Brian Aldiss - Helliconia Summer

“If I could, madam, then I would think it was the Great Wheel of Kharnabhar, and that is nonsense, because it would mean there was a Sibornalese ship very far from home.”

She snatched the glass. “It is a Sibornalese ship—of good size. What could it be doing in these waters?”

The deuteroscopist folded his arms and looked grim. “You have been provided with no defences here. Let us hope it is making for Ottassol and its intentions are good.”

“My familiars warned me of this,” said the queen gravely.

The day wore on. The ship made slow progress. There was great excitement at the palace. Barrels of tar were rolled out to an eminence above the little bay where it was anticipated the ship’s boat would have to land if Gravabagalinien was its destination. At least the crew could be confronted by flaming tar if they proved hostile.

The air thickened towards evening. There was no doubt now about the hierogram on the sail. Batalix sank in concentric aureoles of light. People came and went in the palace. Freyr disappeared into the same hazes as its fellow and was gone. Twilight lingered, the sail glinted on the sea; it tacked now, to keep the wind.

With darkness, stars began to appear overhead. The Night Worm burned bright, with the Queen’s Scar dim beside it. Nobody slept. The small community feared and hoped, knowing its vulnerability.

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 campe 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 creek 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 recognized 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.