Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [624]
Shokerandit was visited by a warming memory of himself as a small boy, pulling a little toboggan, running towards the front steps. His father was standing there, at home for once, smiling, arms extended to him.
There was an armed sentry on the door now. The door was three parts enclosed in a small hut for the sentry’s protection. The sentry kicked on the panels of the front door until a slave opened up and took charge of Luterin.
In the windowless hall, gas jets burned against the wall, their nimbuses reflected in the polished marble. He saw immediately that the great vacant chair had gone.
‘Is my mother here?’ he asked the slave. The man merely gaped at him and led him up the stairs. Without emotional tone, he told himself that he should be the Master of Kharnabhar, as well as Keeper.
At the slave’s knock, a voice bade him enter. He stepped into his father’s old study, the room that had so often been locked against him during earlier years.
An old grey hound lay sprawled by the fire, woofing pettishly at Luterin’s arrival. Green logs hissed and smouldered in the grate. The room smelt of smoke, dog’s piss, and something resembling face powder. Beyond the thick-paned window lay snow and the infinite wordless universe.
A white-haired secretary, the hinges of whose lumbar region had rusted to force on him a resemblance to a crooked walking stick, approached. He munched his lips by way of greeting and offered Luterin a chair without any needless display of cordiality.
Luterin sat down. His gaze travelled round the room, which was still crammed with his father’s belongings. He took in the flintlocks and matchlocks of earlier days, the pictures and plate, the mullions and soffits, the orreries and oudenardes. Silverfish and woodworm went about their tasks in the room. The sliver of crumbling cake on the secretary’s desk was presumably of recent date.
The secretary had seated himself with an elbow by the cake.
‘The master is busy at present, with the Myrkwyr ceremony to come. He should not be long,’ said the secretary. After a pause, he added, regarding Luterin slyly, ‘I suppose you don’t recognise me?’
‘It’s rather bright in here.’
‘But I’m your father’s old secretary, Secretary Evanporil. I serve the new Master now.’
‘Do you miss my father?’
‘That’s hardly for me to say. I simply carry out the administration.’ He became busy with the papers on his desk.
‘Is my mother still here?’
The secretary looked up quickly. ‘She’s still here, yes.’
‘And Toress Lahl?’
‘I don’t know that name, sir.’
The silence of the rooms was filled with the dry rustle of paper. Luterin contained himself, rousing when the door opened. A tall thin man with a narrow face and peppery whiskers came in, bell clanking at waist. He stood there, wrapped in a black-and-brown keedrant, looking down at Luterin. Luterin stared back, trying to assess whether this was an official or an unofficial enemy.
‘Well … you are back at last in the world in which you have caused a great deal of havoc. Welcome. The Oligarchy has appointed me Master here – as distinct from any ecclesiastical duties. I’m the voice of the State in Kharnabhar. With the worsening weather, communications with Askitosh are more difficult than they were. We see to it that we get good food supplies from Rivenjk, otherwise military links are … rather weaker …’
This was drawn out sentence by sentence, as Luterin made no response.
‘Well, we will try to look after you, though I hardly think you can live in this house.’
‘This is my house.’
‘No. You have no house. This is the house of the Master and always has been.’
‘Then you have greatly profited by my act.’
‘There is profit in the world, yes. That’s true.’
Silence fell. The secretary came and proffered two glasses of yadahl. Luterin accepted one,