by neetha Napew
'All ships sailing long distances call in at Persecution Bay,' she said. They pick up new victuals, meat chiefly. The Priest-Sailors Guild contains few vegetarians. Fish. Seal. Crabs. I have seen the flambreg stampedes before. I should have been more alert. They draw me. What do you think of them?'
He had noticed this habit in her before. While weaving a spell of Sibish tenses about herself, she would suddenly break out with a question to disconcert the listener.
'I never knew there were so many animals in the world...'
'There are more than you can imagine. More than anyone can/should imagine. They live all around the skirts of the great ice cap, in the bleak Circumpolar lands. Millions of them. Millions and millions.'
She smiled in her excitement. He liked that. He realized how lonely he was when she smiled.
'I assume they were migrating.'
'Not that, to the best of my knowledge. They come down to the water, but do not stay. They travel at all times of the year, not just in spring. They may simply be driven by desperation. They have only one enemy.'
'Wolves?'
'Not wolves.' She gave a wolflike grin, glad to have caught him out. 'Flies. One fly in particular. That fly is as big as the top joint of my thumb. It has yellow stripes -you can't mistake it. It lays its eggs in the skin of the wretched bovidae. When the larvae hatch, they burrow through the hide, enter the bloodstream, and eventually lie in pockets under the skin on the back. There the grubs grow big, in a sore the size of a large fruit, until eventually they burst out of their crater and fall to the ground to begin the life cycle again. Almost every flambreg we kill has such a parasite - often several.
'I have seen individual animals run in torment till they dropped, or cast themselves off tall cliffs, to escape that yellow-striped fly.'
She regarded him benevolently, as if this account gave her some inward satisfaction.
'Madame, I was shocked when your men shot a few cows on the shore. Yet it was nothing, I see now. Nothing.'
She nodded.
'The flambreg are a force of nature. Endless. Endless. They make humanity appear as nothing. The estimated population of Sibornal is twenty-five million at present.
There are many times - perhaps a thousand times - that number of flambreg on the continent. As many flambreg as there are trees. It is my belief that once all Helliconia consisted only of those cattle and those flies, ceaselessly coming and going throughout the continents, the bovidae perpetually suffering a torment they perpetually tried to escape.'
Before this vision, both parties fell silent. SartoriIrvrash returned to his cabin. But a few hours later, Odi Jeseratabhar sought him out. He was embarrassed to receive her in his stinking cubbyhole.
'Did my talk of unlimited flambreg make you gloomy?' There was coquetry in her question, surely.
'On the contrary. I am delighted to meet with someone like you, so interested in the processes of this world. I wish they were more clearly understood.'
'They are better understood in Sibornal than elsewhere.' Then she decided to soften the boast by adding, 'Perhaps because we experience more seasonal change than you do in Campannlat. You Borlienese can forget the Great Winter in Summer. One sometimes fears/fearing when alone that, if next Weyr-Winter becomes just a few degrees colder, then there will be no humans left. Only phagors, and the myriad mindless flambreg. Perhaps mankind is - a temporary accident.'
SartoriIrvrash contemplated her. She had brushed her hair free to her shoulders. 'I have thought the same myself. I hate phagors, but they are more stable than we. Well, at least the fate of mankind is better than that of the ceaselessly driven flambreg. Though we certainly have our equivalents of the yellow-striped fly...' He hesitated, wanted to hear more from her, to test her intelligence and sensibilities. 'When I first saw the flambreg, I thought how closely they resembled ancipitals.'
'Closely, in many respects. Well, my friend, you pass for learned. What do you make of that resemblance?' She was testing him, as her pleasantly teasing manner indicated. By common consent, they sat down side by side on his bunk.
'The Madis resemble us. So do Nondads and Others, though more remotely. There seems to be no family connection between humans and Madis, though Madi-human matings are sometimes fertile of offspring. Princess Simoda Tal is one such sport. I never heard that phagors mate with flambreg.' He gave a dry laugh at his uncertainty.
'Supposing that the genethic divinities who shape us have made a family connection, as you call it, between humankind and Madikind? Would you then accept that there was a connection between flambreg and phagors?'
'That would have to be determined by experiment.' He was on the brink of explaining his breeding experiments in Matrassyl, then decided to reserve that topic for another time. 'A genetic relationship implies outward similarities. Phagors and flambreg have had golden blood as a protection against cold.'
'There is proof without experiment. I do not believe as most people do that every species is created separately by God the Azoiaxic.' She lowered her voice as she said this. 'I believe the boundaries blur with time, as the boundary between human and Madi will blur again when your JandolAnganol weds Simoda Tal. You see where I lead?'
Was she secretly an atheist, as he was? To SartoriIrvrash's amazement, the thought gave him an erection. Tell me.'
'I have not heard of phagors and flambreg mating, that's true. However, I have good reason to believe that once this world held nothing but flambreg and flies -both in countless and mindless millions. Through genetic change, ancipitals developed from flambreg. They're a refined version. What do you think? Is it possible?'
He tried to match her manner of argument.
'The similarities may be several, but they are mainly surface ones, apart from blood colour. You might as well say men and phagors are alike because both species talk. Phagors stand erect like us. They have their own cast of intelligence. Flambreg have nothing of the kind - unless galloping madly back and forth across a continent is intelligent.'
'The phagorian ability to walk upright and use language came after the two bloodlines divided. Imagine that phagors developed from a group of flambreg which... which found an alternative to ceaseless flight as a way of dealing with the fly problem.'
They were gazing at each other with excitement. He longed to tell Odi of his discovery regarding hoxneys.
'What alternative?'
'Hiding in caves, for instance. Going underground. Free of the fly torment, they developed intelligence. Stood upright to see further and then had forefeet free to use tools. In the dark, language developed as a substitute for sight. I'll show you my essay on the subject one day. Nobody else has seen it.'
He laughed to think of flambreg performing such tricks.
'Not over one generation, dear friend. Over many. Endless generations. The cleverer ones would win. Don't laugh.' She tapped his hand. 'If this did not happen in past time, then let me ask you this. How is it that the gestation period for gillots is one Batalix-year - while the gestation period for a flambreg cow is exactly the same length of time? Doesn't that prove a genetic relationship?'
Sailing on, the two ships passed the lowly ports of the southernmost coast of Loraj, which lay inside the tropics.
From the port of Ijivibir, a caravel of 600 tons named the Good Hope sailed out to join the Golden Friendship and the Union. It made a brave sight, with its sails painted in vertical stripes. Cannon were fired from the flagship in greeting, and the sailors gave a cheer. On an empty ocean, three vessels were many more than two.
Another occasion was marked when they had reached the most westerly point of their course at a longitude of 29° East. The time was ten to twenty-five. Freyr was below the horizon, trawling an apricot glow above. The glow dissolving the horizon seemed to radiate from the hazy water. It marked the grave from which the great sun would presently rise. Somewhere concealed in that glow lay the sacred country of Shivenink; somewhere in Shivenink, high in the mountains that ran all the way from sea t
o North Pole, was the Great Wheel of Kharnabhar.
A bugle sounded All Hands. The three ships clustered. Prayers were said, music played, all stood to pray with finger to forehead.
Out of the apricot haze came a sail. By a trick of light, it appeared and disappeared like a vision. Birds screamed about its masts, newly away from land.
It was an all-white ship, sails white, hull fresh with whitewash. As it drew nearer, firing a gun in salute, those aboard the other ships saw that it was a caravel, no bigger than the Good Hope; but on its mainsail stood the great hierogram representing the Wheel itself, inner and outer circles connected by wavy lines. This was the Vajabhar Prayer named after Shivenink's chief port.
The four ships tacked close, like four pigeons nestling together on a branch. A bark of orders from the Priest-Militant Admiral herself. Bowsprits turned, cordage creaked, artemons filled. The little fleet began to sail southwards.
Colours in the water changed to a deeper blue. The ships were leaving the Pannoval Sea astern and entering the northern margins of the vast Climent Ocean. Immediately, they struck rough weather. They had a hard time of it, combating mountainous seas and hazardous storms, in which they were bombarded by gigantic hailstones. For days, they saw neither sun.
When at last they reached calmer waters, Freyr's zenith was lower than before, and Batalix's somewhat higher. To port lay the cliffs of Campannlat's westernmost redoubt, Cape Findowel. Once they had rounded Findowel they sailed into the nearest anchorage along the coast of the tropical continent, there to rest for two days. The carpenters repaired the storm damage, the members of the Priest-Sailors Guild stitched sails or else swam in a warm lagoon. So welcome was the sight of men and women disporting themselves naked in the water - the puritanical Sibornalese were curiously unprudish on this occasion -that even SartoriIrvrash ventured into the water in a pair of silken underpants.
When he rested afterwards on the beach, sheltering from the power of both suns, he watched the swimmers climb out one by one. Many of the Good Hope's crew were women, and sturdily built. He sighed for his youth. Io Pasharatid climbed out beside him and said to him quietly, 'If only that beautiful queen of queens were here, eh?'
'What then?' He kept watching the water, hoping that Odi would emerge naked.
Pasharatid dug him in the ribs in an un-Sibornalese way.
'What then, you say? Why, then this seeming paradise would be paradise indeed.'
'Do you suppose that this expedition can possibly conquer Borlien?'
'Given the fortune of war, I'm sure of it. We are organized and armed, in a way JandolAnganol's forces will never be.'
'Why, then the queen will come under your supervision.'
'That reflection had not escaped me. Why else do you think I have this sudden enthusiasm for war? I don't want Ottassol you old goat. I want Queen MyrdemInggala. And I intend to have her.'
XV
The Captives of the Quarry
A man was walking with a pack slung over one shoulder. He wore the tattered remains of a uniform. Both suns beat down on him. Streams of sweat ran down into his tunic. He walked blindly, rarely looking up.
He was traversing a destroyed area of jungle in the Chwart Heights in eastern Randonan. All round were blackened and broken stumps of trees, many still smouldering. On the few occasions when the man looked about him, he could see nothing but the trail and blackened landscape all round. Palls of grey smoke rose in the distance. It was possible that tropical heat had started the blaze. Or perhaps a spark from a matchlock had been the cause of the death of a million trees. For many tenners battles had been fought over the area. Now soldiers and cannon were gone, and the vegetation likewise.
Everything about the man's posture expressed weariness and defeat. But he kept on. Once he faltered, when one of his shadows faded and disappeared. Black cloud, rolling up, had blotted out Freyr. A few minutes later, Batalix too was swallowed. Then the rain came down. The man bowed his head and continued to walk. There was nowhere he could shelter, nothing he could do but submit to nature.
The downpour continued, increasing in ferocity by sudden fits. The ashes hissed. More and more of the resources of the heavens were called in, like reserves being brought into a battle.
Bombardment by hail was the next tactic. The hailstones stung the weary man into a run. He took what refuge he could in a hollow tree stump. Falling back against the crumbling wood, he exposed a stronghold of rickybacks. Deprived of their little fortress, the crustaceans climbed through veritable Takissas of liquid ash, seeking refuge with their puny antennae waving.
Unaware of this catastrophe, the man stared forth from under the brim of his hat, panting. Several bent figures staggered through the murk. They were the remnants of his army, the once celebrated Borlienese Second Army. One man passed obliviously within inches of the tree stump, dragging a terrible wound which bled afresh under the hailstones. The shelterer wept. He had no wound, except for a bruise on his temple. He had no right to be alive.
Like an uncomforted child, his weeping turned to exhaustion; he slept despite the hail.
The dreams that terminated sleep were full of hail. He felt their smart on his cheek, woke, saw that the sky was again clear. He started up, yet still the stones struck his face, his neck. As he gasped with vexation, a stone flew into his mouth. He spat it out, turning in bewilderment.
The gnarled, broomlike plants nearby had been burnt by fire. Fire had hardened their seedcases, ripening their seeds with its flame. In a new day's warmth, the cases untwisted. They made a small noise, like the parting of moist lips. Their seeds were shot out in all directions. The ashy ground would provide fertile conditions for growth.
He laughed, suddenly pleased. Whatever folly mankind got up to, nature went on its uncheckable way. And he would go on his way. He patted his sword, adjusted his hat, hitched his pack, and started walking southeastwards.
He emerged from the devastated area towards noon. The way wound down between thickets of shoatapraxi. Over centuries, the road the soldier travelled had been by turns river, dried bed, ice track, cattle trail, and highway.
No man could trace its usages. Humble flowers grew beside its banks, some sprung from parent plants which had seeded far away. The banks became higher on either side. He staggered between them, hampered by shifting gravels underfoot. When they crumbled away at last, under the brow of a hill, he saw cottages standing in fields.
The prospect did little to reassure him.
The fields had long been untended. The cottages were derelict. Many roofs had fallen in, leaving end-walls pointing like old fists to the sky. Hedges topping the banks on either side of the track had collapsed from the weight of dust that had been thrown up. Dust had spread over adjoining fields, over cottages and outbuildings, over abandoned pieces of luggage which dotted the view. Everything was rendered in the same greyish tone, as if created all from one material.
Only a great army passing could have raised so much dust, the man with the pack thought. The army had been his. The Second Army had then been marching forward into battle. He was now returning silently in defeat.
His footsteps deadened, General Hanra TolramKetinet walked down the meandering street. One or two furtive phagors peered at him from the ruins, the long masks of their faces without expression. He did not remember this village; it was just one more village they had marched through on just one more hot day. As he reached the end of the street and the sacred pillar which defined the local land-octave, he saw a wedge-shaped copse which he thought he recalled, a copse which his scouts had reconnoitred for enemy. If he was right, there was a sizeable farmhouse beyond it, in which he had slept for a few hours.
The farmhouse remained intact. It was surrounded by outhouses which had been damaged by fire.
TolramKetinet stood by the gateway, peering in. Both yard and house were silent except for the buzz of flies. Sword in hand, he moved forward. Two slaughtered hoxneys lay in an open stall, bodies black with flies. Their stench met
his nostrils.
Freyr was high, Batalix already westering. Conflicting shadows lent the house a drab air as he moved towards it. The windows were dimmed with dust. There had been a woman here, the farmer's woman, with four small children, he recalled. No man. Now there was only the buzz of silence.
He set his pack down by the front doorstep and kicked the door open with his foot.
'Anyone there?' He hoped some of his men might be resting in the rooms.
No response. Yet his alerted senses warned him that there was a living thing in the building. He paused in the stone hall. A tall pendulum clock, with its twenty-five illuminated hours, stood silent against one wall. Otherwise, the impression was one of the poverty common to an area which had long been in a war zone. Beyond the hall everything lay in shadow.
Then he marched determinedly forward, down the passage, and into a low-ceilinged kitchen.
Six phagors stood in the kitchen. They stood motionless, as if awaiting his return. Their eyes glowed deep pink in the shade. Beyond them, through a window, grew a patch of bright yellow flowers; catching the sun, they made the beast shapes indeterminate. Yellow reflections rested on shoulders, on long cheekbones. One of the brutes retained its horns.
They came towards him, but TolramKetinet was ready. He had picked up their scent in the hall. They held spears, but he was a practised swordsman. They were swift, but they got in each other's way. He drove the blade up under their rib cages, where he knew their eddre were. Only one of the ancipitals lunged with its spear. He half-severed its forearm with a single blow. Gold blood flew. The room filled with their heavy sick breathing. All died without making any other sound.
As they fell, he saw by their blazes that they had been trusted members of his guard. Catching the Sons of Freyr in disorder, they had taken a chance and reverted to type. A less wary soldier would have fallen into their ambush. Indeed, one had done so recently. At the back of the kitchen, spread out on a table, was a Borlienese corporal, his throat neatly bitten out.
