Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [327]
‘I don’t intend to hurt you, but cease this foolery and speak to me with the respect you owe me.’
‘Oh me, oh me! Speak to me in respect of my poor mother. You have planted horns upon her, you gardener in bogs!’ He gave a cry and fell back as his father struck him across the mouth.
‘Cease this unkind nonsense at once. Be silent. If you had kept your sanity and had been acceptable to Pannoval, then you might have married Simoda Tal in my place. Then we would have been spared much pain. Do you think only for yourself, boy?’
‘Yes, as I make my own scumber!’ He spat the words out.
‘You owe me something, who made you a prince,’ said the king with bitterness. ‘Or have you forgotten you’re a prince? We’ll lock you up at home until you come back to your right mind.’
With his free hand up to his bleeding mouth, Robayday muttered, ‘There’s more comfort in my wrong mind. I’d rather forget my rights.’
By this time, the two lieutenants had come up, swords out. The king turned, ordering them to put up their weapons, dismount, and take his son captive. As his attention was distracted, Robayday broke free of his father’s grasp and made off, with great leaps and whoops, among the trees.
One of the lieutenants put an arrow to his crossbow, but the king stopped him. Nor did he make any attempt to follow his son.
‘I not have liking to Robay,’ squealed Yuli.
Ignoring him, JandolAnganol mounted Lapwing and rode swiftly back to the palace. With his brows knitted, he resembled more than ever the eagle that gave him his nickname.
Back in the seclusion of his quarters, he submitted himself to pauk, as he rarely did. His soul sank down to the original beholder and he spoke with the gossie of his mother. She offered him full consolation. She reminded him that Robayday’s other grandmother was the wild Shannana, and told him not to worry. She said he should not hold himself guilty for the deaths of the Myrdolators, since they had intended treason to the state.
The fragile casket of dust offered JandolAnganol every verbal comfort. Yet his soul returned to his body troubled.
His wicked old father, still alive in the ponderous basements, was more practical. VarpalAnganol never ran out of advice.
‘Warm up the Pasharatid scandal. Get our agents to spread rumours. You must implicate Pasharatid’s wife, who impudently remains here to carry her husband’s office. Any tale against the Sibornalese is readily believed.’
‘And what am I to do regarding Robayday?’
The old man turned slightly in his chair and closed one eye. ‘Since you can do nothing about him, do nothing. But anything you could do to speed your divorce and get the marriage over with would be useful.’
JandolAnganol paced about the dungeon.
‘As to that, I’m in the hands of the C’Sarr now.’
The old man coughed. His lungs laboured before he spoke again. ‘Is it hot outside? Why do people keep saying it’s hot? Listen, our friends in Pannoval want you to be in the C’Sarr’s hands. That suits them but it doesn’t suit you. Hurry matters if you can. What news of MyrdemInggala?’
The king took his father’s advice. Agents with an armed escort were dispatched to distant Pannoval City beyond the Quzints, with a long address beseeching the C’Sarr of the Holy Pannovalan Empire to hasten the bill of divorce. With the address went icons and other gifts, including holy relics fabricated for the occasion.
But the Massacre of the Myrdolators, as that affair was now called, continued to exercise the minds of people and scritina. Agents reported rebellious movements in the city, and in other centres such as Ottassol. A scapegoat was needed. It had to be Chancellor SartoriIrvrash.
SartoriIrvrash – the Rushven once beloved of the king’s family – would make a popular victim. The world mistrusts intellectuals, and the scritina had particular reason to hate both his highhanded ways and his long speeches.
A search of the chancellor’s suite would be certain to reveal something