by neetha Napew
Churches had been built into the rock; the stricter religious orders imitated the preferences of their masters in Pannoval and locked themselves away from the light. Monasteries huddled against the rock, three storeys high, the more prosperous ones built in stone, the poorer in wood. Despite himself, Billy lingered, to feel the grain of the timber, running his nails in its cracks. He came from a world where everything was renewed - or destroyed and reconstituted - as soon as it aged. This ancient wood with the grain outstanding: how superb the accident of its design!
The world was choked with detail he could never have imagined.
The monasteries were cheerfully painted red and yellow, or red and purple, carrying the circle of Akhanaba in those colours. Their doors bore representations of the god, descending in fire. Black locks of hair escaped from his topknot. His eyebrows curled upwards. The smile on his half-human face revealed sharp white teeth. In each hand he carried torches. A cloth garment wound itself like a serpent about his blue body.
There were representations too, on banners, of saints and familiars and bogeys: Yuli the Priest, Denniss the King, Withram and Wutra, and streams of Others, large and black, small and green with claws lor toenails and rings on their toes. Among these supernatural beings - fat and bald or shaggy - went humans, generally in supplicatory postures.
Humans were shown small. Where I come from, Billy said to himself, humans would be shown large. But here they went in supplicatory postures, only to be mown down by the gods in one way or another. By flames, by ice, by the sword.
Memories of school lessons came to Billy, fertilized by reality. He had learnt how important religions were on backward Helliconia. Sometimes nations had been converted to a different religion in a day - it had happened to Oldorando, he recalled. Other nations, losing their religion as suddenly, had collapsed and disappeared without trace. Here was the very bastion of Borlien's creed. As an atheist, Billy was both attracted and repelled by the lurid fates depicted on all sides.
The monks looked not too stricken by the dreadful state of the world; devastation was merely part of a greater cycle, the background of their placid existences.
'The colours!' Billy said aloud. The colours of devastation were like paradise. There is no evil here, he told himself, bedazzled. Evil is negative. Here everything is robust. Evil was where I came from, in negativity.
Robust. Yes, it's robust. He laughed.
Mouth open, arms out, he stood in the middle of the street. Aromas drifting like colours of the air detained him. Every step of his way had been haunted by smells of various kinds - a dimension of life missing on the Avernus. Nearby, under the shadow of the cliff, was a well, with stalls clustering by it. Monks were flocking from their buildings to buy food there.
Billy was teased by the thought that they were performing just for him. Death might come. It would be worth it just to have stood here and caught these savoury smells, and to have seen the monks lift greasy buns to their faces. Above them, from a monastic balcony fluttered a red and yellow banner, on which he could read the legend, all the world's wisdom has always existed. He laughed to himself at this antiscientific legend: wisdom was something that had to be hammered out - otherwise, he would not be here.
Here in the traffic of the street, Billy's understanding grew of how priest-ridden Helliconian society was, and of how the Akhanaban faith influenced action. His antipathy to religion was deep-rooted; now he found himself in a civilization founded on it.
When he approached the stalls, a stall holder called to him. She was a tall woman, shabbily dressed, with a big red face. She maintained a bright-burning fire in a basin. Waffles were her trade. Billy had on him forged money, as well as other equipment for his visit. Pulling some coins from a pocket, he paid the woman and was rewarded with a savoury-smelling waffle. The waffle irons had imprinted on them the Akhanaban religious symbol, one circle within another, the two connected by oblique lines. He thought for the first time, as he bit into it, that the symbol possibly represented in a crude way the orbit of the lesser sun, Batalix, about the greater.
'It won't bite you back,' said the waffle woman, laughing at him.
He moved away, triumphant at having negotiated the transaction. He ate more delicately than the monks, conscious of the eyes of the Avernus. Still munching, he continued along the street, a swagger in his step. Soon he was treading up the slopes that led to Matrassyl palace. It was wonderful. Real food was wonderful. Helliconia was wonderful.
The route became more familiar. Having studied the family now called royal through three generations, Billy knew the layout of the palace and its surroundings in some detail. More than once he had watched the archival tapes which showed this stronghold being taken by the forces of the grandfather of the present king.
At the main gate, he asked to speak to JandolAnganol, producing forged documents which showed him to be an emissary from the distant land of Morstrual. After an interrogation in the guard house, he was escorted to another building. A long wait ensued until he was taken to a section of the palace he recognized as the chancellor's domain.
Here he kicked his heels, staring at everything - the rugs, the carved furniture, the stove, the curtains at the window, the stains on the ceiling - in a kind of fever. The waffle had given him hiccups. The world was a maze of fascinating detail, and every strand in the carpet on which he stood - he guessed it to be of Madi origin - had a meaning which led back into the history of the planet.
Queen MyrdemInggala, queen of queens, had stood in this very room, had placed her sandalled feet upon this woven carpet, and the beasts and birds figured there had gratefully received her weight as she passed by.
As Billy stood looking down at the carpet, a wave of dizziness overcame him. No, it couldn't be death already. He clutched his stomach. Not death but that waffle? He sank into a chair.
Outside lay the world where everything had two shadows. He felt its heat and power. It was the real world of the queen, not the artificial world of Billy and Rose. But he might not be up to it...
He gave a loud hiccup. He understood now what his Advisor meant when he had said that Billy might find fulfilment with Rose. But that could never have been while the queen of his imagination stood in his way. The real queen was now somewhere close at hand.
The door opened - even that was a wonder, that wooden door. A lean old secretary appeared, who conducted him to the chancellor's suite. There he sat on a chair in an antechamber and waited. To his relief, the hiccups died and he felt less ill.
Chancellor SartoriIrvrash appeared, walking wearily. His shoulders were bent and, despite a show of courtesy, his manner was preoccupied. He listened to Billy without interest and ushered him into a large room where books and documents took up a major part of the space. Billy looked at the chancellor with awe. This was a figure out of history. This was once the hawkish young advisor who had assisted JandolAnganol's grandfather and father to establish the Borlienese state.
The two men seated themselves. The chancellor pulled agitatedly at his whiskers and muttered something under his breath. He seemed not to listen as Billy described himself as coming from a town in Morstrual on the Gulf of Chalce. He hugged his lean body as if comforting himself.
When Billy's words ran out, he sat in puzzlement as silence descended. Did the chancellor not understand his Olonets?
SartoriIrvrash spoke at last. 'We'll do whatever we can to be of assistance, sir, although this is not the easiest of times, not by any means.'
'I want a conversation with you, if I can, as well as with his majesty and the queen. I have knowledge to offer, as well as questions to ask.'
He gave a belated hiccup.
'Apologies.'
'Yes, yes. Excuse me. I am what someone once termed a connoisseur of knowledge, but this happens to be a day of deepest - deepest botheration.'
He stood, clutching at his stained charfrul, shaking his head as he regarded Billy as if for the first time.
'What is so bad about
today?' asked Billy in alarm.
The queen, sir, Queen MyrdemInggala...' The chancellor rapped his knuckles on the table for emphasis. 'Our queen is being put away, expelled, sir. This is the day she sails for exile. For Ancient Gravabagalinien.'
He put his hands up to his face and began to weep.
IX
Some Botheration for the Chancellor
There was an old country saying among the peasants of the land still known locally as Embruddock concerning the continent on which they lived: 'Not an acre is properly habitable, and not an acre is uninhabited.'
The saying represented at least an approach to the truth. Even now, when millions believed that the world was to die in flames, travellers of all kinds crossed and recrossed Campannlat. From whole tribes, like the migrant Madis and the nomadic nations of Mordriat, down to pilgrims, who counted out their pilgrimage not in miles but in shrines; robber bands, who counted territory in throats and purses; and solitary traders, who travelled leagues to sell a song or a stone for a greater price than it would fetch at home - all these found fulfilment in movement.
Even the fires that consumed the interior of the continent, stopping short only at rivers or deserts, did not deter travellers. Rather, they added to their numbers, contributing refugees in quest for new homes.
One such group arrived in Matrassyl down the Valvoral in time to see Queen MyrdemInggala leave for exile. The royal press gang gave them little time to gape. Its officers descended on the new arrivals in their leaky tub and marched the men away to serve in the Western Wars.
That afternoon, the natives of Matrassyl had temporarily forgotten the wars - or shelved the thought of them in favour of this newer drama. Here was the most dramatic moment of many dull lives: poverty, committing them to mere endurance, forced them to live vicariously through the illustrious. For this reason, they appointed and tolerated the vices of their kings and queens, so that shock or delight might enter their existences.
Smoke drifted over the town, shrouding the crowds mute along the quayside. The queen came in her coach. It moved between lines of people. Flags waved. Also banners, saying repent ye! and the signs are in the sky. The queen looked neither to right nor to left.
Her coach stopped by the river. A lackey jumped down and opened the door for her majesty. She put forth a dainty foot and stepped down upon the cobbles. Tatro followed, and the lady-in-waiting.
MyrdemInggala hesitated and looked round. She wore a veil, but the aura of her beauty was about her like a perfume. The lugger that was to take her and her entourage downstream to Ottassol, and thence to Gravabagalinien, awaited her. A minister of the Church in full canonicals stood on deck to greet her. She walked up the gangplank. A sigh escaped the crowd as she left Matrassylan soil.
Her head was low. Once she had gained the deck and accepted the minister's greeting, she pulled back her veil and lifted a hand in farewell, her head high.
At the sight of that peerless face, a murmur rose from the wharves and walks and roofs nearby, a murmur which rumbled into a cheer. This was Matrassyl's inarticulate farewell to its queen of queens.
She gave no further sign, letting the veil drop, turning on her heel and going below, out of sight.
As the ship weighed anchor, a young court gallant ran forward to stand on the edge of the quay and declaim a popular poem, 'And Summer's Self She Is.' There was no music, no more cheering.
No one standing there in silent farewell knew of the events at the court that afternoon, though news of fearful deeds would leak out soon enough. The sails were hoisted. The ship of exile moved slowly from the quayside and began its journey downstream. The queen's vicar stood on the deck and prayed. Nobody in the watching crowd, on the street, on the cliffs, or perched on rooftops, stirred. The wooden hull began to shrink with distance, its detail to be lost.
The people went silently away to their homes, taking their banners with them.
The Matrassyl court swarmed with factions. Some factions were unique to the court; others had nationwide support. The best-supported of the latter groups was undoubtedly the Myrdolators. This ironically named clique opposed the king on most issues and supported the queen of queens on all.
Within the major groupings were minor groupings. Self-interest saw to it that each man was divided in some way against his brother. Many reasons could be invented for supporting or opposing a closer union with Oldorando, in the continual jockeying for position in court.
There were those - haters of women perhaps - who hoped to see Queen MyrdemInggala disgraced. There were those - dreaming of possessing her perhaps - who wished to see her remain. Of those who wished to see her remain, some of the most fervent Myrdolators believed that she should stay and the king should go. After all, they argued, to look at the affair legalistically - and to ignore her physical attractions - the queen's claim to the throne of Borlien was as valid as the Eagle's.
Envy saw to it that the enemies of both king and queen were perpetually active. On the day of departure of the queen many were ready to take up arms.
On the morning of that day, JandolAnganol had moved against the malcontents.
By a ruse, the king and SartoriIrvrash had the Myrdolators meet together in a chamber in the palace. Sixty-one of them foregathered, some of them greybeards who had professed loyalty to MyrdemInggala's parents, RantanOboral and Shannana the Wild. They stormed indignantly in to the meeting. The Household Guard slammed the doors on them and guarded the chamber. While the Myrdolators screamed and fainted in the heat, the Eagle, with malicious glee on his face, went to a final meeting with his lovely queen.
MyrdemInggala was still overwhelmed by the turn in her fortunes. Her cheeks were pale. There was a feverish look in her eyes. She could not eat. She started at small things. When the king came upon her, she was walking with Mai TolramKetinet, discussing prospects for her children. If she was threatened so were they. Tatro was small, and a girl. It was upon Robayday that the brunt of the king's vengeance might fall. Robayday had disappeared on one of his wild excursions. She perceived that she would not even be able to say good-bye to him. Nor would her brother be here to exert influence over his wilful nephew.
The two women walked in MyrdemInggala's dimday garden. Tatro was playing with Princess Simoda Tal -an irony which could be borne if not contemplated closely.
This garden the queen had created herself, directing her gardeners. Heavy trees and artificial cliffs screened the walks from Freyr's eyes. There was sufficient shade for genetic sports and melanic forms of vegetation to flourish.
Dimday plants flowered beside fullday ones. The jeodfray, a fullday creeper with light pink-and-orange flowers, became the stunted albic, hugging the ground. The albic occasionally put forth grotesque scarlet-and-orange buds along a fleshy stem, to attract the attention of dimday moths. Nearby were olvyl, yarrpel, idront, and spikey brooth, all relishing shade. The ground-loving vispard produced hooded blossoms. It was the adaptation of a nocturnal species, the zadal bush, and had moved towards lighter conditions rather than darker.
Such plants had been brought by her subjects from different parts of the kingdom. She had no great understanding of the astronomy which SartoriIrvrash tried to instil in her, or of the slow protracted manoeuvres of Freyr along the heavens, except through her appreciation of these plants, which represented an instinctive vegetable response to those confusingly abstract ellipses of which the chancellor loved to talk.
Now she would visit this favoured place no more. The ellipses of her own life were moving against her.
The king and his chancellor appeared at the gate. She sensed their wish for formality even from a distance. She saw the tension in the king's stance. She laid a hand on her lady-in-waiting's wrist in alarm.
SartoriIrvrash approached and bowed formally. Then he took the lady-in-waiting off with him, in order to leave the royal couple alone.
Mai instantly broke into anxious protests.
'The king will murder Cune. He suspects she loves my brothe
r Hanra, but it is not so. I'd swear to it. The queen has done nothing wrong. She is innocent.'
'His calculations run otherwise, and he will not murder her,' said SartoriIrvrash. He hardly looked the figure to comfort her. He had shrunk inside his charfrul and his face was grey. 'He rids himself of the queen for political reasons. It has been done before.'
He brushed a butterfly impatiently from his sleeve.
'Why did he have Yeferal murdered, then?'
'That piece of botheration is not to be laid at the king's door but rather at mine. Cease your prattle, woman. Go with Cune into exile and look after her. I hope to be in touch some time, if my own situation continues. Gravabagalinien is no bad place to be.'
They entered into an archway and were immediately embraced within the stuffy complexities of the building.
Mai TolramKetinet asked in a more even voice, 'What has overcome the king's mind?'
'I know only of his ego, not his mind. It is bright like a diamond. It will cut all other egos. It cannot easily tolerate the queen's gentleness.'
When the young woman left him, he stood at the bottom of the stairwell, trying to steady himself. Somewhere above him, he heard the voices of the visiting diplomats. They waited with indifference to hear how the matter worked out and would be departing soon, whatever happened.
'Everything finally goes...' he said to himself. In that moment, he longed for his dead wife.
The queen, meanwhile, stood in her garden, listening to the low, hasty voice of JandolAnganol, trying to thrust his emotions upon her. She recoiled, as from a great wave.
'Cune, our parting is forced on me for the survival of the kingdom. You know my feelings, but you also know that I have duties which must be performed...'
'No, I won't have it. You obey a whim. It is not duty but your khmir speaking.'
He shook his head, as if trying to shake away the pain visible in his face.
'What I do I have to do, though it destroys me. I have no wish for anyone at my side but you. Give me a word that you understand that much before we part.'
