She knew the Ice Captain was gentle with his silly boy. Yet Muntras’s father had been harsh with him, sending him out as a lad to earn money begging and peddling, in order to prove he was capable of taking over a one-ship ice business. She had heard this tale before, but was not bored by it.
“You’ve had an eventful life,” she said.
Perhaps he thought some sort of criticism was implied, for he looked uncomfortable. To cover his unease, he slapped his leg and said, “I’m not ashamed to say that I have prospered at a time when the majority of citizens are doing the reverse.”
She regarded his solid countenance as if wondering if he understood she was also of that majority, but merely said, in her composed way, “You told me once you started in business with one boat. How many have you now, Captain?”
“Yes, Madam Queen, my old father started with but one old hooker, which I inherited. Today, I hand over to my son a fleet of twenty-five ships. Fast seagoing sloops, and ketches, hookers, and doggers, to ply the rivers and coasts, each adapted to the trade. There you see the benefits of dealing in ice. The hotter is gets, the more a block of good Lordryardry ice will fetch in the market. The worse things get for others, the more they improve for me.”
“But your ice melts, Captain.”
“That’s so, and many the jokes people make about it. But Lordryardry ice, being pure off the glacier, melts less rapidly than other ices sold by other traders.” He was enjoying himself in her presence, though he had not failed to notice a clouded air about her, so different from her normal disposition.
“I’ll put another point to you. You are devout in the religion of your country, Madam Queen, so I do not need to remind you of redemption. Well, my ice is like your redemption. The less there is, the scarcer it becomes, and the scarcer it becomes, the more it costs. My boats now sail all the way from Dimariam, across the Sea of Eagles, up the Takissa and Valvoral rivers to Matrassyl and Oldorando City, as well as along the coast to Keevasien and the ports of the deadly assatassi.”
She smiled, perhaps not entirely pleased to hear religion and trade intermingled. “Well, I’m glad someone fares well in a bad age.” She had not forgotten the time when she as a young girl on her first visit to Oldorando had met the Dimariamian in the bazaar. He was in rags, but he had a smile; and he had produced from an inner pocket the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. Shannana, her mother, had given her the money. She had returned the next day to buy it, and had worn it ever since.
“You overpaid me for that ring,” Krillio Muntras said, “and with the profit I went home and bought a glacier. So I have been in your debt ever since.” He laughed, and she joined in. “Now, Madam Queen, you come here not to bargain about ice, since that I supply through the palace majordomo. Can I do you a favour?”
“Captain Muntras, I am in a difficult situation, and I need help.”
He looked suddenly cautious. “I do not want to lose the royal favour which permits me, a foreigner, to trade here. Otherwise…”
“I appreciate that. All I ask of you is reliability, and of that you will surely avail me. I wish you to deliver a letter for me, secretly. You mention Keevasien, on the border with Randonan. Can you reliably deliver a letter to a certain gentleman fighting in Randonan in our Second Army?”
Muntras’s expressive face looked so glum that his cheeks tightened themselves round his mouth. “In war, everything is doubtful. The news is that the Borlienese army fares badly, and Keevasien too. But—but—for you, Madam Queen… My boats go up the Kacol River above Keevasien, as far as Ordelay. Yes, I could send a messenger from there. Provided it’s not too dangerous. He’d need paying, of course.”
“How much?”
He thought. “I have a boy who would do it. When you’re young, you don’t fear death.” He told her how much it would cost. She paid out willingly enough and handed over the pouch with the letter to General TolramKetinet.
Muntras made her another bow. “I’m proud to do it for you. First, I must deliver a freight to Oldorando. That’s four days upriver, two days there and two days back. A week in all. Then I’ll be back here and straight south for Ottassol.”
“Such delay! Do you have to go to Oldorando first?”
“Have to, ma’am. Trade’s trade.”
“Very well, I’ll leave it to you, Captain Muntras. But you understand that this is of vital importance and absolutely secret, between you and me? Carry out this mission faithfully, and I’ll see you have your reward.”
“I’m grateful for the chance to help, Madam Queen.”
When they parted, and the queen had taken another glass of refreshing wine, she was more cheerful and battled almost gaily back to the palace with her lady-in-waiting, the sister of the general to whom her letter was now despatched. She could hope, whatever the king had decided.
Throughout the palace, doors banged and curtains fluttered in the wind. Pale of face, JandolAnganol talked to his religious advisors. One of them finally said to him, “Your Majesty, this state is holy, and we believe that you have already in your heart come to a decision. You will cement this new alliance for holy reasons, and we shall bless you for it.”
The king replied vehemently, “If I make this alliance, it will be because I am wicked, and welcome wickedness.”
“Not so, my lord! Your queen and her brother conspired against Sibornal, and must be punished.” They were already halfway to believing the lie he had set in circulation; it was his old father’s lie, but now it had become common property and possessed them one by one.
In their own chambers, the visiting statesmen, awaiting the king’s word, complained about the discomfort of this miserable little palace and of the poverty of the hospitality. The advisors quarrelled amongst themselves, jealous of each other’s privileges; but one thing they agreed on. They agreed that if and when the king divorced his queen and married Simoda Tal, the question of the large phagor population of Borlien should be reopened.
Old histories told how ancipital hordes had once descended on Oldorando and burned it to the ground. That hostility had never died. Year by year, the phagor population was being reduced. It was necessary that Borlien should follow the same policy. With Simoda Tal and her ministers at JandolAnganol’s side, the issue could be pressed harder.
And with MyrdemInggala gone, with her softhearted ways, it would be convenient to introduce drumbles.
But where was the king, and what was his decision?
The time was a few minutes after fourteen o’clock, and the king stood naked in an upper chamber. A great pendulum of pewter swung solemnly against one wall, clicking out seconds. Against the other wall hung an enormous mirror of silver. In the shadows stood serving wenches, waiting with vestments to dress JandolAnganol to appear before the diplomats.
Between the pendulum and the mirror JandolAnganol stood or paced. In his indecision, he ran his finger down the scar on his thigh, or pulled the pallid length of his prodo, or regarded the reflection of those bloody devotional stripes which stretched from his shoulderblades down to his thin buttocks. He snarled at the lean whipped thing he saw.
The king could easily send the diplomats packing; his rage, his khmir, were fully equal to such a deed. He could easily snatch up the thing dearest to him—the queen—and brand her mouth with hot kisses, vowing, never to allow her from his sight. Or he could do the opposite—be a villain in private and become a saint in the eyes of many, a saint ready to throw everything away for his country.