Making a noise suggesting that he might need to clear his throat, the old king half-turned in his chair. His expression was half vacant, half crazy.
‘It’s I — Jan.’
‘I thought it was that same path again… where the fish jumped… You…’ He struggled to disentangle himself from his thoughts. ‘That’s you, Jan? Where’s Father? What time is it?’
‘Nearly fourteen, if that’s of any interest to you.’
‘Time’s always of interest.’ VarpalAnganol gave a ghostly chuckle. ‘Isn’t it time that Borlien bumped into Freyr?’
‘That’s an old wives’ tale. I’ve something to show you.’
‘What old wife? Your mother’s dead, lad. I haven’t seen her for… or was she here? I forget. It may warm this palace up a bit… I thought I smelt burning.’
‘It’s a volcano.’
‘I see. A volcano. I thought it might be Freyr. Sometimes my thoughts wander… Do you want to sit down, lad?’ He began struggling to his feet, but JandolAnganol pushed him back into the chair.
‘Have you found Roba yet? He’s born now, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know where he is — he’s out of his wits, certainly.’
The old king gave a cackle. ‘Very shrewd. Sanity can drive you mad, you know… You remember how the fish used to jump in that pool? Well, there always was something wild about Roba. Almost a man now, I suppose. If he’s not here, he can’t shut you up, can he? Nor can you marry him off. What’s her name? Cune. She’s gone, too.’
‘She’s in Gravabagalinien.’
‘Good. I hope he doesn’t kill her. Her mother was a fine woman. What about my old friend Rushven? Is Rushven dead? I don’t know what you do up there half the time. If you can halve time.’
‘Rushven’s gone. I told you. My agents report that he has fled to Sibornal, much good that will do him.’
Silence fell between them. JandolAnganol stood with matchlock in hand, reluctant to break into his father’s rambling thoughts. He was getting worse than ever.
‘Perhaps he’ll see the Great Wheel of Kharnabhar. It’s their sacred symbol, you know.’ With a struggle, and only by letting his blanket slip, he managed to screw his stiff old neck round to look at his son. ‘It’s their sacred symbol, I said.’
‘I know it.’
‘Then try and answer when I speak to you… What about that other fellow, the Uskuti, yes, Pasharatid? Did they catch him?’
‘No. His wife left too, a tenner ago.’
The old man sank back into the chair, sighing. His hands twitched nervously at the blanket. ‘Sounds to me as if Matrassyl’s almost empty.’
JandolAnganol turned his face away, towards the grey square of light. ‘Just me and the phagors.’
‘Did I ever tell you what Io Pasharatid used to do, Jan? When he was allowed to come and see me? Curious behaviour for a man of the northern continent. They are very self-controlled — not passionate, like the Borlienese.’
‘Did you scheme with him to overthrow me?’
‘I just sat here while he dragged a table through, a heavy table. He used to put it under that little window. Did you ever hear such a thing?’
JandolAnganol began to pace about the cell, darting his gaze into the corners as if seeking a way of escape.
‘He wanted to admire the view from your luxurious apartment.’
The figure in the chair gave a bleat of laughter. ‘Precisely so. Admiring the view. Well put. A good phrase. And the view was of… well, if you get the table yourself, lad, you will see. You will see the windows of MyrdemInggala’s apartments, and her verandah…’ He broke off for a dry cough which rattled in his throat. The king paced faster. ‘You get a view of the reservoir where Cune used to swim naked with her ladies-in-waiting. Before you sent her away this was, of course…’
‘What happened, Father?’
‘Well, that’s what happened. I told you but you didn’t listen. The ambassador used to climb on to that table and watch your queen with nothing on, or wearing only a piece of muslin… Very… very unorthodox behaviour for a Sibornalese. A Uskuti. Or for anyone really.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?’ He stood confronting the ancient shape of his father.
‘Heh. You would have killed him.’
‘I should have killed him. Yes. No one would have blamed me.’
‘The Sibornalese would have blamed you. Borlien would have been in worse trouble than it is already. You will not learn diplomatic sense. That’s why I didn’t tell you.’
JandolAnganol began to pace. ‘What a calculating old slanje you are! Surely you must have hated what Pasharatid was doing?’
‘No… what are women for? I have no objection to hate. It keeps you alive, keeps you warm of nights. Hate is what brings you down here. You came down here once, I forget what year it was, to talk about love, but I only know about—’
‘Enough!’ cried JandolAnganol, stamping his boot on the flags. ‘I shall never speak of love again, to you or anyone. Why do you never help me? Why didn’t you tell me what Pasharatid was up to? Did he ever meet secretly with Cune?’
‘Why don’t you grow up?’ Spite entered his voice.’ I expect he crept in to her warm nest every night…’
He cringed away, expecting a blow from his son’s raised hand. But JandolAnganol squatted by the chair instead.
‘I want you to look at something. Tell me what you would do.’
He lifted the homemade matchlock which had cracked along the barrel and placed it on his father’s knee.
‘It’s heavy. I don’t want it. Her garden’s all neglected now…’ The ex-king pushed it so that it fell on the floor. JandolAnganol let it lie there.
‘That gun was made by SlanjivalIptrekira’s corps. The barrel split on firing. Out of six guns I had him make, only one worked properly. Of the previous batch, none has worked. What has gone wrong? How is it that our weapon-makers’ corps, which claims to trace its foundation back for centuries, cannot make a simple gun?’
The old heap in the chair remained silent for a while, pulling ineffectually at its blanket. Then it spoke.
‘Things don’t get better for being old. Look at me. Look at the figure behind you… It may be that too many institutions are too old… What was I going to say? Rushven told me that the various trades corps were founded to exist through the Great Winter, to hand on their knowledge in secret from generation to generation, so that their arts survived the black centuries until spring.’
‘I have heard him say as much… What follows?’
VarpalAnganol’s wheezy voice strengthened. ‘Why, what follows spring is summer. What follows seasons is that the corps perpetuate themselves, maybe losing a little knowledge from one generation to another but not gaining new knowledge. They become hidebound… Try to imagine what those centuries of darkness and frost were like — much like being stuck down in this hole for eternity, I imagine. Trees died. No wood. No charcoal. No fires for smelting properly… Probably it’s the smelting process at fault, by the look of that barrel. The furnaces… they may need renewing. Better methods, as the Sibornalese have…’
‘I’ll flog them all for their idleness. Then perhaps we’ll see some results.’
‘Not idleness, tradition. Try chopping Slanji’s head off and then offering rewards. That will encourage innovation.’
‘Yes. Yes, possibly.’ He picked up the gun and made for the door.
The old man called feebly to him. ‘What do you want the guns for?’