit. In that holocaust were consumed his ambitions—the very ambitions the fire would fulfil. He could be master of Oldorando as well as Borlien, but in that ceaseless changing of things into their opposites, that chastising enantiodromia which made a god into a phagor, he no longer wished for that mastery.

  His phagors had brought him a triumph, in which he saw clearly his defeat. His thoughts flew to MyrdemInggala:

  but his and her summer was over, and this great bonfire of his enemies was his autumn beacon.

  “All destroyed,” he said aloud.

  But a figure approached them, moving elegantly through the ranks of the First Phagorian, arriving almost at a saunter in time to remark, “Not quite all, I’m glad to say.”

  Despite his attempt at customary nonchalance, Esomberr’s face was pale and he trembled visibly.

  “Since I’ve never worshipped the All-Powerful with any great degree of fervour, whether he’s man or phagor, I thought I would excuse myself from the C’Sarr’s lecture on the subject. Terribly fortunate as it proved. Let this be a lesson to you, Your Majesty, to go to church less frequently in future.”

  Milua Tal looked up angrily to say, “Why don’t you run away? Both my parents are in there.”

  Esomberr wagged a finger at her. “You must learn to ride with circumstances as your new husband claims to do. If your parents are perished—and there I suspect you have hit upon a profound truth—then may I be the first to congratulate you on becoming Queen of both Borli
en and Oldorando.

  “I hope for some advancement from you, as the chief instrument in your clandestine marriage. I may never make C’Sarr, but you both know my council is good. I’m cheerful, even in times of adversity like the present.”

  JandolAnganol shook his head. He took Milua Tal by the shoulders and began to coax her away from the conflagration.

  “We can do nothing. Slaying a phagor or two will solve nothing. We will wait for morning. In Esomberr’s cynicism there is some truth.”

  “Cynicism?” asked Esomberr quietly. “Are not your brutes merely imitating what you did to the Myrdolators? Is there no cynicism in your taking advantage of that? Your brutes have crowned you King of Oldorando.”

  Written in the king’s face was something Esomberr could not bear to see. “If the entire court is wiped out, then what is there for me but to stay, to do my duty, to see that the succession is legally continued in Milua Tal’s name? Will I find joy in that task, Esomberr?”

  “You will go with the circumstances, I expect. As I would. What’s joy?”

  They walked on, the princess shambling and needing support.

  At length the king said, “Otherwise there will be anarchy—or Pannoval will step in. Whether it calls for rejoicing or weeping, it seems that we do indeed have a chance to make our two kingdoms one, strong against enemies.”

  “Always enemies!” wailed Milua Tal to her failed god.

  JandolAnganol turned to Esomberr, his expression one of blank disbelief. “The C’Sarr himself will have perished. The C’Sarr…”

  “Failing divine intervention, yes. But one piece of better news for you. King Sayren Stund may not go down in history as its wisest monarch, but he experienced a generous impulse before he perished. He was probably prompted by your new queen’s mother. His majesty could not quite stomach hanging his new son-in-law’s son, and had him released an hour or so ago. Perhaps as a sort of wedding gift…”

  “He released Robayday?” His frown left him momentarily.

  Another section of the palace collapsed. The tall wooden columns burned like candles. More and more of the inhabitants of Oldorando crept forth silently to stare at the blaze, knowing they would never look on such a night again. Many, in their superstitious hearts, saw this as the long-prophesied end of the world.