‘Tell me,’ said JandolAnganol carelessly, ‘if you as an atheist do not have a religious construction to put to the case — how do you see my difficulties?’
CaraBansity was silent, setting his beefy red face towards the ground as if guarding it against the king’s abrasive look. Work up your courage, he told himself.
‘Well? Come, say what you will. I have no spirit! I have been flogged by my whey-visaged vicar…’
When CaraBansity stopped walking, the king followed suit.
‘Sire, I recently to oblige a friend took into my establishment a certain young lady. My wife and I entertain many people, some alive, some dead; also animals for dissection, and phagors, either for dissection or for bodyguards. None caused as much trouble as that certain young lady.
‘I love my wife, and ever continue to do so. But I lusted after that certain young lady. I had a contempt for her, yet I lusted after her. I despised myself, and yet I lusted after her.’
‘But did you have her?’
CaraBansity laughed, and for the first time in the king’s presence, his face lightened. ‘Sire, I had her much as you have that gwing-gwing, the fruit par excellence of dimday. The juice, sire, ran down… But it was khmir and not love, and once the khmir was quenched — though that was certainly a process… that was summer process, sire — once it was quenched, I loathed myself and wanted nothing more of her. I established her apart and told her never to see me again. Since when, I learn that she has taken to her mother’s profession, and caused the death of at least one man.’
‘What’s all this to me?’ asked the king with a haughty look.
‘Sire, I believe the activating principle of your life to be lust rather than love.
‘You tell me in religious terms that Akhanaba has favoured you and put many fruits in your path. In my terms, you have taken what you would, done what you would, and so you wish to continue. You favour ancipitals as instruments of your lust, not caring that phagors are in reality never submissive. Nothing really can stand in your way — except the queen of queens. She can stand in your way because she alone in the world commands your love, and perhaps some respect. That is why you hate her, because you love her.
‘She stands between you and your khmir. She alone can contain your — duality. In you as in me, and perhaps as in all men, the two principles are divided — but the division in you is as great as your state is great.
‘If you prefer to believe in Akhanaba, believe now that he has by these supposed setbacks given you warning that your life is about to go wrong. Make it right while the chance is offered.’
They stopped on the cliff, ignoring the dull thunders of the sea, and stood face to face, both of them tense. The king heard his chancellor out with never a movement, while Yuli rolled in coarse grass nearby.
‘How would you suggest that I make my life right?’ A less self-assured man than CaraBansity would have taken fright from his tone.
‘This is my advice, Your Majesty. Do not go to Oldorando. Simoda Tal is dead. You no longer have reason to visit an unfriendly capital. As a deuteroscopist, I warn you against it.’ Under his grizzled eyebrows, CaraBansity kept careful note of the effect of his words on JandolAnganol.
‘Your place is in your own kingdom, never more so than now, while your enemies have not forgotten the Massacre of the Myrdolators. Return to Matrassyl.
‘Your rightful queen is here. Fall before her and ask forgiveness. Tear up Esomberr’s bill before her eyes. Take back what you love most. Your sanity lies in her. Reject the cozzening of Pannoval.’
The Eagle glared out to sea, eyes rapidly blinking.
‘Live a saner life, Majesty. Win back your son. Kick out Pannoval, kick out the phagor guard, live a sane life with your queen. Reject the false Akhanaba, who has led you—’
But he had gone too far.
Matchless fury seized the king. A rage filled him until he was rage personified. He hurled himself bodily upon CaraBansity. Before this anger beyond reason, CaraBansity quailed and fell an instant before the king was on him. Kneeling on his prostrate body, the king drew his sword. CaraBansity screamed.
‘Spare me, Your Majesty! Last night I saved your queen from vile rape.’
JandolAnganol paused, then stood, sword point directed at the quaking body huddled by his feet. ‘Who would dare touch the queen when I was near? Answer?’
‘Your Majesty…’ The voice trembled slightly, the lips uttering it were pressed almost to the ground; yet what it said was clear. ‘You were drunk. And Envoy Esomberr went into her room to ravish her.’
The king breathed deep. He sheathed his sword. He stood without movement.
‘You base commoner! How could you understand the life of a king? I do not go back along the path I have once trod. You may possess life, which is mine to take, but I have a destiny and shall follow on where the All-Powerful leads.
‘Crawl back to where you belong. You cannot advise me. Keep out of my way!’
Yet he still stood over the grovelling anatomist. When Yuli came snuffling up, the king turned suddenly away and strode back to the wooden palace.
The guard roused at his shout. They were to be away from Gravabagalinien within the hour. They would march for Oldorando as planned. His voice, his cold fury, stirred up the palace as if it were a nest of rickybacks disturbed by the lifting of a log. Esomberr’s vicars could be heard within, calling to each other in high voices.
This commotion reached the queen in her chambers. She stood in the middle of her ivory room, listening. Her bodyguard was at the door. Mai TolramKetinet sat with two maids in the anteroom, clutching Tatro. Thick curtains were drawn across the windows.
MyrdemInggala wore a long flimsy dress. Her face was as pale as the shadow of a cowbird’s wing on snow. She stood breathing the warm air into her lungs and out again, listening to the sound of men and hoxneys, of curses and commands below. Once she went to the curtains; then, as if disdaining her own weakness, withdrew the hand she had raised and returned to where she waited before. The heat brought out beads of perspiration which clung to her forehead like pearls. She heard the king’s voice once distinctly, then not again.
As for CaraBansity, he climbed to his feet when the king had gone. He walked down to the bay where he could not be seen, to recover his colour. After a while, he began to sing. He had his liberty back, if not his timepiece.
In his pain, the king went to a small room in one of the rickety towers and bolted the door behind him. Dust drifting down gave phantom substance to slices of gold shining in through a lattice. The place smelt of feathers, fungus, and old straw. On the bare boards of the floor were pigeon droppings, but the king, ignoring them, lay down and cast himself by an effort of will into pauk.
His soul, detached from his body, became tranquil. Like a moth wing falling, it sank into the velvety darkness. The darkness remained when all else had gone.
This was the paradox of the limbo in which the soul now drifted rudderless: that it extended everywhere and was an endless domain, while at the same time being as familiar to him as the dark space under the bedclothes to a child.
The soul had no mortal eyes. It saw with a different vision. It saw beneath it, through the obsidian, a host of dim lights, stationary but seeming to move in relation to each other because of the soul’s descent. Each light had once been a living spirit. Each was now drawn to the great mother-principle which would exist even when the world was dead, the original beholder, the principle even greater than — or at least apart from — such gods as Akhanaba.
And the soul moved in particular to one light that attracted it, the gossie of its father.
The spark that had once been no less a personage than VarpalAnganol, King of Borlien, resembled only a tentative sketch of sunshine on an old wall, with its ribs, its pelvis, scarcely drawn. All that remained of the head which had worn the crown was the suggestion of a stone, with ambers faintly connotating eye sockets. Beneath this little cockleshell — visible through it — were fessups like trails of dust.