Firecrackers exploded. Crowds gathered. Rathel was drunk. Prayers were said in the holier parts of the city.
The population of Oldorando City rejoiced at the news of JandolAnganol’s engagement to Princess Milua Tal. They had no logical reason for rejoicing. The royal house of Stund and the church with which it was involved lived well at the populace’s expense. But chances for rejoicing are few, and wisely taken.
The royal family had won general sympathy when Princess Simoda Tal was assassinated. Such horrendous events contributed to the emotional life of the people.
That the younger sister was now affianced to the man previously engaged to her dead sister was an enjoyable coup de théâtre. There was prurient speculation as to when Milua Tal experienced her first menses and—as usual—debate about the sexual habits of the Madis. Were they totally promiscuous or entirely monogamous? It was a question never settled, though most male opinion was in favour of the former alternative.
JandolAnganol met with general approval.
In the public view, he was a dashing figure, neither offensively young nor distastefully old. He had married and divorced one of the most beautiful women in all Campannlat. As to why he should now marry a girl younger than his son… such dynastic couplings were not rare; while the numbers of child prostitutes in East Gate and Uidok provided one easy answer to the question.
On the subject of phagors, the population was more neutral than the palace supposed. Certainly, everyone knew their folk history, and the famous time when phagor hordes destroyed the city. But that was long ago. There were no marauding fuggie bands now. Phagors had become a rare sight in Oldorando. People liked to go and view them in Whistler Park, gazing across the Valvoral at the First Phagorian Guard. They were, after a fashion, popular. None of which appeased the bitter resentment of King Sayren Stund.
Never a determined man, he had let the moment slip by when he might have banned the match. He inwardly cursed himself. He cursed his queen. Bathkaarnet-she approved the match.
Bathkaarnet-she was a simple woman. She liked JandolAnganol. As she put it, singing, she ‘liked his looks.’ Although she had no fondness for the ancipital kind, she saw in the constant drumbles a sort of intolerance which might easily spill over against her own kind; indeed, the Madis were not popular in Oldorando, and incidents of violence against them were frequent. Therefore she considered that this man who protected phagors would be kind to her sole remaining daughter, a half-Madi.
More tellingly, Bathkaarnet-she knew that Sayren Stund had long had it in mind to marry off Milua Tal to Taynth Indredd, a prince of Pannoval far older and more revolting than JandolAnganol. She disliked Taynth Indredd. She disliked the thought of her daughter living in gloomy Pannoval, buried under the mountains of the Quzint. That was not a fit fate for a Madi, or the daughter of a Madi. JandolAnganol and Matrassyl appeared the better bargain.
So, in her self-effacing way, she opposed the king. He was forced to find another way to show his anger. And a way was at hand.
Outwardly, Sayren Stund preserved a pleasant demeanour. He could not admit any responsibility for the killing of Yuli. He even invited JandolAnganol to a meeting to discuss wedding arrangements. They convened in a room where fans swung from the ceiling, where potted vulus grew, and where bright Madi rugs hung on the walls in place of windows, Pannoval-style.
With Sayren Stund were his wife and an advisor in holy orders, a tall saturnine man with a face like an unshaven hatchet, who sat in the background, looked at no one, and said nothing.
JandolAnganol arrived in full uniform, escorted by one of his captains, a hearty outdoor man who looked bewildered by his new diplomatic role.
Sayren Stund poured wine and offered a glass to JandolAnganol.
The latter refused. “The fame of your vineyards is universal, but I have found the vintage makes me sleepy.”
Ignoring the thrust, Sayren Stund came to the point.
“We are content that you should marry the Princess Milua Tal. You will recall that your intention was to wed my murdered daughter in Oldorando. Therefore we request you to hold the ceremony here, under the dispensation of the Holy C’Sarr himself, when he arrives.”
“Sire, I understood you to say you were eager for me to leave today.”
“That was a misunderstanding. We are given to understand that the tame creature of yours which caused us offence has been disposed of.” As he said this, his eyes slid towards the saturnine advisor, as if for support. “We will hold festivities appropriate for you, rest assured.”
“Are you certain the C’Sarr will be here in three days?”
“His messengers are already here. Our agents are in touch. His entourage has passed Lake Dorzin. Other visitors, such as Prince Taynth Indredd of Pannoval, are expected tomorrow. Your nuptials will make the occasion a solemn historic event.”
Realizing that Sayren Stund intended to gain advantage over him by this delay, JandolAnganol retired to a corner of the room to talk to his captain. He wished to leave immediately before more treachery could be worked. But for that he needed a ship, and ships were at the dispensation of Sayren Stund. There was also the pressing question—as the captain reminded him—of SartoriIrvrash, bound and gagged and near suffocation in Fard Fantil’s garderobe.
He addressed Sayren Stund. “Have we reason to be certain that the Holy C’Sarr will perform this office for us? He is ancient, is he not?”
Sayren Stund pursed his lips.
“Ageing, certainly. Venerable. Not, I’d say to the best of my judgement, ancient. Possibly thirty-nine and a tenner or two. But he might, of course, have an objection to the alliance, on the grounds that Borlien continues to harbour phagors and refuses to obey requests for a drumble. On that point of doctrine, I would not myself care to be dogmatic; we must naturally hear the judgement from his holy lips.”
Points of anger burned on JandolAnganol’s cheeks.
In a restrained voice, he said, “There is reason to believe that our beloved religion—to which none is more attached than I—began in simple phagor worship. That was when both phagors and men lived more primitively. Although ecclesiastical history seeks to hide the fact, the All-Powerful once closely resembled an ancipital in appearance. Of more recent centuries, popular images have blurred over that resemblance. Nevertheless, it is there.
“Nobody imagines nowadays that phagors are all-powerful. I know from my personal experience how docile they can be, given firm handling. Nevertheless, our religion hinges centrally upon them. Therefore it cannot be just to persecute them under the edicts of the Church.”
Sayren Stund looked back for assistance to his priestly advisor. This worthy spoke, saying in a hollow voice, without looking up, “That is not an opinion which will carry weight with His Holiness the C’Sarr, who would say that the Borlienese king blasphemes against the countenance of Akhanaba.”
“Quite,” said Sayren Stund. That is not an opinion which will carry weight with any of us, brother. The C’Sarr must marry you and you must keep your views to yourself.”
The meeting concluded briskly. Alone with his queen and the dark advisor, Sayren Stund rubbed his chubby hands and said, “Then he will wait for the C’Sarr. We have three days to see the wedding does not take place. We need SartoriIrvrash. The phagor quarters in Whistler Park have been searched and he is not there. He must then be still in the palace. We will have the king’s quarters searched—every nook and cranny.”
The dark advisor cleared his throat. “There is the question of the woman, Odi Jeseratabhar. She arrived here with SartoriIrvrash. This morning, she sought refuge in the Sibornalese ambassadorial mansion in some distress, reporting her friend’s disappearance. My understanding is that she is an admiral. My agents tell me that she has not been well received. The ambassador may treat her as a traitor. Nevertheless, he will not hand her over—as yet at least.”
Sayren Stund fanned himself and took some wine. “We can manage without her.”
There is another point in your majesty’s favour which my ecclesiastical lawyers have produced,” continued the priestly advisor. “King JandolAnganol’s divorcement from MyrdemInggala is contained in a bill which as yet remains in the possession of Alam Esomberr. Although the king has signed it and appears to believe his divorce absolute, by an ancient enactment of Pannovalan canon law the divorce of royal personages is not absolute until the bill has physically passed into the keeping of the C’Sarr. The enactment was passed in order to delay ill-considered dynastic alliances. So at present King JandolAnganol is in a de facto state of decree nisi.”
“And therefore cannot marry again?”
“Any marriage contracted before the decree is absolute would be illegal.”
Sayren Stund clapped his hands and laughed. “Excellent. Excellent. He’s not going to get away with this impertinence.”
“But we need an alliance with Borlien,” said the queen feebly.
Her husband scarcely bothered to look at her.
“My dear, we have but to undermine his position, to disgrace him, and Matrassyl will reject him. Our agents report further riots there. I may then myself step in as the saviour of Borlien, ruling over both kingdoms, as Oldorando has ruled over Borlien in the past. Have you no sense of history?”
JandolAnganol was well aware of the difficulty of his position. Whenever he felt discouraged he whipped up his anger by thinking of Sayren Stund’s malice. When he had sufficiently recovered from the shock of discovering Yuli’s headless body to leave his room, he had come upon the head lying in the corridor. A few yards farther down the corridor lay the human guard he had posted, stabbed to death, his face hacked at savagely with a sword. JandolAnganol had vomited. A day later, sickness still overwhelmed him. Despite the heat, there was chill in his body.
After the meeting with Sayren Stund, he walked across to Whistler Park, where a small crowd which had gathered gave him a cheer. Association with the phagorian guard calmed him.
He inspected their premises with greater care than before. The phagor commanders trailed behind him. One of the pavilions had been designed as a kind of guest house, and was pleasantly furnished. Upstairs was a complete apartment.
“This apartment will be mine,” JandolAnganol said.
“It makes your place. No person in Hrl-Drra Nhdo have entry here.”
“No phagors either.”
“No phagors.”
“You will guard it.”
“It izz our understanding.”
He saw no reason to worry that the commander used what was an ancient phagorian name for Oldorando, though he knew of their long and seemingly ineradicable memories. He was too used to their archaic speech habits.
As he was walking back across the park, four phagors escorting him, the earth shook. Tremors were frequent in Oldorando. This was the second he had felt since his arrival. He looked across Loylbryden Square at the palace. He wished there would be an earthquake severe enough to shake it down, but he could see that the wooden pillars along its face were designed for maximum stability.
The onlookers and loiterers seemed unworried. A waffle seller carried on business as usual. With an inward tremor, JandolAnganol wondered if the end of the world was coming, despite all the wise men said.
“Let it all end,” he said to himself.
Then he thought of Milua Tal.
Towards Batalix-set, messengers ran to the palace to say that Prince Taynth Indredd of Pannoval was arriving at the East Gate earlier than anticipated. A formal invitation was sent to JandolAnganol’s party to be present at the welcome ceremony in Loylbryden Square, an invitation he could scarcely refuse.
Indifferent to affairs of state, or to wars in progress elsewhere, Taynth Indredd had been on a hunt in the Quzints, and came loaded with trophies of the hunt—skins, plumes, and ivories. He arrived in a palanquin, followed by several cages of animals he had captured. In one cage, a dozen Others chattered at the crowd or moped dejectedly. A twelve-piece band played lively airs as they marched, and banners flew. It was a more impressive entry than JandolAnganol’s. Nor did Taynth Indredd have to stoop to haggling for a little money in the marketplace.
Among the prince’s retinue was one of JandolAnganol’s few friends in the Pannovalan court, Guaddl Ulbobeg. Ulbobeg looked exhausted from his journey. When the official welcoming ceremony showed signs of turning into a prolonged drinking bout, JandolAnganol managed to talk to the old man.
“I’m getting too frail to undertake such expeditions,” Guaddl Ulbobeg said. He lowered his voice to add, “And between ourselves, Taynth Indredd gets more tiresome, tenner by tenner. I greatly desire to retire from his service. I’m thirty-six and a quarter, after all.”
“Why don’t you retire?”
Guaddl Ulbobeg laid a hand on JandolAnganol’s arm. The king was moved by the unthinking friendliness of the gesture. “With the post goes the bishopric of Prayn. Do you not recall I am a bishop of the Holy Pannovalan Empire, bless it? Were I to resign before being retired, I’d lose the post and all that goes with it… Taynth Indredd, by the by, is not best pleased with you, so let me warn you.”
JandolAnganol laughed. “I’m universally hated, I do believe. How have I offended Taynth Indredd?”
“Oh, it’s common knowledge that he and our pompous friend Sayren Stund intended him to marry Milua Tal until you put your oar in.”
“You know about that?”
“I know everything. I also know I’m going to bathe and then to bed. Drink’s no good to me at my age.”
“We’ll talk in the morning. Rest well.”
The earthquakes came again in the early part of the night. This time, they were serious enough to cause alarm. In the poorer parts of the city, tiles and balconies were dislodged. Women ran out screaming into the streets. Slaves spread alarm throughout the palace.
It suited JandolAnganol well. He needed a distraction for his purposes. His captains had investigated the grounds to the rear of the palace and discovered—as was to be expected of a building which had not had to serve as a fortress for a great while—that there were many exits for those who knew. Some had been made by the palace staff for their own convenience. Although there were guards at the front, anyone could leave by the back. As JandolAnganol did.
Only to find that the palace had its own diversions. In the alley that ran outside the northeast side of the palace, a wagon, drawn by six hoxneys, arrived. Four burly men climbed down. One held the lead hoxney, while the other three set about sliding wooden bars away from a side door. They flung the door open and shouted to someone inside the wagon. When there was no answer, two of the men climbed in and, with blows and curses, dragged a bound figure out into the street. A rug had been tied over the captive’s head. When he groaned too distinctly, he was fetched a blow across his shoulders.
Without hurry, the three toughs unlocked an iron door and passed into an outbuilding of the palace. The door slammed shut behind them.
JandolAnganol watched this event from the concealment of a portico. Beside him was the fragile figure of Milua Tal. From where they stood, beside the wall, they could smell the heavy fragrance of the zaldal, to which Sayren Stund had drawn JandolAnganol’s attention earlier.
In the pavilion in Whistler Park, which they called the White Pavilion, they established their refuge. They would be safe under the protection of the Phagorian Guard. The king was still preoccupied with the sight they had just witnessed in the street.
“I think your father means to kill me before I escape from Oldorando.”
“Killing’s not so bad, but he’s determined somehow to disgrace you. I’ll find out how if I can, but he gives me only black looks now. Oh, how can kings be so difficult? I hope you won’t be like that when we escape to Matrassyl. I’m so curious to see it, and to sail down the Valvoral. Boats going downstream can go at a fantastic speed, faster than birds.
“Do they have pecubeas in Borlien? I’d like some in my room, just like Moth has. Four pecubeas at least, maybe five—if you can afford it. Father says that you intend to murder me in revenge and cut my head off, but I just laughed and stuck my tongue out—have you seen how far my tongue comes out?—and said, ‘Revenge for what, you silly old king-person?’ and that got him so mad. I thought he’d have apolloplexy.”
She chattered away happily as she examined the apartment.
Carrying their single light, JandolAnganol said, “I intend you no harm, Milua. You can believe that. Everyone thinks me a villain. I am in the hands of Akhanaba, as we all are. I do not even intend your father harm.”
She sat on the bed and stared out of the window, the beakiness of her face emphasized in the shadows. “That’s what I told him, or words to that effect. He was so mad, he let one thing slip. You know SartoriIrvrash?”
“I know him well.”
“He’s in father’s hands again. Father’s men found him in that hunchback’s room.”
He shook his head. “No. He’s still bound and gagged in a garderobe. My captains are going to bring him over here for safekeeping.”
Milua Tal gave her bubbling laugh. “He fooled you, Jan. That’s another man, a slave they put in there in the dark. They found the real SartoriIrvrash when everyone was greeting fat old Prince Taynth.”
“By the beholder! That man has trouble for me, that man has trouble. He was my chancellor. What does he know?… Milua, whatever happens, I am going to face it out. I must face it out, my honour is involved.”
“Oh, zygankes, ‘My honour is involved’! You sound like Father when you say that. Aren’t you supposed to say you are mad about my infantile beauty or something?”
He caught at her hands. “So I may be, my pretty Milua! But what I’m trying to say is that that sort of madness is no good without something to back it. I have to survive dishonour, to outlive it, to remain uncontaminated by it. Then honour will return to me. All will respect me for surviving. Then it will be possible to form an alliance between my country and yours, as I have long desired, and I will form it with your father or with whoever succeeds him.”
She clapped her hands. “I succeed him! Then we’ll have a whole country each.”
Despite his tension, his premonition that further ills were about to befall him, he burst into laughter, seized her, and pressed her delicate body against him.
The earth shook again.
“Can we sleep here, together?” she whispered.
“No, it would be wrong. In the morning, we go to see my friend Esomberr.”
“I thought he wasn’t your friend.”
“I can make him my friend. He’s vain, but not a villain.”
The earth tremors died. The night died. Freyr rose in strength, again hidden from sight by the yellow haze, and the temperature climbed.
That day, few persons of importance were seen about the palace. King Sayren Stund announced that he would hold no audiences; those who had lost a home or a child in the tremors wailed in vain in the stagnant anterooms, or were turned away. Nor was King JandolAnganol to be seen. Or the young princess.
On the following day, a body of Oldorandan guards, eight strong, arrested JandolAnganol.
They caught him as he descended the staircase leading from his room. He fought, but they lifted him off his feet and carried him to a place of imprisonment. He was kicked down a spiralling stone stair and thrown into a dungeon.
He lay for many minutes panting on the floor, beside himself with anger.
“Yuli, Yuli,” he said, over and over. “I was so sick at what they did to you that I never could think through to see what danger I was in… I never could think…”
After some minutes of silence, he said aloud, “I was overconfident. That’s always been my fault. I trusted too much that I could ride with the circumstances…”
A long while later, he picked himself off the floor and looked helplessly about. A shelf against one wall served as bed and bench. Light filtered in from a high window. In one corner was a trough for sanitary purposes. He sank down on the bench, and thought of his father’s long imprisonment.
When his spirits had sunk still lower, he thought of Milua Tal.
“Sayren Stund, if you harm one lash of her eyes, you slanje…”
He sat rigid. Eventually, he forced himself to relax and leaned with his back against the moist wall of the cell. With a roar, he jumped up and began to pace about, up and down, between wall and door.
He ceased only when he heard the scrape of boots coming down the stair. Keys rattled at the lock, and a black-clad member of the local clerisy entered between two armed guards. As he gave a scanty bow, JandolAnganol recognized him as Sayren Stund’s axe-faced advisor, by name Crispan Mornu.
“Under what devious law am I, a visiting prince of a friendly country, imprisoned?”
“I am come to inform you that you are charged with murder, and will be tried for that crime tomorrow at Batalix-break, before a royal ecclesiastical court.” The sepulchral voice paused, then added, “Prepare yourself.”
JandolAnganol advanced in a fury. “Murder? Murder, you pack of criminals? What new scoundrelism is this? Whose murder is laid at my door?”
Crossed spears halted his advance.
The priest said, “You are charged with the murder of Princess Simoda Tal, elder daughter of King Sayren Stund of Oldorando.”
He bowed again and withdrew.
The king remained where he was, staring at the door.
His eagle eyes fixed upon its boards, never blinking, as if he had vowed they should never blink again until he was free.
He stayed almost motionless throughout the night. The intense active principle within him, being confined, stayed coiled within him like a spring. He maintained a defiant alertness throughout the hours of dark, waiting to leap to attack anyone who ventured to enter the dungeon.
Nobody came. No food was brought, no water. During the night there was a remote tremor—so remote it might have been in an artery rather than the earth—and a powder shower of mortar floated down to the stones. Nothing else. Not so much as a rat visited JandolAnganol.
When light seeped in to the place of confinement, he went over to the stone trough. By climbing onto it and hooking his finger into a hollow between two stones, carved by previous prisoners, he could look out of the unglazed window. A precious breath of fresh air expired upon his cheek.
His dungeon was at the front of the palace, near to the corner by the Dom, or so he estimated. He could look across Loylbryden Square. His viewpoint was too low to see anything beyond it except the tops of trees in the park.
The square was deserted. He thought that if he waited long enough he would possibly see Milua Tal—unless she was also captive of her father.
His view was towards the west. The tiny patch of sky he could see was free of haze. Batalix cast long shadows across the cobbles. Those shadows paled and then divided into two as Freyr also rose. Then they died as the haze returned and the temperature started to mount.
Workmen came. They brought platforms and poles with them. Their manner was the resigned one of workmen everywhere: they were prepared to do the job, but not prepared to hurry over it. After a while, they set up a scaffold.
JandolAnganol went and sat down on the bench, clutching his temples between his nails.
Guards came for him. He fought them, uselessly. They put him in chains. He snarled at them. They pushed him up the stone stairs indifferently.
Everything had fallen out as King Sayren Stund might have wished it. In the incessant enantiodromia which afflicts all things, turning them into their opposites, he could now crow over the man who had so recently crowed over him. He bounded up and down with glee, he uttered cries of joy, he embraced Bathkaarnet-she, he threw merrily evil glances at his dejected daughter.
“You see, child, this villain you threw your arms about is to be branded a murderer before everyone.” He advanced upon her with ogreish glee. “We’ll give you his corpse to embrace in a day’s time. Yes, just another twenty-five hours and your virginity will be safe forever from JandolAnganol.”
“Why not hang me too, Father, and rid yourself of all your daughters to worry about?”
A special chamber in the palace had been set aside to serve as the courtroom. The Church sanctified it for judiciary purposes. Sprigs of veronika, scantiom, and pellamountain—all regarded as cooling herbs—were hung to lower the stifling temperature and shed their balm into the room. Many luminaries of court and city were gathered to watch the proceedings, not all of them by any means as in accord with their ruler as he supposed.
The three main actors in the drama were the king, his saturnine advisor, Crispan Mornu, and a judge by name Kimon Euras, whose station in the Church was minister of the rolls.
Kimon Euras was so thin that he stooped as if the tautness of his skin had bent the backbone it contained; he was bald or, to be precise, without visible vestige of hair, and the skin of his face displayed a greyish pallor reminiscent of the vellums over which he had parsimonious custody. His spiderish air, as he ascended to his bench, clad in a black keedrant hanging to his spatulate feet, seemed to guarantee that he would handle mercy with a similar parsimony.
When these impressive dignitaries were settled in their places, a gong was struck, and two guards chosen for strength dragged King JandolAnganol into the chamber. He was made to stand in the middle of the room for all to see.
The division between prisoner and free is sharp in any court. Here it was more marked than usual. The king’s short imprisonment had been enough to make filthy his tunic and his person. Yet he stood with his head high, darting his eagle gaze about the court, more like a bird of prey hunting weaknesses than a man looking for mercy. The clarity which attended his movements and contours remained part of him.
Kimon Euras began a long address in a powdery voice. The ancient dusts from the documents in his charge had lodged in his larynx. He spoke marginally louder when he came to the words, “… cruel murder of our beloved Princess Simoda Tal, in this very palace, by the thrust of an ancipital horn. King JandolAnganol of Borlien, you are charged with being the instigator of this crime.”
JandolAnganol immediately shouted in defiance. A bailiff struck him from behind saying, “Prisoners are not allowed to speak in this court. Any interruptions and you will be thrown back in your cell.”
Crispan Mornu had managed for the occasion to find a garment of deeper black than usual. The colour reflected up into his jowls, his cheeks, his eyes, and, when he spoke, into his throat.
“We intend to demonstrate that the guilt of this Borlienese king is inescapable, and that he came here with no other purpose than the destruction of Princess Milua Tal, thus ending the lineage of the House of Stund. We shall produce a copy of the instrument with which Princess Simoda Tal was cruelly dispatched. We shall produce also the actual perpetrator of the deed. We shall show that all factors point inescapably to the prisoner as the originator of the cruel plot. Bring forth the dagger.”
A slave scurried forward, making a great business of his haste, and presented the article demanded.
Unable to keep out of the proceedings, Sayren Stund reached forward and grasped it before Crispan Mornu could take it.
“This is the horn of a phagor beast. It has two sharp edges, and hence cannot be confused with the horn of any other animal. It corresponds with the configurations of the wound in the late princess’s breast. Poor dear girl.
“We do not attempt to pretend that this is the weapon with which the murder was committed. That weapon is lost. This is merely a similar one, newly pulled from the head of a phagor.
“I wish to remind the court, and they shall judge whether or not the fact is relevant, that the prisoner had a phagor runt for a pet. That runt the prisoner blasphemously named after the great warrior-saint of this nation, Yuli. Whether the insult was deliberate or made through ignorance, we need not inquire.”
“Sayren Stund, your callousness will be well repaid,” JandolAnganol said, and received a hearty blow for it.
When the horn dagger had been passed round, the curved figure of Kimon Euras uncurled enough to ask, “What else has the prosecution to bring against the accused by way of evidence?”
“You have seen the weapon with which the deed was done,” the black voice of Crispan Mornu announced. “Now we shall show you the person who used the weapon to kill the princess Simoda Tal.”
Into the court a struggling boy was half-brought, half-carried. It had a rug tied about its head, and JandolAnganol thought immediately of the prisoner he had seen in the night, evicted from the wooden wagon.
This captive was tugged into the well of the court. At a word of command, the rug was wrenched from it.
The youth thus revealed seemed to consist of a fury of a tousled mane of hair, an empurpled visage, and a torn shift. When he was struck hard and began to whimper instead of struggle, he was recognizable as RobaydayAnganol.
“Roba!” cried the king, and received a chop in the kidneys which doubled him up in pain. He sank down on a bench, overwhelmed by the sight of his own son in captivity—Roba, who had always feared captivity.
“This young person was apprehended by his majesty’s agents in the seaport of Ottassol, in Borlien,” said Crispan Mornu. “He proved difficult to track down, since he posed sometimes as a Madi, adopting their habits and style of dress. He is, however, human. His name is RobaydayAnganol. He is the son of the accused, and his wildness is widely talked of.”
“Did you murder the late Princess Simoda Tal?” demanded the judge, in a voice like tearing parchment.
Robayday burst into a fit of weeping, during which he was heard to say that he had murdered nobody, that he had never been to Oldorando before, and that he wanted only to be left in peace to lead his own miserable life.
“Did you not carry out the murder at the instigation of your father?” demanded Crispan Mornu, making each word sound like a small axe descending.
“I hate my father! I fear my father! I would never do his bidding.”
“Why then did you murder the Princess Simoda Tal?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t. I am innocent, I swear.”
“Whom did you murder?”
“I have murdered no one.”
As though these were the very words he had waited all his life to hear, Crispan Mornu raised a mottled hand high in the air and brought up his nose until it shone in the light as if honed.
“You hear this youth claim he has murdered no one. We call a witness who will prove him a liar. Bring in the witness.”
A young lady entered the court, moving freely if nervously between two guards. She was directed to take a stance beneath the judge’s platform, while those in the court regarded her avidly. Her beauty and youth were appealing. Her cheeks were brightly painted. Her dark hair was strikingly dressed. She wore a tight-fitting chagirack, the floral pattern of which emphasized her figure. She stood with one hand on her hip, slightly defiant, and managed to look at once innocent and seductive.
Judge Kimon Euras curved his albaster skull forward and was perhaps rewarded by a glimpse down into her zona, for he said in a more human tone than had so far been the case, “What is your name, young woman?”
She said in a faint voice, “Please, AbathVasidol, usually called Abathy by my friends.”
“I am sure you have plenty of friends,” said the judge.
Untouched by this exchange, Crispan Mornu said, “This lady has also been brought here by his majesty’s agents. She came not as a prisoner but of her own free will, and will be rewarded for her efforts on behalf of the truth. Abathy, will you tell us when you last saw this youth, and what the circumstances were?”
Abathy moistened her lips, which were already shining, and said, “Oh, sir, I was in my room, my little room in Ottassol. My friend was with me, my friend Div. We were sitting on the bed, you know, talking. And suddenly this man here…”
She paused.
“Go on, girl.”
“It’s too awful, sir…” There was a thick silence in the court, as if even the cooling herbs were drowning in the heat. “Well, sir, this man here came in with a dagger. He wanted me to go with him, and I wouldn’t. I don’t do such things. Div went to protect me, and this man here struck with his dagger—or horn, it was, you know—and he killed Div. He stabbed Div right in the stomach.”
She demonstrated daintily on her own hypogastric region, and the court craned its collective neck.
“And what happened then?”
“Well, sir, you know, this man here took the body away and threw it into the sea.”
“This is all a lie, a lying plot!” said JandolAnganol.
It was the girl who answered him, with a spurt of her own anger. She was more at home in the court now, and beginning to enjoy her role.
“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. The prisoner took Div’s body away and threw it into the sea. And the extraordinary thing was that a few days later it returned, the body I mean, packed in ice, to Ottassol, because I saw it in the house of my friend and protector, Bardol CaraBansity—later to become the king’s chancellor for a while.”
JandolAnganol emitted a strangled laugh and appealed direct to the judge. “How can anyone believe such an impossible story?”
“It’s not impossible, and I can prove it,” Abathy said boldly. “Div had a special jewel with three moving faces with figures, a timepiece. The figures were alive. Div kept it in a belt around his waist.” She indicated the area she meant on her own anatomy, and again the collective neck was craned. “That same jewel turned up at CaraBansity’s and he gave it to his majesty, who probably has it now.” She pointed her finger dramatically at JandolAnganol.
The king was visibly taken aback and remained silent. The timepiece lay forgotten in his tunic pocket.
He recalled now, all too late, how he had always feared the timepiece as an alien thing, a thing of science to be mistrusted. When BillishOwpin, the man who claimed to have come from another world, had offered him the timepiece, JandolAnganol had thrown it back to him. Mysteriously, it had returned later through the agency of the deuteroscopist. Despite his intentions, he had never rid himself of it.
Now it had betrayed him.
He could not speak. An evil spell had descended on him: that he saw, but could not say when it had begun. Not all his dedication to Akhanaba had saved him from the spell.
“Well, Your Majesty, well, brother,” said Sayren Stund, with relish, “have you this jewel with living figures?”
JandolAnganol said faintly, “It is intended as a wedding gift for the Princess Milua Tal…”
A hubbub broke out in court. People dashed here and there, clerics called for order, Sayren Stund covered his face in order to hide his triumph.
When order was restored Crispan Mornu put another question to Abathy. “You are sure this young man, RobaydayAnganol, son of the king, is the man who murdered your friend, Div? Did you ever see him again?”
“Sir, he was a great nuisance to me. He would not go away. I don’t know what would have happened to me if your men hadn’t arrested him.”
A short silence prevailed in court while everyone contemplated what might have happened to such an attractive young lady.
“Let me put one last and rather personal question to you,” Crispan Mornu said, fixing Abathy with his corpse-like stare. “You are evidently a low-born woman, and yet you seem to have well-connected friends. Rumour mentions your name with that of a certain Sibornalese ambassador. What do you say to that?”
“Shame,” said a voice from the court benches, but Abathy answered in an untroubled way, “I did have the pleasure of knowing a Sibornalese gentleman, sir. I like the Sibornalese for their good manners, sir.”
“Thank you, Abathy, your testament has been invaluable.” Crispan Mornu managed a tone which resembled a stiletto’s smile. He then turned to the court, speaking only when the girl had left.
“I submit that you need no further proof. This innocent young girl has told us all we need to know. His lies to the contrary, the King of Borlien’s son is revealed as a murderer. We have heard how he murdered in Ottassol, presumably at his father’s instruction, merely to obtain some bauble to bring here. His preferred weapon was a phagor horn; he had already murdered Simoda Tal, using the same weapon. His father was left to proceed here to enjoy our hospitality, to carry out his evil designs upon his majesty’s sole remaining daughter. We have uncovered here as black a plot as ever history related. I have no hesitation in demanding—on behalf of the court, and on behalf of our whole nation—the death penalty for both father and son.”
RobaydayAnganol’s defiance had collapsed as soon as Abathy had entered the court. He looked no more than an urchin, and his voice sank to a whisper as he said, “Please let me go free. I’m made for life, not death, for some wild plot where the breeze blows. I have no wild plot with my father—that I deny, and all other charges.”
Crispan Mornu swung dramatically about and confronted the youth.
“You still deny the murder of Simoda Tal?”
Robayday moistened his lips. “Can a leaf kill? I’m merely a leaf, sir, caught in the world’s storm.”
“Her Majesty Queen Bathkaarnet-she is prepared to identify you as a visitor to this palace a while ago, when you came disguised as a Madi for the express purpose of committing the foul deed. Do you wish her majesty to come to this court to identify you?”
A violent trembling took Robayday. “No.”
“Then the case is proven. This youth, a prince, no less, entered the palace and—at his father’s command—murdered our much-loved princess, Simoda Tal.”
All eyes turned to the judge. The judge turned his gaze down to the floor before delivering judgement.
“The verdict is as follows. The hand that committed this vile murder belongs to the son. The mind that controlled the hand is the father’s. So where lies the source of guilt? The answer is clear—”
A cry of torment broke from Robayday. He thrust out a hand as if physically to intercept Kimon Euras’s words.
“Lies! Lies! This is a room of lies. I will speak the truth, though it destroys me! I confess I did that thing to Simoda Tal. I did it not because I was in league with my father the king. Oh, no, that’s impossible. We are day and night. I did what I did to spite him.
“There he stands—just a man now, not a king! Yes, just a man, while my mother remains the queen of queens. I, in league with him? I would no more kill for his sake than I would marry for his sake… I declare the villain innocent. If I must die your dingy death, then never let it be said even in here that I was in league with him. I wish there was a league between us. Why help one who never helped me?”
He clutched his head as if to wrench it from his shoulders.
In the silence following, Crispan Mornu said coldly, “You might have done your father more harm by keeping silent.”
Robay gave him a cold sane look. “It’s the principle of evil in men I fear—and I see that principle more rampant in you than in that poor man burdened with the crown of Borlien.”
JandolAnganol raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to detach himself from earthly events. But he wept.
With the sound of rippling excitement, the judge cleared his throat.
“In view of the son’s confession, the father is of course shown to be blameless. History is full of ungrateful sons… I therefore pronounce, under the guidance of Akhanaba, the All-Powerful, that the father go free and the son be taken from here and hanged as soon as it suits the convenience of his majesty, King Sayren Stund.”
“I will die in his stead and he can reign in my stead.” The words came from JandolAnganol, spoken in a firm voice.
“The verdict is irreversible. Court dismissed.”
Above the shuffle of feet came Sayren Stund’s voice.
“Remember, we refresh ourselves now, but this afternoon comes a further spectacle, when we hear what King JandolAnganol’s ex-chancellor, SartoriIrvrash has to say to us.”