Helliconia: Helliconia Spring, Helliconia Summer, Helliconia Winter (95 page)

‘I swear I will love you still, despite a thousand Simoda Tals, if you will tell me now – just tell me, as we kiss good-bye – that you still hold me dear, despite what I have to do.’

She broke from him and steadied herself against a rock, her face in shadow. Both of them were pale and sweated.

‘You mean to frighten me, and so you do. The truth is, you drive me away because you do not understand yourself. Inwardly, you know that I understand you and your weaknesses as does no one else – except possibly your father. And you cannot bear that. You are tortured because I have compassion for you. So yes, damn you, since you wrench it from me, yes, I do love you and will do so until I am merged with the original beholder. But you can’t accept that, can you? It’s not what you desire.’

He blazed up. ‘There! You hate me, really! Your words lie!’

‘Oh, oh, oh!’ She uttered wild cries and began to run. ‘Go away! Go away! You’re crazed. I declare what you ask and it maddens you! You want my hatred. Hatred is all you know! Go away – I hate you, if that satisfies your soul.’

JandolAnganol did not attempt to pursue her.

‘Then the storm will come,’ he said.

*

So smoke began to flow down and fill the bowl of Matrassyl. The king was like a man possessed after parting from MyrdemInggala. He ordered straw from the stables and had it piled about the doors of the chamber in which the Myrdolators were still imprisoned. Jars of purified whale oil were brought. JandolAnganol himself snatched a burning brand from a slave and hurled it into the kindling.

With a roar, flames burst upwards.

That afternoon, as the queen sailed, the fire raged. Nobody was allowed to check it. Its fury went unabated.

Only that night, when the king sat with his runt drinking himself insensible, were servants able to come with pumps and quench the blaze.

When pale Batalix rose next morning, the king, as was his custom, rose and presented himself to his people by the dawn light.

A larger crowd than usual awaited him. At his appearance, a low inarticulate growl arose, like the noise a wounded hound might make. In fear of the many-headed beast, he retired to his room and flung himself down on his bed. There he stayed all day, neither eating nor speaking.

On the succeeding day, he appeared to be himself again. He summoned ministers, he gave orders, he bade farewell to Taynth Indredd and Simoda Tal. He even appeared briefly before the scritina.

There was reason for him to act. His agents brought news that Unndreid the Hammer, Scourge of Mordriat, was again moving south-westwards, and had formed an alliance with Darvlish, his enemy.

In the scritina, the king explained how Queen MyrdemInggala and her brother, YeferalOboral, had been planning to assassinate the ambassador from Sibornal, who had made his escape. It was for this reason that the queen was being sent into exile; her interference in state affairs could not be tolerated. Her brother had been killed.

This conspiracy must be an object lesson to all in this time of peril for the nation. He, the king, was drawing up a plan by which
Borlien would become more closely linked to its traditional friends, the Oldorandans and Pannovalans. These plans he would disclose fully in good time. His challenging gaze swept round the scritina.

SartoriIrvrash then rose, to demand that the scritina look upon new developments in the light of history.

‘With the battle of the Cosgatt still fresh in our minds, we know that there are new artilleries of attack available. Even the barbarous tribes of Driats have these new –
guns
, as they are called. With a gun, a man can kill an enemy as soon as he can see him. Such things are mentioned in old histories, although we cannot always trust what we read in old histories.

‘However. We are concerned with guns. You saw them demonstrated. They are made in the great northern continent by the nations of Sibornal, who have a pre-eminence in manufacturing arts. They possess deposits of lignite and metal ores which we do not. It is necessary for us to remain on good terms with such powerful nations, and so we have put down firmly this attempt to assassinate the ambassador.’

One of the barons at the back of the scritina shouted angrily, ‘Tell us the truth. Wasn’t Pasharatid corrupt? Didn’t he have a liaison with a Borlienese girl in the lower town, contravening our laws and his?’

‘Our agents are investigating,’ said SartoriIrvrash, and went on hastily. ‘We shall send a deputation to Askitosh, capital of the nation Uskutoshk, to open a trade route, hoping that the Sibornalese will be more friendly than hitherto.

‘Meanwhile, our meeting with the distinguished diplomats from Oldorando and Pannoval was successful. We have received a few guns from them, as you know. If we can send sufficient quantities of guns to our gallant General Hanra TolramKetinet, then the war with Randonan will be quickly over.’

Both the king’s speech and SartoriIrvrash’s were received coldly. Supporters of Baron RantanOboral, MyrdemInggala’s father, were present in the scritina. One of them rose and asked, ‘Are we to understand that it is these new weapons which are responsible for the deaths of sixty-one Myrdolators? If so, they are powerful weapons indeed.’

The chancellor’s reply was uncertain.

‘An unfortunate fire broke out at the castle, started by the ex-queen’s supporters, many of whom lost their lives in the blaze they had themselves caused.’

As SartoriIrvrash and the king left the chamber, a storm of noise broke out.

‘Give them the wedding,’ said SartoriIrvrash. ‘They’ll forget their anger as they coo over the prettiness of the child bride. Give them the wedding as soon as possible, Your Majesty. Make the fools forget one swindle with another.’

He looked away to hide his revulsion for his own role.

Tension hung over all who lived in the castle of Matrassyl, except for the phagors, whose nervous systems were immune to expectation. But even the phagors were uneasy, for the stench of burning still clung to everything.

Scowling, the king retired to his suite. A section of the First Phagorian stood duty outside his door, and Yuli remained with them while JandolAnganol prayed in his private chapel with his Royal Vicar. After prostrating himself in prayer, he had himself scourged.

While being bathed by his female servants, he summoned his chancellor back to him. SartoriIrvrash appeared after a third summons, clad in an ink-stained flowered charfrul and rush slippers. The old man looked aggrieved, and stood before the king without speaking, smoothing his beard.

‘You’re vexed?’ JandolAnganol addressed him from the pool. The runt sat a short distance away, its mouth open.

‘I’m an old man, Your Majesty, and have endured deep botheration this day. I was resting.’

‘Writing your damned history, more likely.’

‘Resting and grieving for the murdered sixty-one, if truth be told.’

The king struck the water with the flat of his hand. ‘You’re an atheist. You have no conscience to appease. You don’t have to be scourged. Leave that to me.’

SartoriIrvrash showed a tooth in a display of circumspection.

‘How can I serve your majesty now?’

JandolAnganol stood up, and the women swathed him in towels. He stepped from the bath.

‘You have done enough in the way of service.’ He gave SartoriIrvrash one of his darkly brilliant looks. ‘It’s time I put you out to pasture, like the old hoxneys of which you are so fond. I’ll find someone more to my way of thought to advise me.’

The women huddled by the earthenware pitchers which had brought the royal bathwater, and listened complacently to the drama.

‘There are many here who will pretend to think as you wish them to think, Your Majesty. If you care to put trust in such, that is your decision. Perhaps you will say how I have failed to please. Have I not supported all your schemes?’

The king flung away his towels, and paced naked and dangerous about the room. His gaze was as hasty as his walk. Yuli whined in sympathy.

‘Look at the trouble about my ears. Bankrupt. No queen. Unpopular. Mistrusted. Challenged in the scritina. Don’t tell me I’ll be a favourite of the mob when I wed that chit from Oldorando. You advised me to do this, and I have had sufficient of your advice.’

SartoriIrvrash had backed against one wall, where he was fairly safe from the king’s pacing. He wrung his hands in distress.

‘If I may speak … I have faithfully served you and your father before you. I have lied for you. I lied today. I have implicated myself in this gruesome Myrdolators’ crime for your sake. Unlike other chancellors you might elect, I have no political ambitions – You are good enough to splash me, your majesty!’

‘Crime! Your sovereign is a criminal, is he? How else was I to put down a revolt?’

‘I have advised you with your good in mind, rather than my advancement, sire. Never less than in this sorry matter of the divorcement. You will recall that I told you you would never find another woman like the queen and—’

The king seized a towel and wrapped it about his narrow waist. A puddle formed round his feet. ‘You told me that my first duty lay with my country. So I made the sacrifice, made it at your suggestion—’

‘No, Your Majesty, no, I distinctly—’ He waved his hands distractedly.

‘“I dizztingtly,”’ said Yuli, picking up a new word.

‘You merely want a scapegoat on which to vent your rage, sire. You shall not dismiss me like this. It’s criminal.’

The words echoed about the bath chamber. The women had made as if to escape from the scene, then had frozen in cautionary gestures, lest the king turn upon them.

He turned on his chancellor.

As his face flushed with rage, the colour chased itself down his jaw to his throat. ‘Criminal again! Am I criminal? You old rat, you dare give me your orders and insults! I’ll settle with you.’

He marched over to where his clothes lay spread.

Fearing that he had gone too far, SartoriIrvrash said in a shaking voice, ‘Your Majesty, forgive me, I see your plan. By dismissing me, you can then be free to blame me before the scritina for what has occurred, and thus show yourself innocent in their eyes. As if truth can be moulded that way … It is a well-tried tactic, well-tried – transparent, too – but surely we can agree on how precisely—’

He faltered and fell silent. A sickly evening light filled the room. Traces of an auroral storm flickered in the cloud mass outside. The king had drawn his sword from its scabbard where it lay on the table. He flourished it.

SartoriIrvrash backed away, knocking over a pitcher of scented water, which rushed to escape in a flood across the tiled floor.

JandolAnganol began a complex pattern of swordplay with an invisible enemy, feinting and lunging, at times appearing hard pressed, at times pressing hard himself. He moved rapidly about the room. The women huddled against the wall, tittering with nervousness.

‘Heigh! Yauh! Ho! Heigh!’

He switched direction, and the naked blade darted at the chancellor.

As it stopped an inch from his collarbone, the king said, ‘So, where’s my son, where’s Robayday, then, you old villain? You know he’d have my life?’

‘Well I know the history of your family, sire,’ said SartoriIrvrash, ineffectually covering his chest with his hands.

‘I must deal with my son. You have him hidden in the warren of your apartments.’

‘No, sire, that I do not.’

‘I am told you do, sire, the phagor guard told me. And he whispered, sire, that you still have some blood in your eddre.’

‘Sire, you are overtaxed by the ordeals you have undergone. Let me get—’

‘Get nothing, sire, but steel in the gullet. So reliable! You have a visitor in your rooms.’

‘From Morstrual, sire, a boy, no more.’

‘So, you keep boys now …’ But the subject seemed to lose its interest. With a shout, the king flung up his sword so that it embedded itself in the beams overhead. When he reached up and grasped its hilt, the towel fell from him.

SartoriIrvrash stooped to retrieve it for his majesty, saying, falteringly, ‘I understand from whence your madness comes, and allow—’

Instead of seizing the towel, the king seized the old man’s charfrul and swung him about by it. The towel went flying. The chancellor uttered a cry of alarm. His feet slipped from under him, and they fell together heavily, in the flood of water.

The king was back on his feet as nimbly as a cat, motioning to the women to help SartoriIrvrash up. The chancellor groaned and clutched his back as two of them assisted him.

‘Now go, sire,’ said the king. ‘Get packing – before I demonstrate to you just how mad I am. Remember, I know you for an atheist and a Myrdolator!’

In his own chambers, Chancellor SartoriIrvrash had a woman slave anoint his back with ointments, and indulged in some luxurious groans. His personal phagor guard, Lex, looked on impassively.

After a while, he called for some squaanej juice topped with Lordryardry ice, and then laboriously wrote a letter to the king, clutching his spine between sentences.

Honoured Sire
,

I have served the House of Anganol faithfully, and deserve well from it. I am prepared still to serve, despite the attack upon my person, for I know how your majesty suffers in his mind at present
.