Lyonesse II - The Green Pear and Madouc (15 page)

“My first concern is an army to enforce the law and to repel the Ska. In this regard no one is exempt from service. That is the thrust of our business for today.”

The factors rose to their feet and, bowing, turned to depart. “Wait!” called Aillas. “Where are you going?”

“Are you not finished with your remarks?” inquired one of the factors. “You said that they would be brief.”

“Not that brief! I also said that we must make decisions. Will you act as spokesman, or will each speak his mind as occasion dictates?” Aillas looked from face to face, but discovered only empty expressions.

“I am unaccustomed to such modesty,” said Aillas. “You, sir, what is your name?”

“I am styled Hydelos.”

“I now appoint you the Honourable Hydelos, Chairman of the Council. The six of you, naturally, comprise the council. You, sir: your name?”

“I too am styled Hydelos.”

“Indeed! How are you distinguished from this other Hydelos?”

“By our intimate names.”

“What, then, is your intimate name? We must be practical.”

“It is Olave.”

“Olave, you are appointed overseer of military conscription. The two gentlemen sitting next to you will be your assistants. You will recruit for the Ulf army up and down the Vale of Evander. Maloof, record their names, both intimate and otherwise. You, sir, how are you styled?”

“I am Eukanor.”

“Eukanor, you are now tax collector for the Vale of Evander. The gentleman at your left hand will assist you. Maloof, record their names. Hydelos, I hope that the conference is moving briskly enough to please you. Your duties will be, first, supervision, and I need not spell out the details at this moment; and also you will serve as liaison officer between the others of the council and myself, or my representative. You must render a daily report.”

Hydelos said gently: “Sir, your requirements are impossible and cannot be effected.”

Aillas laughed. “Hydelos, I urge you to face facts, no matter how reluctantly. You must alter your style of life, at least until South Ulfland is once again whole. You have no choice and I will hear no arguments. If the six of you will not work with me, I must exile you to the Isle of Terns, and try six other folk of Ys, until either I find proper cooperation, or until all Ys has been transported to the dismal crags of the isle.

“My requirements, in the context of today, are not oppressive and can easily be effected. I am your king and I so command.”

Hydelos spoke in a voice wherein the petulance was carefully restrained: “We have existed many years with neither king, nor army nor taxes; the Ska have never threatened us, nor are we in danger from the barons. Why should we now be hasty to obey a Troice invader?”

“You tolerated Faude Carfilhiot at Tintzin Fyral; you ignored the Ska on their slave-raids; you bought peace for yourselves with the pain of others! These carefree days are gone, and you must share the costs of justice! Gentlemen, this very instant, choose; I will argue not another word.”

“No need,” said Hydelos softly. “We are persuaded.”

“Very well. Maloof will furnish details of what must be done.” Aillas rose to his feet, bowed to the disconsolate factors and turned away. He stopped short at the sight of a tall figure approaching across the compound. With the conference at an end, and all issues resolved, Shimrod at last had elected to show himself at the camp.

DURING A PERIOD IN THE PAST, not long after Shimrod had taken up residence at Trilda, in the Forest of Tantrevalles, his sleep had been disturbed by a series of dreams. They came night after night, in a sequence which obsessed Shimrod’s attention, despite a cadence to the events which suggested that their resolution might be fateful, and perhaps even tragic.

The dreams were extraordinary for several reasons. The locale, a white beach with the ocean to one side and a white villa to the other, never altered. There were neither illogical nor grotesque elements to the events; indeed, their most startling quality was the haunting beauty of a woman who, alone with Shimrod, inhabited the dreams.

In the first of the sequence, Shimrod found himself standing by the balustrade in front of the villa. The sunlight was warm; the sound of low surf came with languid regularity. Shimrod waited in a mood of expectation. Presently, looking up the beach, he saw approaching a dark-haired woman of middle height, slender, almost slight. She walked barefoot and wore a white gown, knee-length and sleeveless. Without haste she approached, and passed in front of Shimrod. With a single sideglance, she continued on her way and Shimrod was left to look after her with pangs of wonder and yearning.

The dream faded and went its way, to whatever place dreams go when their time has passed, and Shimrod awoke, to lie staring into the dark.

On the next night the dream returned, and again on the next, and so it went. On each occasion the woman deigned a trifle more warmth, and at last she paused and listened as he spoke. He tried to learn her identity and why she came this way; and finally she specified a time and place outside the confines of the dream where they might meet. A pulse of exultation surged through Shimrod, even though he knew that the occasion must almost definitely be intended for his misfortune. He therefore took counsel with Murgen, at the castle Swer Smod, on the flanks of the Teach tac Teach.

Murgen laid the plot bare. The woman was Melancthe, and she worked at the command of Tamurello. What was their purpose? No mystery here. Tamurello intended to confuse and weaken Murgen by destroying his scion Shimrod.

A single question remained, the age-old cry of anguish: “How could one so beautiful be so base?”

In this regard Murgen could offer no explanation.

Shimrod kept the rendezvous, but the plot had been vitiated and Shimrod retained his life. Later, when he first visited Ys, he discovered the beach on which Melancthe had walked, and, half a mile to the north, the white villa where in his dreams he had awaited the coming of Melancthe.

Shimrod could now remember the episode with dispassion and even a flicker of curiosity. There was another matter: an obligation which had never been fulfilled. How Melancthe might deal with this obligation was a question which, in due course, prompted Shimrod to slip quietly away from Ys and saunter up the beach.

He arrived at the front of the villa and halted beside the balustrade; deja vu hung heavy in the air. Looking up the beach, as if in a reprise of his dreams, he observed the approach of Melancthe.

As before, she wore a knee-length white gown and walked barefoot. If she felt surprise at the sight of Shimrod, she gave no such indication and her pace neither slowed nor quickened.

Melancthe arrived at the gate. Her eyes flickered a single instant toward Shimrod; then, ignoring his presence, she climbed the steps to the terrace and disappeared into the shadows of the colonnade.

Shimrod followed behind her and so entered the villa, which he had never before visited.

Melancthe crossed the hall and went into a chamber with an arcade of windows overlooking the ocean. She seated herself on a couch beside a low table, and leaning back stared out toward the horizon.

Shimrod quietly drew up a chair and sat at the end of the table, where he could watch her without turning his head.

A maid entered with a tall silver ewer, and poured for Melancthe a goblet of wine punch, fragrant with the juice of oranges and lemons. Melancthe, paying no heed to Shimrod, sipped from her goblet, and again looked out over the sea.

Shimrod watched with head cocked at a quizzical angle. He considered lifting the ewer in both his hands and drinking from the side, but concluded that such an act, with its hint of vulgarity, might compromise his already fragile acceptance. Instead he worked a small spell. Into the room flew a blue and red bird, to circle Melancthe’s head and settle on the rim of her goblet. It chirped a time or two, committed a nuisance into the goblet and flew away.

With studied deliberation Melancthe leaned forward and placed the goblet on the table.

Shimrod spoke another quiet spell. A small Moorish slave-boy wearing an enormous blue turban, a red and blue striped shin and pale blue puff-breeches, appeared in the doorway. He carried a tray with a pair of silver goblets. He proffered the tray to Melancthe, and stood waiting.

With a still face Melancthe took one of the goblets and set it on the table. The boy approached Shimrod, who graciously accepted the other goblet and drank of its contents with satisfaction. The slave-boy departed the room.

With lips thrust forward at the center and drooping dolefully at the corners, Melancthe continued to study the sea.

Shimrod thought: ‘How she schemes! In her mind she formulates plan after plan, then discards each in turn as ineffective, or crass, or not in accord with her dignity. She can discover no words which will not leave her vulnerable to whatever reproaches or demands I choose to make. So long as she is silent, she commits herself to nothing and thinks to hold me at bay! But pressure builds inside her; at some point she must undertake an initiative.’ Shimrod noticed a twitch at the corners of Melancthe’s mouth. ‘She has come to a decision,’ he told himself. ‘Her least graceful but most effective course is to rise to her feet and leave the room; naturally, I can not follow her into the lavatory and still retain my reputation for gallantry. Well, then, let us see! Her conduct will reveal much in regard to her mood.’

Melancthe tilted her head back and seemed to go to sleep. Shimrod rose and went to look about the room. There was little furniture and an odd lack of personal belongings: neither articles of skill and craftsmanship nor curios, nor yet scrolls, books, librams or portfolios. On a side-table a green faience bowl held a dozen oranges; nearby a group of water-washed pebbles which had given Melancthe pleasure were spread at random. Three Mauretanian rugs lay on the floor, woven in bold patterns of blue, black and red on a buff background. A heavy candelabra of black iron hung from the ceiling. On the table in front of Melancthe a bronze bowl displayed a bouquet of orange marigolds, no doubt arranged by the maid. Essentially, thought Shimrod,’the room was neutral and reflected nothing of Melancthe.

Melancthe spoke at last: “How long do you intend to stay here?”

Shimrod returned to his chair. “I am free for the rest of the day, and the night as well, if it comes to that.”

“You have a most casual attitude toward time.”

” ‘Casual’? I think not. It is a subject of great interest. According to the Esqs of Galicia, time is a pyramid of thirteen sides. They believe that we stand at the apex and overlook days, months and years in all directions. This is the first premise of Thudhic Perdurics, as enunciated by Thudh, the Galician god of time, whose thirteen eyes ring his head so that he may perceive in all directions at once. The visual capability, of course, is symbolic.”

“Has this doctrine any immediate effect?”

“I would think so. Novel ideas exercise our minds and enliven our conversation. For instance, while we are still discussing Thudh, you might be interested to learn that each year the Esq magicians alter a hundred human fetuses, hoping that one may be born with thirteen eyes in a circlet around its forehead, and thus would they know Thudh’s avatar! So far, nine eyes is their limit of capability, and these become priests of the cult.”

“I find no great interest in such things, nor in the conversation as a whole,” said Melancthe. “You may leave as soon as you feel that courtesy makes this demand upon you.”

“At that time I will do so,” said Shimrod. “As for now, if you permit, I will call your servant that she may bring us more wine, and perhaps prepare a pot of mussels cooked with oil and garlic. Served with new bread, this is a hearty dish, consumed by folk of good conscience.”

Melancthe turned away from the table. “I am not hungry.”

“Are you tired?” asked Shimrod solicitously. “I will come rest with you on your bed.”

Melancthe turned him a slow golden glance from the side of her eye. She said presently: “Whatever I do, I prefer to be alone.”

“Really? It was not so in the old days. You sought me out with regularity.”

“I have changed completely since that time. I am in no way the same person.”

“Why this metamorphosis?”

Melancthe rose to her feet. “By living quietly alone, I had hoped to avoid intrusions into my privacy. To some extent I have succeeded.”

“And now you have no friends?”

Melancthe shrugged and, turning away, went to the window. Shimrod came to stand close behind her. The odor of violets came to his nostrils. “Your response is ambiguous.”

“I have no friends.”

“What of Tamurello?”

“He is not a friend.”

“I hope he is not your lover.”

“Such relationships are of no interest to me.”

“What sort of relationship is of interest?”

Melancthe, glancing over her shoulder and finding Shimrod uncomfortably close, moved a step to the side. “I have given the matter no thought.”

“Do you wish to learn magic?”

“I do not care to be a witch.”

Shimrod returned to his chair. “You are something of a puzzle.” He clapped his hands, and the servant appeared. “Melancthe, will you ask for the wine to be served?”

Melancthe sighed and gave a signal to the servant, and went back to the couch in a manner of strained resignation.

The maid returned with wine and a pair of goblets, and served both Shimrod and Melancthe.

Shimrod said: “Once I thought of you as a child in a woman’s body.”

Melancthe smiled a cool smile. “And now?”

“The child seems to have wandered away.”

Melancthe’s smile became a trifle wistful.

“The woman is as beautiful as the dawn,” said Shimrod. “I wonder if she realizes this. She seems to be clean; she uses a certain degree of effort to tend her hair. She carries herself like a woman who is well aware of her charm.”

Melancthe spoke in a colorless voice: “You insist upon boring me.”

Shimrod paid her no heed. “It would seem that you are content with your life and yourself. Still, when I try to enter your mind I am lost as if in a jungle.”