Jack Vance, page 3
Audry turned to Claractus. “Is not Poëlitetz considered impregnable to assault?”
“This is the general belief.”
Sir Rudo gave a skeptical grunt. “This belief has never been tested, though it has cowed folk for generations.”
Claractus smiled grimly. “How does one attack a cliff?”
“The sally port might be rammed and sundered.”
“Why trouble? The defenders at your request will be pleased to leave the portcullis ajar. When a goodly number of noble knights—say, a hundred or more—has swarmed into the yard, the portcullis is dropped and the captives are destroyed at leisure.”
“Then the Long Dann itself must be scaled!”
“It is not easy to climb a cliff while enemies are dropping rocks from above.”
Sir Rudo gave Claractus a haughty inspection. “Sir, can you offer us nothing but gloom and dismal defeat? The king has stated his requirements; still you decry every proposal intended to achieve the goal!”
“Your ideas are impractical,” said Claractus. “I cannot take them seriously.”
Sir Archem struck the table with his fist. “Nevertheless, chivalry demands that we respond to this insulting encroachment!”
Claractus turned to King Audry. “You are fortunate, Sire, in the fiery zeal of your paladins! They are paragons of ferocity! You should loose them against the Celts in Wysrod, who have been so noxious a nuisance!”
Sir Huynemer made a growling sound under his breath. “All this is beside the point.”
Audry heaved a sigh, blowing out his black mustaches. “For a fact, our Wysrod campaigns have brought us little glory and less satisfaction.”
Sir Huynemer spoke earnestly: “Sire, the difficulties in Wysrod are many! The gossoons are like specters; we chase them over tussock and bog; we bring them to bay; they melt into the Wysrod mists, and presently attack our backs, with yells and screams and insane Celtic curses, so that our soldiers become confused.”
Duke Claractus laughed aloud. “You should train your soldiers not for parades but for fighting; then they might not fear mists and curses.”
Sir Huynemer uttered a curse of his own: “Devilspit and dogballs! I resent these words! My service to the king has never been challenged!”
“Nor mine!” declared Sir Rudo. “The Celts are a minor vexation which we will soon abate!”
King Audry pettishly clapped his hands. “Peace, all of you! I wish no further wrangling in my presence!”
Duke Claractus rose to his feet. “Sire, I have spoken hard truths which otherwise you might not hear. Now, by your leave, I will retire and refresh myself.”
“Do so, good Claractus! I trust that you will join us as we dine.”
“With pleasure, Sire.”
Claractus departed. Sir Archem watched him stride across the lawn, then turned back with a snort of disapproval. “There goes a most prickly fellow!”
“No doubt loyal, and as brave as a boar in rut—of this I am sure,” declared Sir Rudo. “But, like most provincials, he is purblind to wide perspectives.”
“Bah!” said Sir Huynemer in disgust. “Provincial only? I find him uncouth, with his horse-blanket cloak and blurting style of speech.”
Sir Rudo spoke thoughtfully: “It would seem part and parcel of the same attribute, as if one fault generated the other.” He put a cautious question to the king: “What are Your Majesty’s views?”
Audry made no direct response. “I will reflect on the matter. Such decisions cannot be formed on the instant.”
Sir Tramador approached King Audry. He bent and muttered into the royal ear: “Sire, it is time that you were changing into formal robes.”
“Whatever for?” cried Audry.
“Today, Sire, if you recall, you sit at the assizes.”
Audry turned an aggrieved glance on Sir Tramador. “Are you certain of this?”
“Indeed, Sire! The litigants are already gathering in the Outer Chamber.”
Audry scowled and sighed. “So now I must finick with folly and greed and all what interests me least! It is tedium piled on obfuscation! Tramador, have you no mercy? Always you trouble me during my trifling little periods of rest!”
“I regret the need to do so, Your Highness.”
“Ha! I suppose that if I must, I must; there is no escaping it.”
“Unfortunately not, Your Majesty. Will you use the Grand Saloon4 or the Old Hall?”
Audry considered. “What cases await judgment?”
Sir Tramador tendered a sheet of parchment. “This is the list, with the clerk’s analysis and comments. You will note a single robber to be hanged and an innkeeper who watered his wine, for a flogging. Otherwise there seems nothing of large import.”
“Just so. The Old Hall it shall be. I am never easy on Evandig; it seems to shudder and squirm beneath me, an anomalous sensation to say the least.”
“So I would think, Your Majesty!”
The assizes ran their course. King Audry returned to his private quarters, where his valets dressed him for the afternoon. However, Audry did not immediately leave the chamber. He dismissed his valets and, dropping into a chair, sat brooding upon the issues raised by Duke Claractus.
The prospect of retaking Poëlitetz by force was, of course, absurd. Hostilities with King Aillas could benefit only Casmir of Lyonesse.
Audry rose to his feet, to pace back and forth, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. When all was taken with all, so he reflected, Aillas had spoken only stark and unvarnished truth. Danger to Dahaut came not from the Ulflands, nor from Troicinet, but from Lyonesse.
Claractus not only had brought no cheer, but also had hinted at some unpleasant realities which Audry preferred to ignore. The Daut troops in their fine uniforms made a brave show at parades, but even Audry conceded that their conduct on the battlefield might be held suspect.
Audry sighed. To remedy the situation called for measures so drastic that his mind jerked quickly back, like the fronds of a sensitive plant.
Audry threw his hands high into the air. All would be well; unthinkable otherwise! Problems ignored were problems defeated! Here was the sensible philosophy; a man would go mad trying to repair each deficiency of the universe!
Thus fortified, Audry called in his valets. They settled a smart hat with a cocked crown and a scarlet plume upon his head; Audry blew out his moustaches and departed the chamber.
4
The Kingdom of Lyonesse extended across South Hybras, from the Cantabrian Gulf to Cape Farewell on the Atlantic Ocean. From Castle Haidion at the back of Lyonesse Town King Casmir ruled with a justice more vigorous than that of King Audry. Casmir’s court was characterized by exact protocol and decorum; pomp, rather than ostentation or festivity, dictated the nature of events at Haidion.
King Casmir’s spouse was Queen Sollace, a large languid woman almost as tall as Casmir. She wore her fine yellow hair in bundles on top of her head, and bathed in milk, the better to nourish her soft white skin. Casmir’s son and heir-apparent was the dashing Prince Cassander; also included in the royal family was Princess Madouc, purportedly the daughter of the tragic Princess Suldrun, now nine years dead.
Castle Haidion overlooked Lyonesse Town from the shoulder of a low rise, showing from below as an interlocked set of ponderous stone blocks, surmounted by seven towers of differing styles and shape: the Tower of Lapadius,5 the Tall Tower,6 the King’s Tower, the West Tower, the Tower of Owls, Palaemon’s Tower, and the East Tower. The ponderous structure and the towers provided Haidion a silhouette which, if graceless, archaic and eccentric, was in total contrast to the fine façade of Falu Ffail at Avallon.
In much the same manner, the person of King Casmir contrasted with that of King Audry. Casmir was florid and seemed to throb with strong and ruddy blood. Casmir’s hair and beard were mats of crisp blond ringlets. Audry’s complexion was as sallow as ivory, and his hair was richly black. Casmir was burly, thick of torso and neck, with round china-blue eyes staring from a slab-sided face. Audry, while tall and ample of girth, was measured of posture and carefully graceful.
The court of neither king lacked for regal comfort; both enjoyed their perquisites, but while Audry cultivated the company of his favorites, of both sexes, Casmir knew no intimates and kept no mistresses. Once each week he paid a stately visit to the bedchamber of Queen Sollace, and there addressed himself to her massive and lethargic white body. On other less formal occasions, he made shift to ease himself upon the quivering body of one of his pretty pages.
The company Casmir liked best was that of his spies and informers. From such sources he learned of Aillas’ intransigence at Poëlitetz almost as soon as had King Audry himself. The news, though it came as no surprise, aroused Casmir’s vigorous displeasure. Sooner or later he intended to invade Dahaut, destroy the Daut armies and consolidate a quick victory before Aillas could effectively bring to bear his own power. With Aillas ensconced at Poëlitetz, the situation became more difficult, since Aillas could instantly counterattack with Ulfish troops across the March and there would be no swift decision to the war. Definitely, the danger posed by the fortress Poëlitetz must be eliminated.
This was no sudden new concept. Casmir had long worked to foment dissension among the Ulfish barons, that they might enter upon a full-scale rebellion against the rule of their foreign king. To this end he had recruited Torqual, a renegade Ska turned outlaw.
The enterprise had yielded no truly gratifying results. For all Torqual’s ruthlessness and cunning, he lacked tractability, which limited his usefulness. As the months passed, Casmir became impatient and dissatisfied; where were Torqual’s achievements? In response to Casmir’s orders, transmitted by courier, Torqual only demanded more gold and silver. Casmir had already disbursed large sums; further, he suspected that Torqual could easily meet his needs by means of plunder and depredation, thus saving Casmir unnecessary expense.
For conferences with his private agents, Casmir favored the Room of Sighs, a chamber above the armoury. In olden times, before construction of the Peinhador, the armoury had served as the castle’s torture chamber; prisoners awaiting attention sat above in the Room of Sighs, where the sensitive ear—so it was said—might still detect plaintive sounds.
The Room of Sighs was bleak and stark, furnished with a pair of wooden benches, a table of oak planks, two chairs, a tray with an old beechwood flask and four beechwood mugs, to which Casmir had taken a fancy.
A week after receiving news of the impasse at Poëlitetz, Casmir was notified by his under-chamberlain, Eschar, that the courier Robalf awaited his convenience in the Room of Sighs.
Casmir at once took himself to the cheerless chamber over the armoury. On one of the benches sat Robalf—a person gaunt and thin-faced with darting brown eyes, sparse brown hair and a long crooked nose. He wore travel-stained garments of brown fust and a high-peaked black felt cap; upon the entrance of Casmir he jumped to his feet, doffed the cap and bowed. “Sire, I am at your service!”
Casmir looked him up and down, gave a curt nod and went to sit behind the table. “Well then, what is your news?”
Robalf responded in a reedy voice: “Sire, I have done your bidding, tarrying not a step along the way, pausing not even to empty my bladder!”
Casmir pulled at his chin. “Surely you did not perform this function on the run?”
“Sire, haste and duty make heroes of us all!”
“Interesting.” Casmir poured wine from the beechwood flask into one of the mugs. He gestured toward the second chair. “Be seated, good Robalf, and divulge your tidings in comfort.”
Robalf gingerly perched his thin haunches upon the edge of the chair. “Sire, I met with Torqual at the appointed place. I delivered your summons, that he must come to Lyonesse Town, using your words and speaking with your kingly authority. I bade him make ready at once, that we might ride the Trompada south together.”
“And his response?”
“It was enigmatic. At first he spoke not at all, and I wondered if he had ever heard my voice. Then he uttered these words: ‘I will not go to Lyonesse Town.’
“I remonstrated with all urgency, citing again Your Majesty’s command. Torqual at last spoke a message for your ears.”
“Ho ha!” muttered Casmir. “Did he now? What was the message?”
“I must warn, Sire, that he used little tact and scamped the appropriate honourifics.”
“Never mind. Speak the message.” Casmir drank from his beechwood mug.
“First of all, he sent his best and most fervent regards, and his hopes for Your Majesty’s continued good health: that is to say, he addressed certain odd sounds to the wind and this is how I interpreted their sense. He then stated that only fear for his life precluded full and instant obedience to Your Majesty’s instructions. He then made a request for funds either of silver or of gold, in quantity adequate to his needs, which he described as large.”
Casmir compressed his lips. “Is that the whole of his message?”
“No, Sire. He stated that he would be overjoyed for the privilege of meeting with Your Majesty, should you deign to visit a place called Mook’s Tor. He supplied directions for arriving at this place, which I will communicate as Your Majesty requires.”
“Not at the moment.” Casmir leaned back in the chair. “To my ears, this message carries a flavor of casual insolence. What is your opinion?”
Robalf frowned and licked his lips. “Your Majesty, I shall render my frank assessment, if that is what you wish.”
“Speak, Robalf! Above all, I value frankness.”
“Very well, Your Majesty. I apprehend in Torqual’s conduct not so much insolence as indifference mixed with a dark twist of humour. He would seem to live in a world where he is alone with Fate; where all other persons, your august self and I as well, are no more than colored shadows, to use a flamboyant figure. In short, rather than indulging in purposeful insolence, Torqual cares nothing one way or another for your royal sensibilities. If you are to deal with him, it must be on this basis. Such, at least, is my belief.” Robalf looked sidewise toward Casmir, whose face gave no clue as to his emotions.
Casmir spoke at last, in a voice reassuringly mild. “Does he intend to do my bidding or not? That is the most important matter of all.”
“Torqual is unpredictable,” said Robalf. “I suspect that you will find him no more malleable in the future than in the past.”
Casmir gave a single curt nod. “Robalf, you have spoken to the point, and indeed have clarified the mysteries surrounding this perverse cutthroat, at least to some small extent.”
“I am happy to be of service, Sire.”
For a moment Casmir ruminated, then asked: “Did he render any account of his achievements?”
“So he did, but somewhat as afterthought. He told of taking Castle Glen Gath, killing Baron Nols and his six sons; he mentioned the burning of Maltaing Keep, seat of Baron Ban Oc, during which occasion all within were consumed by the flames. Both of these lords were staunch in the service of King Aillas.”
Casmir grunted. “Aillas has sent out four companies to hunt down Torqual. That is my latest information. I wonder how long Torqual will survive.”
“Much depends upon Torqual,” said Robalf. “He can hide among the crags or down in the fastnesses, and never be found. But if he comes out to make his forays, then someday his luck must turn bitter and he will be tracked to his lair and brought to bay.”
“No doubt but what you are right,” said Casmir. He rapped on the table; Eschar entered the room. “Sire?”
“Pay over to Robalf a purse of ten silver florins, together with one heavy coin of gold. Then house him comfortably near at hand.”
Robalf bowed. “Thank you, Sire.” The two departed the Room of Sighs.
Casmir remained at the table thinking. Neither Torqual’s conduct nor his exploits were gratifying. Casmir had instructed Torqual to incite the barons one against the other, using ambush, false clues, rumours and deceit. His acts of plunder, murder and rapine served only to identify Torqual as a savage outlaw, against whom all hands must be turned in concert, despite old feuds and past suspicions. Torqual’s conduct therefore worked to unite the barons, rather than to set them at odds!
Casmir gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. He drank from the beechwood mug and set it down on the table with a thud. His fortunes were not on the rise. Torqual, considered as an instrument of policy, had proved capricious and probably useless. He was more than likely a madman. At Poëlitetz, Aillas had entrenched himself, impeding Casmir’s grand ambition. And yet another concern, even more poignant, gnawed at Casmir’s mind: the prediction uttered long years before by Persilian the Magic Mirror. The words had never stopped ringing in Casmir’s mind:
Suldrun’s son shall undertake
Before his life is gone
To sit his right and proper place
At Cairbra an Meadhan.
If so he sits and so he thrives
Then he shall make his own
The Table Round, to Casmir’s woe,
And Evandig his throne.
The terms of the prophecy, from the first, had mystified Casmir. Suldrun had borne a single child: the Princess Madouc—or so it had seemed—and Persilian’s rhyme would appear to be sheer nonsense. But Casmir knew that this was never the way of it, and in the end, the truth was made known and Casmir’s pessimism was vindicated. Suldrun’s child had indeed been a boy, whom the fairies of Thripsey Shee had taken, leaving behind an unwanted brat of their own. All unwittingly King Casmir and Queen Sollace had nurtured the changeling, presenting her to the world as ‘Princess Madouc’.
Persilian’s prophecy was now less of a paradox, and therefore all the more ominous. Casmir had sent his agents to search, but in vain: Suldrun’s first-born was nowhere to be found.
Sitting in the Room of Sighs, clasping the beechwood mug in one heavy hand, Casmir belabored his brain with the same questions he had propounded a thousand times before: “Who is this thrice-cursed child? What is his name? Where does he bide, so demure and quiet from my knowledge? Ah, but I would make short work of it, if once I knew!”
