The queen turned nimbly about as she heard the patter of small feet approaching. She seized Tatro and swung the child up above her head, kissing her, smiling warmly at her in reassurance, and then scampering up the beach with her. As she went, she called to her majordomo.
“ScufBar! Get this thing off our beach. Have it buried as soon as possible. Outside the old ramparts.”
The servant rose from the shade of the tent, brushing sand from his charfrul.
“At once, ma’am,” he said.
Later in the day, the queen, driven by her anxieties, thought of a better way of disposing of the corpse.
Take it to a certain man I know in Ottassol,” she instructed her little majordomo, fixing him earnestly with her gaze. “He’s a man who buys bodies. I shall also give you a letter, though not for the anatomist. You are not to tell the anatomist where you come from, you understand?”
“Who is this man, ma’am?” ScufBar looked the picture of unwillingness.
“His name is CaraBansity. You are not to mention my name to him. He has a reputation for craftiness.”
She strove to hide her troubled mind from the servants, little thinking that the time would unfold when her honour rested in CaraBansity’s hands. Beneath the creaking wooden palace lay a honeycomb of cool cellars. Some of the cellars were filled with pile on pile of ice blocks, which had been hewn from a glacier in distant Hespagorat. When both suns had set, Majordomo ScufBar descended among the ice blocks, carrying a whale-oil lantern above his head. A small slave boyfollowed him, clutching the hem of his charfrul for safety. By way of self-defence in a lifetime of drudgery, ScufBar had become hollow-chested, round-shouldered, and pot-bellied, so as to proclaim his insignificance and escape further duties. The defence had not worked. The queen had an errand for him.
He put on leather gloves and a leather apron. Pulling aside the matting from one of the piles of ice, he gave the lantern to the boy and picked up an ice-axe. With two blows, he severed one of the blocks from its neighbour.
Carrying the block, and grunting to convince the boy of its weight, he made his way slowly up the stairs and saw to it that the boy locked the door behind him. He was greeted by hounds of monstrous size, which prowled the dark corridors. Knowing ScufBar, they did not bark.
He made his way with the ice through a back door and into the open. He listened to hear the slave boy bolt it securely from the inside. Only then did he make his way across the courtyard.
Stars gleamed overhead, and an occasional violet flicker of aurora, which lit his way under a wooden arch to the stables. He smelt the tang of hoxney manure.
A stablehand waited in the gloom, shivering. Everyone was nervous after dark in Gravabagalien, for then the soldiers of the dead army were said to march in search of friendly land-octaves. A line of brown hoxneys shuffled in the gloom.
“Is my hoxney ready, lad?”
“Aye.”
The stablehand had equipped a pack hoxney ready for ScufBar’s journey. Over the animal’s back had been secured a long wicker casket used for transporting goods requiring ice to keep them fresh. With a final grunt, ScufBar slid the block of ice into the casket, onto a bedding of sawdust.
“Now help me with the body, lad, and don’t be squeamish.”
The body which had been washed into the bay lay in a corner of the stable, in a puddle of sea water. The two men dragged it over, heaved it up, and arranged it on top of the ice. With some relief, they strapped the padded casket lid down.
“What a beastly cold thing it is,” said the stablehand, wiping his hands on his charfrul.
“Few people think well of a human corpse,” said ScufBar, pulling off his gloves and apron. “It’s fortunate that the deuteroscopist in Ottassol does.”
He led the hoxney from the stable and past the palace guard, whose whiskery faces peered nervously from a hut near the ramparts. The king had given his rejected queen only the old or untrustworthy to defend herself with. ScufBar himself was nervous, and never ceased to peer about him. Even the distant boom of the sea made him nervous. Once outside the palace grounds, he paused, took breath, and looked back.
The mass of the palace stood out against the star shingle in fretted outline. In one place only did a light punctuate its darkness. There a woman’s figure could be discerned, standing on her balcony and gazing inland. ScufBar nodded to himself, turned towards the coast road, and pulled the hoxney’s head eastwards, in the direction of Ottassol.
Queen MyrdemInggala had summoned her majordomo to her earlier. Although she was a religious woman, superstition lingered with her, and the discovery of the body in the water disturbed her. She was inclined to take it as an omen of her own threatened death.
She kissed the Princess TatromanAdala good night and retired to pray. This evening, Akhanaba had no comfort to offer, although she had conceived a simple plan whereby the corpse might be used to good effect.
She feared what the king might do—to her and to her daughter. She had no protection from his anger, and clearly understood that as long as she lived her popularity made her a threat to him. There was one who would protect her, a young general; to him she had sent a letter, but he was fighting in the Western Wars and had not replied.
Now she sent another letter, in ScufBar’s care. In Ottassol, a hundred miles distant, one of the envoys of the Holy Pannovalan Empire was due to arrive shortly—with her husband. His name was Alam Esomberr, and he would be bringing with him a bill of divorcement for her to sign. Thought of the occasion made her tremble.
Her letter was going to Alam Esomberr, asking for protection from her husband. Whereas a messenger on his own would be stopped by one of the king’s patrols, a grubby little man with a pack animal would pass unremarked. No one inspecting the corpse would think to look for a letter.
The letter was addressed not to Envoy Esomberr but to the Holy C’Sarr himself. The C’Sarr had reason to dislike her king, and would surely give protection to a pious queen in distress.
She stood barefoot on her balcony, looking into the night. She laughed at herself, placing faith in a letter, when the whole world might be about to burn. Her gaze went to the northern horizon. There, YarapRombry’s Comet burned: to some a symbol of destruction, to others of salvation. A nightbird called. The queen listened to the cry even after it had died, as one watches a knife irretrievably falling through clear water.
When she was sure that the majordomo was on his way, she returned to her couch and drew the silk curtains round it. She lay there open-eyed.
Through the gloom, the dust of the coast road showed white. ScufBar plodded beside his load, looking anxiously about. Still he was startled when a figure materialised out of the dark and called him to halt.
The man was armed and of military bearing. It was one of King JandolAnganol’s men, paid to keep an eye on all who came or went on the queen’s business. He sniffed at the casket. ScufBar explained that he was going to sell the corpse.
“Is the queen that poor, then?” asked the guard, and sent ScufBar on his way.
ScufBar continued steadily, alert for sounds beyond the creak of the casket. There were smugglers along the coast, and worse than smugglers. Borlien was involved in the Western Wars against Randonan and Kace, and its countryside was often plagued by bands of soldiers, raiders, or deserters.
When he had been walking for two hours, ScufBar led the hoxney under a tree which spread its branches over the track. The track rose steeply ahead, to join the southern highroad which ran from Ottassol all the way westwards to the frontier with Randonan.