Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [284]
He drew a gown round his shoulders and roused the slave woman who had served as his housekeeper since his wife died. He admired the Sibornalese. He had estimated that at this time of the Great Year there were possibly fifty million humans living in the seventeen countries of Campannlat; those countries could not agree with each other. Wars were endemic. Empires rose and fell. There was never peace.
In Sibornal, cold Sibornal, things fell out differently. In the seven countries of Sibornal lived an estimated twenty-five million humans. Those seven nations formed a strong alliance. Campannlat was incomparably richer than the northern continent, yet perpetual squabbles between its nations meant that little was achieved – except religions which thrived on desperation. This was why SartoriIrvrash hated the job of chancellor. He had a contempt for most of the men he worked for.
The chancellor had paid bribes, and knew as a result that Prince Taynth Indredd had brought to the palace a chest of weapons – the very weapons discussed yesterday. Clearly, they were designed as bargaining power, but what the bargain would be remained to be seen.
It was not improbable that the Sibornalese ambassador had also gained news of the chest of matchlocks. That could account for his hasty departure. He would be heading north, towards Hazziz and the nearest Sibornalese settlements. He should be brought back.
SartoriIrvrash sipped a mug of pellamountain tea which the slave woman brought and turned to the waiting officer.
‘I made a fabulous discovery yesterday regarding hoxneys, which influences the history of the world – a remarkable discovery! But who took account of it?’ He shook his bald head. ‘Learning means nothing, intrigue is everything. So I have to bestir myself at dawn to capture some fool riding north … What a botheration it is! Now. Who’s a good hoxneyman near at hand? One we can trust, if such exists. I know. The queen’s brother, YeferalOborol. Fetch him, will you? In his boots.’
When YeferalOborol appeared, SartoriIrvrash explained the situation.
‘Fetch this madman Pasharatid back. Ride hard and you’ll catch him up. Tell him – something. Let me think. Yes, tell him that the king has decided to make no commitment to Oldorando and Pannoval. Instead, he wishes to sign a treaty with Sibornal. Sibornal has a fleet of ships. Tell him we will offer them anchorage in Ottassol.’
‘What would Sibornalese ships be doing so far from home?’ YeferalOborol asked.
‘Leave him to decide that. Just persuade him to return here.’
‘Why do you want him back?’
SartoriIrvrash squeezed his hands together. ‘Guilt. That’s why the scerm has left so suddenly. I mean to find out exactly what he has done. There’s always more than arm up a Sibornalese sleeve. Now please go, and no more questions.’
YeferalOborol rode north through the city, through its streets which were even then crowded with early risers, and through the fields beyond. He rode steadily, trotting and walking his hoxney by turns.
He came to a bridge across the Mar, where that river flowed into the Takissa. A small fort stood, guarding the bridge. He stopped and changed to a fresh hoxney.
After another hour’s riding, when the heat was becoming intense, he stopped by a stream and drank. There were fresh hoxney-shoe prints by the water, which he hoped were those of Pasharatid’s mount.
He continued north. The country became less fertile. Habitation was scarce. The thordotter blew, parching throats, drying skins.
Giant boulders were strewn about the landscape. A century or so ago, this region had been popular with hermits, who built small churches beside or on top of the boulders. One or two old men could still be seen, but the intense heat had driven most of them away. Phagors worked patches of earth under the boulders; brilliant butterflies fluttered about their legs.
Behind one of the boulders, Io Pasharatid stood waiting for his pursuer. His mount was exhausted. Pasharatid