Brian Aldiss - Helliconia Summer

One of the three employees was a gangling youth, embarrassed by the whole affair; the other two were white-haired and older than the man they had served so long. The oldsters managed to shed a tear for the occasion, while covertly summing up young Master Div, in order to estimate to what extent their jobs were threatened by the change in command.

Muntras shook each of the trio by the hand and subsided into the waiting chair. He accepted a glass of wine, into which were dropped sparkling fragments of his own ice. He gazed out across the sluggish river. The far bank could scarcely be seen for mist. As a waiter served them little cakes, there was conversation consisting of sentences beginning, “Do you remember when—” and concluding with laughter.

The birds still wheeling overhead masked a sound of shouts and barking. As these noises became more obtrusive, the Ice Captain asked what was happening.

The young man laughed, as the two old men looked uneasy. “It’s a drumble up in the village, Captain.” He jerked a thumb towards the cliffs. “Killing off fuggies.”

“They’re great on drumbles in Oldorando,” Muntras said. “And often enough the priests use the drumbles as an excuse to kill off so-called heretics as well as phagors. Religion! Fgh!”

The men continued with reminiscences of the time when they had all been engaged in building up the inland ice trade, and of the Ice Captain’s dictatorial father.

“You’re lucky not to have a father such as he was, Master Div,” one of the old men said.

Div nodded as if he was not too sure on that point and left his chair. He ambled to the river’s edge and looked up the cliff, whence came distant shouts.

In a minute, he called to his father, “It’s the drumble.”

The others made no response and went on talking, until the youth called again. “The drumble, Pa. They’re just going to heave the fuggies over the cliffside.”

He pointed upwards. Some of the other boat travellers were also pointing, craning their necks to look up the cliff.

A horn gave a tantivy, and the baying of hounds intensified. “They’re great on drumbles in Oldorando,” the captain repeated, getting heavily to his feet and walking out to where his son stood, open-mouthed, on the bank.

“You see, it’s government orders, sir,” said one of the old men, following and peering into the Ice Captain’s face. “They kill off the phagors and take their land.”

“And then don’t work it properly,” added the Ice Captain. “They should leave the poor damned things alone. They’re useful, are phagors.”

Hoarse phagor shouting could be heard, but little action could be seen. However, in a short time, human shouts of triumph rang out and the riot of vegetation on the cliffs became disturbed. Broken branches flew, rocks tumbled, as a figure emerged from obscurity and plunged downwards, alternately flying and bouncing, to the enormous inconvenience of the mourner birds. The figure crashed onto the narrow bank under the cliff, made to sit up, and toppled into the water. A three-fingered hand was raised, to sink slowly as its owner was carried away by the flood.

Div broke into empty laughter. “Did you see that?” he exclaimed.

Another phagor, endeavouring to escape its human tormentors began well by leaping down the cliff. Then it slipped and crashed headlong, bouncing on a spur of rock and cartwheeling into the water. Other figures followed, some small, some large. For a spell, figures were raining down the cliff. At the crest of the cliff, where the underpinning was steeper, two phagors jumped free, clutching each other by the hand. They broke through the outermost branches of an overhanging tree, fell clear of the rock, and dropped into the river. An overadventurous dog followed them down, to crash on the bank.

“Let’s be away from here,” said Muntras. “I don’t care for this. Right, men, gangplank up. All aboard who’s getting aboard. Look lively!”

He shook hands with his old staff in a perfunctory way and strode towards the Lordryardry Lady to see his orders carried out.

One of the Oldorandan merchants said to him, “I’m glad to see that even in these benighted parts they’re trying to rid us of those shaggy vermin.”

“They do no harm,” said Muntras brusquely, his solid figure not pausing in its stride.

“On the contrary, sir, they are mankind’s oldest enemy, and during the Ice Age reduced our numbers almost to nothing.”

That was the dead past. We live in the present. Get aboard, everyone. We’re pushing off from this barbarous spot with all haste.”

The crew, like the captain, were men from Hespagorat. Without argument, they got the gangplank up and the boat under way.

As the Lady drifted into midstream, her passengers could see ancipital corpses floating in the water, surrounded by clouds of yellow blood. One of the crew called out. Ahead was a live phagor, making wretched attempts to swim.

A pole was quickly brought and thrust over the side. The boat had no sail up, for there was no wind, but the current was carrying it with increasing speed. Nevertheless, the phagor understood what was happening. After thrashing furiously, he grasped the end of the pole with both hands. The river brought him against the bulwarks, where he was hauled up to safety.

“You should have let him drown. Fuggies can’t stand the water,” said a merchant.

“This is my vessel, and my word is law here,” said Muntras, with a dark look. “If you have any objections to what goes on, I can put you off right now.”

The stallun lay panting on the deck in a spreading pool of water. Ichor ran from a wound in his head.

“Give him a dram of Exaggerator. He’ll survive,” said the captain. He turned away when the fierce Dimariamian liquor was brought forward and retired to his cabin.

Over his lifetime, he considered, his fellow human beings had grown nastier, more spiteful, less forgiving. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe the world was going to burn up. Well, at least he was going to retire in his own home town of Lordryardry, to a stout building overlooking the sea. Dimariam was always cooler than damned Campannlat. People were decent there.

He would call in on King JandolAnganol when in Matrassyl, on the principle that it was always wise to call on sovereigns of one’s acquaintance. The queen was gone, together with the ring he had once sold her; he must see about delivering her letter when he reached Ottassol. Meanwhile he would hear the latest news of the unfortunate queen of queens. Maybe he would also call on Matty; otherwise he would never see her again. He thought affectionately of her well-run whorehouse, better than all the squalid knocking-shops of Ottassol; although Matty herself had put on airs and went to church daily since the king rewarded her for her assistance after the Battle of the Cosgatt.

But what would he do in Dimariam when he was retired? That did need thought; his family was not a great source of comfort. Perhaps he could find some minor profitable mischief to keep him happy. He fell asleep with one hand resting on his musical instrument.

The stocky Ice Captain arrived at a city muted by the events recently played out on its stage.

The king’s problems were mounting. Reports from Randonan talked of soldiers deserting in companies. Despite constant prayer in the churches, crops were still failing. The Royal Armourer was having little success in manufacturing copies of the Sibornalese matchlocks. And Robayday returned.

JandolAnganol was in the hills with his hoxney Lapwing, walking through a copse beside his mount. Yuli trotted behind his master, delighted to be in the wilds. Two escorts rode behind at a distance. Robayday jumped from a tree and stood before his father.