Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [326]
‘You should have let him drown. Fuggies can’t stand the water,’ said a merchant.
‘This is my vessel, and my word is law here,’ said Muntras, with a dark look. ‘If you have any objections to what goes on, I can put you off right now.’
The stallun lay panting on the deck in a spreading pool of water. Ichor ran from a wound in his head.
‘Give him a dram of Exaggerator. He’ll survive,’ said the captain. He turned away when the fierce Dimariamian liquor was brought forward and retired to his cabin.
Over his lifetime, he considered, his fellow human beings had grown nastier, more spiteful, less forgiving. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe the world was going to burn up. Well, at least he was going to retire in his own home town of Lordryardry, to a stout building overlooking the sea. Dimariam was always cooler than damned Campannlat. People were decent there.
He would call in on King JandolAnganol when in Matrassyl, on the principle that it was always wise to call on sovereigns of one’s acquaintance. The queen was gone, together with the ring he had once sold her; he must see about delivering her letter when he reached Ottassol. Meanwhile he would hear the latest news of the unfortunate queen of queens. Maybe he would also call on Matty; otherwise he would never see her again. He thought affectionately of her well-run whorehouse, better than all the squalid knocking-shops of Ottassol; although Matty herself had put on airs and went to church daily since the king rewarded her for her assistance after the Battle of the Cosgatt.
But what would he do in Dimariam when he was retired? That did need thought; his family was not a great source of comfort. Perhaps he could find some minor profitable mischief to keep him happy. He fell asleep with one hand resting on his musical instrument.
The stocky Ice Captain arrived at a city muted by the events recently played out on its stage.
The king’s problems were mounting. Reports from Randonan talked of soldiers deserting in companies. Despite constant prayer in the churches, crops were still failing. The Royal Armourer was having little success in manufacturing copies of the Sibornalese matchlocks. And Robayday returned.
JandolAnganol was in the hills with his hoxney Lapwing, walking through a copse beside his mount. Yuli trotted behind his master, delighted to be in the wilds. Two escorts rode behind at a distance. Robayday jumped from a tree and stood before his father.
He bowed deeply. ‘Why, it is the king himself, my master, walking in the woods with his new bride.’ Leaves fell from his hair.
‘Roba, I need you at Matrassyl. Why do you keep escaping?’ The king did not know whether to be pleased or angry at this sudden apparition.
‘To keep escaping is never to escape. Though what keeps me prisoner I know not. Difference must be between fresh air and grandfather’s dungeon … If I had no parents, then I might be free.’ He spoke with a roving eye, unfocused. His hair, like his speech, was tumbled. He was naked except for a kind of fur kilt over his genitals. His ribs showed, and his body was a tracery of scars and scratches. He carried a javelin.
This weapon he now stuck point first in the ground and ran to Yuli, clasping the runt’s arms, crying out in affection.
‘My dearest queen, how wonderful you look, so well dressed in that white fur with the red tassels! To keep off the sun, to hide your delectable body from all but this lecherous Other, who swings on you, no doubt, as if you were a bough. Or a sow. Or a broken vow.’
‘You make me hurted,’ cried the little phagor, struggling to get free.
JandolAnganol reached out to take his son’s arm, but Robayday darted to one side. He tugged a flowering creeper which hung from a caspiarn and, with a quick movement,