Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [623]
He made no response when eventually he was left at one end of what seemed to him an immense chamber. The Keeper sat at the far end on a wooden throne, flanked by two boys in ecclesiastical garb. The dignitary beckoned Luterin to approach.
He stepped gingerly through the lighted space, awed by the number of paces it required to reach the dais.
The Keeper was an enormous man who had draped himself in a purple gown. His face seemed about to burst. Like his gown, it was purple, and mottled with veins climbing the cheeks and nose like vines. His eyes were watery, his mouth moist. Luterin had forgotten there were such faces, and studied it as an object of curiosity while it studied him.
‘Bow,’ hissed one of the attendant children, so he bowed.
The Keeper spoke in a throttled kind of voice. ‘You are back among us, Luterin Shokerandit. Throughout the last ten years, you have been under the Church’s care – otherwise you would probably have been poisoned by your enemies, in revenge for your act of patricide.’
‘Who are my enemies?’
The watery eyes were squeezed between folds of lid. ‘Oh, the slayer of the Oligarch has enemies everywhere, official and unofficial. But they were mainly the Church’s enemies too. We shall continue to do what we can for you. There is a private feeling that … we owe you something.’ He laughed. ‘We could help you to leave Kharnabhar.’
‘I have no wish to leave Kharnabhar. It’s my home.’ The watery eyes watched his mouth rather than his eyes when he spoke.
‘You may change your mind. Now, you must report to the Master of Kharnabhar. Once, if you remember, the offices of Master and Keeper of the Wheel were combined. With the schism between Church and State, the two offices are separate.’
‘Sir, may I ask a question?’
‘Ask it.’
‘There’s much to understand … Does the Church hold me to be saint or sinner?’
The Keeper endeavoured to clear his throat. ‘The Church cannot condone patricide, so I suppose that officially you are a sinner. How could it be otherwise? You might have worked that out, I would have thought, during your ten years below … However, personally, speaking ex officio … I’d say you rid the world of a villain, and I regard you as a saint.’ He laughed.
So this must be an unofficial enemy, thought Luterin. He bowed, and turned to walk away when the Keeper called him back.
The Keeper heaved himself to his feet. ‘You don’t recognise me? I’m Wheel-Keeper Ebstok Esikananzi. Ebstok – an old friend. You once had hopes of marrying my daughter, Insil. As you see, I have risen to a post of distinction.’
‘If my father had lived, you would never have become Keeper.’
‘Who’s to blame for that? You be grateful that I’m grateful.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Luterin, and left the august presence, preoccupied by the remark regarding Insil.
He had no idea where he was supposed to go to report to the Master of Kharnabhar. But Keeper Esikananzi had arranged everything. A liveried slave awaited Luterin with a sledge, with furs to protect him from the cold.
The speed of the sledge overwhelmed him, and the jingle of the animals’ harness bells. As soon as the vehicle started to move, he closed his eyes and held tight. There were voices like birds crying, and the song of the runners on the ice, reminding him of something – he knew not what.
The air smelt brittle. From what little he glimpsed of Kharnabhar the pilgrims had all gone. The houses were shuttered. Everything looked drabber and smaller than he remembered it. Lights gleamed here and there in upper windows or in trading stores which remained open. The light was still painful to his eyes. He slumped back, marshalling his memories of Ebstok Esikananzi. He had known this crony of his father’s since childhood, and had never taken to the man; it was Ebstok who should be called to account for his daughter Insil’s bitterness.
The sledge rattled and jolted, its bells merrily jingling. Above their tinny sound came the tongue of a heavier bell.
He forced himself to look about.
They were sweeping through massive gates.