Brian Aldiss - Helliconia Summer

Kimon Euras began a long address in a powdery voice. The ancient dusts from the documents in his charge had lodged in his larynx. He spoke marginally louder when he came to the words, “… cruel murder of our beloved Princess Simoda Tal, in this very palace, by the thrust of an ancipital horn. King JandolAnganol of Borlien, you are charged with being the instigator of this crime.”

JandolAnganol immediately shouted in defiance. A bailiff struck him from behind saying, “Prisoners are not allowed to speak in this court. Any interruptions and you will be thrown back in your cell.”

Crispan Mornu had managed for the occasion to find a garment of deeper black than usual. The colour reflected up into his jowls, his cheeks, his eyes, and, when he spoke, into his throat.

“We intend to demonstrate that the guilt of this Borlienese king is inescapable, and that he came here with no other purpose than the destruction of Princess Milua Tal, thus ending the lineage of the House of Stund. We shall produce a copy of the instrument with which Princess Simoda Tal was cruelly dispatched. We shall produce also the actual perpetrator of the deed. We shall show that all factors point inescapably to the prisoner as the originator of the cruel plot. Bring forth the dagger.”

A slave scurried forward, making a great business of his haste, and presented the article demanded.

Unable to keep out of the proceedings, Sayren Stund reached forward and grasped it before Crispan Mornu could take it.

“This is the horn of a phagor beast. It has two sharp edges, and hence cannot be confused with the horn of any other animal. It corresponds with the configurations of the wound in the late princess’s breast. Poor dear girl.

“We do not attempt to pretend that this is the weapon with which the murder was committed. That weapon is lost. This is merely a similar one, newly pulled from the head of a phagor.

“I wish to remind the court, and they shall judge whether or not the fact is relevant, that the prisoner had a phagor runt for a pet. That runt the prisoner blasphemously named after the great warrior-saint of this nation, Yuli. Whether the insult was deliberate or made through ignorance, we need not inquire.”

“Sayren Stund, your callousness will be well repaid,” JandolAnganol said, and received a hearty blow for it.

When the horn dagger had been passed round, the curved figure of Kimon Euras uncurled enough to ask, “What else has the prosecution to bring against the accused by way of evidence?”

“You have seen the weapon with which the deed was done,” the black voice of Crispan Mornu announced. “Now we shall show you the person who used the weapon to kill the princess Simoda Tal.”

Into the court a struggling boy was half-brought, half-carried. It had a rug tied about its head, and JandolAnganol thought immediately of the prisoner he had seen in the night, evicted from the wooden wagon.

This captive was tugged into the well of the court. At a word of command, the rug was wrenched from it.

The youth thus revealed seemed to consist of a fury of a tousled mane of hair, an empurpled visage, and a torn shift. When he was struck hard and began to whimper instead of struggle, he was recognizable as RobaydayAnganol.

“Roba!” cried the king, and received a chop in the kidneys which doubled him up in pain. He sank down on a bench, overwhelmed by the sight of his own son in captivity—Roba, who had always feared captivity.

“This young person was apprehended by his majesty’s agents in the seaport of Ottassol, in Borlien,” said Crispan Mornu. “He proved difficult to track down, since he posed sometimes as a Madi, adopting their habits and style of dress. He is, however, human. His name is RobaydayAnganol. He is the son of the accused, and his wildness is widely talked of.”

“Did you murder the late Princess Simoda Tal?” demanded the judge, in a voice like tearing parchment.

Robayday burst into a fit of weeping, during which he was heard to say that he had murdered nobody, that he had never been to Oldorando before, and that he wanted only to be left in peace to lead his own miserable life.

“Did you not carry out the murder at the instigation of your father?” demanded Crispan Mornu, making each word sound like a small axe descending.

“I hate my father! I fear my father! I would never do his bidding.”

“Why then did you murder the Princess Simoda Tal?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t. I am innocent, I swear.”

“Whom did you murder?”

“I have murdered no one.”

As though these were the very words he had waited all his life to hear, Crispan Mornu raised a mottled hand high in the air and brought up his nose until it shone in the light as if honed.

“You hear this youth claim he has murdered no one. We call a witness who will prove him a liar. Bring in the witness.”

A young lady entered the court, moving freely if nervously between two guards. She was directed to take a stance beneath the judge’s platform, while those in the court regarded her avidly. Her beauty and youth were appealing. Her cheeks were brightly painted. Her dark hair was strikingly dressed. She wore a tight-fitting chagirack, the floral pattern of which emphasized her figure. She stood with one hand on her hip, slightly defiant, and managed to look at once innocent and seductive.

Judge Kimon Euras curved his albaster skull forward and was perhaps rewarded by a glimpse down into her zona, for he said in a more human tone than had so far been the case, “What is your name, young woman?”

She said in a faint voice, “Please, AbathVasidol, usually called Abathy by my friends.”

“I am sure you have plenty of friends,” said the judge.

Untouched by this exchange, Crispan Mornu said, “This lady has also been brought here by his majesty’s agents. She came not as a prisoner but of her own free will, and will be rewarded for her efforts on behalf of the truth. Abathy, will you tell us when you last saw this youth, and what the circumstances were?”

Abathy moistened her lips, which were already shining, and said, “Oh, sir, I was in my room, my little room in Ottassol. My friend was with me, my friend Div. We were sitting on the bed, you know, talking. And suddenly this man here…”

She paused.

“Go on, girl.”

“It’s too awful, sir…” There was a thick silence in the court, as if even the cooling herbs were drowning in the heat. “Well, sir, this man here came in with a dagger. He wanted me to go with him, and I wouldn’t. I don’t do such things. Div went to protect me, and this man here struck with his dagger—or horn, it was, you know—and he killed Div. He stabbed Div right in the stomach.”

She demonstrated daintily on her own hypogastric region, and the court craned its collective neck.

“And what happened then?”

“Well, sir, you know, this man here took the body away and threw it into the sea.”

“This is all a lie, a lying plot!” said JandolAnganol.

It was the girl who answered him, with a spurt of her own anger. She was more at home in the court now, and beginning to enjoy her role.

“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. The prisoner took Div’s body away and threw it into the sea. And the extraordinary thing was that a few days later it returned, the body I mean, packed in ice, to Ottassol, because I saw it in the house of my friend and protector, Bardol CaraBansity—later to become the king’s chancellor for a while.”

JandolAnganol emitted a strangled laugh and appealed direct to the judge. “How can anyone believe such an impossible story?”

“It’s not impossible, and I can prove it,” Abathy said boldly. “Div had a special jewel with three moving faces with figures, a timepiece. The figures were alive. Div kept it in a belt around his waist.” She indicated the area she meant on her own anatomy, and again the collective neck was craned. “That same jewel turned up at CaraBansity’s and he gave it to his majesty, who probably has it now.” She pointed her finger dramatically at JandolAnganol.