The Queen of Springtime Page 10

  “No,” said Taniane. “Of course not.”

  On the evening of the meeting of the Presidium, at the sixth hour after midday, the leaders of Dawinno began to assemble in their noble meeting-room of dark arching beams and rough granite walls.

  Taniane took her place at the high table of mirror-bright red ksutwood, beneath the great spiral that represented Nahkaba of the Bengs and the five gods of the Koshmar tribe entwined in divine unity. Hresh sat at her left. The various princes of the city were arrayed along the curving rows of benches before them.

  In the front row, the three princes of the justiciary: the dapper, elegant Husathirn Mueri, with the massive figure of Thu-Kimnibol looming beside him, still clad in his flame-red mantle and sash of mourning, and Puit Kjai, the Beng, sitting upright and rigid. Next to them Chomrik Hamadel, the son of the last independent Beng chieftain before the Union. In the row behind them the old warrior Staip, and his mate Boldirinthe the offering-woman, and Simthala Honginda, their eldest son, with his mate Catiriil, who was Husathirn Mueri’s sister. Around them, half a dozen of the wealthy merchants and manufacturers who held seats on the Presidium, and various members of the nobility, the heads of some of the founding families of the city: Si-Belimnion, Maliton Diveri, Kartafirain, Lespar Thone. Lesser figures—representatives of the smaller tribes, and of the craftsmen’s guilds—were in the row to the rear.

  Everyone was mantled and robed in finest cloth. And all were grandly helmeted also, in accordance with the formal custom of the day, a congregation of intricate, lofty headpieces everywhere in the great room. Chomrik Hamadel’s helmet was easily the most conspicuous, a towering agglomeration of metal and sparkling gems that rose above him to an improbable height; but Puit Kjai, wearing one of red bronze with huge silver projections flaring fore and aft, was scarcely to be outdone.

  That these Beng princes would be so splendidly outfitted was no surprise. The Bengs were the original helmet-wearers. Nor was it startling that Husathirn Mueri, who was half Beng, should have donned a grand golden dome with crimson spikes.

  But even those of pure Koshmar birth—Thu-Kimnibol, Kartafirain, Staip, Boldirinthe—were wearing their most magnificent headgear. More unusual still, Hresh, who wore a helmet perhaps once every five years, had one on now: a small one, some cleverly interwoven strips of dark bristly fiber bound by a single golden band, but a helmet nevertheless.

  Only Taniane wore no helmet. But one of the bizarre old masks of the former chieftains that usually hung on her office wall was resting on the high table beside her.

  Husathirn Mueri said, as the hour called for starting the meeting came and went, “What are we waiting for?”

  Thu-Kimnibol seemed amused. “Are you in such a hurry, cousin?”

  “We’ve been sitting here for hours.”

  “It only seems that way,” Thu-Kimnibol said. “We waited much longer than this in the cocoon before we were allowed to make the Coming Forth. Seven hundred thousand years, wasn’t it? This is only the flicker of an eye.”

  Husathirn Mueri grinned sourly and turned away.

  Then, astonishingly, Nialli Apuilana came bursting into the chamber, breathless, her sash and mantle in disarray.

  She seemed amazed to find herself here. Blinking, fighting to catch her breath, she stood for a moment staring at the assembled notables in unconcealed awe. Then she scurried into a vacant place in the front row, next to Puit Kjai.

  “Her?” Husathirn Mueri said. “We’ve been waiting for her all this time? I don’t understand this.”

  “Hush, cousin.”

  “But—”

  “Hush,” said Thu-Kimnibol more sharply.

  Taniane, rising, brushed her hands lightly across the chieftain’s mask on the high table before her. “We are ready now to begin. This is the final session of deliberations on the proposal of a treaty of mutual territorial respect that the hjjks have made. I call upon Hresh the chronicler.”

  The chronicler got slowly to his feet.

  Hresh cleared his throat, looked around the room, let his keen, piercing gaze rest on this highborn one and that. And said, finally, “I’ll begin by recapitulating the terms of the hjjk offer, as I received it by way of the Barak Dayir from the mind of the hjjk emissary Kundalimon.” He held up a broad sheet of sleek yellow parchment on which a map had been sketched in bold brown lines. “This is the City of Dawinno down here, where the edge of the continent curves out to meet the sea. Here is the City of Yissou, to our north. Here, beyond Yissou, is Vengiboneeza. Everything from Vengiboneeza northward is undisputed hjjk territory.”

  Hresh paused. Looked around again, as if taking the roll.

  Then he continued. “The Queen proposes that we set a line passing between Vengiboneeza and the City of Yissou, extending from the seacoast across the northern half of the continent, past the great central river once known as the Hallimalla, and onward to the coast of the other sea that we believe touches the land at the eastern edge of the continent. Can you all see the line?”

  “We know where the line goes, Hresh,” said Thu-Kimnibol.

  The chronicler’s scarlet-flecked eyes brightened with annoyance. “Of course. Of course. Pardon me, brother.” A quick smile, pro forma. “To continue: the line is drawn in such a way as to confirm the present territorial division of the land. What the hjjks now hold is to be forever theirs, without dispute. What is ours will remain ours. The Queen promises to prohibit all hjjks under her control—and as I understand it she controls all the hjjks in the world—from entering the territory of the People except by our specific invitation and consent. And no member of the People is to go north of the City of Yissou into hjjk territory without permission of the Queen. That’s the first condition.

  “There are others.

  “First, the Queen offers us spiritual guidance, that is, instruction in the concepts loosely known as Nest-truth and Queen-love. These seem to be hjjk philosophical or religious ideas. Why the Queen thinks they’d be of interest to us, I can’t imagine. But it’s proposed that instructors in Nest-truth and Queen-love will take up residence in our city—in each of the Seven Cities—to teach us their meaning.”

  “Some sort of joke?” Kartafirain boomed. “Hjjk missionaries living right here among us, spouting their lunatic mumbo-jumbo? Hjjk spies, I should say. Right in the middle of our city! Does the Queen think we’re that foolish?”

  “There’s more,” Hresh said calmly, raising a hand to signal for silence. “A third proviso. The Queen further stipulates that we must also agree to confine ourselves to the territories we now hold. That is, permanently to relinquish our right to venture into any other continent, whether simply to explore or for actual settlement.”

  “What?” This time it was Si-Belimnion who cried out in disbelief. “Absurd,” said Maliton Diveri, rising, shaking his arms in fury. Lespar Thone let forth peals of ringing laughter.

  Hresh looked flustered. Taniane rapped for order. When the noise subsided she looked toward the chronicler and said, “Hresh, you still have the floor. Is that the complete report on the treaty terms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what do you make of it all?”

  “I’m of two minds,” he said. “On the one hand, we’ll be given undisputed possession of the warmest and most fertile half of the continent. And be freed forever from the danger and destructiveness of war.”

  “Provided the hjjks honor their treaty!” Thu-Kimnibol said.

  “Provided they honor it, yes. But I think they will. They have much more to gain from it than we do,” said Hresh. “I mean by keeping us away from the other continents. Of course we don’t have any idea of what’s on those continents. Nor do we have any way at present of getting across the tremendous oceans that separate us from them. But I do know this: there could be ruined Great World cities out there, and some of them may be as full of treasure as Vengiboneeza was.” Again his eyes scanned the room. “Back when we were still living in Vengiboneeza,” he said, “I came upon an instrum
ent that let me see a vision of all the four continents of the world, and all the cities that once existed on them: cities with names like Mikkimord, and Tham, and Steenizale. Very likely the ruins of those cities are waiting for us, even as Vengiboneeza was. Maybe they’re buried under hundreds of thousands of years of debris, or perhaps, as in Vengiboneeza, repair machines have kept them almost intact. You all know how useful the tools we found in Vengiboneeza were to us. These other ancient cities—and I don’t doubt that they’re there—might hold things that are even more valuable. If we sign this treaty, we sign away forever our right to go searching for them.”

  “What if we stand no more chance of getting to these places than we do of swimming to the Moon?” Puit Kjai asked. “Or if we do reach them somehow, at the cost of the gods only know how many lives, and they turn out not to hold anything worthwhile? I say give them to the hjjks, wonders and all. This treaty lets us keep the lands that are already ours without risk of challenge. That seems more important.”

  “You’re speaking out of turn,” said Taniane briskly. “The chronicler still has the floor.” Looking toward Hresh, she said, “Is it the chronicler’s opinion, then, that we should reject the hjjk treaty outright?”

  Hresh stared at her as though answering so direct a question gave him keen pain.

  At length he said, “The first clause of the treaty, the setting of boundaries, is acceptable to me. The second, the one sending us teachers of Nest-truth, I don’t understand at all. But the third—” He shook his head. “The thought of surrendering those treasure-troves to the hjjks forever isn’t to my liking at all.”

  Taniane said, “Should we ratify the treaty or not, Hresh?”

  He shrugged. “That’s for the Presidium to decide. I’ve stated my views.” And he sat down.

  There was hubbub again. Everyone talking at once, helmets waggling, arms waving about.

  “Let me speak!” Taniane cried, once more rapping the high table.

  Over the diminishing voices of the unruly assembly she said, “If the chronicler won’t take a clear stand on this issue, the chieftain will!”

  She leaned forward, staring fiercely down at the front rows. Casually, almost as though unaware of what she was doing, she scooped up the chieftain’s mask that lay beside her, and held it clasped against her breast, face outward. It was a monstrous glossy yellow mask tipped with black, with a great savage beak and jagged swooping projections along its periphery: almost a hjjk-face mask. The effect was much as if a hjjk were gnawing its way out of her from within and had burst forth suddenly, face foremost, upon her breast.

  She stood in silence just a moment too long. There was more murmuring and then louder disputes began.

  “Will you allow me to speak?” Taniane cried. And then, with anger in her voice: “Let me speak! Let me speak!”

  “Gods! Will you let her speak?” Thu-Kimnibol roared ferociously, rising halfway to his full great height, and in moments the hall grew silent.

  “Thank you,” said Taniane, looking furious. Her fingers ran busily over the rim of the mask that she held clutched to her bosom. “There is only one question that we need to address,” she said. “What do we actually gain from this treaty, at the price of handing away our claim to three quarters of the world?”

  “Peace,” said Puit Kjai.

  “Peace? We have peace. The hjjks are no threat to us. The one time they made war on us, we slaughtered them. Have you forgotten? It was when they attacked the City of Yissou, which Harruel had only just founded then, and we all came to his aid. You were there, Staip, and you, Boldirinthe. And Thu-Kimnibol—you were just a boy, but I saw you killing hjjks by the dozen that day, fighting by the side of your father Harruel. At the end of the day the field was covered with the corpses of the hjjks, and the city was saved.”

  “It was Hresh that killed them,” Staip said. “With that magic of his, that he found in the Great World city. It swallowed them up. I was there. I saw it.”

  “That was part of it, yes,” said Taniane. “But only a part. They were unable to stand before our warriors. We had nothing to fear from them that day. We have nothing to fear from them now. They hover up north like angry buzzing bees, but we know that they have no real power over us. They are hateful, yes. They are foul and repellent creatures. But they no longer go raiding in any number. The occasional small scouting party does go forth, and these—” she glanced significantly at Nialli Apuilana “—do cause us some distress. But such occasions, Yissou be thanked, have become very rare. If we encounter three hjjks in our province in a single year, that’s unusual. So we mustn’t cringe in terror before them. They are our enemy, but we can withstand them if ever they dare to challenge us. If they descend upon us, we can and will drive them back. So why allow them to dictate to us? Now they grandly offer to let us keep our own lands, if we’ll simply turn the rest of the world over to them. What kind of offer is that? Which of you sees merit in it? Which of you sees advantage for us?”

  “I do,” said Puit Kjai.

  Taniane beckoned, and Puit Kjai arose and came to the speaker’s podium. He was a lean, angular man of more than middle years, with the lustrous golden fur and brilliant sunset-red eyes of a pure Beng. He had succeeded his father, wizened old Noum om Beng, as keeper of the Beng chronicles. But after the union of the tribes he had turned that responsibility over to Hresh, taking a post on the justiciary in return. He was a proud and stubborn man, with passionately held opinions.

  “I am not one to advocate cowardly surrender or timid withdrawal,” he began, turning slightly so that his majestic bronze and silver helmet caught the light from above to best effect. “I believe, as most of you do, that it is our destiny some day to rule all the world. And, like Hresh, I would not casually sign away our right to explore the Great World cities of the other continents. But I believe in reason, too. I believe in prudence.” He glanced toward Taniane. “You say the hjjks are no danger to us. You say that the warriors of the Koshmar tribe slew them easily at the battle of the City of Yissou. Well, I was not at that battle. But I’ve studied it, and I know it well. I know that many hjjks died that day—but also that there were casualties among the People, too, that King Harruel of Yissou himself was one of those who fell. And I know that Staip tells the truth when he says that it was the magical Great World device that Hresh employed against the hjjks which carried the day for the People. But for that they would have destroyed you all. But for that there would be no City of Dawinno, today.”

  “These are lies,” Thu-Kimnibol muttered hoarsely. “By the Five, I was there! There was no magic in our victory. We fought like heroes. I killed more hjjks that day than he’s ever seen, and I was only a child. Samnibolon was my name then, my child-name. Who will deny that Samnibolon son of Harruel was at that battle?”

  Puit Kjai brushed the outburst aside with a grand sweep of his arm. “The hjjks number in the millions. We are only thousands, even now. And I have experienced more of hjjk aggression than most of you. I am Beng, you know. I was among those who lived in Vengiboneeza after the Koshmar folk left it. I ask you to recall that we had the city to ourselves ten years, and then the hjjks came in, first fifty, then a hundred and fifty, and then many hundreds. And then we couldn’t count them at all, there were so many. There were hjjks everywhere we turned. They never raised a hand against us, but they pushed us out all the same, by sheer force of numbers. So it is when the hjjks are peaceful. And when they aren’t…. Well, you who fought at Yissou saw the hjjks in more warlike mode. You drove them off, yes. But the next time they choose to make war against us, we may not have Hresh’s Great World weapons to serve us.”

  “What are you saying?” Taniane asked. “That we should beg them to let us keep our own lands?”

  “I say that we should sign this treaty, and bide our time,” said Puit Kjai. “By signing it we win ourselves a guarantee against hjjk interference in the territories we presently have, until we are stronger, strong enough to defend ourselves against any hjjk
army, no matter how large. We can always think about expanding our territory at that time. We can give some thought then to these other continents and the wonders they may hold, which at present we have no means of reaching in any case. Treaties can always be broken, you know. We aren’t signing anything away forever. This treaty buys time for us—it keeps the hjjks away from our frontier—”

  “Pah!” Thu-Kimnibol bellowed. “Let me have the floor, will you? Let me say a thing or two!”

  “Are you done, Puit Kjai?” Taniane asked. “Will you yield?”

  Puit Kjai shrugged and gave Thu-Kimnibol a contemptuous look.

  “I may as well. I relinquish my place to the God of War.”

  “Let me get by,” said Thu-Kimnibol, pushing brusquely toward the aisle and nearly stumbling over Husathirn Mueri’s legs as he went past. He advanced in quick angry strides to the front of the room and stood hunched over the podium, grasping it with both his hands. So huge was he that he made it seem to be no more than a child’s toy table.

  His mourning mantle encompassed his great shoulders like a corona of fire. This was his first appearance in public since Naarinta’s death. He seemed vastly changed, more aloof, more somber, much less the easy light-hearted warrior. Many that day had remarked on it. He visibly bore the weight of his position as one of the princes of the city. His eyes seemed darker and more deeply set now, and he studied the assembly with a slow, searching gaze.

  When he began to speak it was in a ponderously sardonic manner.

  “Puit Kjai says he is no coward. Puit Kjai says that what he advocates is mere prudence. But who can believe that? We all know what Puit Kjai is really saying: that he shivers with dread at the very thought of the hjjks. That he imagines them lurking outside our walls in enormous swarms, poised to burst into the city and tear him—him, the unique and irreplaceable Puit Kjai, never mind the rest of us—to tiny shreds. He awakens in cold sweats, seeing hjjk warriors hovering above his bed eager to rip chunks of his flesh loose from his body and devour them. That’s all that matters to Puit Kjai. To sign a paper, any paper, that will keep the terrible hjjks at a safe distance while he is still alive. Is that not so? I ask you? Is that not so?”