‘We will make a stop at Osoilima,’ the king announced. At Osoilima, a place of pilgrimage on the river, he would go to the shrine and be scourged. He was a religious man, and needed the goodwill of Akhanaba, the All-Powerful, in the test that was to come.
JandolAnganol was of distinguished and morose bearing. At twenty-five years and a tenner or two, he was still a young man, but lines marked his powerful face, giving him an appearance of wisdom his enemies claimed he did not possess.
Like one of his hawks, he had a commanding way of holding his head. It was to this head that most attention turned, as if the head of the nation were embodied in his skull. There was an eaglelike look to JandolAnganol, emphasised by the sharp bladed nose, the fierce black eyebrows, and the trim beard and moustache, which latter partly concealed a sensuous mouth. His eyes were dark and intense; the darting glance from those eyes, missing nothing, had brought him his nickname in the bazaars, the Eagle of Borlien.
Those who were close to him and had a gift for understanding character claimed that the eagle was always caged, and that the queen of queens still held the lock of the cage. JandolAnganol had the curse of khmir, best described as an impersonal lust, well understood in these hot seasons.
Often the quick head movements, in marked contrast to the concentrated stillness of the body, were the nervous habits of a man who hoped to see where he could turn next.
The ceremony under the high rock of Osoilima was soon over. The king, with blood seeping through his tunic, stepped back on board ship, and the second half of the journey began. Hating the stench of the boat, the king slept on deck at night, lying on a swansdown mattress. His phagor runt Yuli slept by him, guarding his feet.
Behind the king’s ship, keeping a discreet distance, was a second ship, a converted cattle boat. In it sailed the king’s most faithful troops, the First Phagorian Guard. It drew protectively closer to the king’s ship as they approached Ottassol’s inner harbour, on the afternoon of the third day of the voyage.
Flags drooped from masts in the muggy Ottassol heat. A crowd gathered at the quayside. Among the banners and other tokens of patriotism were grimmer signs, saying THE FIRE IS COMING: THE OCEANS WILL BURN, AND LIVE WITH AKHA OR DIE FOR EVER WITH FREYR. The Church was taking advantage of a time of general alarm, and trying to bring sinners to heel.
A band marched importantly forward between two warehouses and began to play a regal theme. The plaudits for his majesty as he stepped down the gangplank were restrained.
Greeting him were members of the city scritina and notable citizens. Knowing the Eagle’s reputation, they kept their speeches brief, and the king was brief in his reply.
‘We are always happy to visit Ottassol, our chief port, and to find it flourishing. I cannot remain here long. You know how great events move forward.
‘My unbending intention is to divorce myself from Queen MyrdemInggala by a bill of divorcement issued by the Great C’Sarr Kilandar IX, Head of the Holy Pannovalan Empire and Father Supreme of the Church of Akhanaba, whose servants we are.
‘After I have served that bill upon the present queen, in the presence of witnesses accredited by the Holy C’Sarr, as in law I must, then, when the Holy C’Sarr receives the bill, I shall be free to take, and will take, as my lawful spouse Simoda Tal, Daughter of Oldorando. Thus shall I affirm by bonds of matrimony the alliance between our country and Oldorando, an ancient linkage, and confirm our common partnership in the Holy Empire.
‘United, our common enemies will be defeated, and we shall grow to greatness as in the days of our grandfathers.’
There was some cheering and clapping. Most of the audience rushed to see the phagorian soldiery disembark.
The king had discarded his usual keedrant. He was dressed in a tunic of yellow and black, sleeveless, so that his sinewy arms were well displayed. His trousers were of yellow silk, clinging close to his limbs. His turn-over boots were of dull leather. He wore a short sword at his belt. His dark hair was woven about the golden circle of Akhanaba, by whose grace he ruled the kingdom. He stood staring at his welcoming committee.
Possibly they expected something more practical from him. The truth was that Queen MyrdemInggala commanded almost as much affection in Ottassol as in Matrassyl.
With a curt gesture to his retinue, JandolAnganol turned and stalked off.
Ahead lay the shabby low cliffs of loess. A length of yellow cloth had been laid across the quayside for the king to walk on. He avoided it, crossed to his waiting coach, and climbed in. The footman closed the door, and the vehicle moved off at once. It entered an archway and was immediately within the labyrinth of Ottassol. The phagorian guard followed.
JandolAngonol, who hated many things, hated his Ottassol palace. His mood was not softened by being welcomed at the gate by his Royal Vicar, the chill, wench-faced AbstrogAthenat.
‘Great Akhanaba bless you, sire, we rejoice to see your majesty’s face, and to have your presence among us, just when bad tidings arrive from the Second Army in Randonan.’
‘I’ll hear of military matters from military men,’ said the king, and paced forward into the reception hall. The palace was cool, and remained cool as the seasons grew hotter, but its subterranean nature depressed him. It reminded him of the two priestly years he had spent in Pannoval as a boy.
His father, VarpalAnganol, had greatly extended the palace. Seeking his son’s praise, he had asked him how he liked it. ‘Cold, copious, ill considered,’ had been Prince JandolAnganol’s answer.
It was typical of VarpalAnganol, never an artist at warfare, not to appreciate that the subterranean palace could never be defended effectively.
JandolAnganol remembered the day the palace was invaded. He was three years and a tenner old. He had been playing with a wooden sword in an underground court. One of the smooth loess walls shattered. From it burst a dozen armed rebels. They had tunnelled through the earth unnoticed. It still vexed JandolAnganol to recall that he had yelled in terror before charging at them with his toy sword.
There happened to be a change of guard assembling in the court, with weapons ready. After a furious skirmish, the invaders were killed. The illegal tunnel was later incorporated into the design of the palace. That had been during one of the rebellions which VarpalAnganol had failed to put down with sufficient harshness.
The old man was now imprisoned in the fortress at Matrassyl, and the courts and passages of the Ottassol palace were guarded by human and ancipital sentries. JandolAnganol’s eyes darted to the silent men as he passed them in the winding corridors; if one so much as moved, he was ready to kill him.
News of the king’s black mood spread among the palace staff. Festivities had been arranged to divert him. But first he had to receive the report from the western battlefields.
A company of the Second Army, advancing across the Chwart Heights intending to attack the Randonanese port of Poorich, had been ambushed by a superior force of the enemy. They had fought till dusk, when survivors had escaped to warn the main force. A wounded man had been despatched to report the news back along the Southern Highway semaphore system to Ottassol.
‘What of General TolramKetinet?’
‘He fights on, sire,’ said the messenger.
JandolAnganol received the report almost without comment and then descended to his private chapel to pray and be scourged. It was exquisite punishment to be beaten by the lickerish AbstrogAthenat.