Helliconia: Helliconia Spring, Helliconia Summer, Helliconia Winter (109 page)

The second gun exploded more violently than the first. Splinters of wood struck the king’s chest armour. The sergeant had part of his jaw blown away.

The third gun would not fire. After repeated attempts, the ball rolled from its muzzle to the ground. The Royal Armourer laughed nervously, face ashen. ‘Better luck next time,’ he said.

There was better luck with the fourth gun. It went off as intended, and the ball buried itself near the edge of the target. It was a large target designed for archery and stood only two dozen paces away, but the firing was accounted a success.

The fifth gun cracked dismally along its barrel. The sixth gun fired its ball, although the target was missed.

The amourers stood close together, studying the ground at their feet.

SlanjivalIptrekira came to the king’s horse. He saluted again. His moustache trembled.

‘We make some progress, sire. Our charges are perhaps too strong, sire.’

‘On the contrary, your metals are too weak. Be back here again in a week’s time with six perfect weapons, or I’ll flay every member of your corps, from you downwards, and drive you skinless into the Cosgatt.’

He took one of the ruined guns, whistled up Yuli, and galloped away towards the palace, across the grey sward.

The innermost part of the palace-fortress – its heart, if palace-fortresses have hearts – was stifling. The sky above was overcast, and an echo of it was to be found on the ground, in every corner, on every ledge, cornice, moulding, nook and cranny, where the exhalations of distant Rustyjonnik refused to be swept away. Only when the king had passed through a thick wooden door, and then a second as thick as the first, did he escape the ash.

As the steps wound downwards, dark and cold thickened about him to embrace him like a soaked rug as he entered the subterranean set of chambers reserved for royal guests.

JandolAnganol strode through three interconnecting rooms. The first was the most fearful; it had served as a guard room, a kitchen, a mortuary, and a torture chamber, and still contained equipment relating to those earlier roles. The second was a bedroom, containing merely a bunk, though it too had served as a mortuary, and looked better suited to that purpose. In the end room sat VarpalAnganol.

The old king remained wrapped in a blanket, his feet against a grate in which smouldered a log fire. A high grille in the wall behind him allowed light to filter in and define him as a darkish lump on top of which a wispy skull was perched.

These things JandolAnganol had seen many times. The shape, the blanket, the chair, the grille, the floor, even the log that never burned properly in the dank atmosphere – all these did not alter through the years. It seemed as if only here, throughout his whole kingdom, could he look on enduring things.

Making a noise suggesting that he might need to clear his throat, the old king half-turned in his chair. His expression was half vacant, half crazy.

‘It’s I – Jan.’

‘I thought it was that same path again … where the fish jumped … You …’ He struggled to disentangle himself from his thoughts. ‘That’s you, Jan? Where’s Father? What time is it?’

‘Nearly fourteen, if that’s of any interest to you.’

‘Time’s always of interest.’ VarpalAnganol gave a ghostly chuckle. ‘Isn’t it time that Borlien bumped into Freyr?’

‘That’s an old wives’ tale. I’ve something to show you.’

‘What old wife? Your mother’s dead, lad. I haven’t seen her for … or was she here? I forget. It may warm this palace up a bit … I thought I smelt burning.’

‘It’s a volcano.’

‘I see. A volcano. I thought it might be Freyr. Sometimes my thoughts wander … Do you want to sit down, lad?’ He began struggling to his feet, but JandolAnganol pushed him back into the chair.

‘Have you found Roba yet? He’s born now, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know where he is – he’s out of his wits, certainly.’

The old king gave a cackle. ‘Very shrewd. Sanity can drive you mad, you know … You remember how the fish used to jump in that pool? Well, there always was something wild about Roba. Almost a man now, I suppose. If he’s not here, he can’t shut you up, can he? Nor can you marry him off. What’s her name? Cune. She’s gone, too.’

‘She’s in Gravabagalinien.’

‘Good. I hope he doesn’t kill her. Her mother was a fine woman. What about my old friend Rushven? Is Rushven dead? I don’t know what you do up there half the time. If you can halve time.’

‘Rushven’s gone. I told you. My agents report that he has fled to Sibornal, much good that will do him.’

Silence fell between them. JandolAnganol stood with matchlock in hand, reluctant to break into his father’s rambling thoughts. He was getting worse than ever.

‘Perhaps he’ll see the Great Wheel of Kharnabhar. It’s their sacred symbol, you know.’ With a struggle, and only by letting his blanket slip, he managed to screw his stiff old neck round to look at his son. ‘It’s their sacred symbol, I said.’

‘I know it.’

‘Then try and answer when I speak to you … What about that other fellow, the Uskuti, yes, Pasharatid? Did they catch him?’

‘No. His wife left too, a tenner ago.’

The old man sank back into the chair, sighing. His hands twitched nervously at the blanket. ‘Sounds to me as if Matrassyl’s almost empty.’

JandolAnganol turned his face away, towards the grey square of light. ‘Just me and the phagors.’

‘Did I ever tell you what Io Pasharatid used to do, Jan? When he was allowed to come and see me? Curious behaviour for a man of the northern continent. They are very self-controlled – not passionate, like the Borlienese.’

‘Did you scheme with him to overthrow me?’

‘I just sat here while he dragged a table through, a heavy table. He used to put it under that little window. Did you ever hear such a thing?’

JandolAnganol began to pace about the cell, darting his gaze into the corners as if seeking a way of escape.

‘He wanted to admire the view from your luxurious apartment.’

The figure in the chair gave a bleat of laughter. ‘Precisely so. Admiring the view. Well put. A good phrase. And the view was of … well, if you get the table yourself, lad, you will see. You will see the windows of MyrdemInggala’s apartments, and her verandah …’ He broke off for a dry cough which rattled in his throat. The king paced faster. ‘You get a view of the reservoir where Cune used to swim naked with her ladies-in-waiting. Before you sent her away this was, of course …’

‘What happened, Father?’

‘Well, that’s what happened. I told you but you didn’t listen. The ambassador used to climb on to that table and watch your queen with nothing on, or wearing only a piece of muslin … Very … very unorthodox behaviour for a Sibornalese. A Uskuti. Or for anyone really.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?’ He stood confronting the ancient shape of his father.

‘Heh. You would have killed him.’

‘I should have killed him. Yes. No one would have blamed me.’

‘The Sibornalese would have blamed you. Borlien would have been in worse trouble than it is already. You will not learn diplomatic sense. That’s why I didn’t tell you.’

JandolAnganol began to pace. ‘What a calculating old slanje you are! Surely you must have hated what Pasharatid was doing?’

‘No … what are women for? I have no objection to hate. It keeps you alive, keeps you warm of nights. Hate is what brings you down here. You came down here once, I forget what year it was, to talk about love, but I only know about—’

‘Enough!’ cried JandolAnganol, stamping his boot on the flags. ‘I shall never speak of love again, to you or anyone. Why do you never help me? Why didn’t you tell me what Pasharatid was up to? Did he ever meet secretly with Cune?’

‘Why don’t you grow up?’ Spite entered his voice.’ I expect he crept in to her warm nest every night …’

He cringed away, expecting a blow from his son’s raised hand. But JandolAnganol squatted by the chair instead.

‘I want you to look at something. Tell me what you would do.’

He lifted the homemade matchlock which had cracked along the barrel and placed it on his father’s knee.

‘It’s heavy. I don’t want it. Her garden’s all neglected now …’ The ex-king pushed it so that it fell on the floor. JandolAnganol let it lie there.

‘That gun was made by SlanjivalIptrekira’s corps. The barrel split on firing. Out of six guns I had him make, only one worked properly. Of the previous batch, none has worked. What has gone wrong? How is it that our weapon-makers’ corps, which claims to trace its foundation back for centuries, cannot make a simple gun?’

The old heap in the chair remained silent for a while, pulling ineffectually at its blanket. Then it spoke.

‘Things don’t get better for being old. Look at me. Look at the figure behind you … It may be that too many institutions are too old … What was I going to say? Rushven told me that the various trades corps were founded to exist through the Great Winter, to hand on their knowledge in secret from generation to
generation, so that their arts survived the black centuries until spring.’

‘I have heard him say as much … What follows?’

VarpalAnganol’s wheezy voice strengthened. ‘Why, what follows spring is summer. What follows seasons is that the corps perpetuate themselves, maybe losing a little knowledge from one generation to another but not gaining new knowledge. They become hidebound … Try to imagine what those centuries of darkness and frost were like – much like being stuck down in this hole for eternity, I imagine. Trees died. No wood. No charcoal. No fires for smelting properly … Probably it’s the smelting process at fault, by the look of that barrel. The furnaces … they may need renewing. Better methods, as the Sibornalese have …’

‘I’ll flog them all for their idleness. Then perhaps we’ll see some results.’

‘Not idleness, tradition. Try chopping Slanji’s head off and then offering rewards. That will encourage innovation.’

‘Yes. Yes, possibly.’ He picked up the gun and made for the door.

The old man called feebly to him. ‘What do you want the guns for?’

‘The Cosgatt. The Western Wars. What else?’

‘Shoot the enemies nearest your doorstep first. Teach Unndreid a lesson. Darvlish. Then you’ll be safer to fight farther away.’

‘I don’t need your advice on how to wage war.’

‘You’re afraid of Darvlish.’

‘I’m afraid of no one. Of myself, sometimes.’

‘Jan.’

‘Yes?’

‘Ask them to send me logs which burn, will you?’ He began to cough rackingly.

JandolAnganol knew he was only shamming.

To show himself properly humble, the king went to the great dome in the main square of Matrassyl. Archpriest BranzaBaginut greeted him at the North Door.

JandolAnganol prayed publicly among his people. Without thought, he took with him his pet runt, who stood patiently by
his master while the latter prostrated himself for an hour. Instead of pleasing his people, JandolAnganol displeased them by taking a phagor into the presence of Akhanaba.

His prayer, however, was heard by the All-Powerful, who confirmed that he should take VarpalAnganol’s advice regarding the Ironmakers Corps.

Yet JandolAnganol vacillated. He had enough enemies without taking on one of the corps, whose power in the land was traditional, and whose chiefs were represented on the scritina. After private prayer and scourging, he went lengthily into pauk, to be counselled by the fessup of his grandfather. The battered grey cage floating in obsidian comforted him. Again, he was encouraged to act.

‘To be holy is to be hard,’ he said to himself. He had promised the scritina that he would devote himself wholeheartedly to his country. So it should be. Matchlocks were necessary. They would compensate for lack of manpower. Matchlocks would bring back the golden age.

Accompanied by a mounted troop of the Royal First Phagorian Guard, JandolAnganol went to the quarters of the Ancient Corps of Ironmakers and Swordsmen and demanded admittance. The great shadowy place opened up to him. He entered their quarters, which led into the rock. Everything here spoke of long-dead generations. Smoke had come like age to blacken everything.

He was greeted by officers with ancient halbards in some kind of uniform, who tried to bar his way. Chief Ironmaster SlanjivalIptrekira came running with ginger whiskers bristling – apologising, yes, bowing, yes, but stating firmly that no nonmember of the corps (barring possibly the odd woman) had ever entered these premises, and that they had centuries-old charters showing their rights.

‘Fall back! I am king. I will inspect!’ shouted JandolAnganol. Giving a command to the phagorian guard, he moved forward. Still mounted on their armoured hoxneys, they surged into an inner courtyard, where the air stank of sulphur and tombs. The king climbed from his mount, going forward surrounded by a strong guard while other soldiers waited with the hoxneys.
Corpsmen came running, paused, scurried this way and that, dismayed at the invasion.

Red in the face, SlanjivalIptrekira still fell back before the king, protesting. JandolAnganol, showing his teeth in a holy snarl, drew his sword.

‘Run me through if you will,’ shouted the armourer. ‘You are for ever cursed for breaking in here!’