Brian Aldiss - Helliconia Spring

On the platform stood Raynil Layan, shifting his weight from foot to foot, Faralin Ferd with his arms bound behind him, and six young warriors of Dathka’s guard, armed with sheathed swords and spears, grimly regarding the crowd. Bouquet sellers roved through the people, selling protective nosegays. The pilgrim Takers were there too, dressed in their distinctive black-and-white garb, holding banners urging repentance. Children played on the edge of the crowd, sniggering at the behaviour of their elders.

As the Hour-Whistler blew, Dathka climbed onto the platform and began immediately to address the crowd.

“I am taking up the burden of authority for the sake of the city,” Dathka said. It seemed his old silence had dropped from him. He spoke with eloquence. Yet he stood almost motionless, not gesturing, not using his body to help carry his words, as if the habit of silence had quit nowhere but his tongue. “I have no wish to supplant the true ruler of Embruddock, Aoz Roon. When he returns—if he returns—then what is rightfully his will be rightfully handed back to him. I am his lawful deputy. Those he left in command have abused his power, have cast it in the gutter. I could not stand by and see it. We will have honesty in these bad times.”

“Why’s Raynil Layan beside you then, Dathka?” called a voice from the crowd, and there were other remarks, which Dathka tried to override.

“I know you have complaints. I’ll hear them after—you hear me now. Judge Aoz Roon’s usurping lieutenants. Eline Tal had the courage to go into the wilderness with his lord. The other two creatures stayed at home. Tanth Ein has the fever as his reward. Here stands the third of them, the worst, Faralin Ferd. Look at the way he trembles. When did he ever address you? He was too busy about his sly lascivious ways indoors.

“I’m a hunter, as you know. Laintal Ay and I tamed the Western Veldt. Faralin Ferd will die of the pest like his crony, Tanth Ein. Will you be ruled by corpses? I won’t catch the plague. Intercourse passes on the plague, and I’m free of it.

“My first deed will be to restore guards all round Embruddock, and to train a proper army. As we are at present, we are ripe to fall to any enemy—human or inhuman. Better die in battle than in bed.”

This last remark caused a groundswell of unease. Dathka paused, glaring down at them. Oyre and Dol stood among the people, Dol clutching Rastil Roon in her arms. Oyre cried out loudly as Dathka paused, “You are a usurper. How are you any better than Tanth Ein or Raynil Layan?”

Dathka went to the edge of the platform.

“I steal nothing. I picked up what was dropped.” He pointed at Oyre. “You of all people, Oyre, as the natural daughter of Aoz Roon himself, should know that I will return to your father what is his when he returns. He would wish me to do this.”

“You cannot speak for him while he’s away.”

“I can and do.”

“Then you speak wrongly.”

Others to whom this wrangle meant little, and who cared little about Aoz Roon, also started to shout, calling out complaints. Someone threw an overripe fruit. The guard jostled the crowd, without effect.

Dathka’s face grew pale. He raised his fist above his head in passion.

“Very well, you scumble, then I will tell you publicly what has always been kept silent. I’m not afraid. You think so greatly of Aoz Roon, you think he was so admirable, I’ll tell you the kind of man he was. He was a murderer. Worse, he was a double murderer.”

They fell quiet, their faces upturned to him in a cloud of flesh.

He was shaking now, conscious of what he had started. “How do you think Aoz Roon gained power? By murder, bloody murder, murder by night. There are those of you who will remember Nahkri and Klils, sons of ancient Dresyl, in the days bygone. Nahkri and Klils ruled when Embruddock was just a farmyard. One dark night, Aoz Roon—young then—threw the two brothers off the top of the big tower when they were in their cups. A foul double deed. And who was there as witness, who saw it all? I was there—and so was she—his natural daughter.” He pointed accusingly down at the thin figure of Oyre, now clinging in horror to Dol.

“He’s mad,” a boy shouted on the edge of the crowd. “Dathka’s mad!” People were leaving at a run, or running up. General confusion was breaking out, and a struggle developing in one corner of the mob.

Raynil Layan tried to rally the crowd, bringing up his powerful pale presence to shout in a large voice, “Support us and we will support you. We will guard Oldorando.”

All this while, Faralin Ferd had been standing silent at the rear of the platform, arms bound, in the grip of a guard. He saw his moment.

“Throw Dathka out!” he shouted. “He never had Aoz Roon’s approval and he shall not have ours!”

Dathka turned about with a hunter’s rapid movement, drawing his curved dagger as he did so. He flung himself on the lieutenant. A high scream came from Farayl Musk, somewhere in the crowd, at the same time as several voices took up the cry, “Throw Dathka out!”

They fell silent almost immediately, stilled by Dathka’s sudden action. In the hush, smoke drifted across the scene. Nobody moved. Dathka stood rigid, back to his audience. For a moment, Faralin Ferd was also still. Then he threw up his head and gave a choking groan. Blood gushed from his mouth. He sagged, and the guard let him fall at Dathka’s feet.

Then there was uproar. Blood gave the whole crowd voice.

“You fool, they’ll slaughter us,” Raynil Layan shouted. He ran to the back of the platform and jumped down. Before anyone could stop him, he was disappearing down a side street.

The guard ran about, ignoring Dathka’s commands, as the mob closed on the platform. Farayl Musk was screaming for Dathka’s arrest. Seeing that it was all over, he also jumped from the platform and ran.

At the rear of the crowd, by the stalls, the small boys jumped up and down, clapping their hands in excitement. The crowd began to riot, finding rioting more lively than death.

For Dathka, there was nothing but to make an ignominious escape. He ran panting, gasping, muttering incoherently, through the deserted streets, his three shadows—penumbral, umbral, penumbral—changing their topology at his feet. His scuttling thoughts similarly dilated and shrank, as he tried to evade the knowledge of his failure, to retch up his disaster from inside him.

Strangers passed him, their belongings loaded on an archaic sledge. An old man, helping a child along, called to him, “The fuggies are coming.”

He heard the sound of people running behind him—the mob, avenging. There was one place he could go to for refuge, one person, one hope. Cursing her, he ran to Vry.

She was back in her old tower. She sat in a kind of dream, aware—and frightened of her awareness—that Embruddock was moving to a crisis. When he hammered on her door, she let him in almost with relief. She stood there with neither sympathy nor derision as Dathka collapsed weeping on her bed.

“It’s a mess,” she said. “Where’s Raynil Layan?” He went on weeping, striking the bedding with his fist.

“Stop it,” she said mildly. She walked about the room, gazing up at the stained ceiling. “We live in such a mess. I wish I were free of emotion. Human beings are such messes. We were better when the snow contained us, frozen, when we had no … hope! I wish there were only knowledge, pure knowledge, no emotion.”

He sat up. “Vry—”

“Don’t speak to me. You have nothing for me, and never had, you must accept that. I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I don’t want to know what you’ve done.”

Geese set up a great honking outside.

He sat on the bed, yawned. “You’re only half a woman. You’re cold. I’ve always known it, yet I couldn’t stop feeling as I did about you…”