Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 4



Toller Maraquine awoke with the knowledge, which was both disturbing and comforting, that he was not alone in bed.

He could feel the body heat of the woman who was lying at his left side, one of her arms resting on his stomach, one of her legs drawn up across his thighs. The sensations were all the more pleasant for being unfamiliar. He lay quite still, staring at the ceiling, as he tried to recall the exact circumstances which had brought female company to his austere apartment in the Square House.

He had celebrated his return to the capital with a round of the busy taverns in the Samlue district. The tour had begun early on the previous day and had been intended to last only until the end of littlenight, but the ale and wine had been persuasive and the acquaintances he met had eventually begun to seem like cherished friends. He had continued drinking right through aftday and well into the night, revelling in his escape from the smell of the pikon pans, and at a late stage had begun to notice the same woman close to him in the throng time after time, much more often than could be accounted for by chance.

She had been tawny-haired and tall, full-breasted, broad of shoulder and hip—the sort of woman Toller had dreamed about during his exile in Haffanger. She had also been brazenly chewing a sprig of maidenfriend. He had a clear memory of her face, which was round and open and uncomplicated, with wine-heightened colouring on the cheeks. Her smile had been very white and marred only by a tiny triangular chip missing from one front incisor. Toller had found her easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, and in the end it had seemed the most natural thing in the world for them to spend the night together…

“I’m hungry,” she said abruptly, raising herself into a sitting position beside him. “I want some breakfast.”

Toller ran an appreciative eye over her splendidly naked torso and smiled. “Supposing I want something else first?”

She looked disappointed, but only for an instant, then returned his smile as she moved to bring her breasts into contact with his chest. “If you’re not careful I’ll ride you to death.”

“Please try it,” Toller said, his smile developing into a gratified chuckle. He drew her down to him. A pleasurable warmth suffused his mind and body as they kissed, but within a moment he became aware of something being wrong, of a niggling sense of unease. He opened his eyes and immediately identified one source of his worry—the brightness of his bedchamber indicated that it was well past dawn. This was the morning of day two-hundred, and he had promised his brother that he would be up at first light to help move some charts and a display easel to the Great Palace. It was a menial task which anybody could have done, but Lain had seemed anxious for him to undertake it, possibly so that he would not be left alone in the house with Gesalla while the lengthy council meeting was in progress.

Gesalla!

Toller almost groaned aloud as he remembered that he had not even seen Gesalla on the previous day. He had arrived from Haffanger early in the morning and after a brief interview with his brother—during which Lain had been preoccupied with his charts—had gone straight out on the drinking spree. Gesalla, as Lain’s solewife, was mistress of the household and as such would have expected Toller to pay his respects at the formal evening meal. Another woman might have overlooked his behavioural lapse, but the fastidious and unbending Gesalla was bound to have been furious. On the flight back to Ro-Atabri Toller had vowed that, to avoid causing any tensions in his brother’s house, he would studiously keep on the right side of Gesalla—and he had led off by affronting her on the very first day. The flickering of a moist tongue against his own suddenly reminded Toller that his transgressions against domestic protocol had been greater than Gesalla knew.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, twisting free of the embrace, “but you have to go home now.”

The woman’s jaw sagged. “What?”

“Come on—hurry it up.” Toller stood up, swept her clothes into a wispy bundle and pushed them into her arms. He opened a wardrobe and began selecting fresh clothes for himself,

“But what about my breakfast?”

“There’s no time—I have to get you out of here.”

“That’s just great,” she said bitterly, beginning to sort through the binders and scraps of near-transparent fabric which were her sole attire.

“I told you I was sorry,” Toller said as he struggled into breeches which seemed determined to resist entry.

“A lot of good that…” She paused in the act of gathering her breasts into a flimsy sling and scrutinised the room from ceiling to floor. “Are you sure you live here?”

Toller was amused in spite of his agitation. “Do you think I would just pick a house at random and sneak in to use a bed?”

“I thought it was a bit strange last night … getting a coach all the way out here … keeping so quiet … This is Greenmount, isn’t it?” Her frankly suspicious stare travelled his heavily muscled arms and shoulders. He guessed the direction in which her thoughts were going, but there was no hint of censure in her expression and he took no offence.

“It’s a nice morning for a walk,” he said, raising her to an upright position and hastening her—clothing still partially unfastened—towards the room’s single exit. He opened the door at the precise instant needed to bring him into confrontation with Gesalla Maraquine, who had been passing by in the corridor. Gesalla was pale and ill-looking, thinner than when he had last seen her, but her grey-eyed gaze had lost none of its force—and it was obvious she was angry.

“Good foreday,” she said, icily correct. “I was told you had returned.”

“I apologise for last night,” Toller said. “I … I got detained.”

“Obviously.” Gesalla glanced at his companion with open distaste. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce your … friend?”

Toller swore inwardly as it came to him that there was no longer the slightest hope of salvaging anything from the situation. Even allowing for the fact that he had been adrift on a vinous sea when he met his bed partner, how could he have overlooked such a basic propriety as asking her name? Gesalla was the last person in the world to whom he could have explained the mood of the previous evening, and that being the case there was no point in trying to placate her. I’m sorry about this, dear brother, he thought. I didn’t plan it this way…

“The frosty female is my sister-in-law, Gesalla Maraquine,” he said, putting an arm around his companion’s shoulders as he kissed her on the forehead. “She would like to know your name, and—considering the sport we had during the night—so would I.”

“Fera,” the woman said, making final adjustments to her garments. “Fera Rivoo.”

“Isn’t that nice?” Toller smiled broadly at Gesalla. “Now we can all be friends together.”

“Please see that she leaves by one of the side gates,” Gesalla said. She turned and strode away, head thrown back, each foot descending directly in front of the other.

Toller shook his head. “What do you think was the matter with her?”

“Some women are easily upset.” Fera straightened up and pushed Toller away from her. “Show me the way out.”

“I thought you wanted breakfast.”

“I thought you wanted me to go home.”

“You must have misunderstood me,” Toller said. “I’d like you to stay, for as long as you want. Have you a job to worry about?”

“Oh, I have a very important position in the Samlue market—gutting fish.” Fera held up her hands, which were reddened and marked by numerous small cuts. “How do you think I got these?”

“Forget the job,” Toller urged, enclosing her hands with his own. “Go back to bed and wait for me there. I’ll have food sent to you. You can rest and eat and drink all day—and tonight we’ll go on the pleasure barges.”

Fera smiled, filling the triangular gap in her teeth with the tip of her tongue. “Your sister-in-law…”

“Is only my sister-in-law. I was born in this house and grew up in it and have the right to invite guests. You are staying, aren’t you?”

“Will there be spiced pork?”

“I assure you that entire piggeries are reduced to spiced pork on a daily basis in this house,” Toller said, leading Fera back into the room. “Now, you stay here until I get back, then we’ll take up where we left off.”

“All right.” She lay down on the bed, settled herself comfortably on the pillows and spread her legs. “Just one thing before you go.”

“Yes?”

She gave him her full white smile. “Perhaps you’d better tell me your name.”

Toller was still chuckling as he reached the stairs at the end of the corridor and went down towards the central section of the house, from which was emanating the sound of many voices. He found Fera’s company refreshing, but her presence in the house might be just too much of an affront to Gesalla to be tolerated for very long. Two or three days would be sufficient to make the point that Gesalla had no right to insult him or his guests, that any effort she made to dominate him—as she did his brother—would be doomed to failure.

When Toller reached the bottom flight of the main staircase he found about a dozen people gathered in the entrance hall. Some were computational assistants; others were domestics and grooms who seemed to have gathered to watch their master set off for his appointment at the Great Palace. Lain Maraquine was wearing the antique-styled formal garment of a senior philosopher—a full-length robe of dove grey trimmed at the hem and cuff with black triangles. Its silky material emphasised the slightness of his build, but his posture was upright and dignified. His face, beneath the heavy sweeps of black hair, was very pale. Toller felt a surge of affection and concern as he crossed the hall—the council meeting was obviously an important occasion for his brother and he was already showing the strain.

“You’re late,” Lain said, eyeing him critically. “And you should be wearing your greys.”

“There was no time to get them ready. I had a rough night.”

“Gesalla has just told me what kind of night you had.” Lain’s expression showed a blend of amusement and exasperation. “Is it true you didn’t even know the woman’s name?”

Toller shrugged to disguise his embarrassment. “What do names matter?”

“If you don’t know that there isn’t much point in my trying to enlighten you.”

“I don’t need you to…” Toller took a deep breath, determined for once not to add to his brother’s problems by losing his temper. “Where is the stuff you want me to carry?”

The official residence of King Prad Neldeever was notable more for its size than architectural merit. Successive generations of rulers had added wings, towers and cupolas to suit their individual whims, usually in the style of the day, with the result that the building had some resemblance to a coral or one of the accretive structures erected by certain kinds of insects. An early landscape gardener had attempted to impose a degree of order by planting stands of synchronous parble and rafter trees, but over the centuries they had been infiltrated by other varieties. The palace, itself variegated because of different masonry, was now screened by vegetation equally uneven in colour, and from a distance it could be difficult for the eye to separate one from the other.

Toller Maraquine, however, was untroubled by such aesthetic quibbles as he rode down from Greenmount at the rear of his brother’s modest entourage. There had been rain before dawn and the morning air was clean and invigorating, charged with a sunlit spirit of new beginnings. The huge disk of Overland shone above him with a pure lustre and many stars decked the surrounding blueness of the sky. The city itself was an incredibly complex scattering of multi-hued flecks stretching down to the slate-blue ribbon of the Borann, where sails gleamed like lozenges of snow.

Toller’s pleasure at being back in Ro-Atabri, at having escaped the desolation of Haffanger, had banished his customary dissatisfaction with his life as an unimportant member of the philosophy order. After the unfortunate start to the day the pendulum of his mood was on the upswing. His mind was teeming with half-formed plans to improve his reading ability, to seek out some interesting aspect of the order’s work and devote all his energies to it, to make Lain proud of him. On reflection he could appreciate that Gesalla had had every right to be furious over his behaviour. It would be no more than a normal courtesy were he to move Fera out of his apartment as soon as he returned home.

The sturdy bluehorn he had been allocated by the stablemaster was a placid beast which seemed to know its own way to the palace. Leaving it to its own devices as it plodded the increasingly busy streets, Toller tried to create a more definite picture of his immediate future, one which might impress Lain. He had heard of one research group which was trying to develop a combination of ceramics and glass threads which would be tough enough to stand in for brakka in the manufacture of swords and armour. It was quite certain that they would never succeed, but the subject was nearer to his taste than chores like the measuring of rainfall, and it would please Lain to know that he was supporting the conservation movement. The next step was to think of a way of winning Gesalla’s approval…

By the time the philosophy delegation had passed through the heart of the city and had crossed the river at the Bytran Bridge the palace and its grounds were spanning the entire view ahead. The party negotiated the four concentric bloom-spangled moats, whose ornamentation disguised their function, and halted at the palace’s main gate. Several guards, looking like huge black beetles in their heavy armour, came forward at a leisurely pace. While their commander was laboriously checking the visitors’ names on his list one of his pikemen approached Toller and, without speaking, began roughly delving among the rolled-up charts in his panniers. When he had finished he paused to spit on the ground, then turned his attention to the collapsed easel which was strapped across the bluehorn’s haunches. He tugged at the polished wooden struts so forcibly that the bluehorn sidestepped against him.

“What’s the matter with you?” he growled, shooting Toller a venomous look. “Can’t you control that fleabag?”

I’m a new person, Toller assured himself, and I can’t be goaded into brawls. He smiled and said, “Can you blame her for wanting to get near you?”

The pikeman’s lips moved silently as he came closer to Toller, but at that moment the guard commander gave the signal for the party to proceed on its way. Toller urged his mount forward and resumed his position behind Lain’s carriage. The minor brush with the guard had left him slightly keyed-up but otherwise unaffected, and he felt pleased with the way he had comported himself. It had been a valuable exercise in avoiding unnecessary trouble, the art he intended to practise for the rest of his life. Sitting easily in the saddle, enjoying the rhythm of the bluehorn’s stately gait, he turned his thoughts to the business ahead.

Toller had been to the Great Palace only once before, as a small child, and had only the vaguest recollection of the domed Rainbow Hall in which the council meeting was to be held. He doubted that it could be as vast and as awe-inspiring as he remembered, but it was a major function room in the palace and its use as a venue today was significant. King Prad obviously regarded the meeting as being important, a fact which Toller found somewhat puzzling. All his life he had been listening to conservationists like his brother issuing sombre warnings about dwindling resources of brakka, but everyday life in Kolcorron had continued very much as before. It was true that in recent years there had been periods when power crystals and the black wood had been in short supply, and the cost kept rising, but new reserves had always been found. Try as he might, Toller could not imagine the natural storehouse of an entire world failing to meet his people’s needs.

As the philosophy delegation reached the elevated ground on which the palace itself was situated he saw that many carriages were gathered on the principal forecourt. Among them was the flamboyant red-and-orange phaeton of Lord Glo. Three men in philosophy greys were standing beside it, and when they noticed Lain’s carriage they advanced to intercept it. Toller identified the stunted figure of Vorndal Sisstt first; then Duthoon, leader of the halvell section; and the angular outline of Borreat Hargeth, chief of weapons research. All three appeared nervous and unhappy, and they closed on Lain as soon as he had stepped down from his carriage.

“We’re in trouble, Lain,” Hargeth said, nodding in the direction of Glo’s phaeton. “You’d better take a look at our esteemed leader.”

Lain frowned. “Is he ill?”

“No, he isn’t ill—I’d say he never felt better in his life.”

“Don’t tell me he’s been…” Lain went to the phaeton and wrenched open the door. Lord Glo, who had been slumped with his head on his chest, jerked upright and looked about him with a startled expression. He brought his pale blue eyes to focus on Lain, then showed the pegs of his lower teeth in a smile.

“Good to see you, my boy,” he said. “I tell you this is going to be our … hmm … day. We’re going to carry all before us.”

Toller swung himself down from his mount and tethered it to the rear of the carriage, keeping his back to the others to conceal his amusement. He had seen Glo the worse for wine several times before, but never so obviously, so comically incapable. The contrast between Glo’s ruddy-cheeked euphoria and the scandalised, ashen countenances of his aides made the situation even funnier. Any notions they had about making a good showing at the meeting were being swiftly and painfully revised. Toller could not help but enjoy another person attracting the kind of censure which so often was reserved for him, especially when the offender was the Lord Philosopher himself.

“My lord, the meeting is due to begin soon,” Lain said. “But if you are indisposed perhaps we could…”

“Indisposed! What manner of talk is that?” Glo ducked his head and emerged from his vehicle to stand with unnatural steadiness. “What are we waiting for? Let’s take our places.”

“Very well, my lord.” Lain came to Toller with a hag-ridden expression. “Quate and Locranan will take the charts and easel. I want you to stay here by the carriage and keep an… What do you find so amusing?”

“Nothing,” Toller said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

“You have no idea of what’s at stake today, have you?”

“Conservation is important to me, too,” Toller replied, making his voice as sincere as possible. “I was only…”

“Toller Maraquine!” Lord Glo came towards Toller with arms outstretched, his eyes bulging with pleasurable excitement. “I didn’t know you were here! How are you, my boy?”

Toller was mildly surprised at even being recognised by Glo, let alone being greeted so effusively. “I’m in good health, my lord.”

“You look it.” Glo reached up and put an arm around Toller’s shoulders and swung to face the others. “Look at this fine figure of a man—he reminds me of myself when I was … hmm … young.”

“We should take our places right away,” Lain said. “I don’t want to hurry you, but…”

“You’re quite right—we shouldn’t delay our moment of … hmm … glory.” Glo gave Toller an affectionate squeeze, exhaling the reek of wine as he did so. “Come on, Toller—you can tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself out in Haffanger.”

Lain stepped forward, looking anxious. “My brother isn’t part of the delegation, my lord. He is supposed to wait here.”

“Nonsense! We’re all together.”

“But he has no greys.”

“That doesn’t matter if he’s in my personal retinue,” Glo said with the kind of mildness that brooked no argument. “We’ll proceed.”

Toller met Lain’s gaze and issued a silent disclaimer by momentarily raising his eyebrows as the group moved off in the direction of the palace’s main entrance. He welcomed the unexpected turn of events, which had saved him from what had promised to be a spell of utter boredom, but he was still resolved to maintain a good relationship with his brother. It was vital for him to be as unobtrusive as possible during the meeting, and in particular to keep a straight face regardless of what kind of performance Lord Glo might put on. Ignoring the curious glances from passers-by, he walked into the palace with Glo hugging his arm and did his best to produce acceptable small-talk in response to the older man’s questioning, even though all his attention was being absorbed by his surroundings.

The palace was also the seat of the Kolcorronian administration and it gave him the impression of being a city within a city. Its corridors and staterooms were populated by sombre-faced men whose manner proclaimed that their concerns were not those of ordinary citizens. Toller was unable even to guess at their functions or the subjects of their low-voiced conversations. His senses were swamped by the sheer opulence of the carpets and hangings, the paintings and sculptures, the complexity of the vaulted ceilings. Even the least important doors appeared to have been carved from single slabs of perette, elvart or glasswood, each one representing perhaps a year’s work for a master craftsman.

Lord Glo seemed oblivious to the atmosphere of the palace, but Lain and the rest of his party were noticeably subdued. They were moving in a tight group, like soldiers in hostile territory. After a lengthy walk they reached an enormous double door guarded by two black-armoured ostiaries. Glo led the way into the huge elliptical room beyond. Toller hung back to give his brother precedence, and almost gasped as he got his first adult glimpse of the famed Rainbow Hall. Its domed roof was made entirely of square glass panels supported on intricate lattices of brakka. Most of the panels were pale blue or white, to represent clear sky and clouds, but seven adjacent curving bands echoed the colours of the rainbow. The light blazing down from the canopy was a mingling, merging glory which made the furnishings of the hall glow with tinted fire.

At the far locus of the ellipse was a large but unadorned throne on the uppermost level of a dais. Three lesser thrones were ranged on the second level for the use of the princes who were expected to be present. In ancient times the princes would all have been sons of the ruler, but with the country’s expansion and development it had become expedient to allow some government posts to be filled by collateral descendants. These were numerous, thanks to the sexual license accorded to the nobility, and it was usually possible to allocate important responsibilities to suitable men. Of the current monarchy, only Leddravohr and the colourless Pouche, controller of public finances, were acknowledged sons of the King.

Facing the thrones were seats which had been laid out in radial sections for the orders whose concerns ranged from the arts and medicine to religion and proletarian education. The philosophy delegation occupied the middle sector in accordance with the tradition dating back to Bytran IV, who had believed that scientific knowledge was the foundation upon which Kolcorron would build a future world empire. In subsequent centuries it had become apparent that science had already learned all that was worth learning about the workings of the universe, and the influence of Bytran’s thinking had faded, but the philosophy order still retained many of the trappings of its former eminence, in spite of opposition from others of a more pragmatic turn of mind.

Toller felt an ungrudging admiration for Lord Glo as the pudgy little man, large head thrown back and stomach protruding, marched up the hall and took his position before the thrones. The remainder of the philosophy delegation quietly seated themselves behind him, exchanging tentative glances with their opposites in neighbouring sectors. There were more people than Toller had expected—perhaps a hundred in all—the other delegations being augmented by clerks and advisors. Toller, now profoundly grateful for his supernumerary status, slid into the row behind Lain’s computational assistants and waited for the proceedings to begin.

There was a murmurous delay punctuated by coughs and occasional nervous laughs, then a ceremonial horn was sounded and King Prad and the three princes entered the hall by way of a private doorway beyond the dais.

At sixty-plus the ruler was tall and lean, carrying his years well in spite of one milk-white eye which he refused to cover. Although Prad was an imposing and regal figure in his blood-coloured robes as he ascended to the high throne, Toller’s interest was captured by the powerful, slow-padding form of Prince Leddravohr. He was wearing a white cuirass made from multiple layers of sized linen moulded to the shape of a perfectly developed male torso, and it was evident from what could be seen of his arms and legs that the cuirass did not belie what it covered. Leddravohr’s face was smooth and dark-browed, suggestive of brooding power, and it was obvious from his bearing that he had no wish to be present at the council meeting. Toller knew him to be the veteran of a hundred bloody conflicts and he felt a pang of envy as he noted the obvious disdain with which Leddravohr surveyed the assembly before lowering himself on to the central throne of the second tier. He could daydream about playing a similar role, that of the warrior prince, reluctantly recalled from dangerous frontiers to attend to trivialities of civilian existence.

An official beat on the floor three times with his staff to signal that the council meeting had begun. Prad, who was noted for the informality with which he held court, began to speak at once.

“I thank you for your attendance here today,” he said, using the inflections of high Kolcorronian. “As you know, the subject for discussion is the increasing scarcity of brakka and energy crystals—but before I hear your submissions it is my will that another matter be dealt with, if only to establish its relative unimportance to the security of the empire.

“I do not refer to the reports from various sources that ptertha have sharply increased in number during the course of this year. It is my considered opinion that the apparent increases can be explained by the fact that our armies are, for the first time, operating in regions of Land where—because of the natural conditions—ptertha have always been more plentiful. I am instructing Lord Glo to instigate a thorough survey which will provide more reliable statistics, but in any case there is no cause for alarm. Prince Leddravohr assures me that the existing procedures and anti-ptertha weapons are more than adequate to deal with any exigency.

“Of more pressing concern to us are rumours that soldiers have died as a result of coming into contact with ptertha casualties. The rumours appear to have originated from units of the Second Army on the Sorka front, and they have spread quickly—as such harmful fictions do—as far as Loongl in the east and the Yalrofac theatre in the west.”

Prad paused and leaned forward, his blind eye gleaming. “The demoralising effect of this kind of scaremongering is a greater threat to our national interests than a two-fold or three-fold increase in the ptertha population. All of us in this hall know that pterthacosis cannot be passed on by bodily contact or any other means. It is the duty of every man here to ensure that harmful stories claiming otherwise are stamped out with all possible speed and vigour. We must do everything in our power to promote a healthy scepticism in the minds of the proletariat—and I look particularly to teacher, poet and priest in this respect.”

Toller glanced to each side and saw the leaders of several delegations nodding as they made notes. It was surprising to him that the King should deal with such a minor issue in person, and for a moment he toyed with the startling idea that there might actually be some kernel of truth in the odd rumours. Common soldiers, sailors and airmen were a stolid lot as a rule—but on the other hand they tended to be ignorant and gullible. On balance, he could see no reason to believe there was anything more to fear from the ptertha than in any previous era in Kolcorron’s long history.

“…principal subject for discussion,” King Prad was saying. “The records of the Ports Authority show that in the year 2625 our imports of brakka from the six provinces amounted to only 118,426 tons. It is the twelfth year in succession that the total has fallen. The pikon and halvell yield was correspondingly down. No figures are available for the domestic harvest, but the preliminary estimates are less encouraging than usual.

“The situation is exacerbated by the fact that military and industrial consumption, particularly of crystals, continues to rise. It is becoming obvious that we are approaching a crucial period in our country’s fortunes, and that far-reaching strategies will have to be devised to deal with the problem. I will now entertain your proposals.”

Prince Leddravohr, who had become restless during his father’s summation, rose to his feet at once. “Majesty, I intend no disrespect to you, but I confess to growing impatient with all this talk of scarcity and dwindling resources. The truth of the matter is that there is an abundance of brakka—sufficient to meet our needs for centuries to come. There are great forests of brakka as yet untouched. The real shortcoming lies within ourselves. We lack the resolution to turn our eyes towards the Land of the Long Days—to go forth and claim what is rightfully ours.”

In the assembly there was an immediate flurry of excitement which Prad stilled by raising one hand. Toller sat up straighter, suddenly alerted.

“I will not countenance any talk of moving against Chamteth,” Prad said, his voice harsher and louder than before.

Leddravohr spun to face him. “It is destined to happen sooner or later—so why not sooner?”

“I repeat there will be no talk of a major war.”

“In that case, Majesty, I beg your permission to withdraw,” Leddravohr said, his manner taking him within a hair-breadth of insolence. “I can make no contribution to a discussion from which plain logic is barred.”

Prad gave his head a single birdlike shake. “Resume your seat and curb your impatience—your newfound regard for logic may yet prove useful.” He smiled at the rest of the gathering—his way of saying, Even a king has problems with unruly offspring—and invited Prince Chakkell to put forward ideas for reducing industrial consumption of power crystals.

Toller relaxed again while Chakkell was speaking, but he was unable to take his eyes off Leddravohr, who was now lounging in an exaggerated posture of boredom. He was intrigued, disturbed and strangely captivated by the discovery that the military prince regarded war with Chamteth as both desirable and inevitable. Little was known about the exotic land which, being on the far side of the world, was untouched by Overland’s shadow and therefore had an uninterrupted day.

The available maps were very old and of doubtful accuracy, but they showed that Chamteth was as large as the Kolcorronian empire and equally populous. Few travellers had penetrated to its interior and returned, but their accounts had been unanimous in the descriptions of the vast brakka forests. The reserves had never been depleted because the Chamtethans regarded it as the ultimate sin to interrupt the life cycle of the brakka tree. They drew off limited quantities of crystals by drilling small holes into the combustion chambers, and restricted their use of the black wood to what could be obtained from trees which had died naturally.

The existence of such a fabulous treasurehouse had attracted the interest of Kolcorronian rulers in the past, but no real acquisitive action had ever been taken. One factor was the sheer remoteness of the country; the other was the Chamtethans’ reputation as fierce, tenacious and gifted fighters. It was thought that their army was the sole user of the country’s supply of crystals, and certainly the Chamtethans were well known for their extensive use of cannon—one of the most extravagant ways ever devised for the expending of crystals. They were also totally insular in their outlook, rejecting all commercial and cultural contact with other nations.

The cost, one way or another, of trying to exploit Chamteth had always been recognised as being too great, and Toller had taken it for granted that the situation was a permanent part of the natural order of things. But he had just heard talk of change—and he had a deep personal interest in that possibility.

The social divisions in Kolcorron were such that in normal circumstances a member of one of the great vocational family of families was not permitted to cross the barriers. Toller, restless and resentful over having been born into the philosophy order, had made many futile attempts to get himself accepted for military service. His lack of success had been made all the more galling by the knowledge that there would have been no obstacle to his joining the army had he been part of the proletarian masses. He would have been prepared to serve as a line soldier in the most inhospitable outpost of the empire, but one of his social rank could be accorded nothing less than officer status—an honour which was jealously guarded by the military caste.

All that, Toller now realised, was concomitant on the affairs of the country following the familiar centuries-old course. A war with Chamteth would force profound changes on Kolcorron, however, and King Prad would not be on the throne for ever. He was likely to be succeeded by Leddravohr in the not-too-distant future—and when that happened the old order would be swept away. It looked to Toller as though his fortunes could be directly affected by those of Leddravohr, and the mere prospect was enough to produce an undertow of dark excitement in his consciousness. The council meeting, which he had expected to be routine and dull, was proving to be one of the most significant occasions of his life.

On the dais the swarthy, balding and paunchy Prince Chakkell was concluding his opening remarks with a statement that he needed twice his present supply of pikon and halvell for quarrying purposes if essential building projects were to continue.

“You appear not to be in sympathy with the stated aims of this gathering,” Prad commented, beginning to show some exasperation. “May I remind you that I was awaiting your thoughts on how to reduce requirements?”

“My apologies, Majesty,” Chakkell said, the stubbornness of his tone contradicting the words. The son of an obscure nobleman, he had earned his rank through a combination of energy, guile and driving ambition, and it was no secret in the upper echelons of Kolcorronian society that he nursed hopes of seeing a change in the rules of succession which would allow one of his children to ascend the throne. Those aspirations, coupled with the fact that he was Leddravohr’s main competitor for brakka products, meant that there was a smouldering antagonism between them, but on this occasion both men were in accord. Chakkell sat down and folded his arms, making it clear that any thoughts he had on the subject of conservation would not be to the King’s liking.

“There appears to be a lack of understanding of an extremely serious problem,” Prad said severely. “I must emphasise that the country is facing several years of acute shortages of a vital commodity, and that I expect a more positive attitude from my administrators and advisors for the remainder of this meeting. Perhaps the gravity of the situation will be borne home to you if I call upon Lord Glo to report on the progress which has been made thus far with the attempts to produce pikon and halvell by artificial means. Although our expectations are high in this regard, there is—as you will hear—a considerable way to go, and it behoves us to plan accordingly.

“Let us hear what you have to say, Lord Glo.”

There was an extended silence during which nothing happened, then Borreat Hargeth—in the philosophy sector’s second row—was seen to lean forward and tap Glo’s shoulder. Glo jumped to his feet immediately, obviously startled, and somebody across the aisle on Toller’s right gave a low chuckle.

“Pardon me, Majesty, I was collecting my thoughts,” Glo said, his voice unnecessarily loud. “What was your … hmm … question?”

On the dais Prince Leddravohr covered his face with one splayed hand to mime embarrassment and the same man on Toller’s right, encouraged, chuckled louder. Toller turned in his direction, scowling, and the man—an official in Lord Tunsfo’s medical delegation—glanced at him and abruptly ceased looking amused.

The King gave a tolerant sigh. “My question, if you will honour us by bringing your mind to bear on it, was a general one concerning the experiments with pikon and halvell. Where do we stand?”

“Ah! Yes, Majesty, the situation is indeed as I … hmm … reported to you at our last meeting. We have made great strides … unprecedented strides … in the extraction and purification of both the green and the purple. We have much to be proud of. AH that remains for us to do at this … hmm … stage is to perfect a way of removing the contaminants which inhibit the crystals from reacting with each other. That is proving … hmm … difficult.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Glo. Are you making progress with purification or are you not?”

“Our progress has been excellent, Majesty. As far as it goes, that is. It’s all a question of solvents and temperatures and … um … complex chemical reactions. We are handicapped by not having the proper solvent.”

“Perhaps the old fool drank it all,” Leddravohr said to Chakkell, making no attempt to modulate his voice. The laughter which followed his words was accompanied by a frisson of unease—most of those present had never seen a man of Glo’s rank so directly insulted.

“Enough!” Prad’s milk-white eye narrowed and widened several times, a warning beacon. “Lord Glo, when I spoke to you ten days ago you gave me the impression that you could begin to produce pure crystals within two or three years. Are you now saying differently?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Leddravohr put in, grinning, his contemptuous stare raking the philosophy sector. Toller, unable to react in any other way, spread his shoulders to make himself as conspicuous as possible and sought to hold Leddravohr’s gaze, and all the while an inner voice was pleading with him to remember his new vows, to use his brains and stay out of trouble.

“Majesty, this is a matter of great … hmm … complexity,” Glo said, ignoring Leddravohr. “We cannot consider the subject of power crystals in isolation. Even if we had an unlimited supply of crystals this very day… There is the brakka tree itself, you see. Our plantations. It takes six centuries for the seedlings to mature and…”

“You mean six decades, don’t you?”

“I believe I said decades, Majesty, but I have another proposal which I beg leave to bring to your attention.” Glo’s voice had developed a quaver and he was swaying slightly. “I have the honour to present for your consideration a visionary scheme, one which will shape the ultimate future of this great nation of ours. A thousand years from now our descendants will look back on your reign with wonder and awe as they…”

“Lord Glo!” Prad was incredulous and angry. “Are you ill or drunk?”

“Neither, Majesty.”

“Then stop prating about visions and answer my question concerning the crystals.”

Glo seemed to be labouring for breath, his plump chest swelling to take up the slack in his grey robe. “I fear I may be indisposed, after all.” He pressed a hand to his side and dropped into his chair with an audible thud. “My senior mathematician, Lain Maraquine, will present the facts on my … hmm … behalf.”

Toller watched with growing trepidation as his brother stood up, bowed towards the dais, and signalled for his assistants, Quate and Locranan, to bring his easel and charts forward. They did so and erected the easel with a fumbling eagerness which prolonged what should have been the work of a moment. More time was taken up as the chart they unrolled and suspended had to be coaxed to remain flat. On the dais even the insipid Prince Pouche was beginning to look restless. Toller was concerned to see that Lain was trembling with nervousness.

“What is your intention, Maraquine?” the King said, not unkindly. “Am I to revisit the classroom at my time of life?”

“The graphics are helpful, Majesty,” Lain said. “They illustrate the factors governing the…” The remainder of his reply drifted into inaudibility as he indicated key features on the vivid diagrams.

“Can’t hear you,” Chakkell snapped irritably. “Speak up!”

“Where are your manners?” Leddravohr said, turning to him. “What way is that to address such a shy young maiden?” A number of men in the audience, taking their cue, guffawed loudly.

This shouldn’t be happening, Toller thought as he rose to his feet, the blood roaring in his ears. The Kolcorronian code of conduct ruled that to step in and reply to a challenge—and an insult was always regarded as such—issued to a third party was to add to the original slur. The imputation was that the insulted man was too cowardly to defend his own honour. Lain had often claimed that it was his duty as a philosopher to soar above all such irrationalities, that the ancient code was more suited to quarrelsome animals than thinking men. Knowing that his brother would not and could not take up Leddravohr’s challenge, knowing further that he was barred from active intervention, Toller was taking the only course open to him. He stood up straight, differentiating himself from the seated nonparticipants all around, waiting for Leddravohr to notice him and interpret his physical and mental stance.

“That’s enough, Leddravohr.” The King slapped the arms of his throne. “I want to hear what the wrangler has to say. Go ahead, Maraquine.”

“Majesty, I…” Lain was now quivering so violently that his robe was fluttering.

“Try to put yourself at ease, Maraquine. I don’t want a lengthy discourse—it will suffice for you to tell me how many years will elapse, in your expert opinion, before we can produce pure pikon and halvell.”

Lain took a deep breath, fighting to control himself. “It is impossible to make predictions in matters like this.”

“Give me your personal view. Would you say five years?”

“No, Majesty.” Lain shot a sideways glance at Lord Glo and managed to make his voice more resolute. “If we increased our research expenditure tenfold … and were fortunate … we might produce some usable crystals twenty years from now. But there is no guarantee that we will ever succeed. There is only one sane and logical course for the country as a whole to follow and that is to ban the felling of brakka entirely for the next twenty or thirty years. In that way…”

“I refuse to listen to any more of this!” Leddravohr was on his feet and stepping down from the dais. “Did I say maiden? I was wrong—this is an old woman! Raise your skirts and flee from this place, old woman, and take your sticks and scraps with you.” Leddravohr strode to the easel and thrust the palm of his hand against it, sending it clattering to the floor.

During the clamour which followed, Toller left his place and walked forwards on stiffened legs to stand close to his brother. On the dais the King was ordering Leddravohr back to his seat, but his voice was almost lost amid angry cries from Chakkell and in the general commotion in the hall. A court official was hammering on the floor with his staff, but the only effect was to increase the level of sound. Leddravohr looked straight at Toller with white-flaring eyes, but appeared not to see him as he wheeled round to face his father.

“I act on your behalf, Majesty,” he shouted in a voice which brought a ringing silence to the hall. “Your ears shall not be defiled any further with the kind of spoutings we have just heard from the so-called thinkers among us.”

“I am quite capable of making such decisions for myself,” Prad replied sternly. “I would remind you that this is a meeting of the high council—not some brawling ground for your muddied soldiery.”

Leddravohr was unrepentant as he glanced contemptuously at Lain. “I hold the lowliest soldier in the service of Kolcorron in greater esteem than this whey-faced old woman.” His continued defiance of the King intensified the silence under the glass dome, and it was into that magnifying hush that Toller heard himself drop his own challenge. It would have been a crime akin to treason, and punishable by death, for one of his station to take the initiative and challenge a member of the monarchy, but the code permitted him to move indirectly within limits and seek to provoke a response.

“‘Old woman’ appears to be a favourite epithet of Prince Leddravohr’s,” he said to Vorndal Sisstt, who was seated close to him. “Does that mean he is always very prudent in his choice of opponents?”

Sisstt gaped up at him and shrank away, white-faced, anxiously dissociating himself as Leddravohr turned to find out who had spoken. Seeing Leddravohr at close quarters for the first time, Toller observed that his strong-jawed countenance was unlined, possessed of a curious statuesque smoothness, almost as if the muscles were nerveless and immobile. It was an inhuman face, untroubled by the ordinary range of expression, with only the eyes to signal what was going on behind the broad brow. In this case Leddravohr’s eyes showed that he was more incredulous than angry as he scrutinised the younger man, taking in every detail of his physique and dress.

“Who are you?” Leddravohr said at last. “Or should I say, what are you?”

“My name is Toller Maraquine, Prince—and I take pride in being a philosopher.”

Leddravohr glanced up at his father and smiled, as if to demonstrate that when he saw it as his filial duty he could endure extreme provocation. Toller did not like the smile, which was accomplished in an instant, effortless as the twitching back of a drape, affecting no other part of his face.

“Well, Toller Maraquine,” Leddravohr said, “it is very fortunate that personal weapons are never worn in my father’s household.”

Leave it at that, Toller urged himself. You’ve made your point and—against all the odds—you’re getting away with it.

“Fortunate?” he said pleasantly. “For whom?”

Leddravohr’s smile did not waver, but his eyes became opaque, like polished brown pebbles. He took one step forward and Toller readied himself for the shock of physical combat, but in that moment the glass axis of the confrontation was snapped by pressure from an unexpected direction.

“Majesty,” Lord Glo called out, lurching to his feet, looking ghastly but speaking in surprisingly fluent and resonant tones. “I beg you—for the sake of our beloved Kolcorron—to listen to the proposal of which I spoke earlier. Please do not let my brief indisposition stand in the way of your hearing of a scheme whose implications go far beyond the present and near future, and in the long run will concern the very existence of our great nation.”

“Hold still, Glo.” King Prad also rose to his feet and pointed at Leddravohr with the index fingers of both hands, triangulating on him with all the force of his authority. “Leddravohr, you will now resume your seat.”

Leddravohr eyed the King for a few seconds, his face impassive, then he turned away from Toller and walked slowly to the dais. Toller was startled as he felt his brother grip his arm.

“What are you trying to do?” Lain whispered, his frightened gaze hunting over Toller’s face. “Leddravohr has killed people for less.”

Toller shrugged his arm free. “I’m still alive.”

“And you had no right to step in like that.”

“I apologise for the insult,” Toller said. “I didn’t think one more would make any difference.”

“You know what I think of your childish…” Lain broke off as Lord Glo came to stand close beside him.

“The boy can’t help being impetuous—I was the same at his age,” Glo said. The brilliance from above showed that every pore on his forehead was separately domed with sweat. Beneath the ample folds of his robe his chest swelled and contracted with disturbing rapidity, pumping out the smell of wine.

“My lord, I think you should sit down and compose yourself,” Lain said quietly. “There is no need for you to be subjected to any more of…”

“No! You’re the one who must sit down.” Glo indicated two nearby seats and waited until Lain and Toller had sunk into them. “You’re a good man, Lain, but it was very wrong of me to burden you with a task for which you are constitutionally … hmm … unsuited. This is a time for boldness. Boldness of vision. That is what earned us the respect of the ancient kings.”

Toller, rendered morbidly sensitive to Leddravohr’s every movement, noticed that on the dais the prince was concluding a whispered conversation with his father. Both men sat down, and Leddravohr immediately turned his brooding gaze in Toller’s direction. At a barely perceptible nod from the King an official pounded the floor with his staff to quell the low-key murmurings throughout the hall.

“Lord Glo!” Prad’s voice was now ominously calm. “I apologise for the discourtesy shown to members of your delegation, but I also add that the council’s time should not be wasted on frivolous suggestions. Now, if I grant you permission to lay before us the essentials of your grand scheme, will you undertake to do so quickly and succinctly, without adding to my tribulations on a day which has already seen too many?”

“Gladly!”

“Then proceed.”

“I am about to do so, Majesty.” Glo half turned to look at Lain, gave him a prolonged wink and began to whisper. “Remember what you said about my flying higher and seeing farther? You’re going to have cause to reflect on those words, my boy. Your graphs were telling a story that even you didn’t understand, but I…”

“Lord Glo,” Prad said, “I am waiting.”

Glo gave him an elaborate bow, complete with the hand flourishes appropriate to the use of the high tongue. “Majesty, the philosopher has many duties, many responsibilities. Not only must his mind encompass the past and the present, it must illuminate the multiple pathways of the future. The darker and more … hmm … hazardous those pathways may be, the higher…”

“Get on with it, Glo!”

“Very well, Majesty. My analysis of the situation in which Kolcorron finds itself today shows that the difficulties of obtaining brakka and power crystals are going to increase until … hmm … only the most vigorous and far-sighted measures will avert national disaster.” Glo’s voice shook with fervour.

“It is my considered opinion that, as the problems which beset us grow and multiply, we must expand our capabilities accordingly. If we are to maintain our premier position on Land we must turn our eyes—not towards the petty nations on our borders, with their meagre resources—but towards the sky!

“The entire planet of Overland hangs above us, waiting, like a luscious fruit ready for the picking. It is within our powers to develop the means to go there and to…” The rest of Glo’s sentence was drowned in a swelling tide of laughter.

Toller, whose gaze had been locked with Leddravohr’s, turned his head as he heard angry shouts from his right. He saw that, beyond Tunsfo’s medical delegation, Lord Prelate Balountar had risen to his feet and was pointing at Glo in accusation, his small mouth distorted and dragged to one side with intensity of emotion.

Borreat Hargeth leaned over from the row behind Toller and gripped Lain’s shoulder. “Make the old fool sit down,” he urged in a scandalised whisper. “Did you know he was going to do this?”

“Of course not!” Lain’s narrow face was haggard. “And how can I stop him?”

“You’d better do something before we’re all made to look like idiots.”

“…long been known that Land and Overland share a common atmosphere,” Glo was declaiming, seemingly oblivious to the commotion he had caused. “The Greenmount archives contain detailed drawings for hot air balloons capable of ascending to…”

“In the name of the Church I command you to cease this blasphemy,” Lord Prelate Balountar shouted, leaving his place to advance on Glo, head thrust forward and tilting from side to side like that of a wading bird. Toller, who was irreligious by instinct, deduced from the violence of Balountar’s reaction that the churchman was a strict Alternationist. Unlike many senior clerics, who paid lip service to their creed in order to collect large stipends, Balountar really did believe that after death the spirit migrated to Overland, was reincarnated as a newborn infant and eventually returned to Land in the same way, part of a neverending cycle of existence.

Glo made a dismissive gesture in Balountar’s direction. “The main difficulty lies with the region of neutral … hmm … gravity at the midpoint of the flight where, of course, the density differential between hot and cold air can have no effect. That problem can be solved by fitting each craft with reaction tubes which…”

Glo was abruptly silenced when Balountar closed the distance between them in a sudden rush, black vestments flapping, and clamped a hand over Glo’s mouth. Toller, who had not expected the cleric to use force, sprang from his chair. He grabbed both of Balountar’s bony wrists and brought his arms down to his sides. Glo clutched at his own throat, gagging. Balountar tried to break free, but Toller lifted him as easily as he would have moved a straw dummy and set him down several paces away, becoming aware as he did so that the King had again risen to his feet. The laughter in the hall died away to be replaced by a taut silence.

“You!” Balountar’s mouth worked spasmodically as he glared up at Toller. “You touched me!”

“I was acting in defence of my master,” Toller said, realising that his reflex action had been a major breach of protocol. He heard a muffled retching sound and turned to see that Glo was being sick with both hands cupped over his mouth. Black wine was gouting through his fingers, disfiguring his robe and spattering on the floor.

The King spoke loudly and clearly, each word like the snapping of a blade. “Lord Glo, I don’t know which I find more offensive—the contents of your stomach or the contents of your mind. You and your party will leave my presence immediately, and I warn you here and now that—as soon as more pressing matters have been dealt with—I am going to think long and hard about your future.”

Glo uncovered his mouth and tried to speak, the brown pegs of his teeth working up and down, but was able to produce nothing more than clicking sounds in his throat.

“Remove him from my sight,” Prad said, turning his hard eyes on the Lord Prelate. “As for you, Balountar, you are to be rebuked for mounting a physical attack on one of my ministers, no matter how great the provocation. For that reason, you have no redress against the young man who restrained you, though he does appear somewhat lacking in discretion. You will return to your place and remain there without speaking until the Lord Philosopher and his cortege of buffoons have withdrawn.”

The King sat down and stared straight ahead while Lain and Borreat Hargeth closed upon Glo and led him away towards the hall’s main entrance. Toller walked around Vorndal Sisstt, who had knelt to wipe the floor with the hem of his own robe, and helped Lain’s two assistants to gather up the fallen easel and charts. As he stood up with the easel under his arm it occurred to him that Prince Leddravohr must have received an unusually powerful reprimand to induce him to remain so quiet. He glanced towards the dais and saw that Leddravohr, lounging in his throne, was staring at him with an intent unwavering gaze. Toller, oppressed by collective shame, looked elsewhere immediately, but not before he had seen Leddravohr’s smile twitch into existence.

“What are you waiting for?” Sisstt mumbled. “Get that stuff out of here before the King decides to have us flayed.”

The walk through the corridors and high chambers of the palace seemed twice as long as before. Even when Glo had recovered sufficiently to shake off helping hands, Toller felt that news of the philosophers’ disgrace had magically flown ahead of them and was being discussed by every low-voiced group they passed. From the start he had felt that Lord Glo was going to be unable to function well at the meeting, but he had not anticipated being drawn into a debacle of such magnitude. King Prad was famed for the informality and tolerance with which he conducted royal business, but Glo had managed to transgress to such an extent that the future of the entire order had been called into question. And furthermore, Toller’s embryonic plan to enter the army by someday finding favour with Leddravohr was no longer tenable—the military prince had a reputation for never forgetting, never forgiving.

On reaching the principal courtyard Glo thrust out his stomach and marched jauntily to his phaeton. He paused beside it, turned to face the rest of the group and said, “Well, that didn’t go too badly, did it? I think I can truthfully say that I planted a seed in the King’s … hmm … mind. What do you say?”

Lain, Hargeth and Duthoon exchanged stricken glances, but Sisstt spoke up at once. “You’re absolutely right, my lord.”

Glo nodded approval at him. “That’s the only way to advance a radical new idea, you know. Plant a seed. Let it … hmm … germinate.”

Toller turned away, suddenly in fresh danger of laughing aloud in spite of all that had happened to him, and carried the easel to his tethered bluehorn. He strapped the wooden framework across the beast’s haunches, retrieved the rolled charts from Quate and Locranan, and prepared to depart. The sun was little more than halfway between the eastern rim of Overland—the ordeal by humiliation had been mercifully brief—and there was time for him to claim a late breakfast as the first step in salvaging the rest of the day. He had placed one foot in the stirrup when his brother appeared at his side.

“What is it that afflicts you?” Lain said. “Your behaviour in the palace was appalling—even by your own standards.”

Toller was taken aback. “My behaviour!”

“Yes! Within the space of minutes you made enemies of two of the most dangerous men in the empire. How do you do it?”

“It’s very simple,” Toller said stonily. “I comport myself as a man.”

Lain sighed in exasperation. “I’ll speak to you further when we get back to Greenmount.”

“No doubt.” Toller mounted the bluehorn and urged it forward, not waiting for the coach. On the ride back to the Square House his annoyance with Lain gradually faded as he considered his brother’s unenviable position. Lord Philosopher Glo was bringing the order in disrepute, but as a royal he could only be deposed by the King. Attempting to undermine him would be treated as sedition, and in any case Lain had too much personal loyalty to Glo even to criticise him in private. When it became common knowledge that Glo had proposed trying to send ships to Overland all those connected with him would become objects of derision—and Lain would suffer everything in silence, retreating further into his books and graphs while the philosophers’ tenure at Greenmount grew steadily less secure.

By the time he had reached the multi-gabled house Toller’s mind was tiring of abstracts and becoming preoccupied with the fact that he was hungry. Not only had he missed breakfast, he had eaten virtually nothing on the previous day, and now there was a raging emptiness in his stomach. He tethered the bluehorn in the precinct and, without bothering to unload it, walked quickly into the house with the intention of going straight to the kitchen.

For the second time that morning he found himself unexpectedly in the presence of Gesalla, who was crossing the entrance hall towards the west salon. She turned to him, dazzled by the light from the archway, and smiled. The smile lasted only a moment, as long as it took for her to identify him against the glare, but its effect on Toller was odd. He seemed to see Gesalla for the first time, as a goddess figure with sun-bright eyes, and in the instant he felt an inexplicable and poignant sense of waste, not of material possessions but of all the potential of life itself. The sensation faded as quickly as it had come, but it left him feeling sad and strangely chastened.

“Oh, it’s you,” Gesalla said in a cold voice. “I thought you were Lain.”

Toller smiled, wondering if he could begin a new and more constructive relationship with Gesalla. “A trick of the light.”

“Why are you back so early?”

“Ah … the meeting didn’t go as planned. There was some trouble. Lain will tell you all about it—he’s on his way home now.”

Gesalla tilted her head and moved until she had the advantage of the light. “Why can’t you tell me? Was it something to do with you?”

“With me?”

“Yes. I advised Lain not to let you go anywhere near the palace.”

“Well, perhaps he’s getting as sick as I am of you and your endless torrents of advice.” Toller tried to stop speaking, but the word fever was upon him. “Perhaps he has begun to regret marrying a withered twig instead of a real woman.”

“Thank you—I’ll pass your comments on to Lain in full.” Gesalla’s lips quirked, showing that—far from being wounded—she was pleased at having invoked the kind of intemperate response which could result in Toller being banished from the Square House. “Do I take it that your concept of a real woman is embodied in the whore who is waiting in your bed at this moment?”

“You can take…” Toller scowled, trying to conceal the fact that he had completely forgotten about his companion of the night. “You should guard your tongue! Felise is no whore.”

Gesalla’s eyes sparkled. “Her name is Fera.”

“Felise or Fera—she isn’t a whore.”

“I won’t bandy definitions with you,” Gesalla said, her tones now light, cool and infuriating. “The cook told me you left instructions for your … guest to be provided with all the food she wished. And if the amounts she has already consumed this foreday are any yardstick, you should think yourself fortunate that you don’t have to support her in marriage.”

“But I do!” Toller saw his chance to deliver the verbal thrust and took it on the reflex, with heady disregard for the consequences. “I’ve been trying to tell you that I gave Fera gradewife status before I left here this morning. I’m sure you will soon learn to enjoy her company about the house, and then we can all be friends together. Now, if you will excuse me…”

He smiled, savouring the shock and incredulity on Gesalla’s face, then turned and sauntered towards the main stair, taking care to hide his own numb bemusement over what a few angry seconds could do to the course of his life. The last thing he wanted was the responsibility of a wife, even of the fourth grade, and he could only hope that Fera would refuse the offer he had committed himself to making.