The court cared little what happened to armies almost three thousand miles away: it was more important that the evening’s festivities should not be spoilt by the king’s bile. The Eagle’s chastisement was good for everyone.
A winding stair led down to the private chapel. This oppressive place, designed in the Pannovalan fashion, was carved from the clay which lay beneath the loess, and lined with lead to waist level, with stone above. Moisture stood in beads, or ran in miniature waterfalls. Lights burned behind stained-glass shades. The beams from these lanterns projected rectangles of colour into the dank air.
Sombre music played as the Royal Vicar took up his ten-tailed whip from beside the altar. On the altar stood the Wheel of Akhanaba, two sinuous spokes connecting inner rim with outer. Behind the altar hung a tapestry, gold and red, depicting Great Akhanaba in the glory of his contradictions: the Two-in-One, man and god, child and beast, temporal and eternal, spirit and stone.
The King stood and gazed at the animal face of his god. His reverence was wholehearted. Throughout his life, since his adolescent years in a Pannovalan monastery, religion had ruled him. Equally, he ruled through religion. Religion held most of the court and his people in thrall.
It was the common worship of Akhanaba which united Borlien, Oldorando, and Pannoval into an uneasy alliance. Without Akhanaba there would be only chaos, and the enemies of civilisation would prevail.
AbstrogAthenat motioned to his royal penitent to kneel, and read a short prayer over him.
‘We come before Thee, Great Akhanaba, to ask forgiveness for failure and to display the blood of guilt. Through the wickedness of all men, Thou, the Great Healer, art wounded, and Thou, the All-Powerful, art made weak. Therefore Thou hast set our steps among Fire and Ice, in order that we may experience in our material beings, here on Helliconia, what Thou dost experience elsewhere in our name, the perpetual torment of Heat and Frost. Accept this suffering, O Great Lord, as we endeavour to accept Thine.’
The whip came up over the royal shoulders. AbstrogAthenat was an effeminate young man, but strong in the arm and assiduous in working Akhanaba’s will.
After penitence, the ceremonial of the bath; after the bath, the king ascended to the revelry.
Whips here gave way to the flicking of skirts in the dance. The music was brisk, the musicians fat and smiling. The king put on a smile too, and wore it like armour, as he remembered that this chamber had previously been lit by the presence of Queen MyrdemInggala.
The walls were decorated with the flowers of dimday, with idront and scented vispard. There were mounds of fruit and sparkling jugs of black wine. The peasants might starve, but not the palace.
JandolAnganol condescended to refresh himself with black wine, to which he added fruit juice and Lordryardry ice. He sat staring without much attending to the scene before him. His courtiers kept at a discrete distance. Women were sent to charm him and sent away again.
He had dismissed his old chancellor before leaving Matrassyl. A new chancellor, on probation, fussed at his side. Made at once fawning and anxious by his advancement, he came to discuss arrangements for the forthcoming expedition to Gravabagalinien. He also was sent away.
The king intended to remain in Ottassol for as short a time as possible. He would meet with the C’Sarr’s envoy and then continue on with him to Gravabagalinien. After the ceremony with the queen, he would make a forced march to Oldorando; there he would marry Princess Simoda Tal and get that whole business over with. He would then defeat his enemies, with assistance from Oldorando and Pannoval, and impose peace within his own borders. Certainly, the child princess, Simoda Tal, would have to live in the palace at Matrassyl, but there was no reason why he should have to see her. This scheme he would accomplish. It ran constantly through his mind.
He looked about for the C’Sarr’s envoy, the elegant Alam Esomberr. He had met Esomberr during his two-year stay in the Pannovalan monastery, and they had remained friendly ever since. It was necessary for JandolAnganol to have this powerful dignitary, sent by Kilandar IX himself, to witness his and the queen’s signature to the document of divorcement, and to return it to the C’Sarr himself before the marriage was legally void. Esomberr should be at his side by now.
But Envoy Esomberr had been delayed as he was about to leave his suite. A scruffy little man with a pot belly, mangy hair, and travelstained clothes had talked his way into the envoy’s powdered presence.
‘I take it you’re not from my tailor?’
The scruffy little man denied the charge and produced a letter from an inner pocket. He handed it to the envoy. He stood and wriggled while Esomberr tore open the letter with an elegant gesture.
‘It is, sir, intended — intended for onward delivery. For the eyes of the C’Sarr alone, begging your pardon.’
‘I am the C’Sarr’s representative in Borlien, thank you,’ said Esomberr.
He read the letter, nodded, and produced a silver coin for the bearer.
Muttering, the latter retreated. He left the underground palace, went to where his hoxney was tethered, and began making his way back to Gravabagalinien to report his success to the queen.
The envoy stood smiling to himself and scratching the end of his nose. He was a willowy, personable man of twenty-four and a half years, dressed in a rich trailing keedrant. He dangled the letter. He sent a minion for a likeness of Queen MyrdemInggala, which he studied. From any new situation, personal as well as political advantages were to be gained. He would enjoy his trip to Gravabagalinien, if that were possible. Esomberr promised himself that he would not be too religious for his own enjoyment at Gravabagalinien.
As soon as the royal boat had docked, men and women had crowded into the forecourt of the palace to seek a word with the king. By law, all supplications had to go through the scritina, but the ancient tradition of making a plea direct to the king died hard. The king preferred work to idleness. Tired of waiting and of watching his courtiers gyrate themselves into states of breathlessness, he agreed to hold audience in a nearby room. His runt sat alertly by the small throne, and the king patted him now and again.
After the first two supplicants had come and gone, Bardol CaraBansity appeared before the king. He had thrown an embroidered waistcoat over his charfrul. JandolAnganol recognised the man’s strutting walk and frowned as a florid bow was sketched in his direction.
‘This man is Bardol CaraBansity, sire,’ said the chancellor-on-trial, standing at the king’s right hand. ‘You have some of his anatomical designs in the royal library.’
The king said, ‘I remember you. You are a friend of my ex-chancellor, SartoriIrvrash.’
CaraBansity blinked his blood-shot eyes. ‘I trust that SartoriIrvrash is well, sire, despite being an ex-chancellor.’
‘He has fled to Sibornal, if that can be called being well. What do you want of me?’
‘Firstly, a chair, sire, since my legs pain me to stand.’
They contemplated each other. Then the king motioned a page to move a chair below the dais on which he sat.
Taking his time about getting himself settled, CaraBansity said. ‘I have an object to set before you — priceless, I believe — knowing your majesty to be a man of learning.’
‘I am an ignorant man, and stupid enough to dislike flattery. A king of Borlien concerns himself with politics merely, to keep his country intact.’
‘We do whatever we do the better for being better informed. I can break a man’s arm better if I know how his joints work.’
The king laughed. It was a harsh sound, not often heard from his mouth. He leaned forward. ‘What is learning against the increasing rage of Freyr? Even the All-Powerful Akhanaba seems to have no power against Freyr.’