Helliconia, page 77
Her words struck the banqueters to silence. Then a great murmur of acclamation arose. Many eyes turned towards where SartoriIrvrash sat white-faced.
‘We have not / will not enough troops to hold down all of Borlien by force. Our plan is to annex and subdue by means provided unwittingly by the Borlienese king, JandolAnganol. Once we subdue Borlien, we can strike at Pannoval from the south as well as the north.’
The banqueters began clapping before the fair Admiral had finished. They smiled first at each other and then at SartoriIrvrash, who kept his gaze firmly on the finely turned lips of the Admiral.
‘We have a fleet ready to sail,’ said those lips. ‘We anticipate that Chancellor SartoriIrvrash will sail with it to play his vital role. His reward will be great.’
Again applause, rationed to a few hand claps.
‘The fleet will sail westward. I shall be in command aboard the Golden Friendship. We intend / shall sail round the coast of Campannlat finally approaching the Bay of Gravabagalinien, where Queen MyrdemInggala is / will exiled, from the west. The chancellor and I will stop to conduct the queen from that place of exile, while the rest of the fleet intend / will sail on to bombard Ottassol, Borlien’s largest port, until it capitulates / has capitulated.
‘The queen is / was / will well-loved by her people. SartoriIrvrash will proclaim a new government for Ottassol under the queen, with himself as prime minister. No battle need be fought.
‘You will / should appreciate the feasibility of this plan. Our distinguished ally and the barbarian queen, descended from the Thribriat Shannana, are both united in a hatred of King JandolAnganol. The queen will be happy to be reinstated. She will of course be under our supervision.
‘Once Ottassol is / can secure, our boats and soldiery will move upriver to take over the capital, Matrassyl. My understanding, based on agents’ reports, is that we shall / can find allies there, notably the queen’s old father and his faction. The king’s insecure rule will be easily ended. His life the same. The world can do without such phagor lovers.
‘With Borlien fallen into our hands, we execute a sabre slash northwards, right across the Savage Continent, from Ottassol in the south to Rungobandryaskosh.
‘We are hastening matters forward now that you are here. Rest, friends, for action lies ahead, action of a most glorious sort. We plan that a good part of the fleet will / can / should sail at Freyr-rise, two days from now, God willing.
‘A great future dawns / will dawn.’
This time, the applause was unrationed.
XII
The Downstream Passenger Trade
‘The brute, unchanging ignorance of the people … They labour and do not improve their lot. Or they don’t labour. It makes no difference. They’re interested in nothing beyond their own village – no, beyond their own belly buttons. Look at them, idle lot! If I were that stupid, I’d still be a pedlar in Oldorando City Park …’
The philosopher making these comments was sprawling among cushions, with cushions behind his head and another under his bare feet. By his right hand, he had a glass of his favourite Exaggerator, to which crushed ice and lemon had been added, while his left arm was wrapped about a young woman with whose left breast he was idly toying.
The audience to whom he was making these comments – excluding the young woman, whose eyes were closed – were two in number. His son leaned against the rail of the boat on which they were travelling, his eyes half closed and his mouth half open. This youth had a bunch of yellow-blue gwing-gwings by his side to eat and occasionally spat a gwing-gwing stone at other river traffic.
Propped up against the fo’c’sle where he was shaded from the sun lay a pallid young man who sweated a good deal and muttered still more. He was covered by a striped sheet, beneath which he moved his legs restlessly; he was running a fever and had been ever since the boat left Matrassyl on its journey south. This being one of his less lucid intervals, he scarcely seemed any more capable than the gwing-gwing eater of receiving the older man’s wisdom.
This did not deter the older man.
‘At that last stop we made, I asked one old fool who was leaning against a tree if he thought it was getting hotter, year by year. All he said was, “It’s always been hot, skipper, since the day the world was made.” “And what day might that be?” I asked him. “In the Ice Age, as I heard tell.” That was his reply. In the Ice Age! They’ve no sense. Nothing gets through to them. Take religion. I live in a religious country, but I don’t believe in Akhanaba. I don’t believe in Akhanaba because I have reasoned things out. These natives in these villages, they don’t believe in Akhanaba – not because they have reasoned things out as I have, because they don’t reason …’
He interrupted himself to take a firmer grasp on the left breast and a long drink of the Exaggerator.
‘… They don’t believe in Akhanaba because they’re too stupid to believe. They worship all kinds of demons, Others, Nondads, dragons. They still believe in dragons … They worship MyrdemInggala. I asked my manager to show me round the village. In almost every hut, there hung a print of MyrdemInggala. No more like her than I am, but intended for her … But, as I say, they’re interested in nothing beyond their own belly buttons.’
‘You’re hurting my bips,’ the young lady said.
He yawned and covered his mouth with his right hand, wondering absently why he enjoyed the company of strangers so much more than that of his own family: not just his rather stupid son, but his uninteresting wife and overbearing daughter. It would suit him to sail for ever down the river with this girl and this youth who claimed to come from another world.
‘It’s soothing, the sound of the river. I like it. I’ll miss it when I’m retired. There’s proof that Akhanaba doesn’t exist. To make a complicated world like ours, with a steady supply of living people coming and going – rather like a supply of precious stones dug from the earth, polished, and sold off to customers – you would need to be really clever, god or no god. Isn’t that so? Isn’t it?’
He pinched with his left finger and thumb, so that the girl squealed and said, ‘Yes, if you say so.’
‘I do say so. Well, if you were so clever, what pleasure would it give you to sit up above the world and look down at the stupidity of these natives? You’d go out of your mind with the monotony of it, generation after generation, getting no better. “In the Ice Age …” By the beholder …’
Yawning, he let his eyelids close.
She jabbed him in the ribs. ‘All right, then. If you’re so clever, tell me who did make the world. If it wasn’t Akhanaba, who was it?’
‘You ask too many questions,’ he said.
Ice Captain Muntras fell asleep. He woke only when the Lordryardry Lady was preparing to moor for the night at Osoilima, where he was to enjoy the hospitality of the local branch of the Lordryardry Ice Trading Co. He had been enjoying the hospitality of each of his trading posts in turn, so that the journey downriver from Matrassyl had taken longer than was usually the case – almost as long as the upriver journey, when the boats of his ice-trading fleet were towed against the stream by teams of hoxneys.
One reason had caused the shrewd Ice Captain, in his younger days, to establish an outpost at Osoilima, and that reason loomed over them as the Lady tied up. It towered three hundred feet above the crests of the brassims which flourished hereabouts. It dominated the surrounding jungle, it lorded it over the wide river, it pondered on its reflection in the water. And it drew pilgrims from the fourteen corners of Campannlat, eager for reverence – and ice. It was the Osoilima Stone.
The local manager, a grey-haired man with a broad Dimariam accent, by name Grengo Pallos, came aboard and shook his employer’s hand warmly. He helped Div Muntras supervise passenger disembarkation. As phagors unloaded some bales of goods marked OSOILIMA, Pallos returned to the Ice Captain.
‘Only three passengers?’
‘Pilgrims. How’s trade?’
‘Not good. Have you nothing more for me?’
‘Nothing. They’ve grown lazy in Matrassyl. Upheavals at court. Bad for trade.’
‘So I hear. Spears and money never rattle together. Bad about the queen. Still, if we unite with Oldorando, it may encourage more pilgrims here. Hard times, Krillio, when even the devout say it’s too hot to travel. Where will it all end, I ask myself. You’re retiring at the right time.’
The Ice Captain drew Pallos aside. ‘I’ve got a special case here, and I don’t know what to make of him. He’s sick, his name’s BillishOwpin. He claims to have come from another world. Maybe he’s mad, but what he has to say is very interesting, if you can take it in. He thinks he’s dying. But I say he’s not. Could your old woman give him some special attention?’
‘As good as done. We’ll discuss the cost of accommodation in the morning.’
So Billy Xiao Pin was helped ashore. Also ashore went the young lady, by name AbathVasidol, who was getting a free cruise down to Ottassol. Her mother, an old friend of the captain’s, by name of Metty-Vasidol, kept a house on the outskirts of Matrassyl.
After the two traders had had a drink, they went to see Billy, now installed in the modest establishment ruled over by Pallos’s wife.
He was feeling better. He had been scrubbed down the backbone with a block of Lordryardry ice, a sovereign remedy for all ills. The fever had gone, he was no longer coughing or sneezing – as they left Matrassyl, his allergy vanished. The captain told him he was not going to die.
‘I shall die soon. Captain, but I am grateful for your kindness, all the same,’ said Billy. After the horrors of Matrassyl, it was bliss to be in the care of the Ice Captain.
‘You won’t die. It was that filthy volcano, Mount Rustyjonnick, pouring out its poison. Everyone in Matrassyl fell sick. Same symptoms as you – weepy eyes, sore throat, fever. You are fine now, fit to be on your feet. Never give in.’
Billy coughed weakly. ‘You might be right. My life may have been prolonged by sickness. I shall surely die of helico virus, since I have no immunity to it, but the volcano may have postponed that fate for a week or two. So I must make the most of life and freedom. Help me to stand up.’
In no time, he was walking about the room, laughing, stretching his arms.
Muntras and the manager’s wife stood by, smiling at him. ‘What a relief, what a relief!’ said Billy, ‘I was beginning to hate your world, Captain. I thought Matrassyl was going to be the death of me.’
‘It’s not a bad place when you get to know it.’
‘But religious!’
Muntras said, ‘Where you have mankind and phagors together, you will have religion. The clash of two unknowns generates that kind of thing.’
The wisdom of this remark impressed Billy, but Pallos’s wife ignored it and took a firm grip on his upper arm.
‘Why, you’re fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll wash you, and you’ll feel completely fit again. Then we’ll get some scoff into you, that’s what you need.’
Muntras said, ‘Yes, and I’ve another remedy for you, Billyish. I’ll send in this pleasant young lady, Abath, daughter of an old friend of mine. Very nice willing girl. Half an hour of her company will do you a power of good.’
Billy regarded him quizzically, and his cheeks grew red. ‘I told you I am of completely different stock from you, not being born on Helliconia … Would it work? Well, we’re identical physically. Would the young lady mind …?’
Muntras laughed heartily. ‘She’d probably prefer you to me. I know how you’re set on the queen, Billish, but don’t let that put you off. Use a little imagination, and Abath will be equal to the queen in every way.’
Billy’s face was a study in red. ‘Earth, what an experience … What can I say? Yes, send her in, please, and let’s see if it works …’
As the traders went out, Pallos laughed, rubbing his hands together, and said, ‘He certainly shows an experimental spirit. Will you charge him for the girl?’
Knowing Pallos’s mercenary nature, Muntras ignored this question. Perhaps catching the snub, Pallos asked hastily, ‘All his talk of dying – do you think he comes from another world? Is that possible?’
‘Let’s have a drink, and I’ll show you something he gave me.’ He summoned up Abath, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and sent her in to see Billish.
The evening shadows were taking on a velvet intensity. Batalix was in the western sky. The two men sat companionably on Pallos’s verandah with a bottle and a lantern between them. Muntras brought up his heavy fist, placed it on the table, and opened it.
In his palm lay Billy’s watch, with its three dials, where small figures flickered busily:
11 : 49 : 2 19 : 06 : 52 23 : 15 : 43
‘It’s a beauty. How much is it worth? Did he sell it to you?’ Pallos prodded it.
Muntras said, ‘It’s unique. According to Billish, it tells the time here in Borlien – this centre dial – and the time on the world he comes from, and the time on another world he does not come from. In other words, you could say this jewel is proof of his farfetched tale. To make a complicated watch like this, you’d need to be really clever. Not mad. More like a god … Not but what I can’t rid my mind of the notion he is mad. Billish says the world which made this timepiece, the world he comes from, rides above us, looking down on the stupidity of the natives. And it’s a world made entirely by men like us. No gods involved.’
Pallos took a sip of Exaggerator and shook his head. ‘I hope they can’t read my trading figures.’
A mist was creeping in from the river. A mother was calling her small boy home, warning him that greebs would crawl out of the water and eat him in a single gulp.
‘King JandolAnganol had this elegant timepiece in his hand. He took it for an evil omen, that was plain. Pannoval, Oldorando, and Borlien have to unite, and it’s only their hrattocking religion that unites them. The king is committed on such a course that he can’t allow one element of religious doubt …’
He tapped the timepiece with a plump finger. ‘This amazing jewel is an element of doubt, right enough. A message of hope or fear, depending who you are.’ He tapped his breast pocket. ‘Like other messages I have entrusted to me. The world’s changing, Grengo, I tell you, and not before time.’
Pallos sighed and took a sip from his tumbler.
‘Do you want to see my books, Krillio? I warn you takings are down on last year.’
The Ice Captain looked across the top of the lantern at Pallos, whose face the light made cadaverous.
‘I’m going to ask you a personal question, Grengo. Have you any curiosity? I show this timepiece, I tell you it came from another world. There’s this odd feller Billish, getting his first ever rumbo on this earth – what could be going through his harneys? Doesn’t all this waken your sense of mystery? Don’t you want to know more? Isn’t there something beyond your ledgers?’
Pallos scratched his cheek and then worked down to his chin, setting his head to one side to do so. ‘All those stories we listened to as kids … You heard that woman call to her son that a greeb would get him? There’s not been a greeb seen at Osoilima since I came here, and that’s getting on for eight years. All killed for their skins. I wish I could trap one. The skins are worth a good price. No, Billish is telling you a story, boss. How would men go about making a world? Even if it was true, what then? It wouldn’t help my figures, would it now?’
Muntras sighed, shuffling his chair round so as to be able to peer down into the mist, perhaps hoping that a greeb would emerge to prove Pallos wrong.
‘When young Billish comes off the kooni, I think I’ll take him up to the top of the Stone, if he’s strong enough. Ask your old woman to get us some supper, will you?’
Muntras sat where he was when the local manager had gone. He lit a veronikane and remained smoking contentedly, absently watching the smoke ascend to the rafters. He did not even wonder where his son was, for he knew: Div would be in the local bazaar. Muntras’s thoughts were much further away.
Eventually, Billy and Abath appeared, holding hands. Billy’s face was only just wide enough to accommodate his grin. They sat down at the table without speaking. Without speaking, Muntras offered the Exaggerator bottle. Billy shook his head.
It was easy to see that he had undergone an emotional experience. Abath looked as composed as if she had just returned from church with her mother. Her features resembled a younger Metty’s, but there was a lustre about her which Metty had lacked for many a day. Her gaze was bold, where Metty’s was slightly furtive, but there was, thought Muntras, who considered himself a judge of human nature, the same kind of reserve to her as to her mother. She was escaping some kind of trouble in Matrassyl, which might account for her guarded manner. Muntras was content just to admire her in her light dress, which emphasised her generous young breasts and echoed the chestnut brown of her hair.
Perhaps there was a god. Perhaps he kept the world going, despite its idiocy, because of beauty like Abath’s …
At length, Muntras exhaled smoke and said, ‘So, don’t they go in for trittoming between man and woman on your world, Billish?’
‘We are taught to trittom, as you call it, from the age of eight. It’s a discipline. But down here – I mean with Abath – it’s … the reverse of discipline … it’s real … Oh, Abathy …’ Exhaling her name as Muntras exhaled smoke, he seized her and began to kiss her passionately, breaking off only to utter endearments. She responded in a minor key.
Billy shook Muntras’s hand. ‘You were right, my friend, she is the equal of the queen in every way. Better.’
The captain said, ‘Perhaps all women are equal and it is only in the imagination of men that differences lie. Remember the old saying, “Every rumbo romps home to the same rhythm …” You have a very vivid imagination, so I imagine that you found her a very good trittom in consequence … Are koonis in our world as deep as in yours?’
‘Deeper, softer, richer …’ He fell to kissing the girl again.
The captain sighed. ‘Enough of that. Passion is as boring as drunkenness in other men. Go away, Abath. I want some sense out of this young man, if possible … Billish, if you have managed to see over the top of your own prodo since we landed, you may have noticed the Osoilima Stone. You and I are going to ascend it. If you are well enough to mount Abath, you are well enough to mount the Stone.’
‘We have not / will not enough troops to hold down all of Borlien by force. Our plan is to annex and subdue by means provided unwittingly by the Borlienese king, JandolAnganol. Once we subdue Borlien, we can strike at Pannoval from the south as well as the north.’
The banqueters began clapping before the fair Admiral had finished. They smiled first at each other and then at SartoriIrvrash, who kept his gaze firmly on the finely turned lips of the Admiral.
‘We have a fleet ready to sail,’ said those lips. ‘We anticipate that Chancellor SartoriIrvrash will sail with it to play his vital role. His reward will be great.’
Again applause, rationed to a few hand claps.
‘The fleet will sail westward. I shall be in command aboard the Golden Friendship. We intend / shall sail round the coast of Campannlat finally approaching the Bay of Gravabagalinien, where Queen MyrdemInggala is / will exiled, from the west. The chancellor and I will stop to conduct the queen from that place of exile, while the rest of the fleet intend / will sail on to bombard Ottassol, Borlien’s largest port, until it capitulates / has capitulated.
‘The queen is / was / will well-loved by her people. SartoriIrvrash will proclaim a new government for Ottassol under the queen, with himself as prime minister. No battle need be fought.
‘You will / should appreciate the feasibility of this plan. Our distinguished ally and the barbarian queen, descended from the Thribriat Shannana, are both united in a hatred of King JandolAnganol. The queen will be happy to be reinstated. She will of course be under our supervision.
‘Once Ottassol is / can secure, our boats and soldiery will move upriver to take over the capital, Matrassyl. My understanding, based on agents’ reports, is that we shall / can find allies there, notably the queen’s old father and his faction. The king’s insecure rule will be easily ended. His life the same. The world can do without such phagor lovers.
‘With Borlien fallen into our hands, we execute a sabre slash northwards, right across the Savage Continent, from Ottassol in the south to Rungobandryaskosh.
‘We are hastening matters forward now that you are here. Rest, friends, for action lies ahead, action of a most glorious sort. We plan that a good part of the fleet will / can / should sail at Freyr-rise, two days from now, God willing.
‘A great future dawns / will dawn.’
This time, the applause was unrationed.
XII
The Downstream Passenger Trade
‘The brute, unchanging ignorance of the people … They labour and do not improve their lot. Or they don’t labour. It makes no difference. They’re interested in nothing beyond their own village – no, beyond their own belly buttons. Look at them, idle lot! If I were that stupid, I’d still be a pedlar in Oldorando City Park …’
The philosopher making these comments was sprawling among cushions, with cushions behind his head and another under his bare feet. By his right hand, he had a glass of his favourite Exaggerator, to which crushed ice and lemon had been added, while his left arm was wrapped about a young woman with whose left breast he was idly toying.
The audience to whom he was making these comments – excluding the young woman, whose eyes were closed – were two in number. His son leaned against the rail of the boat on which they were travelling, his eyes half closed and his mouth half open. This youth had a bunch of yellow-blue gwing-gwings by his side to eat and occasionally spat a gwing-gwing stone at other river traffic.
Propped up against the fo’c’sle where he was shaded from the sun lay a pallid young man who sweated a good deal and muttered still more. He was covered by a striped sheet, beneath which he moved his legs restlessly; he was running a fever and had been ever since the boat left Matrassyl on its journey south. This being one of his less lucid intervals, he scarcely seemed any more capable than the gwing-gwing eater of receiving the older man’s wisdom.
This did not deter the older man.
‘At that last stop we made, I asked one old fool who was leaning against a tree if he thought it was getting hotter, year by year. All he said was, “It’s always been hot, skipper, since the day the world was made.” “And what day might that be?” I asked him. “In the Ice Age, as I heard tell.” That was his reply. In the Ice Age! They’ve no sense. Nothing gets through to them. Take religion. I live in a religious country, but I don’t believe in Akhanaba. I don’t believe in Akhanaba because I have reasoned things out. These natives in these villages, they don’t believe in Akhanaba – not because they have reasoned things out as I have, because they don’t reason …’
He interrupted himself to take a firmer grasp on the left breast and a long drink of the Exaggerator.
‘… They don’t believe in Akhanaba because they’re too stupid to believe. They worship all kinds of demons, Others, Nondads, dragons. They still believe in dragons … They worship MyrdemInggala. I asked my manager to show me round the village. In almost every hut, there hung a print of MyrdemInggala. No more like her than I am, but intended for her … But, as I say, they’re interested in nothing beyond their own belly buttons.’
‘You’re hurting my bips,’ the young lady said.
He yawned and covered his mouth with his right hand, wondering absently why he enjoyed the company of strangers so much more than that of his own family: not just his rather stupid son, but his uninteresting wife and overbearing daughter. It would suit him to sail for ever down the river with this girl and this youth who claimed to come from another world.
‘It’s soothing, the sound of the river. I like it. I’ll miss it when I’m retired. There’s proof that Akhanaba doesn’t exist. To make a complicated world like ours, with a steady supply of living people coming and going – rather like a supply of precious stones dug from the earth, polished, and sold off to customers – you would need to be really clever, god or no god. Isn’t that so? Isn’t it?’
He pinched with his left finger and thumb, so that the girl squealed and said, ‘Yes, if you say so.’
‘I do say so. Well, if you were so clever, what pleasure would it give you to sit up above the world and look down at the stupidity of these natives? You’d go out of your mind with the monotony of it, generation after generation, getting no better. “In the Ice Age …” By the beholder …’
Yawning, he let his eyelids close.
She jabbed him in the ribs. ‘All right, then. If you’re so clever, tell me who did make the world. If it wasn’t Akhanaba, who was it?’
‘You ask too many questions,’ he said.
Ice Captain Muntras fell asleep. He woke only when the Lordryardry Lady was preparing to moor for the night at Osoilima, where he was to enjoy the hospitality of the local branch of the Lordryardry Ice Trading Co. He had been enjoying the hospitality of each of his trading posts in turn, so that the journey downriver from Matrassyl had taken longer than was usually the case – almost as long as the upriver journey, when the boats of his ice-trading fleet were towed against the stream by teams of hoxneys.
One reason had caused the shrewd Ice Captain, in his younger days, to establish an outpost at Osoilima, and that reason loomed over them as the Lady tied up. It towered three hundred feet above the crests of the brassims which flourished hereabouts. It dominated the surrounding jungle, it lorded it over the wide river, it pondered on its reflection in the water. And it drew pilgrims from the fourteen corners of Campannlat, eager for reverence – and ice. It was the Osoilima Stone.
The local manager, a grey-haired man with a broad Dimariam accent, by name Grengo Pallos, came aboard and shook his employer’s hand warmly. He helped Div Muntras supervise passenger disembarkation. As phagors unloaded some bales of goods marked OSOILIMA, Pallos returned to the Ice Captain.
‘Only three passengers?’
‘Pilgrims. How’s trade?’
‘Not good. Have you nothing more for me?’
‘Nothing. They’ve grown lazy in Matrassyl. Upheavals at court. Bad for trade.’
‘So I hear. Spears and money never rattle together. Bad about the queen. Still, if we unite with Oldorando, it may encourage more pilgrims here. Hard times, Krillio, when even the devout say it’s too hot to travel. Where will it all end, I ask myself. You’re retiring at the right time.’
The Ice Captain drew Pallos aside. ‘I’ve got a special case here, and I don’t know what to make of him. He’s sick, his name’s BillishOwpin. He claims to have come from another world. Maybe he’s mad, but what he has to say is very interesting, if you can take it in. He thinks he’s dying. But I say he’s not. Could your old woman give him some special attention?’
‘As good as done. We’ll discuss the cost of accommodation in the morning.’
So Billy Xiao Pin was helped ashore. Also ashore went the young lady, by name AbathVasidol, who was getting a free cruise down to Ottassol. Her mother, an old friend of the captain’s, by name of Metty-Vasidol, kept a house on the outskirts of Matrassyl.
After the two traders had had a drink, they went to see Billy, now installed in the modest establishment ruled over by Pallos’s wife.
He was feeling better. He had been scrubbed down the backbone with a block of Lordryardry ice, a sovereign remedy for all ills. The fever had gone, he was no longer coughing or sneezing – as they left Matrassyl, his allergy vanished. The captain told him he was not going to die.
‘I shall die soon. Captain, but I am grateful for your kindness, all the same,’ said Billy. After the horrors of Matrassyl, it was bliss to be in the care of the Ice Captain.
‘You won’t die. It was that filthy volcano, Mount Rustyjonnick, pouring out its poison. Everyone in Matrassyl fell sick. Same symptoms as you – weepy eyes, sore throat, fever. You are fine now, fit to be on your feet. Never give in.’
Billy coughed weakly. ‘You might be right. My life may have been prolonged by sickness. I shall surely die of helico virus, since I have no immunity to it, but the volcano may have postponed that fate for a week or two. So I must make the most of life and freedom. Help me to stand up.’
In no time, he was walking about the room, laughing, stretching his arms.
Muntras and the manager’s wife stood by, smiling at him. ‘What a relief, what a relief!’ said Billy, ‘I was beginning to hate your world, Captain. I thought Matrassyl was going to be the death of me.’
‘It’s not a bad place when you get to know it.’
‘But religious!’
Muntras said, ‘Where you have mankind and phagors together, you will have religion. The clash of two unknowns generates that kind of thing.’
The wisdom of this remark impressed Billy, but Pallos’s wife ignored it and took a firm grip on his upper arm.
‘Why, you’re fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll wash you, and you’ll feel completely fit again. Then we’ll get some scoff into you, that’s what you need.’
Muntras said, ‘Yes, and I’ve another remedy for you, Billyish. I’ll send in this pleasant young lady, Abath, daughter of an old friend of mine. Very nice willing girl. Half an hour of her company will do you a power of good.’
Billy regarded him quizzically, and his cheeks grew red. ‘I told you I am of completely different stock from you, not being born on Helliconia … Would it work? Well, we’re identical physically. Would the young lady mind …?’
Muntras laughed heartily. ‘She’d probably prefer you to me. I know how you’re set on the queen, Billish, but don’t let that put you off. Use a little imagination, and Abath will be equal to the queen in every way.’
Billy’s face was a study in red. ‘Earth, what an experience … What can I say? Yes, send her in, please, and let’s see if it works …’
As the traders went out, Pallos laughed, rubbing his hands together, and said, ‘He certainly shows an experimental spirit. Will you charge him for the girl?’
Knowing Pallos’s mercenary nature, Muntras ignored this question. Perhaps catching the snub, Pallos asked hastily, ‘All his talk of dying – do you think he comes from another world? Is that possible?’
‘Let’s have a drink, and I’ll show you something he gave me.’ He summoned up Abath, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and sent her in to see Billish.
The evening shadows were taking on a velvet intensity. Batalix was in the western sky. The two men sat companionably on Pallos’s verandah with a bottle and a lantern between them. Muntras brought up his heavy fist, placed it on the table, and opened it.
In his palm lay Billy’s watch, with its three dials, where small figures flickered busily:
11 : 49 : 2 19 : 06 : 52 23 : 15 : 43
‘It’s a beauty. How much is it worth? Did he sell it to you?’ Pallos prodded it.
Muntras said, ‘It’s unique. According to Billish, it tells the time here in Borlien – this centre dial – and the time on the world he comes from, and the time on another world he does not come from. In other words, you could say this jewel is proof of his farfetched tale. To make a complicated watch like this, you’d need to be really clever. Not mad. More like a god … Not but what I can’t rid my mind of the notion he is mad. Billish says the world which made this timepiece, the world he comes from, rides above us, looking down on the stupidity of the natives. And it’s a world made entirely by men like us. No gods involved.’
Pallos took a sip of Exaggerator and shook his head. ‘I hope they can’t read my trading figures.’
A mist was creeping in from the river. A mother was calling her small boy home, warning him that greebs would crawl out of the water and eat him in a single gulp.
‘King JandolAnganol had this elegant timepiece in his hand. He took it for an evil omen, that was plain. Pannoval, Oldorando, and Borlien have to unite, and it’s only their hrattocking religion that unites them. The king is committed on such a course that he can’t allow one element of religious doubt …’
He tapped the timepiece with a plump finger. ‘This amazing jewel is an element of doubt, right enough. A message of hope or fear, depending who you are.’ He tapped his breast pocket. ‘Like other messages I have entrusted to me. The world’s changing, Grengo, I tell you, and not before time.’
Pallos sighed and took a sip from his tumbler.
‘Do you want to see my books, Krillio? I warn you takings are down on last year.’
The Ice Captain looked across the top of the lantern at Pallos, whose face the light made cadaverous.
‘I’m going to ask you a personal question, Grengo. Have you any curiosity? I show this timepiece, I tell you it came from another world. There’s this odd feller Billish, getting his first ever rumbo on this earth – what could be going through his harneys? Doesn’t all this waken your sense of mystery? Don’t you want to know more? Isn’t there something beyond your ledgers?’
Pallos scratched his cheek and then worked down to his chin, setting his head to one side to do so. ‘All those stories we listened to as kids … You heard that woman call to her son that a greeb would get him? There’s not been a greeb seen at Osoilima since I came here, and that’s getting on for eight years. All killed for their skins. I wish I could trap one. The skins are worth a good price. No, Billish is telling you a story, boss. How would men go about making a world? Even if it was true, what then? It wouldn’t help my figures, would it now?’
Muntras sighed, shuffling his chair round so as to be able to peer down into the mist, perhaps hoping that a greeb would emerge to prove Pallos wrong.
‘When young Billish comes off the kooni, I think I’ll take him up to the top of the Stone, if he’s strong enough. Ask your old woman to get us some supper, will you?’
Muntras sat where he was when the local manager had gone. He lit a veronikane and remained smoking contentedly, absently watching the smoke ascend to the rafters. He did not even wonder where his son was, for he knew: Div would be in the local bazaar. Muntras’s thoughts were much further away.
Eventually, Billy and Abath appeared, holding hands. Billy’s face was only just wide enough to accommodate his grin. They sat down at the table without speaking. Without speaking, Muntras offered the Exaggerator bottle. Billy shook his head.
It was easy to see that he had undergone an emotional experience. Abath looked as composed as if she had just returned from church with her mother. Her features resembled a younger Metty’s, but there was a lustre about her which Metty had lacked for many a day. Her gaze was bold, where Metty’s was slightly furtive, but there was, thought Muntras, who considered himself a judge of human nature, the same kind of reserve to her as to her mother. She was escaping some kind of trouble in Matrassyl, which might account for her guarded manner. Muntras was content just to admire her in her light dress, which emphasised her generous young breasts and echoed the chestnut brown of her hair.
Perhaps there was a god. Perhaps he kept the world going, despite its idiocy, because of beauty like Abath’s …
At length, Muntras exhaled smoke and said, ‘So, don’t they go in for trittoming between man and woman on your world, Billish?’
‘We are taught to trittom, as you call it, from the age of eight. It’s a discipline. But down here – I mean with Abath – it’s … the reverse of discipline … it’s real … Oh, Abathy …’ Exhaling her name as Muntras exhaled smoke, he seized her and began to kiss her passionately, breaking off only to utter endearments. She responded in a minor key.
Billy shook Muntras’s hand. ‘You were right, my friend, she is the equal of the queen in every way. Better.’
The captain said, ‘Perhaps all women are equal and it is only in the imagination of men that differences lie. Remember the old saying, “Every rumbo romps home to the same rhythm …” You have a very vivid imagination, so I imagine that you found her a very good trittom in consequence … Are koonis in our world as deep as in yours?’
‘Deeper, softer, richer …’ He fell to kissing the girl again.
The captain sighed. ‘Enough of that. Passion is as boring as drunkenness in other men. Go away, Abath. I want some sense out of this young man, if possible … Billish, if you have managed to see over the top of your own prodo since we landed, you may have noticed the Osoilima Stone. You and I are going to ascend it. If you are well enough to mount Abath, you are well enough to mount the Stone.’
