Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [491]
‘Have I the courage for battle?’ Luterin had asked the diviner.
Whereupon the old man had become busy on Luterin’s skull with calipers and other measuring devices before saying finally, ‘You are either a saint or a sinner, young master.’
‘That was not my question. My question was, am I hero or coward?’
‘It’s the same question. It needs courage to be a saint.’
‘And none to be a sinner?’ He thought of how he had not dared to join his friends.
Much nodding of the hairy old head. ‘That needs courage too. Everything needs courage. Even that tapeworm needed courage. Would you care to pass your life imprisoned in someone’s entrails? Even the entrails of a beautiful lady? If I told you that such a fate lay in your future, would you be happy?’
Impatient with his procrastination, Luterin said, ‘Are you going to give me an answer to my question?’
‘You will answer it yourself very soon. All I will say is that you will display great courage …’
‘But?’
A smile that pleaded forgiveness. ‘Because of your nature, young man. You will find yourself both sinner and saint. You will be a hero, but I think I see that you will behave like a scoundrel.’
He had recalled that conversation – and the tapeworm – all the way down to Isturiacha. Now he had become a hero, could he dare to be a scoundrel?
As he sat there, drinking but not singing, Umat Esikananzi grabbed him by the boot and pulled him forcibly nearer the fire.
‘Don’t be glum, old lad. We’re still alive, we’ve played the hero – you especially – and soon we’ll be back home.’ Umat had a big puddingy face rather like his father’s, but it beamed now. ‘The world’s a horribly empty place; that’s why we’re singing – to fill it up with noise. But you’ve got other things on your mind.’
‘Umat, your voice is the most melodious I ever heard, including a vulture’s, but I’m going to sleep.’
Umat waved an admonitory finger. ‘Ah, I thought as much. That fair captive of yours! Give her hell from me. And I promise not to tell Insil.’
He kicked Umat on the shin, ‘How Insil had the rotten luck to get a brother like you I’ll never know.’
Taking another swig of yadahl, Umat said cheerfully, ‘She’s a girl, is Insil. Come to think of it, she might be grateful to me if I took you by the scruff of your neck and made you get a bit of practice in.’
The whole group roared with laughter.
Shokerandit staggered to his feet and bid them good night. With an effort, he made for his own pitch, close by a cart. Despite the stars overhead, it seemed very dark. There was no aurora in these latitudes as there so often was in Kharnabhar.
Clutching his canteen, he half fell against the bulk of his yelk, which was staked to the ground by the tether burnt through its left ear. He went down on his knees and crawled to where the woman was.
Toress Lahl lay curled up small, hands grasping her knees. She stared up at him without speaking. Her face was pale in the obscurity. Her eyes reflected minutely the litter of stars in the sky above them.
He caught hold of her upper arm and thrust the canteen at her.
‘Drink some yadahl.’
Mutely she shook her head, a small decisive movement.
He clouted her over the side of the head and thrust the leather bottle in her face. ‘Drink this, you bitch, I said. It’ll put heart in you.’
Again the shake of head, but he took her arm and twisted it till she cried out. Then she grasped the canteen and took a swallow of the fiery liquor.
‘It’s good for you. Drink more.’
She coughed and spluttered over it, so that her spittle lighted on his cheek. Shokerandit kissed her forcibly on the lips.
‘Have mercy, I beg you. You are not a barbarian.’ She spoke Sibish well enough, but with a heavy accent, not unpleasant to his ear.
‘You are my prisoner, woman. No fine airs from you. Whoever you were, you are mine now, part of my victory. Even the Archpriest would do with you as I intend, were