Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [506]
He hired musicians from the village to serenade her.
The woman in her turn, driven to ecstasies by the first man in her life who knew nothing about the planting of potatoes and pellamountain, danced for him on his verandah in the nude, wearing only the bracelets he gave her, and sang the wild zyganke.
It could not last. A lugubrious quality in the countryside could not tolerate such exuberance. One night, Fashnalgid’s two brothers rolled up their sleeves, rushed into the love nest, kicked over the clavichord, and bounced Fashnalgid out of the house.
‘Abro Hakmo Astab!’ roared Fashnalgid. Not even the labourers on the estate were allowed to employ that vile expression aloud.
He picked himself up and dusted himself down in the darkness. The two-headed goat chewed at his trousers.
Fashnalgid stationed himself under his old father’s window, to shout insults and supplications. ‘You and Mother have had a happy life, damn you. You’re of the generation which regarded love as a matter of will. “Will marks us from the animal, and love from lovelessness,” as sayeth the poet. You married equally for life, do you hear, you old fool? Well, things are different now, Will’s given way to weather …
‘You have to grab love when you can now … Didn’t you have a parental duty to make me happy? Eh? Reply, you biwacking old loon. If you’ve been so sherbing happy, why couldn’t you have given me a happy disposition? You’ve given me nothing else. Why should I always be so miserable?’
No answer came from the dark house. A doll dressed as a soldier sailed from one of the windows and struck him on the side of the head.
There was nothing for it but to return to his regiment in Askitosh. But news travelled fast among the landed families. Scandal followed Fashnalgid. As ill fortune would have it, Major Gardeterark was an uncle of the woman he had disgraced, of that very woman who had so recently danced naked on his verandah and sung the wild zyganke. From then on, Harbin Fashnalgid’s position in the regiment became one of increasing difficulty.
His money went on obscure books as well as women and drink. He was accumulating a case against the Oligarchy, discovering just how the authoritarian grip on the Northern Continent had increased over the sleepy centuries of autumn. Searching through the rubbish in an antiquarian’s attic, he came across a list of entitlements of Uskuti estates of over a certain annual income; the Fashnalgid estate was listed. These estates had ‘pledged assignments to the Oligarchy’. This phrase was not explained.
Fashnalgid fulfilled his military duties while brooding over that phrase. He became convinced that he was himself part of the property assigned.
Between bouts of drinking and wenching, he recalled some of his father’s boasts. Had not the old man once claimed to have seen the Oligarch himself? Nobody had seen the Oligarch. There was no portrait of the Oligarch. No vision of the Oligarch existed in Fashnalgid’s mind, except possibly a pair of great claws reaching over the lands of Sibornal.
After garrison duties one evening, Fashnalgid ordered his personal servant to saddle up his hoxney and rode furiously out to his father’s estate.
His brothers snarled at him like curs. Nor was he allowed as much as a glimpse of his light of love, except for a bare arm disappearing round a door as she was dragged away. He recognised the bracelets on the lovely wrist. How they had rattled when she danced!
His father