by Brian Aldiss
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 camp 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 creak 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 recognised 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 ge
neral.
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.
The shots landed in the water at the foot of a low cliff. With a second salvo, the marksmen would be more accurate. Evidently the lookout had sighted the manoeuvring of the cannon on shore.
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 roused 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.
Screaming with excitement MyrdemInggala forgot her sorrows and ran down to the water. She clapped her hands, shrieked encouragement at her agents. Sand and salt splashed over her calves, rushing beneath her dress. She plunged forward in the undertow. Even TolramKetinet hesitated to follow. The ship loomed over her and the rain lashed down.
One of her familiars reared out of the water as if he had expected her coming, seizing the fabric of her dress in his mouth. She recognised him as a senior member of the inner court, and spoke his name. In his medley of calls was an urgent message she could recognise: stay away, or gigantic things – she could not determine what – would seize her. Something far off in the deeps had her scent.
Even the queen of queens was frightened by the news. She retreated, guided by the familiar all the way. As she reached the sand, clutching her soaked dress, he sank away below the foam.
The Union lay only a few ship’s lengths from where the queen and her followers stood. Between beach and carrack were dolphins, both courts and regiment, packed tight. Through the dr
iving torrents, the queen recognised the commanding figure of Io Pasharatid – and he had recognised her.
He stood tall and sinister on the streaming deck, swart-bearded, canvas jacket open to the rain, cap pitched over his eyes. He looked at her and then he acted.
In his fist was a spear. Climbing onto the rail of the ship, clutching the shrouds with one hand, he leaned forward and stabbed down repeatedly into the water. With every stab, crimson spurted up the blade of the weapon. The waters became lashed with foam. Pasharatid stabbed again and again.
To superstitious mariners, the dolphin is a sacred creature. Ally of the spirits of the deep, it can do no wrong in sailors’ eyes. Harm it and one places one’s own life in jeopardy.
Pasharatid was surrounded by furious mariners. The spear was wrestled from his hand and thrown away. The watchers ashore saw him borne fighting to the deck until his soldiers rushed in and pulled him free. The scrimmage continued for a while. The queen’s familiars had successfully barred the way to Gravabagalinien.
The rainstorm was at its height. The waves rose higher, crashing up the beach with splendid fury. The queen screamed her victory, looking in her dishevelment much like her dead mother, the wild Shannana, until TolramKetinet dragged her back, in fear that she would hurl herself into the water again.
Lightning flashed in the storm’s belly and then struck with following thunder. Cloud shifted like blown sheet, outlining the Good Hope suddenly in silver water. It stood off a third of a mile or less from its companion ship, as its crew fought to keep it offshore.
A line of dolphins streamed from the bay and could be seen heading beyond the Good Hope as if summoned by something there.
The sea convulsed. It boiled about the Lorajan vessel. Men ashore swore afterwards that the water boiled. The convulsion grew, with glimpses of things churning. Then a mass rose from the water, shook waves from its head, rose, still rose, till it towered above the masts of the Good Hope. It had eyes. It had a great lantern jaw and whiskers that writhed like eels. More of it came out of the sea in thick scaled coils, thicker than a man’s torso. The storm was its element.