Brian Aldiss - Helliconia Summer

The warm wind was on his cheek. He breathed deep.

Everything about was dusted with grey in honour of distant Rustyjonnik.

“It’s zzhoodin’ today,” called Yuli.

“Yes, shooting.”

In a dell where brassims sent up their leathery branches, a target had been established. Several men in dark clothes were busy making arrangements. They became immobile as the king arrived, testifying to his power to freeze blood by his very majesty. The Phagorian arrived silently and formed a line, blocking the mouth of the dell.

Yuli jumped from Lapwing and scampered about, insensitive to occasion. The king remained in his saddle, brow ominous, as if he had power to freeze himself.

One of the frozen figures moved forward and saluted the king. He was a small thin man of unusual physiognomy, who wore the harsh sacklike garb of his trade.

His name was SlanjivalIptrekira. The name was regarded as rude and funny. Possibly it was this life’s handicap which caused SlanjivalIptrekira in middle age to sport a great amount of gingerish, side-whisker, reinforced by a phagor-ear moustache. This lent his otherwise mild aspect a ferocity, as well as creating a countenance with more sideways than vertical dimension.

He licked his lips nervously as he endured the hawkish gaze of the sovereign. His unease was occasioned, not by the innuendo of his name, but by the fact that he was Royal Armourer and Chief Ironmaster of the Ironmakers Corps. And by the fact that six matchlocks built under his direction in imitation of a Sibornalese artillery piece were about to be tested.

This was his second testing. An earlier six prototypes, tested half a tenner previously, had all failed to work. Hence the licking of the lips. Hence a tendency of SlanjivalIptrekira’s knees to concatenate.

The king remained upright in the saddle. He raised a hand in signal. Figures came to life.

Six phagor sergeants were delegated to test the guns one by one. They marched forward, bovine faces expressionless, heavy shoulders set, their great shaggy bulks contrasting with the scraggy anatomies of the armourers.

SlanjivalIptrekira’s new weapon bore the outward appearance of the original. The metal barrel was four feet long. It was bedded into a wooden stock which curved down to a foot a further two feet long. The barrel was bound to the stock with copper bands. The striking mechanism was forged of the best quality iron that the foundries of the Ironmakers Corps could produce. Silver chasing, decorated with religious symbols, had been added to the stock. As in the original, the weapon was loaded from the muzzle end by means of a ramrod.

The first phagor sergeant came up with the first weapon. He held it while an armourer primed it. The sergeant knelt, his lower leg turning forward instead of back, in a posture no human could achieve. At the muzzle end of the piece, a tripod supported part of the weight. The sergeant took aim.

“Ready, sire,” said SlanjivalIptrekira, looking anxiously from weapon to majesty. The king gave an almost imperceptible nod.

The striker came down. The powder fizzled. With a mighty explosion, the gun blew to pieces.

The sergeant fell backwards, giving a guttural cry. Yuli ran squealing into the bushes. Lapwing shied. Birds flew screaming from the trees.

JandolAnganol steadied his mare.

“Try Number Two.”

The sergeant was helped away, his face and chest leaking ichor. He made a small bleating noise. A second sergeant took his place.

The second gun exploded more violently than the first. Splinters of wood struck the king’s chest armour. The sergeant had part of his jaw blown away.

The third gun would not fire. After repeated attempts, the ball rolled from its muzzle to the ground. The Royal Armourer laughed nervously, face ashen. “Better luck next time,” he said.

There was better luck with the fourth gun. It went off as intended, and the ball buried itself near the edge of the target. It was a large target designed for archery and stood only two dozen paces away, but the firing was accounted a success.

The fifth gun cracked dismally along its barrel. The sixth gun fired its ball, although the target was missed.

The armourers stood close together, studying the ground at their feet.

SlanjivalIptrekira came to the king’s horse. He saluted again. His moustache trembled.

“We make some progress. Our charges are perhaps too strong, sire.”

“On the contrary, your metals are too weak. Be back here again in a week’s time with six perfect weapons, or I’ll flay every member of your corps, from you downwards, and drive you skinless into the Cosgatt.”

He took one of the ruined guns, whistled up Yuli, and galloped away towards the palace, across the grey sward.

The innermost part of the palace-fortress—its heart, if palace-fortresses have hearts—was stifling. The sky above was overcast, and an echo of it was to be found on the ground, in every corner, on every ledge, cornice, moulding, nook and cranny, where the exhalations of distant Rustyjonnik refused to be swept away. Only when the king had passed through a thick wooden door, and then a second as thick as the first, did he escape the ash.

As the steps wound downwards, dark and cold thickened about him to embrace him like a soaked rug as he entered the subterranean set of chambers reserved for royal guests.

JandolAnganol strode through three interconnecting rooms. The first was the most fearful; it had served as a guard room, a kitchen, a mortuary, and a torture chamber, and still contained equipment relating to those earlier roles. The second was a bedroom, containing merely a bunk, though it too had served as a mortuary, and looked better suited to that purpose. In the end room sat VarpalAnganol.

The old king remained wrapped in a blanket, his feet against a grate in which smouldered a log fire. A high grille in the wall behind him allowed light to filter in and define him as a darkish lump on top of which a wispy skull was perched.

These things JandolAnganol had seen many times. The shape, the blanket, the chair, the grille, the floor, even the log that never burned properly in the dank atmosphere—all these did not alter through the years. It seemed as if only here, throughout his whole kingdom, could he look on enduring things.

Making a noise suggesting that he might need to clear his throat, the old king half-turned in his chair. His expression was half vacant, half crazy.

“It’s I—Jan.”

“I thought it was that same path again… where the fish jumped… You…’He struggled to disentangle himself from his thoughts. That’s you, Jan? Where’s Father? What time is it?”

“Nearly fourteen, if that’s of any interest to you.”

“Time’s always of interest.” VarpalAnganol gave a ghostly chuckle. “Isn’t it time that Borlien bumped into Freyr?”

“That’s an old wives’ tale. I’ve something to show you.”

“What old wife? Your mother’s dead, lad. I haven’t seen her for… or was she here? I forget. It may warm this palace up a bit… I thought I smelt burning.”

“It’s a volcano.”

“I see. A volcano. I thought it might be Freyr. Sometimes my thoughts wander… Do you want to sit down, lad?” He began struggling to his feet, but JandolAnganol pushed him back into the chair.

“Have you found Roba yet? He’s born now, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know where he is—he’s out of his wits, certainly.”

The old king gave a cackle. “Very shrewd. Sanity can drive you mad, you know… You remember how the fish used to jump in that pool? Well, there always was something wild about Roba. Almost a man now, I suppose. If he’s not here, he can’t shut you up, can he? Nor can you marry him off. What’s her name? Cune. She’s gone, too.”