Helliconia: Helliconia Spring, Helliconia Summer, Helliconia Winter (189 page)

The air smelt brittle. From what little he glimpsed of Kharnabhar the pilgrims had all gone. The houses were shuttered. Everything looked drabber and smaller than he remembered it. Lights gleamed here and there in upper windows or in trading stores which remained open. The light was still painful to his eyes. He slumped back, marshalling his memories of Ebstok Esikananzi. He had known this crony of his father’s since childhood, and had never taken to the man; it was Ebstok who should be called to account for his daughter Insil’s bitterness.

The sledge rattled and jolted, its bells merrily jingling. Above their tinny sound came the tongue of a heavier bell.

He forced himself to look about.

They were sweeping through massive gates. He recognised the gates and the gatehouse beside them. He had been born here. Cliffs of snow three metres high towered on either side of the drive. They were driving through – yes – the Vineyard. Ahead, roofs of a familiar house showed. The bell of unforgettable voice sounded even louder.

Shokerandit was visited by a warming memory of himself as a small boy, pulling a little toboggan, running towards the front steps. His father was standing there, at home for once, smiling, arms extended to him.

There was an armed sentry on the door now. The door was three parts enclosed in a small hut for the sentry’s protection. The sentry kicked on the panels of the front door until a slave opened up and took charge of Luterin.

In the windowless hall, gas jets burned against the wall, their nimbuses reflected in the polished marble. He saw immediately that the great vacant chair had gone.

‘Is my mother here?’ he asked the slave. The man merely gaped
at him and led him up the stairs. Without emotional tone, he told himself that he should be the Master of Kharnabhar, as well as Keeper.

At the slave’s knock, a voice bade him enter. He stepped into his father’s old study, the room that had so often been locked against him during earlier years.

An old grey hound lay sprawled by the fire, woofing pettishly at Luterin’s arrival. Green logs hissed and smouldered in the grate. The room smelt of smoke, dog’s piss, and something resembling face powder. Beyond the thick-paned window lay snow and the infinite wordless universe.

A white-haired secretary, the hinges of whose lumbar region had rusted to force on him a resemblance to a crooked walking stick, approached. He munched his lips by way of greeting and offered Luterin a chair without any needless display of cordiality.

Luterin sat down. His gaze travelled round the room, which was still crammed with his father’s belongings. He took in the flintlocks and matchlocks of earlier days, the pictures and plate, the mullions and soffits, the orreries and oudenardes. Silverfish and woodworm went about their tasks in the room. The sliver of crumbling cake on the secretary’s desk was presumably of recent date.

The secretary had seated himself with an elbow by the cake.

‘The master is busy at present, with the Myrkwyr ceremony to come. He should not be long,’ said the secretary. After a pause, he added, regarding Luterin slyly, ‘I suppose you don’t recognise me?’

‘It’s rather bright in here.’

‘But I’m your father’s old secretary, Secretary Evanporil. I serve the new Master now.’

‘Do you miss my father?’

‘That’s hardly for me to say. I simply carry out the administration.’ He became busy with the papers on his desk.

‘Is my mother still here?’

The secretary looked up quickly. ‘She’s still here, yes.’

‘And Toress Lahl?’

‘I don’t know that name, sir.’

The silence of the rooms was filled with the dry rustle of paper.
Luterin contained himself, rousing when the door opened. A tall thin man with a narrow face and peppery whiskers came in, bell clanking at waist. He stood there, wrapped in a black-and-brown keedrant, looking down at Luterin. Luterin stared back, trying to assess whether this was an official or an unofficial enemy.

‘Well … you are back at last in the world in which you have caused a great deal of havoc. Welcome. The Oligarchy has appointed me Master here – as distinct from any ecclesiastical duties. I’m the voice of the State in Kharnabhar. With the worsening weather, communications with Askitosh are more difficult than they were. We see to it that we get good food supplies from Rivenjk, otherwise military links are … rather weaker …’

This was drawn out sentence by sentence, as Luterin made no response.

‘Well, we will try to look after you, though I hardly think you can live in this house.’

‘This is my house.’

‘No. You have no house. This is the house of the Master and always has been.’

‘Then you have greatly profited by my act.’

‘There is profit in the world, yes. That’s true.’

Silence fell. The secretary came and proffered two glasses of yadahl. Luterin accepted one, blinded by the beauty of its ruby gleam, but could not drink it.

The Master remained standing rather stiffly, betraying some nervousness as he gulped his yadahl. He said, ‘Of course, you have been away from the world for a long time. Do I take it that you don’t recognise me?’

Luterin said nothing.

With a small burst of irritation, the Master said, ‘Beholder, you are silent, aren’t you? I was once your army commander, Archpriest-Militant Asperamanka. I thought soldiers never forgot their commanders in battle!’

Then Luterin spoke. ‘Ah, Asperamanka … “Let them bleed a little” … Yes, now I remember you.’

‘It’s hard to forget how the Oligarchy, when your father
controlled it, destroyed my army in order to keep the plague from Sibornal. You and I were among the few to escape death.’

He took a considered sip at his yadahl and paced about the room. Now Luterin recognised him by the anger lines incised into his brow.

Luterin rose. ‘I’d like to ask you a question. How does the State regard me – as a saint or a sinner?’

The Master’s fingernails tapped against his glass. ‘After your father …
died
, there followed a period of unrest in the various nations of Sibornal. They’re used to harsh laws by now – the laws that will see us safe through the Weyr-Winter – but then it was otherwise. There was, frankly, some bad feeling about Oligarch Torkerkanzlag II. His edicts weren’t popular …

‘So the Oligarchy circulated the rumour – and this was my idea – that they had trained you to assassinate your father, whom they could no longer control. They put out the idea that you had been spared at the massacre at Koriantura only because you were the Oligarchy’s man. The rumour increased our popularity and brought us through a difficult time.’

‘You wrapped up my crime in a lie.’

‘We just made use of your useless act. One outcome of it was that the State recognised you officially as a – why do you say “saint”? – as a hero. You’ve become part of legend. Though I have to say that personally I regard you as a sinner of the first water. I still keep my religious convictions in such matters.’

‘And is it religious conviction that has installed you in Kharnabhar?’

Asperamanka smiled and tugged at his beard. ‘I greatly miss Askitosh. But there was an opportunity open to govern this province, so I took it … As a legend, a figure in the history books, you must accept my hospitality for the night. A guest, not a captive.’

‘My mother?’

‘We have her here. She’s ill. She’s no more likely to recognise you than you were to recognise me. Since you are something of a hero in Kharnabhar, I want you to accompany me to the public Myrkwyr ceremony tomorrow, with the Keeper. Then people can see we haven’t harmed you. It will be the day of your rehabilitation. There’ll be a feast.’

‘You’ll let me
feed
a little …’

‘I don’t understand you. After the ceremony, we will make what arrangements you wish. You might consider it best to leave Kharnabhar and live somewhere less remote.’

‘That’s what the Keeper also hoped I might consider.’

He went to see his mother. Lourna Shokerandit lay in bed, frail and unmoving. As Asperamanka had anticipated, she did not recognise him. That night, he dreamed he was back in the Wheel.

The following day began with a great bustle and ringing of bells. Strange smells of food drifted up to where Luterin lay. He recognised the savoury odours as rising from dishes he would once have desired. Now he longed for the simple fare he had reviled, the rations that came rolling down the chutes of the Wheel.

Slaves came to wash and dress him. He did as was required of him, passively.

Many people he did not know assembled in the great hall. He looked down over the banisters and could not bring himself to join them. The excitement was overpowering. Master Asperamanka came up the stairs to him and said, taking his arm, ‘You are unhappy. What can I do for you? It is important that I am seen to please you today.’

The personages in the hall were flocking outside, where sleigh-bells rattled. Luterin did not speak. He could hear the wind roar as it had done in the Wheel.

‘Very well, then at least we will ride together and people will see us and think us friends. We are going to the monastery, where we shall meet the Keeper, and my wife, and many of Kharnabhar’s dignitaries.’ He talked animatedly and Luterin did not listen, concentrating on the exacting performance of descending a flight of stairs. Only as they went through the front door and a sleigh drew up for them, did the Master say sharply, ‘You’ve no weapon on you?’

When Luterin shook his head, they climbed into the sleigh, and slaves bundled furs round them. They set oft into the gale among cliffs of snow.

When they turned north, the wind bit into their faces. To the
twenty degrees of frost, a considerable chill factor had to be added.

But the sky was clear and, as they drove through the shuttered village, a great irregular mass appeared through its veils to loom over Mount Kharnabhar.

‘Shivenink, the third-highest peak on the planet,’ said Asperamanka, pointing it out. ‘What a place!’ He made a moue of distaste.

Just for a minute the mountain’s naked ribbed walls were visible; then it was gone again, the ghost that dominated the village.

The passengers were driven up a winding track to the gates of Bambekk Monastery. They entered and dismounted. Slaves assisted them into the vaulted halls, where a number of official-looking people had already gathered.

At a sign, they proceeded up several staircases. Luterin took no interest in their progress. He was listening to a rumble far below, which carried through the monastery. Obsessively, he tried to imagine every corner of his cell, every scratch on its enclosing walls.

The party came at last to a hall high in the monastery. It was circular in shape. Two carpets covered the floor, one white, one black. They were separated by an iron band which ran across the floor, dividing the chamber in half. Biogas shed a dim light. There was one window, facing south, but it was covered by a heavy curtain.

Embroidered on the curtain was a representation of the Great Wheel being rowed across the heavens, each oarsman sitting in a small cell in its perimeter, wearing cerulean garments, each smiling blissfully.

Now at last I understand those blissful smiles, thought Luterin.

A group of musicians was playing solemn and harmonious music at the far side of the room. Lackeys with trays were dispensing drinks to all and sundry.

Keeper of the Wheel Esikananzi appeared, raising his hand graciously in greeting. Smiling, half-bowing to all, he made his portly way towards where the Master of Kharnabhar and Luterin stood.

When they had greeted each other, Esikananzi asked Asperamanka, ‘Is our friend any more sociable this morning?’ On receiving a negative, he said to Luterin, with an attempt at geniality, ‘Well, the sight you are about to witness may loosen your tongue.’

The two men became surrounded by hangers-on, and Luterin gradually edged his way out of the centre of the group. A hand touched his sleeve. He turned to meet the scrutiny of a pair of wide eyes. A thin woman of guarded mien had approached, to observe him with a look of real or feigned astonishment. She was dressed in a sober russet gown, the hem of which touched the floor, the collar of which rioted in lace. Although she was near middle age and her face was gaunter than in bygone times, Luterin recognised her immediately.

He uttered her name.

Insil nodded as if her suspicions were confirmed and said, ‘They claimed that you were being difficult and refusing to recognise people. What a habit this lying is! And you, Luterin, how unpleasant to be recalled from the dead to mingle with the same mendacious crowd – older, greedier … more frightened. How do I appear to you, Luterin?’

In truth, he found her voice harsh and her mouth grim. He was surprised by the amount of jewellery she wore, in her ears, on her arms, on her fingers.

What most impressed him were her eyes. They had changed. The pupils seemed enormous – a sign of her attention, he believed. He could not see the whites in her eyes and thought, admiringly. Those irises show the depth of Insil’s soul.

But he said tenderly, ‘Two profiles in search of a face?’

‘I’d forgotten that. Existence in Kharnabhar has grown narrower over the years – dirtier, grimmer, more artificial. As might be expected. Everything narrows. Souls included.’ She rubbed her hands together in a gesture he did not recall.