by Bob Shaw
Breathing deeply and steadily as an aid to regaining mastery of his emotions, Leddravohr watched the blackness of deepnight envelope the world, and when he finally retired to bed his face had regained its sculpted composure.
Chapter 9
“It’s getting late,” Toller said. “Perhaps Leddravohr isn’t coming.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see.” Lain smiled briefly and returned his attention to the papers and mathematical instruments on his desk.
“Yes.” Toller studied the ceiling for a moment. “This isn’t a sparkling conversation, is it?”
“It isn’t any kind of conversation,” Lain said. “What’s happening is that I’m trying to work and you keep interrupting.”
“Sorry.” Toller knew he should leave the room, but he was reluctant to do so. It was a long time since he had been in the family home, and some of his clearest boyhood memories were of coming into this familiar room — with its perette wood panels and glowing ceramics — and of seeing Lain at the same desk, going about the incomprehensible business of being a mathematician. Toller’s instincts told him that he and his brother were reaching a watershed in their lives, and he had a longing for them to share an hour of companionship while it was still possible. He had been vaguely embarrassed about his feelings and had not tried putting them into words, with the negative result that Lain was ill at ease and puzzled by his continuing presence.
Resolving to be quiet, Toller went to one of the stacks of ancient manuscripts which had been brought from the Greenmount archives. He picked up a leatherbound folio and glanced at its title. As usual the words appeared as linear trains of letters with elusive content until he used a trick which Lain had once devised for him. He covered the title with his palm and slowly slid his hand to the right so that the letters were revealed to him in sequence. This time the printed symbols yielded up their meaning: Aerostatic Flights to the Far North, by Muel Webrey, 2136.
That was as far as Toller’s interest in a book normally went, but balloon ascents had not been far from his mind since the momentous meeting of the previous day, and his curiosity was further stirred by the realisation that the book was five centuries old. What had it been like to fly across the world in the days before Kolcorron had arisen to unify a dozen warring nations? He sat down and opened the book near the middle, hoping Lain would be impressed, and began to read. Some unfamiliar spellings and grammatical constructions made the text more oblique than he would have liked, but he persevered, sliding his hand across paragraph after paragraph which, disappointingly, had more to do with ancient politics than aviation. He was beginning to lose momentum when his attention was caught by a reference toptertha: “…and far to our left the pink globes of the ptertha were rising”.
Toller frowned and ran his finger across the adjective several times before raising his head. “Lain, it says here that ptertha are pink.”
Lain did not look up. “You must have misread it. The word is ‘purple’.”
Toller studied the adjective again. “No, it says pink.”
“You have to allow a certain amount of leeway in subjective descriptions. Besides, the meanings of words can shift over a long period of time.”
“Yes, but.…” Toller felt dissatisfied. “So you don’t think the ptertha used to be a diff—”
“Toller!” Lain threw down his pen. “Toller, don’t think I’m not glad to see you — but why have you taken up residence in my office?”
“We never talk,” Toller said uncomfortably.
“All right, what do you want to talk about?”
“Anything. There may not be much… time.” Toller sought inspiration. “You could tell me what you’re working on.”
“There wouldn’t be much point. You wouldn’t understand it.”
“Still we’d have been talking,” Toller said, rising to his feet and returning the old book to the stacks. He was walking to the door when his brother spoke.
“I’m sorry, Toller — you’re quite right.” Lain smiled an apology. “You see, I started this essay more than a year ago, and I want to finish it before I get diverted to other matters. But perhaps it isn’t all that important.”
“It must be important if you’ve been working on it all that time. I’ll leave you in peace.”
“Please don’t go,” Lain said quickly. “Would you like to see something truly wonderful? Watch this!” He picked up a small wooden disk, laid it flat on a sheet of paper and traced a circle around it. He slid the disk sideways, drew another circle which kissed the first and then repeated the process, ending with three circles in a line. Placing a finger at each end of the row, he said, “From here to here is exactly three diameters, right?”
“That’s right,” Toller said uneasily, wondering if he had missed something.
“Now we come to the amazing part.” Lain made an ink mark on the edge of the disk and placed it vertically on the paper, carefully ensuring that the mark was at an outermost edge of the three circles. After glancing up at Toller to make sure he was paying proper attention, Lain slowly rolled the disk straight across frie row. The mark on its rim described a lazy curve and came down precisely on the outermost edge of the last circle.
“Demonstration ended,” Lain announced. “And that’s part of what I’m writing about.”
Toller blinked at him. “The circumference of a wheel being equal to three diameters?”
“The fact that it is exactly equal to three diameters. That demonstration was quite crude, but even when we go to the limits of measurement the ratio is exactly three. Does that not strike you as being rather astonishing?”
“Why should it?” Toller said, his puzzlement growing. “If that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is.”
“Yes, but why should it be exactly three? That and things like the fact that we have twelve fingers make whole areas of calculation absurdly easy. It’s almost like an unwarranted gift from nature.”
“But…But that’s the way it is. What else could it be?”
“Now you’re approaching the theme of the essay. There may be some other… place… where the ratio is three-and-a-quarter, or perhaps only two-and-a-half. In fact, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be some completely irrational number which would give mathematicians headaches.”
“Some other place,” Toller said. “You mean another world? LikeFarland?”
“No.” Lain gave him a look which was both frank and enigmatic. “I mean another totality — where physical laws and constants differ from those we know.”
Toller stared back at his brother as he strove to penetrate the barrier which had slid into place between them. “It is all very interesting,” he said. “I can see why the essay has taken you so long.”
Lain laughed aloud and came round the desk to embrace Toller. “I love you, little brother.”
“I love you.”
“Good! I want you to keep that in mind when Leddravohr arrives. I’m a committed pacifist, Toller, and I eschew all violence. The fact that I am no match for Leddravo.hr is an irrelevance — I would behave towards him in exactly the same way were our social status and physiques transposed. Leddravohr and his kind are part of the past, whereas we represent the future. So I want you to swear that no matter what insult Leddravohr offers me, you will stay apart and leave the conduct of my affairs strictly to me.”
“I’m a different person now,” Toller said, stepping back. “Besides, Leddravohr might be in a good mood.”
“I want your word, Toller.”
“You have it. Besides, it’s in my own interests to keep on the right side of Leddravohr if I want to be a skyship pilot.” Toller was belatedly shocked by the content of his own words. “Lain, why are we taking all this so calmly? We have just been told that the world as we know it is coming to an end…and that some of us have to try reaching another planet… yet we’re all going about our ordinary business as though everything was normal. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s a more natural re
action than you might think. And don’t forget the migration flight is only a contingency at this stage — it might never happen.”
“The war with Chamteth is going to happen.”
“That is the King’s responsibility,” Lain said, his voice suddenly brusque. “It can’t be laid at my door. I have to get on with my work now.”
“I should see how my lord is faring.” As Toller walked along the corridor to the main stair he again wondered why Leddravohr had chosen to come to the Square House instead of visiting Glo at the much larger Greenmount Peel. The sunwriter message from the palace had baldly stated that the Princes Leddravohr and Chakkell would arrive at the house before littlenight for initial technical briefings, and the infirm Glo had been obliged to journey out to meet them. It was now well into aftday and Glo would be growing tired, his strength further sapped by the effort of trying to hide his disability.
Toller descended to the entrance hall and turned left into the dayroom where he had left Glo in the temporary care of Fera. The two had a very comfortable relationship because of — Toller suspected — rather than in spite of her lowly origin and unpolished manner. It was another of Glo’s little affectations, a way of reminding those around him that there was more to him than the cloistered philosopher. He was seated at a table reading a small book, and Fera was standing by a window gazing out at the mesh-mosaic of the sky. She was wearing a simple one piece garment of pale green cambric which showed off her statuesque form.
She turned on hearing Toller enter the room and said, “This is boring. I want to go home.”
“I thought you wanted to see a real live prince at close quarters.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“They’re bound to be here soon,” Toller said. “Why don’t you be like my lord and pass the time by reading?”
Fera mouthed silently, carefully forming the swear words so that there would be no doubt about what she thought of the idea. “It wouldn’t be so bad if there was even some food.”
“But you ate less than an hour ago!” Toller ran a humorously critical eye over his gradewife’s figure. “No wonder you’re getting fat.”
“I’m not!” Fera slapped her belly inwards and contracted her stomach, an action which caused a voluptuous ballooning of her breasts. Toller viewed the display with affectionate appreciation. It was a frequent source of wonder to him that Fera, in spite of her appetite and habit of spending entire days lolling in bed, looked almost exactly as she had done two years earlier. The only noticeable change was that her chipped tooth had begun to turn grey. She devoted much time to rubbing it with white powders, supposed to contain crushed pearls, which she obtained from the Samlue market.
Lord Glo looked up from his book, his clapped-in face momentarily enlivened. “Take the woman upstairs,” he said to Toller. “That’s what I’d do were I five years younger.”
Fera correctly assessed his mood and produced the expected ribaldry, “ I wish you were five years younger, my lord — merely mounting the stairs would be enough to finish my husband.”
Glo gave a gratified whinny.
“In that case, we’ll do it right here,” Toller said. He darted forward, put his arms around Fera and drew her close to him, half-seriously simulating passion. There was an undeniable element of providing sexual titillation for Glo in what he and Fera were doing, but such was the relationship the three had built up that the overriding motif was one of companionship and friendly clowning. After a few seconds of intimate contact, however, Toller felt Fera move against him with a hint of genuine purpose.
“Do you still have the use of your old bedroom?” she whispered, pressing her lips to his ear. “I’m beginning to feel like.…” She stopped speaking and although she remained in his arms he knew that somebody had entered the room.
He turned and saw Gesalla Maraquine regarding him with cool disdain, the familiar expression she seemed to reserve just for him. Her dark filmy clothing emphasised her slimness. It was the first time they had met in almost two years and he was struck by the fact that, as with Fera, her appearance had not altered in any significant way. The sickness associated with her second pregnancy — which had caused her to miss the littlenight meal — had invested her pale features with a near-numinous dignity which somehow made him feel that he was a stranger to all that was important in life.
“Good aftday, Gesalla,” he said. “I see you haven’t lost your knack of materialising at precisely the wrong moment.” Fera slipped away from him. He smiled and looked down at Glo, expecting his moral support, but Glo indulged in playful treachery by gazing fixedly at his book, pretending to be so lost in it that he had been unaware of what Toller and Fera were doing.
Gesalla’s grey eyes considered Toller briefly while she decided if he merited a reply, then she turned her attention to Glo. “My lord, Prince Chakkell’s equerry is in the precinct. He reports that the Princes Chakkell and Leddravohr are on their way up the hill.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Glo closed his book and waited until Gesalla had left the room before baring the ruins of his lower teeth at Toller. “I thought you weren’t…hmm… afraid of that one.”
Toller was indignant. “Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”
“Huh!” Fera had returned to her position by the window. “What was wrong with it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said she came in at the wrong moment. What was wrong with it?”
Toller was staring at her, exasperated and speechless, when Glo tugged his sleeve to signal that he wanted to get to his feet. In the entrance hall there were footfalls and the sound of a man’s voice. Toller helped Glo to stand up and lock the verticals of his cane frame. They walked together into the hall, with Toller inconspicuously taking much of Glo’s weight. Lain and Gesalla were being addressed by the equerry, who was aged about forty and had tallowy skin and out-turned liver-coloured lips. His dark green tunic and breeches were foppishly decorated with lines of tiny crystal beads and he wore the narrow sword of a duellist.
“I am Canrell Zotiern, representing Prince Chakkell,” he announced with an imperiousness which would have been better suited to his master. “Lord Glo and members of the Maraquine family — no others — will stand here in line facing the door and will await the arrival of the prince.”
Toller, who was shocked by Zotiern’s arrogance, assisted Glo to the indicated place beside Lain and Gesalla. He glanced at Glo, expecting him to issue the proper reprimand, but the older man seemed too preoccupied with the laboured mechanics of walking to have noticed anything amiss. Several of the household servants watched silently from the door leading to the kitchens. Beyond the archway of the main entrance the mounted soldiers of Chakkell’s personal guard disturbed the flow of light into the hall. Toller became aware that the equerry was looking at him.
“You! The body servant!” Zotiern called out. “Are you deaf? Get back to your quarters.”
“My personal attendant is a Maraquine, and he remains with me,” Glo said steadily.
Toller heard the exchange as across a tumultuous distance. The crimson drumming was something he had not experienced in a long time, and he was dismayed to find that his cultivated immunity to it was proved illusory. I’m a different person, he told himself, while a prickly chill moved across his brow. I AM a different person.
“And I have a warning for you,” Glo went on, speaking in high Kolcorronian and dredging up something of his old authority as he confronted Zotiern. “The unprecedented powers the King has accorded Leddravohr and Chakkell do not, as you appear to think, extend to their lackeys. I will tolerate no further violations of protocol from you.”
“A thousand apologies, my lord,” Zotiern said, insincere and unperturbed, consulting a list he had taken from his pocket. “Ah, yes — Toller Maraquine… and a spouse named Fera.” He swaggered closer to Toller. “While the subject of protocol is in the air, Toller Maraquine, where is this spouse of yours? Don’t you know that all female me
mbers of the household should be presented?”
“My wife is at hand,” Toller said coldly. “I will.…” He broke off as Fera, who must have been listening, appeared at the door of the dayroom. Moving with uncharacteristic demureness and timidity, she came towards Toller.
“Yes, I can see why you wanted to keep this one hidden,” Zotiern said. “I must make a closer inspection on behalf of the prince.”
As Fera was passing him he halted her by the expedient of grasping a handful of her hair. The drumming in Toller’s brain crashed into silence. He thrust out his left hand and hit Zotiern on the shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Zotiern went down sideways, landing on his hands and knees, and immediately sprang up again. His right hand was going for his sword and Toller knew that by the time he fully regained his feet the blade would be unsheathed. Propelled by instinct, rage and alarm, Toller went in on his opponent and struck him on the side of the neck with all the power of his right arm. Zotiern spun away, limbs flailing the air like the blades of a ptertha stick, crashed to the floor and slid several yards on the polished surface. He ended up lying on his back, unmoving, his head angled close to one shoulder. Gesalla gave a clear, high scream.
“What happens here?” The angry shout came from Prince Chakkell, who had just come through the entrance closely followed by four of his guard. He strode to Zotiern, bent over him briefly — his sparsely covered scalp glistening — and raised his eyes towards Toller, who was frozen in the attitude of combat.
“You! Again!” Chakkell’s swarthy countenance grew even darker. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“He insulted Lord Glo,” Toller said, meeting the prince’s gaze directly. “He also insulted me and molested my wife.”
“That is correct,” Glo put in. “Your man’s behaviour was quite inexcus—”
“Silence! I’ve had my fill of this doltish upstart!” Chakkell swung his arm, signalling his guards to move in on Toller. “Kill him!”
The soldiers came forward, drawing their black swords. Toller backed away, thinking of his own blade which he had left at home, until his heel touched the wall. The soldiers formed a semicircle and closed in on him, eyes slitted and intent beneath the rims of their brakka helmets. Beyond them Toller could see Gesalla hiding in Lain’s embrace; the grey-robed Glo rooted to the spot, his hand raised in ineffectual protest; and Fera watching him through latticed fingers. Until that moment the guards had remained equally distant from him, but now the one on the right was taking the initiative and the point of his sword was describing eager little circles as he prepared for the first thrust.
