Chamteth was a country so huge that it could be reached just as readily by travelling east or west into the Land of the Long Days, that hemisphere of the world which was not swept by Overland’s shadow and where there was no littlenight to punctuate the sun’s progress across the sky. In the distant past several ambitious rulers had tried probing into Chamteth and the outcome had been so convincing, so disastrous that Chamteth had virtually been erased from the national consciousness. It existed, but — as with Overland — its existence had no relevance to the quotidian affairs of the empire.
Until now, Toller thought, striving to rebuild his picture of the universe. Chamteth and Overland are linked…bonded… to take one is to take the other…
“War against Chamteth has become inevitable,” the King said. “Some are of the opinion that it always has been inevitable. What do you say, Lord Glo?”
“Majesty,!.…” Glo cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “Majesty, I have always regarded myself as a creative thinker, but I freely admit that the grandeur and scope of your vision have taken my… hmm… breath away. When I originally proposed flying to Overland I envisaged despatching a small number of pathfinders, followed by the gradual establishment of a small colony. I had not dreamed of migration on the scale you are contemplating, but I can assure you that I am equal to the responsibilities involved. The designing of a suitable ship and the planning of all the necessary.…” Glo stopped speaking as he saw that Prad was shaking his head.
“My dear Lord Glo, you are not a well man,” the King said, “and I would be less than fair to you if I permitted you to expend what remains of your strength on a task of such magnitude.”
“But, Majesty.…”
The King’s face hardened. “Do not interrupt! The extremity of our situation demands equally extreme measures. The entire resources of Kolcorron must be reorganised and mobilised, and therefore I am dissolving all the old dynastic family structures. In their place — as of this moment — is a single pyramid of authority. Its executive head is my son, Prince Leddravohr, who will control and coordinate every aspect — military and civil — of our national affairs. He is seconded by Prince Chakkell, who will be responsible to him for the construction of the migration fleet.”
The King paused, and when he spoke again his voice had none of the attributes of humanity. “Be it understood that Prince Leddravohr’s authority is absolute, that his power is unlimited, and that to go counter to his wishes in any respect is a crime equivalent to high treason.”
Toller closed his eyes, knowing that when he opened them again the world of his childhood and youth would have passed into history, and that in its place would be a dangerous new cosmos in which his tenure might be all too brief.
Chapter 8
Leddravohr was mentally tired after the meeting and had been hoping to relax during dinner, but his father — with the abundant cerebral energy which characterises some elderly men — talked all the way through the meal. He switched rapidly and effortlessly from military strategy to food rationing schemes to the technicalities of interworld flight, displaying his fascination with detail, trying to explore mutually incompatible probabilities. Leddravohr, who had no taste for juggling with abstracts, was relieved when the meal was finished and his father moved out to the balcony for a final cup of wine before retiring to his private quarters.
“Damn this glass,” Prad said, tapping the transparent cupola which enclosed the balcony. “I used to enjoy taking the air here at night. Now I can scarcely breathe.”
“Without the glass you wouldn’t be breathing at all.” Leddravohr flicked his thumb, indicating a group of three ptertha drifting overhead across the glowing face of Overland. The sun had gone down and now the sister world was entering the gibbous phases of its illumination, casting its mellow light over the southern reaches of the city, Arle Bay and the deep indigo expanses of the Gulf of Tronom. The light was good enough to read by and would steadily increase in strength as Overland, keeping pace with the rotation of Land, swung towards its point of opposition with the sun. Although the sky had darkened only to a rich mid-blue the stars, some of which were bright enough to be visible in full daylight, formed blazing patterns from Overland’s rim down to the horizon.
“Damn the ptertha, too,” Prad said. “You know, son, one of the greatest tragedies of our past is that we never learned where the globes come from. Even if they are spawned somewhere in the upper atmosphere, it might have been possible at one time to track them down and destroy them at source. It’s too late now, though.”
“What about your triumphant return from Overland? Attacking the ptertha from above?”
“Too late for me, I mean. History will remember me for the outward flight only.”
“Ah, yes — history,” Leddravohr said, once again wondering at his father’s preoccupation with the pale and spurious immortality offered by books and graven monuments. Life was a transient thing, impossible to extend beyond its natural term, and time spent in trying to do so was a squandering of the very commodity one was seeking to preserve. Leddravohr’s own belief was that the only way to cheat death, or at least reconcile oneself to it, was to achieve every ambition and sate every appetite, so that when the time came the relinquishing of life was little more than discarding an empty gourd.
His single overriding ambition had been to extend his future kingship to every quarter of Land — including Chamteth — but that was now denied him by a connivance of fate. In its place was the prospect of a hazardous and unnatural flight into the sky, followed by little more than a tribal existence on an unknown world. He was angry about that, filled with a gnawing canker of rage unlike anything he had ever known, and somebody would have to pay.…
Prad sipped pensively at his wine. “Have you prepared all your dispatches?”
“Yes — the messengers leave at first light.” Leddravohr had spent all his free time after the meeting personally writing orders to the five generals he wanted for his staff. “I instructed them to use continuous thrust, so we should have distinguished company quite soon.”
“I take it you have chosen Dalacott.”
“He’s still the best tactician we have.”
“Aren’t you afraid that his edge might be blunted?” Prad said. “He must be seventy now, and being down in Kail when the plague broke out there can’t have done him much good. Didn’t he lose a daughter and a grandchild on the very first day?”
“Something like that,” Leddravohr replied carelessly. “He is still healthy, though. Still of value.”
“He must have the immunity.” Prad’s face became more animated as he fastened on to yet another of his talking points. “You know, Glo sent me some very interesting statistics at the beginning of the year. They were collated by Maraquine. They showed that the incidence of plague deaths among military personnel — which you would expect to be high because of their exposure — is actually somewhat lower than for the population in general. And, significantly, long-serving soldiers and airmen are the least likely to succumb. Maraquine suggested that years of being near ptertha kills and absorbing minute traces of the dust might train the body to resist pterthacosis. It’s an intriguing thought.”