Brian Aldiss: Helliconia Summer

“Since I’ve never worshipped the All-Powerful with any great degree of fervour, whether he’s man or phagor, I thought I would excuse myself from the C’Sarr’s lecture on the subject. Terribly fortunate as it proved. Let this be a lesson to you, Your Majesty, to go to church less frequently in future.”

Milua Tal looked up angrily to say, “Why don’t you run away? Both my parents are in there.”

Esomberr wagged a finger at her. “You must learn to ride with circumstances as your new husband claims to do. If your parents are perished—and there I suspect you have hit upon a profound truth—then may I be the first to congratulate you on becoming Queen of both Borlien and Oldorando.

“I hope for some advancement from you, as the chief instrument in your clandestine marriage. I may never make C’Sarr, but you both know my council is good. I’m cheerful, even in times of adversity like the present.”

JandolAnganol shook his head. He took Milua Tal by the shoulders and began to coax her away from the conflagration.

“We can do nothing. Slaying a phagor or two will solve nothing. We will wait for morning. In Esomberr’s cynicism there is some truth.”

“Cynicism?” asked Esomberr quietly. “Are not your brutes merely imitating what you did to the Myrdolators? Is there no cynicism in your taking advantage of that? Your brutes have crowned you King of Oldorando.”

Written in the king’s face was something Esomberr could not bear to see. “If the entire court is wiped out, then what is there for me but to stay, to do my duty, to see that the succession is legally continued in Milua Tal’s name? Will I find joy in that task, Esomberr?”

“You will go with the circumstances, I expect. As I would. What’s joy?”

They walked on, the princess shambling and needing support.

At length the king said, “Otherwise there will be anarchy—or Pannoval will step in. Whether it calls for rejoicing or weeping, it seems that we do indeed have a chance to make our two kingdoms one, strong against enemies.”

“Always enemies!” wailed Milua Tal to her failed god.

JandolAnganol turned to Esomberr, his expression one of blank disbelief. “The C’Sarr himself will have perished. The C’Sarr…”

“Failing divine intervention, yes. But one piece of better news for you. King Sayren Stund may not go down in history as its wisest monarch, but he experienced a generous impulse before he perished. He was probably prompted by your new queen’s mother. His majesty could not quite stomach hanging his new son-in-law’s son, and had him released an hour or so ago. Perhaps as a sort of wedding gift…”

“He released Robayday?” His frown left him momentarily.

Another section of the palace collapsed. The tall wooden columns burned like candles. More and more of the inhabitants of Oldorando crept forth silently to stare at the blaze, knowing they would never look on such a night again. Many, in their superstitious hearts, saw this as the long-prophesied end of the world.

“I saw the lad go free. Wild as ever. Wilder. An arrow from a bow would be a fair comparison.”

A groan escaped JandolAnganol’s lips. “Poor boy, why did he not come to me? I hoped that at last he had lost his hatred of me…”

“By now he’s probably in the queue to kiss the wounds of the dead SartoriIrvrash—an unhygienic form of amusement if ever I saw one.”

“Why did Rob not come to me… ?”

There was no answer, but JandolAnganol could guess it: he had been hidden in the pavilion with Milua Tal. It would take many a tenner before the consequences of this day’s work were fully borne out, and he would have to live them through.

As if echoing his thoughts, Alam Esomberr said, “And may I enquire what you intend to do with your famous Phagorian Guard, who have committed this atrocity?”

The king threw him a hard glance and continued to walk away from the blaze.

“Perhaps you will tell me how mankind is ever to solve its phagor problem,” he said.

The soldiery from the Good Hope and the Union landed on the Borlienese coast and marched westwards on Gravabagalinien under the leadership of Io Pasharatid.

As the force progressed, Pasharatid gleaned news of the turmoil about to overwhelm Matrassyl. The conscience of the people had been slowly roused as they digested the news of the massacre of the Myrdolators; the king would be unwelcome when he returned.

In Pasharatid’s harneys a scheme burned with such conviction that it already seemed actual. He would take the queen of queens; Gravabagalinien would fall to him, and she also. Matrassyl would willingly accept her as queen. He would rule as consort; politically he was not ambitious, not greatly. His past, its evasions, disappointments, disgraces, would be over. One minor military engagement, and all he desired would be his.

His advance scouts reported breastworks about the wooden palace. He attacked at Batalix-dawn, when haze stretched across the land. His gunners advanced two-by-two, wheel locks at the ready, protected by pikemen.

A white flag waved from behind the defences. A stocky figure cautiously emerged into the open. Pasharatid signalled to his soldiery to halt, and walked forward alone. He was conscious of how brave he was, how upright. He felt every inch the conqueror.

The stocky man approached. They halted when no more than a pike’s length apart.

Bardol CaraBansity spoke. He asked why soldiers were advancing on an almost undefended palace.

To which Io Pasharatid responded haughtily that he was an honourable man. He required only the surrender of Queen MyrdemInggala, after which he would leave the palace in peace.

CaraBansity made the sacred circle on his forehead and sniffed a resounding sniff. Alas, he said, the queen of queens was dead, slain by an arrow fired by an agent of her ex-husband, King JandolAnganol.

Pasharatid responded with angry disbelief.

“Look for yourself,” said CaraBansity.

He gestured towards the sea, lacklustre in the dawn light. Men were launching a funeral barque upon the waters.

In truth, Pasharatid could see it for himself. He left his force and ran to the beach. Four men with heads bowed were carrying a bier on which a body lay beneath layers of white muslin. The hem of the muslin fluttered in a growing breeze. A wreath of flowers lay on top of the body. An old woman with hair growing from a mole in her cheek stood weeping at the water’s edge.

The four men carried the bier reverently aboard the white caravel, the Vajabhar Prayer ; the ship’s battered sides had been repaired well enough for a voyage which did not involve the living. They laid the bier under the mast and retired.

ScufBar, the queen’s old majordomo dressed in black, stepped aboard the ship carrying a lighted torch. He bowed deeply to the shrouded body. Then he set light to the brushwood piled high on the deck.

As fire took the ship, it began with the favouring wind to sail slowly out from the bay. The smoke billowed out across the water like lank hair.

Pasharatid cast down his helmet into the sand, crying wildly to his men.

“On your knees, you hrattocks! Down and pray to the Azoiaxic for this beautiful lady’s soul. The queen is dead, oh, the queen of queens is dead!”

CaraBansity smiled occasionally as he rode a brown hoxney back to his wife in Ottassol. He was a clever fellow and his ruse had succeeded; Pasharatid’s pursuit had been deflected. On the little finger of his right hand, he wore the queen’s gift to him, a ring with a sea-blue stone.

The queen had left Gravabagalinien only a few hours before Pasharatid’s arrival. With her went her general, his sister, the princess Tatro, and a handful of followers. They made their way northwards, across the fertile lands of Borlien, towards Matrassyl.